#my parents are middle class and on the poorer side of the middle but since i was a child i noticed old rich people liked me

[thehoneybus]

I worked so hard on my old rich people's favorite young person persona, I cannot go back anymore...

[antheshewro]

AOT headcanon — (My) personal analysis on Paradis

I previously wrote my own headcanon about Levi's sexuality, based on the official content we have about him. I saw that it was appreciated (23 notes for me are like a hundred so thank you!), which led me to share more headcanons of Attack on Titan. This time, in particular, I'll focus on Paradis as a nation—culture, moral values, etc.

First thing first, Paradis is a country that was secluded and was denied a technological development. Not having the knowledge that there is a whole world outside the walls and beyond the sea, they got to the point where their own development benefitted the military (think about the equipment the soldiers use, which is not really aligned with the middle ages setting). That leads me to believe that the progress in terms of morality got affected by this.

I can see their society being conservative; very "old school" type of approach when it comes to dating, for example. Men had to show up at their women's door to ask for their hands in marriage to their parents, wanting their daughters to be virgins when they got married, expecting them to settle and pop out a few kids. Men were expected to be the heads of their families, having a certain control over their wives. I would mention misogyny as consistent: when a Marleyan called Sasha a 'whore' completely unprovoked; when the Military Police's soldiers were discussing about Historia getting impregnated; the entire ordeal with Mikasa and her mom, about their heritage and the fact that they were targeted to be sold to the black market. It's useless to mention how much prostitutes were hated.

Hookup culture was surely a thing, and in my opinion, a lot of soldiers resorted to it. The Scouts are the branch that has the lowest survival rate, and having a committed relationship meant each time they would leave for their monthly expeditions, they always had the fear of not seeing their wives, husband or children ever again. Erwin, to me, agreed not to date Marie not only to focus on his duty, but also because he couldn't bear to think about her grieving if he died. Because of that, the Scouts either dated between each other or resorted in hook-ups with women who were drooling over soldiers—I can picture only men having those 'adventures'.

The Garrison, until the fall of Wall Maria, were as lazy and drunkards as ever. They only had to protect the civilians from the titans, which gave them a higher survival rate (though we could see how incompetent they were when Shigashina was attacked). That meant they surely had more opportunities to marry and settle; Pixis had a wife, for example. This, however, doesn't exclude the fact that men still hooked up with women, mostly to have someone to warm their beds.

The Military Police had it simple: their job was fairly easier and safer. Women would settle with them because their paychecks were higher; if men had one night stands, it was because they used their own ranks or job as MP officers to be entitled to women's attention. In this case, we know that Nile Dok had the possibility to marry Marie and also be a father, a privilege since he didn't constantly risk his life.

The fact that women were allowed to join the military was surely something that was allowed after ages. Yet, we can see the military where the percentage of male soldiers was surely way higher. The reason why no women became Commanders. When Hange got promoted, I could see tons of Scouts being against it, because of their gender. There's a bit of confusion since they use she/her with Hange sometimes, especially in the anime, but whatever the case is, they aren't male. And therefore, a Commander who's not male was surely a big no-no for a lot of people.

Paradis surely is a country where discrimination is rampant, and some people would turn their heads to the side whenever there was someone being targeted. Classism was very much normalized; the government completely ignored the poorer and lower classes. They never cared about the Underground, and when the fall of Wall Maria happened, with Shiganshina that welcomed most, if not all lower classes, it could be seen when their residents got sent to Wall Rose after evacuating. The government also sent the lower classes outside the walls to "work" when the food supplies weren't enough, and as Armin stated, the situation got a bit better. It wasn't surprising that they were all people who lived in Shiganshina.

I do see the richer classes being reluctant to lend a hand to the homeless, for example, whether it is giving them a few coins or engaging with volunteering. If they can, they avoid it. They're greedy, and if they can exploit the poor, they don't back away from it.

In terms of racism, it wasn't a thing until the discovery of Marley. From that moment, with the entire 'Eldian race' type of stuff, it surely flared up and mostly in the Scouts, because of the Jaegerists. It wouldn't surprise me that once Onyankopon began to help the Survey Corps, a lot of them (especially Floch) resorted to prejudices and blatant snarky remarks about his skin color, and of course, his home country—there was indeed a scene where he got cornered.

Homosexuality... I'm a bit conflicted about it. On one hand, I could see Paradis having several people believing that women had to only date men to assure that the Paradisians wouldn't be extinct one day. On the other hand, history tells us that homosexuality always existed and was a trait shared even in the Middle Ages. The only hint that Paradis had certain religious beliefs is the "cult of the walls"; though, the presence of pastors or some sort or alternate version of Catholicism or anything along those lines, which included the cult of the walls, was surely a thing. There, sodomy was a sin. A lot of homosexual encounters were perhaps shared in private places, or designated ones. In AOT, however, no one had anything to say about Historia and Ymir; everyone understood they weren't surely best friends. And since the barracks were divided into male and female ones (Isabel Magnolia was stunned by it once she joined the Scouts), we can't deny that there were gay cadets, or gay couples/officers among the ranking in each Regiment.

Finally, gender identity. If we push aside the entire "church and conservatives didn't approve that" thing, I can think of transvestites, mostly men. Hange is the only character that's canonically not a man nor a woman. When they joined the Corps, people surely questioned it; some were appalled, others were reluctant. Not out of malice, or better, not all of them, but I would say out of a lack of knowledge. When they saw that Hange was a valid member and Squad Leader, the Scouts realized that they couldn't care less about how Hange defined themselves: gender identity is the last thing you should care about when you're constantly a step away from being chewed like a chewing gum.

[hanibalistic]

#507A9E | HWANG HYUNJIN.

genre | fluff, high school au, faint mutual pining, implied rich kid au

word count | 2190

warning | fighting, mentions of injuries

tag | @fluffyskzclub​

note | i miss hyunjin pt.2 // maybe a universe?

the first thing that popped into your head when you saw students running toward the school courtyard, whispering and chanting about a fight that had broken out, was that the person better not be hyunjin.

you knew hyunjin ever since middle school but you two only recently introduced yourselves to each other when your homeroom teacher made it your responsibility, as the class president, to keep track of him—both his poor grades and his even poorer conduct.

you two never had to chance to speak to each other before the beginning of your tutoring sessions. surely, even if you had the chance to talk to him, you would not have taken it with his rebellious reputation contrasting so stronger your clean-slate one. most of your encounters were of you frowning and sneering at him whenever you saw him get taken away to the principal's office, or when he and his friends create a ruckus during school assemblies.

your poor impression of him stayed long even after you began tutoring him in the corner of the school library, afraid that you would be seen together. he was always late, sometimes with a hazy attitude and sometimes with bruises and cuts on his face. he was always late to the sessions, but he was also always present.

on his third failed calculus test hyunjin came around.

you never knew why but he suddenly did a 360-degree turn and he came around. he started to pay attention in class and he paid attention to you, he did his homework and the additional questions you assigned him, he jotted down notes and read them during his free time. with the third failed test, he decided he would work hard for some reason.

he was still late to the tutoring sessions, though.

but! with his newfound motivation, you, too, came around and began seeing him in a much friendlier light. you greeted him in the halls, you talked to him outside of the library and about topics other than academics (like his adorable puppy kkami, who you adore more than hyunjin, not that adore the boy or anything), you two moved from the corner to the main study center of the library, and you learned to treat his wounds whenever he has them.

hyunjin became a good friend of yours, and he only listened to you, which you realized after a friend mentioned it to you. you thought it was preposterous, but the thought of it made your stomach flutter with faint romantic delight anyway, the knot in your throat refusing to admit out loud that you might just find him the smallest bit attractive.

like when he would smile confidently at his practice test as he hands it to you, only for it to turn into a cute frown when he watches you add cross after cross on his answers. or when he would arch one brow at you in acknowledgment, a boyish smirk playing on his lips, after you accidentally catch his eyes in the classroom during a long lecture. or when his solid, pressuring gaze lays itself on you as you tend to his wounds outside in the school garden, his eyes holding the gentlest of affection as he looks to you as the only person to have ever existed on this earth.

no, you are not attracted to him. not at all.

"excuse me–i'm sorry, excuse me!" you said as you pushed yourself through the overly excited crowd.

once you made your way to the front, your jaw clenched and your brows furrowed. there hyunjin was, hands clutching a poor student's wrinkled collar, and the scar under his eye reopened. it was him who got in a fight! you did not know why you hoped for an alternative.

there was a glint in hyunjin's eyes—something akin to happiness, a thrilling excitement, perhaps, like the freeing of his soul being trashed into the depths of his easy insults and clenched fists. there was no anger in him, not an ounce. you knew what his anger looked like when it was directed to another, and this was not it.

this was free will. he was fighting because his body could and he yearned for the temporary excitement of it.

you felt your heart sink a little. out of everything that could make his face light up like this, fighting people has to take the crown? you wanted hyunjin to be happy but not with such a method! you also don't want to completely strip the entertainment away from him either!

if you wanted him to stop, the best way would be to find something else that can make him feel as excited as he does now, but what could it be?

"hwang hyunjin!" you hollered when you saw him throw a punch at the other student, your thoughts vanishing immediately.

stomping forward, you grabbed onto the back of his shirt and yanked him behind you. you pushed the other student away, glaring at him to run away before you turned to hyunjin. you tilted your head then, looking at him carefully, then you walked toward him.

"oh, come on, [name]," he whined, preparing to move around you. "don't ruin the fun!"

"hyunjin–hyunjin, look at me," you said, putting your hands on his shoulders and stopping him from side-stepping you. when he focused on you, his eyes turning soft, you smiled. "stop."

he stayed silent for a second before he sneered. he tried to shove you aside. "move away–"

"hyunjin," you sighed, feeling the longing for movement in his body. "do you understand you did something bad."

"if you are trying to talk me out of fighting–"

"you understand," you interrupted him, "that you did something bad."

you could hear voices in the background criticizing you. you were unsure of what, exactly. it was either of you stopping the fight or of you assuming you could stop the fight by talking. you ignored the background noises and focused on hyunjin, looking at him expectantly. you just needed him to tell you he understands.

"jesus, yes! now move away–"

"great. then i'm so sorry about this."

hyunjin was about to side-step you again, adding force into his hands as he pushed you aside to search for the kid who ran off, but you removed your grip on him and took a step back to get into position. his confusion worked in your favor when you anchored your weight on your feet, and with a strong swing, you punched him square in the face, knocking him down.

you grimaced at the pain that reverberates through your knuckles, while hyunjin laid on the floor with his face covered by his hands.

"what the fuck!" he yelled into his hands, his head pressed against the grass field with a pained look.

you scoffed at him as you rubbed your hands together. you felt worried for a second, but then it cooled down when you came to terms that he has got to have experienced worse. it was not the impact of the punch that made him dramatize his reaction (although, surely it did hurt his pretty face) but the unpredictableness of the punch that did so.

he would be fine. he always was.

you looked around you, glaring at everyone who came looking for a show, and you waited for them to disperse before you return your attention to hyunjin.

"come on, let's go to the nurse's office," you said as you moved closer to him, knelt, and took his hands from his face.

not a single stain of your punch. it was all just the invisible pain and his tendency to exaggerate.

"you look fine."

"i'm not fine!" he retorted with a whiny shout, snatching his hands away from yours and sitting up. he placed his hand on one propped-up knee and turned to you, annoyed. "you punched me!"

"talking clearly wasn't doing the job, so i did what i had to do!"

"punching me is what you had to do? not call a teacher or something?" he exclaimed incredulously, eyes widening at you in disbelief.

you closed your mouth. you had not wanted to get him in trouble so you resulted in dealing with it on your own. he has a week-long clean streak of not messing with the teacher, you wanted to keep it that way. even though you failed to consider if anybody present would snitch on him, or you, or maybe even the both of you.

"yes...?" you squeaked as you ducked your head, then you slightly eyed up, grimacing at him apologetically. "i didn't want to get you in trouble."

hyunjin watched you through the silk of his long black hair. he took in your words; the way you said it so bashfully, and how you shrunk under the thought of you making a mistake on his behalf. he understood that it was ultimately your good intentions looking out for his own good. your contrasting naivety shone into his eyes, and he wanted to cradle your face in his hands and be gentle with you.

heaving a sigh, he leaned on his hand that supported his torso up. licking his lower lip, he shared a knowing look with you and asked, "you know how to throw a punch."

you scowled lightly then, playing with your fingers as you sat on the grass field. "yeah, my mom had me learn how to fight ever since i was young."

"that makes sense. self-defense is good."

"yeah," you breathed out a laugh, "a little more than that."

"hmm?"

"my mother has a very odd job."

hyunjin smiled questioningly but he didn't ask. he merely took a look behind you at the grand structure of the school he stumbled upon after his parent's death and he nodded in acceptance.

he was never supposed to enter an elite school like this, where every student seems to have some dark family secrets down their sleeves. dark secrets not as in family feuds and estrangements (although those were certainly present as well) but dark secrets as in blood money and corrupt authorities.

rich people problems, but make it guns and roses.

he would not be surprised if your family had some weird history hidden in the closet. what he was wondering about was how you got stuck in a normal middle school with him.

"is your nose okay?" you asked timidly, facing forward at him.

your expression made him recall the time he found you wiping tears from your eyes at the library, glaring at his failed calculus test as if it had been your own, and he realized that you did care and you weren’t doing this because you were asked to.

it made him remember how most things he has done—studying, paying attention, staring at you, not getting into trouble—have been for you.

he just could not control his habits sometimes and he hoped you wouldn’t get too upset with him today for missing the tutoring session.

hyunjin hummed. it was fine, the pain subsided long ago, but he would be damned to not take your concern to an advantage. pouting quickly, he twisted his torso and let himself fall on your lap. he could feel you panic above him and he giggled lowly to himself, his eyes closed.

"i feel dizzy, you might have given me a concussion," he said.

you gasped a little, then you denied, "no way, that can't be possible."

"don't invalidate my concussion," hyunjin said. "it is what i feel."

you sucked in a breath.

there is no point treading through that territory with him, there is no point treading through that territory with anyone.

sensing your silence, hyunjin dared to open one eye to peek up at you. you were staring down at him, eyes ablaze with curiosity as you waited for him to speak.

the sunlight fell like gold sand and split when it reached your head, casting sparks over you. almost a spitting image of an angel, if he knew what an angel looked like. 

your innocence was as gentle as his mother once was, and your determination a faint recall of his father's brightness. but your face was entirely your own; your eyes, nose, cheeks, lips. a kind face, a calm face, a face of someone he has come to fall catastrophically in love with.

hyunjin felt his eyes waver, he felt the warm watery dust his in eyes waver like flashes of lights seeping through gaps of leaves on a tree. his fingers itched to reach up to your face, to cradle you, to be kind to you, but he pressed them to his sides and only allowed himself a smile at your direction.

"i'm going to rest my face," he said.

you frowned, but the guilt of punching him asked you to stay with him, so you nodded. "okay."

hyunjin relaxed on the ground. his eyes were closed, but if they weren't, you would have seen—the thrill in his eyes of being able to be with you, the excitement of being close to you.

it would not be something akin to happiness, it would be happiness.

[bixbythemartian]

I’m just gonna ramble about work for a bit if y’all don’t mind

one of the interesting artifacts of delivering pizza right now is how much more it is obvious that people never use their front doors

this is one of those things that has always been true of delivering pizza, for me (I’ve been in this industry off and on since 2004)

you’ll get to someone’s house and it’s super clear that they always come in and out through the garage because of one or more of the following

their porch is covered in cobwebs

their porch has been taken over by a feral cat colony (probably with some encouragement/feeding by the people who live here, but not necessarily)

the sidewalk from driveway to door is completely overgrown by bushes (it is common courtesy to try not to walk on people’s lawns, because some people get Deeply Weird about that and I want a good tip, but sometimes you gotta because there’s a rosebush that’s out for blood)

their porch is like piled with stuff because it’s mostly used for storage

their porch is like piled with stuff because they think it looks cute but they don’t realize how difficult the stuff makes it to get to the door

It didn’t used to be like SUPER common

in my delivery area it used to be almost entirely middle to upper middle class housing that suffered from this.

really wealthy people pay yard guys to handle the whole thing, so their hedge rows are fine, and really wealthy people tend towards being minimal with any kind of porch decoration- a seasonal wreath and maybe a couple of chairs nobody sits in and a table nobody uses to one side or the other

poorer folks don’t have houses with garages, and if they do have garages they probably don’t have automatic openers. also those were more likely to be rentals and they’d be out smoking on the porch and stuff, they actually use their front porch is my point.

so it’s people who have enough money to have a house with an automatic garage door opener, and who aren’t afraid of being seen as extreme with their porch decorations, that tend towards this particular circumstance

(and like I genuinely love weird porch decorations, the weirder the better, but I do need to be able to reach your door, that’s kinda part of my job)

I generally have worked in the kind of places that have cheap pizzas that college kids and high people eat, so this was like ‘2-3 times a week’ sort of deal. I spent a lot more of my time at the dorms and cheap apartments than I did at nicer houses.

it has changed a lot though, I rarely have a night where I don’t see this kind of thing at least once, here’s my thoughts on why

Pandemic means less people having people over, so nobody is there to say ‘ooh hedge rows are making it hard to get up the walk’ or ‘the cute gnome statue on the porch is at just the right height to whack me in the shins when I come up the stairs, maybe think about moving it back a few inches? I almost broke the damn thing’

the pandemic also means contactless delivery has become more the norm, and so even when you might have in the past had an interaction with a delivery driver who’s like ‘oh by the way, your rosebush attempted to eat me just fyi and I think there’s a spider the size of a housecat living in it’, that doesn’t happen hardly at all anymore

previous management lost us a lot of regulars because they were absolute dickholes and thought customer service was for weenies, but new management took over before the pandemic and so we... like, don’t call customers horrible names when they complain about stuff anymore, and we were one of two places open after 10 pm for a while, so we got back a lot of the townies, and it’s not just college kids and broke folks who order from us anymore (though that’s still one of our main demographics)

the older neighborhood with poorer housing that used to be largely like my parent’s generation or their parent’s generation (boomers and up) is now being bought up by developers and house flippers who are trying to rent to hip young couples and college kids, and they’re slapping paint on houses and throwing in an automatic garage door opener and raising the price like 20%

(this is super infuriating actually because now there’s basically nowhere to live that’s reasonably cheap and kinda shitty in town, it’s all upscale apartments for college students that’s barely occupied, very shitty apartments that are charging way too much, or houses being sold for 20 grand more than they are actually worth, this is why I no longer live in the same town I work)

another interesting thing about pandemic delivery is that my tip average is generally WAY up. I’m not the only one who’s noticed this.

I suspect that when the whole country went to ordering a lot more delivery there was a lot more attention paid to drivers and it’s seemingly resulted in a permanent upswing in tip percentages. generally a lot closer to the 4-5 dollar per delivery range than the 2-3 dollar per delivery range I used to expect.

(not that you can tell that from TONIGHT because I had a miserable tip night, but that’s just luck of the draw sometimes)

[cowperviolet]

A Guide to Medieval Childhood

Our popular imaginings and depictions of medieval childhood tend to be somehow both scarce and bleak. It’s often supposed that childhood as a category didn’t really exist until the twentieth century, and that even the highborn children before that blessed time were regarded as basically inconvenient mini-adults until they were old enough to fight or marry, respectively.

The sources we have tend to favour the royal families and the high aristocracy with some wealthy merchants thrown in the mix, so, unfortunately, the information below would mostly be concerned with these groups - although I’m going to do my best to include some facts about the lives of children from lower social strata, too.

Infantia, or infancy

As Maria von Trapp used to sing in technicolor meadows, let’s start at the very beginning - it is, after all, a very good place to start.  

A mother rarely gave birth unattended - and I’m not talking about medical professionals; more often than not, these would be represented by a sole midwife. However, having a close friend or a relative with you as you are waiting for the baby to arrive was a practice well-established by the early fourteenth century even among royal women, whose births, marriages and deaths alike were always ruled by strict ceremony.

In their case, as in the case of all great families of the land, the practice also had a purely pragmatic side - additional companions mean additional witnesses who would be able to swear, should a scandal arise, that the little heir really arrived in the lawful way and had not been, say, smuggled into the bedroom in a pan. (In the case of the British royal family this precaution eventually led to the Home Secretary being obliged to attend all royal births, and was only done away with in 1930, when the late Princess Margaret was born).

Of course, for all the companionable support, the birth was not without its risks - for the child even more so than for the mother. It was for that reason that, uniquely, the Church allowed the midwives to baptize newborn - or unborn - babies in case they don’t survive by the time the sacrament in question could be performed properly by a priest.

If everything went well, it was the time to prepare the child for an ‘official’ baptism in the local church, which was going to not only save his soul for the world to come, but to help his standing in this one - after all, being baptized in a particular church meant being integrated into the larger community of the parish. The mother could rest - she was not required to attend the christening (or, rather, she couldn’t, as she would only be able to enter a place of worship again after being purified via a brief ‘churching’ ceremony on the fortieth day after giving birth). The child’s godparents would have been there to stand in her stead.

In fact, many contemporaries considered that a woman needs at least a month to properly recover after birth. Nor was it supposed to be a time of solitude - receiving female visitors was both allowed and encouraged.

Meanwhile, the child would be transferred into the care of a wet-nurse. Breastfeeding your baby yourself usually signified that you simply cannot afford wet-nurse of good character. The good character part of the job description concerned itself both with the purely physical characteristics - the wet-nurse had to be a little below thirty, to have white teeth, sweet breath, and a child of her own not above eight months of age, otherwise her milk could be considered stale - and the moral ones. It was believed that virtues and vices both could be transmitted through milk, and thus it was imperative to choose a wet-nurse both sensible and respectable.

Once hired, she rarely left the baby’s side - contemporary writers acknowledged that leaving an infant to cry is harmful for the child’s health, both mental and physical, and therefore a nurse should always be at hand with either her breast or a lullaby. In the highest households of the land, such as that of the royal children of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, one or two women were also employed as specifically the child’s rockers, tasked with, well, rocking their little charge to sleep - though not too quickly or too harshly, ‘for fear of making the milk float in [her] stomach’.

Every medieval baby, regardless of his family’s income, was swaddled from birth and until he was about eight or nine months of age: not only would he be kept warm, the parents judged, but it’s also going to help his limbs grow straight. A ‘breechcloth’ – essentially, a premodern nappy - was a piece of easily-washable linen, doubled over and then fastened into place with pins. Then a linen shirt would be gently placed over the infant’s body, after which the swaddling bands proper – sometimes three yards long – would come out. They were long, narrow pieces of – you guessed it - linen.

This swaddling part was universal for everyone; however, even here, before the child could partake in any fashion proper, the class divides came out to play. Babies from wealthier families could sport crimson mantles and bands decorated with gold embroidery (sometimes coordinated with that on their mothers’ outfits, like on the famous Cholmondeley Ladies painting at the top of this post).

Another – perhaps, more familiar to us – sphere of baby-related conspicuous consumption was the cradle. When, in 1494, the son of Beatrice d’Este and Ludovico Sforza was born in Milan, the proud father presented his guests a four-poster cradle covered in white satin, where the little heir now lay. When Lucrezia Borgia gave the d’Este family an heir, she splashed out on the cradle for the little Ercole even more. According to contemporary witnesses, the cradle was located under tent-like Moorish-style silk draperies done in the Este colors. It was on a platform encased in a great carved and gilded canopy, six feet long and five feet wide. The cradle proper was curtained in white satin, with the sleeping baby covered with cloth-of-gold.

The weaning tended to come, by our standards, rather late: some contemporary arguments recommended three years for boys and two years for girls (the former, after all, were expected to lead more active lives, and thus needed their mother’s nutritious milk more). Even then, hard food was to be introduced gradually – starting, for instance, with a chicken leg the child could chew on.

Once out of swaddling, the boys were dressed in smocks, and the girls in gowns – not that there was much visual difference between the two, mind. Regardless of their parents’ social standing, they all also wore tight linen caps that bore the charmingly hobbit-y name of biggins.

Naturally, the higher one stood upon the social scale, the more ornamental these gowns and smocks tended to be. The toddler Princess Elizabeth, who was the daughter of Henry VII and thus the aunt of her much more famous namesake, was dressed on separate occasions in a green velvet gown edged with purple tinsel and lined with black buckram, a dress of black velvet edged with crimson, or a kirtle of tawny damask and black satin. Admittedly, these were mostly for ceremonial occasions, and in the privacy of her yellow ochre-coloured chambers even the princess probably tended to wear something more comfortable. In winter, she was kept warm with furred robes fastened with silver buttons and caps trimmed with peacock feathers, and, regardless of the time of the year, indulged with sweets made from sugars flavoured with rose and violet, as well as with fruits from sunnier climes like pomegranates, quinces, and almonds.

Royal families were never noted for modesty of consumption in any era, but even the middling merchants of Florence were often criticized for spoiling their children with fine clothes. Fra Dominici wrote scathingly about parents who dress their children in ‘fancy garments, stamped shoes, short waist-coats, tight and fine-knit hose’. Neither did he approve of toys like “little wooden horses, attractive cymbals, imitation birds, [and] gilded drums,” recommending instead more virtuous playthings like “a little altar or two, … little vestments … little candles … [and] little bells,”, so that the children could pretend they were acolytes or priests. Three guesses no prizes as to which category ended up being the more popular one.

Some types of toys would have been surprisingly familiar to us – for example, doll furniture. In Germany one could find whole doll kitchens with dishes, meat plates, cutlery and furniture since the 1550s at the latest. Wealthier girls were also bought so-called fashion dolls that showcased, you guessed it, the latest fashions in the land.

Of course, poorer children had to make do with dolls stuffed with straw, and play with such props as animal knucklebones or wooden wheels.  However, it doesn’t mean that their lives were completely devoid of fun. Contemporary paintings, such as Peter Brueghel’ Children’s Games (1560), show children playing blind man’s bluff, ‘paper, scissors, stone’, roll hoops and rock barrels.

Pueritia, or childhood

A child’s education started with learning his (or, rarer, her) letters. A rather charming contemporary advice recommends the parents to do it by carving each letter on a piece of fruit, and reward the child with the fruit in question if the letter is correctly identified. These kinds of basics could be learned at home (though, if you decided to choose the method above, better do it specifically in the kitchen) – however, once the rudimentary parts were done with, the paths of learning could branch wildly.

The wealthiest families hired tutors for their children, and these posts, prestigious and coveted as they were, could sometimes become subjects of competition. For example, when the future Elizabeth I grew old enough for her first lessons, it was assumed that these are going to be provided by her aunt and godmother, Lady Troy. However, the less highborn, but more ambitious Katherine Champernowne had other ideas; Henry VIII ended up being impressed by reports of her as a woman of good education, and appointed her to be his daughter’s governess in 1536. She held that post until 1544, when her precocious charge overgrew the standard highborn lady’s curriculum that consisted of reading, embroidery, music, riding, falconry, and chess. After that, the scholar William Grindal became the princess’ tutor, introducing her to classical authors such as Plato.

Latin and, to a lesser extent, Greek literature was not exclusively the preserve of the upper-class education. The cathedral school of St. Paul’s, for instance, taught children from middling walks of life - such as one Geoffrey Chaucer, the son of a wine merchant - and placed a great emphasis on the learning of Latin. The recitation of the Latin alphabet started with the sign of the cross and ended with ‘Amen’: quite a sign of respect, coming from a religious institution. The school’s library was full of books on logic, law and medicine, as well as such still-popular classical hits as Aesop’s Fables.

The boys (unlike in the more flexible world of private education, school pupils were invariably male) also owned some books of their own: contrary to a common misconception, even before the invention of printing press books were not necessarily objects of luxury. For example, when in 1337 John Cobbledick left twenty-nine books to Oriel College, each of them was priced at about 6 shillings. Two centuries later, when William Chatsworth sent his beloved wife Bess of Hardwick gifts during his sojourn in London, he included some learning materials for their children: three French grammars, a copy of Cosmografie de Levant, and psalms in French.

Charitable institutions could sometimes take care of the education of poorer children: for instance, in 1542, the Alderman William Dauntsey of London directed in his will that his executors should build a charity school of eight chambers (one of them for the schoolmaster) in West Lavington, Wiltshire.

Boys who could boast some musical talent had an unusual route for both education and promotion: chapel choirs. Many noblemen - and noblewomen such as Margaret Beaufort, the mother of Henry VII - engaged in cultural patronage, supporting at times dozens of choristers. Margaret herself had hired a composer, Robert Cooper, who was entrusted with finding gifted boys for her chapel from ‘London, Wynesore and in the west country'. She also made sure that, apart from musical education, the boys in her choir received tuition in Latin: in January 1506 the same Cooper was responsible for purchasing five 'gramer bokes ... for the chyldryn of the chapell', costing 4s 3d. Their education ensured that, after growing out of their roles in the choir, the boys would be able to continue academic studies. One Thomas Freston left Margaret’s chapel at the age of 13 to attend Winchester College, while the 1460 statute of Tattershall College specified provision for ‘four poor boys’ who were 'teachable in song and reading, to help the choristers, each of whom is to have commons and clothing and all else that the choristers do'.

Girls could be educated in convent schools; some, though by no means all, later chose to enter these nunneries as actual novices (they couldn’t legally make such a decision until the age of twelve, however, just as they couldn’t legally consent to marriage). Within the convent walls, as outside them, their comforts depended a lot on their parents’ standing - if their entry fee was generous enough, the girls, whether they came as pupils or little novices, could count on having a bedroom to themselves, a generous provision of wood to burn in their fireplace, and rare foodstuffs for their tables. When Edward I’s daughter Mary entered the convent of Amesbury as a novice in 1285, at unusual (and frankly illegal) age of seven, her lifelong allowance included an annual provision of twenty tuns of wine from the Bordeaux claret merchants and forty oaks as kindling for her fireplace.

Convents were supposed to foster the life of prayer and quiet contemplation, which was even harder to get used to for her teenage novices than it were for the secular boarders, who weren’t,  after all, handled as strictly. However, even in a nunnery, there was a certain softening of the rules when it came to young girls. For example, at the Feast of St Nicholas, the patron saint of children, the youngest novice was named the Girl Abbess and allowed to lead the community in dancing and revelry.

Adolescentia, or adolescence

This stage of life was thought to start at about fourteen and end in one’s early twenties. Highborn children of both sexes were usually sent to foster at the homes of friends or relatives of equal standing, both to finish their education and to establish useful connections. When the teenage Jan of Brabant was sent for foster at the English court, he devoted his years there to perfecting the arts of jousting and hunting with falcons, as well as the less official, but nonetheless useful skills of party planning, people-charming, and careful gambling. His future bride Margaret of England, meanwhile, was improving on her feminine arts of weaving and embroidery, often spending substantial sums on gold thread and silks of different colours.

The machinery of altar diplomacy was already in full swing by the time they reached that age, even though marriage proper - with the consummation implied - was usually still a few years in the future. The fate of Margaret Beaufort, who gave birth to her first husband’s son at age thirteen, was considered grotesque and frankly unsafe; after all, it’s no coincidence that she could have no children after. For instance, Thomas Aquinas cautioned in his Mirror for Princes that consummation should be delayed until the woman had reached the age of eighteen, and the man twenty-one.   

The complicated diplomatic and legal negotiation process behind such agreements was left to the heads of the families and their respective employees, without the involvement of the betrothed ones themselves. After all, it included such charming tasks as drawing a complete summary of all villages, farms, rents, forests, and windmills belonging to the future groom’s family which would be able to provide the income for the bride’s dower, or widow portion, in case she outlives him - a pretty significant possibility, considering.

Lower down the social scale, marriage arrangements were not so pressing a concern - urban artisans, male or female, often married only in their mid-twenties. When their children reached adolescence, they usually worried about arranging an apprenticeship for them rather than a betrothal.

A child could be apprenticed to a master who practiced one of the trades regulated by the guilds of the town. These included mercers, grocers, fishmongers, drapers, tailors and even artists. The training usually took seven years, during which the master in question was obliged not only to educate the apprentice, but also to feed and clothe them and generally treat them like a member of their family (which usually also meant having them help around the house). This way, the future artisans spent their adolescence in a situation of indenture and completed their training in their early twenties. The ultimate dream after that was becoming a master in their own right and acquiring one’s own workshop; but, like people in their early twenties everywhere, most were too broke for that, and ended up working as journeymen in their master’s workshop for some more years - or sometimes for the rest of their lives.

Although the most prestigious trades, such as those of mercers or goldsmiths, only admitted men, others - the tailors, the bakers, the printers, the bakers, sometimes the painters - were open to apprentices of both sexes. Female artisans often ended up marrying their colleagues from the same guilds, and then keeping workshop together, but sometimes they kept their trade and conducted their business separately.

At this point, gaining the trappings of trade and marriage, they progressed into the adulthood, and thus beyond the scope of this post.

Sources:

Devices and Desires: Bess of Hardwick and the Building of Elizabethan England by Kate Hubbard

Daughters of Chivalry by Katie Wilson-Lee

The Lives of Tudor Women by Elizabeth Norton

Chaucer: A European Life by Marion Turner

Kisby, Fiona. “A Mirror of Monarchy: Music and Musicians in the Household Chapel of the Lady Margaret Beaufort, Mother of Henry VII.” Early Music History, vol. 16, 1997, pp. 203–234

The Early Modern Italian Domestic Interior, 1400–1700: Objects, Spaces, Domesticities by Erin J. Campbell et al.

[mysaldate]

if you're up for it, could you please write Kamanue headcanons? general or past life, fluff or angst or comfort, i don't really mind, whatever strikes your fancy most~

Ok so writing this for the second time since Tumblr decided it would be oh-so-funny to delete the whole thing smh…

That’s a broad scale so I’ll try to fit in as much as I can but I can’t promise much since we didn’t exactly see much of him. I’ll try to overanalyse whatever we DID get tho!

General Kamanue headcanons

As I already said in the previous request (the personality one), he hasn’t been among the Lower Moons for long when Muzan decided to dismantle them. He might not even be Kyogai’s direct successor based on how quickly Muzan claims they’re usually killed off and replaced. And also like I already mentioned, he’s not exactly too keen on changes so such a huge one probably left him confused as to why and how it happened.

He strikes me as a bit less conflict-loving than some other demons. If he crossed onto another demon’s territory, he’d probably first try to intimidate them with his rank before even considering fighting them. And all of that happens only if the other demon finds him of their own initiative, he won’t go looking for them on his own.

If he was given the chance to get comfortable in his new position, I feel like he might try really hard to fulfill Muzan’s expectations. He may not agree with everything Muzan says and find some of his demands ridiculously difficult but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try to fulfill them anyway. Note that he complains that it’s easy for Muzan to want them not to be scared but doesn’t think anything about it being impossible or completely beyond their reach. He’s just not strong enough for it yet but he will be one day (or not).

Connected with the previous headcanon, if he was given the chance to meet with Douma, and if Douma shared the knowledge of girls being more nutritious with him, they would probably start making up most of his diet. After all, they have many more advantages than just that – they taste better, they have softer flesh and they usually tend to have less physical strength than guys so they put up less of a fight.

He carries some amount of respect to those who have been demons for longer than him. That is not to say he won’t talk back if he can get away with it but in general, he’s more likely to watch his mouth at least a little when around older demons, regardless of whether or not are they more powerful than him.

Naturally, Muzan terrifies him. But he also looks up to him a lot and has deep respect to him. Again, not only because of his power but also his years of wisdom. Of course though, the impressive extend of Muzan’s demonic abilities amazes him to no end as well. If only there wasn’t the constant death threat whenever you get near him…

He also isn’t the type to pursue or give chase to the Demon Slayer Corps’ members who choose to flee rather than to fight him. So long as they leave him alone, he’s pretty cool with them walking around as they please as well. It’s really kind of a mystery why Muzan picked him for the position, even to him.

A fluff (or crack?) headcanon I have for him is that he once met Murata and they almost fought. And by that I mean, they got into position while each of them tried to find their way out at the same time. Murata was already tired from his last mission, Kamanue was feshly appointed Lower Moon, still kind of shaken after having his eyeball engraved and wanted nothing more than to rest up a bit as well. They ended up sitting down together and complaining about their scary superiors and then the dawn broke them off. Neither of them ever spoke of it again of course.

Kamanue backstory headcanons

Kamanue was born into a middle class family, though on the poorer side still. My main basis for this claim is the fact that, aside from Rui, he is the only one of the Lower Moons who walks barefoot. And a lot of each demon’s backstory can usually be seen in their appearance (such as Douma’s cult clothing, Akaza’s open clothes revealing his muscles and tattooes, Kokushibo’s kimono and sword etc.).

He had a lot of siblings and age-wise was somewhere in the middle. Due to this, he often felt overlooked or ignored. His eldest brother/sister was the one their parents relied on and his younger siblings always got more attention (or was it just his feeling that they did?) but his relationship with his family was overall normal.

This is where his snarky side comes from. It was sort of a coping mechanism for him, being mildly rude to his siblings to make up for the attention he felt he wasn’t getting. He didn’t mean it in a bad way though and they knew it so nobody minded it too much. He sometimes got a little loose-lipped in front of people outside of his family though which got him the reputation of a rude child.

Something happened. Maybe a heavy rain washed away their crops, maybe his father and older brother/s had to go fight for the landlord, maybe a wild animal killed his father or ate their food. Either way, Kamanue was either forced to or decided to go look for a job to help his family at least a little.

Looking at his design again and googling a bit (that’s why Tumblr crashed on me the first time), his outfit carries certain amount of similarity to 19th/early 20th century nurse outfits (specifically the white button-up, belt and shape of his pants) and it’s also just a little similar to Yushiro’s so I believe he became the servant/assistant of a local doctor.

Naturally, he needed to tone his snarkiness down in there, both towards his employer and the customers. I would imagine he wasn’t treated too fairly, seeing as he came from a rather poor family. But since he couldn’t say anything, he let the bitterness stay inside of him.

It was after one of his siblings died because the doctor refused to treat since they didn’t have enough money that Kamanue finally exploded. All the pent-up anger was finally let loose and he ended up killing the doctor. That’s where Muzan comes in, picking him up and turning him into a demon.

His haori is stitched together from two pieces. The main part, white, is from his job there. The yellow sleeves and pockets are makeshift from the haori of his dead sibling (y’know, the common theme with KNY).

I originally planned to expand more on his life as a demon before he became one of the Moons but I realized I didn’t really have anything much to say there so hope this will be enough!

[seasonofthegeek]

No Other Choice, Part 2

For @miraculouspaon and @cheeseeatingtrashmonster <3

Parts 1, 2:

They walked towards the bus in silence and rode to the storage unit in a similar fashion. Felix was making a small pile in the middle of the room as Nino leaned against the open door when he finally spoke.

“I told Adrien it was you.”

Nino straightened and felt his cheeks warm. “Oh?”

“He’s the only other person who knows and I swore him to secrecy.” Felix paused in placing a picture frame of him and his brother in a box. “He said he was really happy for me, for us. I think he actually meant it. He cares for you a lot so somehow it felt like it meant more.”

“Adrien usually means what he says,” Nino agreed, an unfamiliar nervous sensation beginning in his gut. “It makes being his friend easy.”

Felix half-turned towards Nino and hesitantly met his eyes. “Do you really think we can make this work?”

Nino thought about what his mother had once told him about meeting his father for the first time. She said she was nervous and upset and an anxious mess and then he looked at her as if for the first time someone was really seeing her for the person she was, and everything fell into place. Maybe some soulmates weren’t completely accidental in assignment. Maybe…

Nino took in Felix’s anxious expression and flipped it in what he hoped was a calm one on his own face. “Yeah, I really do.”

As if his answer was too much to handle, Felix returned his attention to his work. “I don’t understand how you can be so casual about this.”

“I don’t feel very casual right now. I did just ask a relative stranger to join me in my very small living space.”

“I suppose that’s true. I don’t think I’m a stranger though. You’ve known me as long as you’ve known Adrien.”

Nino shifted away from the doorway and moved to one of the stacks of boxes. “Yeah, but Adrien and I have hung out for years and learned stuff about each other. You and I never had that kind of relationship.” He caught the tension radiating off the other man and quickly continued. “But this will give us time to get to know each other.”

“It’s not too late to simply sign the papers,” Felix reminded him without turning around.

“Would it help you if I went through some of these boxes or do you need to do them all on your own?” Nino ignored his comment and moved to a box labeled “kitchen”. “Since we’ll be living above a restaurant and I already get all the secondhand stuff, I don’t think you’ll need anything from here unless there’s something you really want.”

“There’s nothing of importance to me, no. I’m not very good with cooking, so you’re aware.”

“You’re in luck then because I am.” Nino took his answer as permission to keep moving along the labels. “I have bedding, of course, and one extra set of sheets, but if you like yours more, we can bring them with us and change them out.”

Felix half-turned in his crouched position. “The sheets are practically new and a high thread count. They’re king sized.”

“Your bedding it is then. Uh, I only have the one bed. It’s a queen so…I mean, there is a couch but it’s kind of old and I’m not sure…” Nino struggled to get his point across and kept his back to Felix. He knew he was blushing but couldn’t seem to stop. He hadn’t fully considered what bringing Felix into his small apartment meant.

“How much closet space am I going to have?”

Nino winced but was grateful not to have to concentrate on the sleeping situation for the moment. “There isn’t a closet really, but I use a makeshift wardrobe thing I bought for a decent price at a thrift store. We could probably find another one similar to it. I can make some room in mine until we find one though.”

“I see.”

“I told you it wasn’t much.”

Felix finally looked back at Nino. “Sorry. I do appreciate this gesture since you’re being so stubborn about signing the papers.”

“Somehow you’re the homeless one and it still sounds like you’re the one doing me a favor by waiting on nulling our soulmate agreement.”

“An agreement is something the people involved actually agree on,” Felix corrected. “This is a decree that was made without input from either of us.”

“Yeah, yeah. Do you need any of these boxes of books?”

“Yes.”

“Which ones?” When he didn’t receive an answer, Nino turned back to look at Felix and was surprised to see a slightly panicked look in his eyes. “All of them?” he prodded.

“If there’s room…”

“There isn’t.”

“Ah.”

His resolve crumbled. “But we can take them with us a few at a time and fit them where we can.”

Felix ducked his head shyly. “Thank you. That’s very…nice.”

“I’m a nice guy.”

“Hmmm.” ___

Felix walked around the small apartment and wasn’t sure how to feel. A third of the area was filled with neatly stacked shelves and boxes of supplies for the restaurant below. A messy bed was pushed against one wall with an ancient nightstand and lamp by one side. The couch looked as if its springs would stab anyone brave enough to sit on it and the kitchenette was small and dated. There was a desk shoved against the one window and held a laptop and various bits of speakers and recording equipment. It was obvious what any of Nino’s extra money went towards.

They’d been stopped on their last trip up the stairs by a large man Felix assumed was Nino’s father. They traded introductions and he saw the pained look in the man’s eyes when Nino explained that Felix was his soulmate. He’d probably wished for better for his son but hadn’t been able to pay for it, while Gabriel had used his money to do the opposite. Once they’d finished bringing the boxes in, Nino disappeared back down the stairs to talk to his parents. Felix was relieved he wasn’t asked to join them.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and it sank only slightly under his weight. Perhaps he was thinking about this all wrong. Nino was taking him in because he was a good person after all and surely he would give in and sign the papers once he saw Felix up and on his feet. Maybe he could find a decent job and start looking for his own place soon after. Nino wouldn’t feel guilted into asking him to stay around and he would sign the papers and they’d both be better off.

He was startled from his thoughts when the apartment door opened, and Nino appeared with a casserole dish. “I hope you’re hungry,” he announced in greeting. “Mom made too much of the special today so she told me to go ahead and bring this up for our dinner.”

“That’s very kind.”

“You say that now because you haven’t eaten this same dish every Thursday for your entire life,” Nino laughed. He busied himself with pulling down plates and gathering utensils. “It’s good but can be a little monotonous.”

“But at least it’s food.”

“At least that,” Nino agreed. He gestured to the tiny two-seater table Felix had missed on his first look around and Felix graciously took one of the rickety chairs. “I did warn you the place isn’t much.” He spooned out a large section of casserole onto a plate and offered it to his guest.

“It’s your own space though. That’s really nice.”

Nino looked relieved. “Yeah, it is. I love my family, but I needed this, especially since my mom is pregnant again.”

“Really? Aren’t there three of you already?”

“Yeah. It, uh, it wasn’t exactly planned.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

An awkward silence fell over the table and Felix cleared his throat. “Are your parents in trouble?”

“They don’t know yet. Mom refused an abortion when the county rep came to visit after her doctor’s appointment. She was able to claim religious right for me and my younger brother but I think that’s not going to fly anymore. They were already only supposed to have my older brother and my dad was forced to have a vasectomy after Chris came along, but apparently it didn’t take completely.”

“This is such a fucked-up world,” Felix muttered and stabbed the casserole with his fork. “The government shouldn’t be able to make people have surgeries and determine how big families can be and control who you end up with.”

“It’s supposed to be for the better,” Nino answered quietly.

“Do you believe it is?”

He took a long moment to consider his answer. “No.”

“So you agree with me.”  

“That doesn’t mean I’m signing the papers right now.”

“But I bet you’re a little tempted to.”

Nino didn’t respond and the rest of the dinner was spent in awkward silence. Nino cleared the table without a word and moved onto the sink to take care of the dishes. Unsure of how to react, Felix went to the one box of books he’d been able to bring with him and dragged it over to the couch. He warily sat down and found it worn in and comfortable and not at all what he was expecting. He tried to force himself to concentrate on the lawbook he’d been studying more recently but his focus kept straying as Nino began to hum while he moved around the kitchen.

Felix found himself watching the other man’s back while he washed their dishes. His humming was low and melodic and once he was finished at the sink, he wiped his hands and forearms and grabbed his messenger bag from the place by the door where he’d dropped it at arrival. Apparently, he was ignoring Felix but Felix found it didn’t bother him. It gave him a chance to watch Nino, to learn more about him.

Nino went to the cluttered desk and moved a few things around so he could pull out a tablet. He woke his computer up and after a moment, a thumping but soft tune flowed out of the speakers. Nino sat back in his chair until it creaked and then began to read on his tablet. Felix assumed he was doing homework for one of his classes, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. His eyes kept flicking from his book to the profile view he had of Nino and he found his mind wandering.

Here was a poorer family who loved each other, and they could be in trouble for adding another member. A little over a century ago, people were free to marry or not and bear as many or as few children as they pleased. And while there were parents who had too many children they didn’t care for, that wasn’t the majority, was it? How had things changed in such a short time period? Why had they? He could find no event that prompted it.

And while Felix preferred the company of other men if he had to be around anyone else at all, that wouldn’t have changed if his father had paid for his soulmate to be a woman. Gabriel wasn’t even aware of his son’s preferences. How many more people were out there just like him, forced into roles they didn’t want and weren’t prepared for? He was the older mate and was meant to be caring for Nino and here he was, sitting on his soulmate’s couch with his things in boxes because he had nothing to his name but his possessions and a small trust fund that would be all but drained in a few months.

It wasn’t fair and he wasn’t the only one hurting from it, he couldn’t be.

“I’ve been selfish.”

Nino’s chair squeaked as he turned to face Felix. “What?”

Felix lifted the law book. “I’ve been so worried about my situation but I’m not the only one dealing with this.”

“I’m still not following, man.”

“Your family shouldn’t be in trouble and you and I shouldn’t be forced together and there have to be hundreds, no, thousands, of others just like us.”

“You’re going to be some kind of revolutionary hero now, is that it?”

The wind left Felix’s sails and he sagged slightly. “It’s a thought.”

“There are protestors all the time. They usually go to jail.”

“But we could figure out a better way, a more efficient way, to make things change.”

Nino eyed him warily. “I think maybe we should both get some sleep. It’s been a long day.” He stood and stretched. “The bathroom is that door over there if you need it. I’m going to get changed.” He didn’t wait for a response as he went over to the bed and lifted a pair of lounge pants out of the mass of twisted sheets.

Feeling out of his element, Felix dropped his book to the couch and escaped to the bathroom. He wasted time snooping in the cabinets and noted how clean the shower was despite its obvious age. When he finally thought the coast was clear, he crept out of the bathroom and used the dim light from the oven hood to go back to the couch. Once he’d gotten his phone to use as a flashlight, he turned out the hood light and halted between the couch and the bed. Nino was on one side with the covers pulled up to his middle. It would’ve been easy enough to slide in on the other side, but Felix felt his stomach bubble with anxiety and he went to the couch and curled up since he was too tall to sleep on it any other way.

Perhaps tomorrow he could look for another place to stay and spend the rest of the year trying to perfect Nino’s signature for a forgery. This wasn’t going to work.

Buy me a cherry coke?

[possiblypeachy]

tea & schemes. (4)

―; summary: Jacob visits Florence for the first time. Florence is left with far too many emotions.

―; pairing: jacob frye x ofc

―; word count: 4.9k (its a big boy, babey)

―; warnings: light swearing. anxiety-esque feelings towards the end (Florence gets overwhelmed ): )

―; A/N: i love Florence muchly at this point and, trust me, i already want to write cute little fluffy smoochy things but there’s a bit of time before that still. society has a lot to say about how a woman should be at this time and it really has begun to wear on Florrie, as demonstrated at the end of this chapter.

don’t worry though!!! she’s just babie and will work past it soon. the heart wants what the heart wants, after all.

―; part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

― ❊ ―

Freddy and Florence had spent the next few days having tense conversations between their self-isolation to their own bedrooms. There was a sense of regret that hung in the air but neither siblings seemed to want to speak of it. Florence, nerves too high to even stay in the same room as him for a while and worried that he would further draw attention to her mortal flaws, kept herself to reading. Freddy busied himself with paperwork and patrols until the late evening. That is until Lissie, fed up with their pride, sat them both down and commanded that they talk to one another, lest the cook quit and leave them to fend for themselves.

Oh, if she had a shilling for every time she’d had to do this since working for the Abberline’s, she’d have enough money to finally buy that necklace she’d always ogled on the way to the market. It was the way of siblings, she supposed: they always had to prove they were superior to the other in one way or another.

They had reconciled after a few moments of silence then them both leaning forward and mumbling an “I’m sorry” at the same time. Frederick admitted that perhaps his leash on her was too tight. Florence said that she understood that he was just trying to protect her. Her brother sighed tiredly, thankful that this was all over, and joked that at least she didn’t have to write about their bickering now in her letter to their parents. When she laughed, everyone could feel a weight lift off of the household.

All was well with the Abberline’s once again.

That afternoon, after Freddy had left for work with a smile on his face for the first time in days, Florence had retired to her room, finally content enough with life that she could write a sufficient letter to her parents. Edward and Hannah Abberline were kind parents and especially lenient with their children, much to the dismay of other mothers and fathers of their rank. Their only condition for Florence to move into Freddie’s house in London was that she wrote regularly and that she at least try to find a nice man to marry. She was more than happy to uphold those terms.

The brunette was lucky that, when three knocks came to her bedroom window, her dip pen was away from the paper; with the way that she jolted in her seat, it surely would’ve ruined the page she had been writing on. A string of meowing began from her bed, her cat obviously peeved at the disruption to his sleep. When her gaze finally dragged to the window, half-expecting to see an insistent bird, she met eyes with Jacob, who’s grin told her that he found her surprise amusing.

Florence stood and slid the window up, letting Jacob haul himself inside. “The window is usually open; you didn’t have to knock.”

He dusted himself off, readjusting his coat. Before he could speak, the tabby cat to his left honked at him. Shocked, Jacob looked about before meeting the stare of perhaps the most tired-looking (and sounding) feline he’d ever seen. The cat yelled at him again and he gave Florence a look.

Florence scooped the cat up into her arms, much to its displeasure. “Don’t worry about Duncan. He likes to tell people off for disturbing him.”

Jacob chuckled. “He’s called Duncan?” He reached a hand out and Duncan sniffed it cautiously.

“An urchin gave him to me a year or so ago. The poor child said that she wanted him to live a nice life with a nice lady. She said his name was Duncan.” Florence looked fondly down at the cat, who seemed to have now forgiven Jacob and was gently purring. When Jacob drew away, Duncan meowed and clawed his way up to balance on his owner’s shoulder, sniffing the air. Florence looked inconvenienced but decided to allow it, continuing to speak with Jacob. “What brings you here?”

“Adventure, dear Flor.” He had begun to peruse through her belongings, eyes scanning the letter she had been writing and the cat figurine on her desk. “You, me, the great city of London: are you up for it?”

Florence tutted, leaning to let Duncan hop down onto the bed from her shoulder, and shuffled Jacob away from her desk. “That’s not particularly specific. You could be planning on taking me somewhere nefarious like a…” She paused to think, during which Jacob was practically challenging her to say something terrible, “... brothel in Whitechapel.”

Jacob grimaced but huffed out a laugh. “Nothing of the sort. I don’t even know what that is, Miss Abberline.”

Florence nodded mockingly. “Of course, Jacob.”

“Anyway, before I let you poison my mind with thoughts of brothels,” He gave her a pointed look, reaching down to scratch behind Duncan’s ear, and Florence grinned, “I thought that I could introduce you to a slice of my world.”

Florence cooed, clapping her hands together, though her movements dripped of sarcasm. “Ooh! Are we going to derail a train together?”

His smile said ‘you cheeky mare’ but he continued before she had the chance to berate him further. “No, I was going to take you to a newly liberated stronghold. Evie and I run a gang, you know? Well, it’s more me than Evie but--”

“Where?”

Jacob thought for a moment, like he’d forgotten its location entirely, before breaking out into a terrible smile. “Whitechapel.”

Florence sighed but couldn’t hide the glint of excitement burning in her eyes. Gangs? A stronghold? Goodness, it sounded like a piece from a gritty book or perhaps a play. How delightful!

“I’ll come along but if I get pickpocketed you’re getting my money back, Jacob.”

“Certainly, dear lady.” He made a sweeping gesture to her bedroom door. “Shall we?”

--

Florence hadn’t been expecting to venture into Whitechapel again for a good few months. Catching her brother and meeting the twins there a few days prior had been enough for her. Now, she never looked down upon the poorer; before her father had opened that little shop of his and gained a seat on the town’s council, their family of seven all squished into two rooms and lived off of scrimping. Rather, she felt terribly bad for wandering around perhaps the most impoverished area of London in full health with a warm meal being cooked for her at home. Of course, she didn’t feel sorry for the thugs on the streets that ruffed up those who already had nothing and simply saw them as even more of a reason to visit as little as possible.

When Jacob began to lead her down a dingy alleyway, he seemed unfazed by the drunk man passed out on the floor and… was that his vomit beside him? Florence unconsciously began to walk closer to Jacob, a hand coming up to adjust her hat-- almost hoping that, if she moved it in a certain way, the shadow cast over her fast would hide it. “Are you certain we’re going the right way? Or, are you just leading me down here to test my resolve?”

He chuckled, giving a brief nod to a tall, bald man in a green jacket. “Why can’t it be both?” He stopped walking to let her go in front of him, gesturing for her to do exactly that with a sweep of his hand.

Florence hummed, dissatisfied, but walked ahead of him anyway. She could feel that he was close behind, almost like he was making it painfully obvious that the well-dressed, middle-class lady was with him and not available to be robbed today. It brought her a small degree of comfort, though she couldn’t help but think of her brother’s disapproving glare.

“Oh.” He muttered from behind her. She would’ve turned to look but she decided against it, not wanting to risk accidentally bumping into anyone strung about the narrow pathway. “I almost forgot. Here.” Jacob’s arm appeared at her side, palm upturned and holding the bird figurine from the market. Much to his delight, Florence made what sounded like a pleased little coo and took the sculpture from him, inspecting it with a collector’s eyes. “I went back to the market the other day and bought it; I thought you deserved a gift after the work you did.”

It was a sweet gesture and Florence couldn’t deny the happiness felt in her chest or the smile that immediately cracked her anxious demeanour. “That’s… quite kind of you, Jacob.” She ran a thumb over the intricately carved feathers then, in an effort to keep her newfound treasure safe, she pulled it closer to her body without much thought.

Jacob, however, grinned at this, seeing the amusing resemblance between her and a creature that hoards-- like a magpie or a squirrel. “You collect them, don’t you?”

Florence huffed out a laugh, allowing herself a brief glance over her shoulder to meet his eyes. “Yes, I do. They’re always beautifully crafted and they make a lovely addition to a mantlepiece or desk.” She paused for a moment, pondering. Then, she sighed. “I also collect coins, though they are a lot harder to come by and… I have a book in my desk drawer filled with stamps.”

“Stamps?” He repeated, intrigued. Florence could hear amusement in his tone.

“Stamps.” She confirmed. Wanting anything but having to assess whether or not Jacob thought less of her for this, her sight stayed firmly on the path ahead.

With a simple “I’ll keep an eye out, then” Florence felt altogether better about the situation. It wasn’t often that people simply left her be with her ridiculous collecting habits. She simply enjoyed the… satisfaction that came with the task; she was not a madwoman.

Jacob was becoming more likeable by the minute.

More and more people clad in green began to appear, all regarding Jacob with considerable amounts of respect and admiration. A few made comments about her, telling him that this was “no place to bring a bird like that”, to which, from the corner of her eyes, she could see him throw up two fingers at them. A half-smile tugged at her lips, though she made no audible observations.

They finally got to a small square behind four buildings. A few urchins ran about the place but most were men and women, dressed in green and chatting with one another or having what seemed to be playful brawls. A curious gaze dragged across the surroundings, slowly piecing the puzzle together. Flags of the same shade of green flew and, if she looked closely enough, she noticed that a symbol had been painted onto them: a bird holding a chess piece.

A rook holding a knight.

“You and Miss Frye are the ones that rallied the Clinkers?” She spun around to look at him, face etched with awe. Florence gestured wildly to their surroundings. “I expected a little gathering of rogues and crooks not… this. From what I’ve heard, your new Rooks have been taking down Blighter territory left and right.” Jacob’s eyes were wide but he said nothing, unsure if she was excited to be here or more frightened. A few seconds passed, then Florence broke out into a grin, pointing a finger at him. “I’m impressed.”

The tightness in his shoulders left and he visibly relaxed, mirroring her expression. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. Not compared to what I usually do.”

A nearby gang member-- a rook-- booed at him, though it was through a laugh. The man to her side shook his head, breathing out a chuckle through his nose. It was nice to see that there was such a strong sense of camaraderie between them all, despite them being up against huge and (until now) unbeaten opposition. Florence supposed that being united under two people so outwardly courageous and rallying for change that it would make any group be reinstilled with a sense of hope.

She tutted at him, chiding him for trying to take all the glory, but the smile that twisted at her lips told that she didn’t take him too seriously. “Don’t be a prick, Jacob; I didn’t venture here for you to take all the fame from your men.” He feigned offence, holding a hand to his chest. Clearly having just arrived at a stop on her train of thought, Florence tilted her head slightly, “Speaking of which, why did you bring me here? If you hope to enlist me, I’m afraid my days are all taken up with reading and looking for a husband-- you know, the usual.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile and a sarcastic dip of her head.

Jacob kissed his teeth. “A shame, really. Could’ve used a woman with your skill in…” he searched for something to fill the gap. Florence stared at him, a challenging light dancing in her eyes, “... making men feel small.”

She threw her head back, a glimpse of her signature, ridiculous laugh gracing the world. One of her fingers pointed at him and she nodded, “Not bad, Frye. Not bad. But,” Her giggling quietened down and she threw her arms up, as if to gesture to the square and its people, “besides making me feel all-powerful, why exactly have you decided to bring me here?”

“Well,” he began, moving toward a small alcove. There were a few sacks held up on sticks, littered with holes and slices. A crate beside them had a few practice weapons, though she was almost certain that, if she were to be hit over the head with that… wooden stick it would hurt. A lot. “I thought that, what with the mishap--” His eyes flickered to the fading bruise on her cheek, now a sickly yellow colour, and she grimaced, “-- the last time we were together, I might introduce you to extra forms of protection.” Jacob pulled a throwing knife so swiftly from his person that Florence had no idea where it actually came from. He turned it in his hand, fingers carefully holding the bladed end while the grip pointed toward her. “Protection besides a good kick to the bollocks, that is.”

Florence huffed out a laugh and took the knife from him, weighing it cautiously in her hand. “Freddy would go insane if he saw me holding this.”

“Through fear or anger?”

“I’d take a stab at both.” There was a twinkle in her eyes, begging him to pick up on her pun.

He had indeed and gave a “ha, ha, ha” in response, to which Florence shot him an over-exaggerated frown.

Jacob moved to stand beside her, his position forcing her to turn and face the mounted sacks. He pulled another knife out and her gaze flickered towards it. Florence seemed appropriately wary of the weapon and, without knowing, had begun to lean away from Jacob while he held it. His lips curled into a discreet smile upon noticing this but he said nothing; it’s better that she feels in control and comfortable when trying things like this.

“The key to throwing one of this is the power in the wrist.” He rotated the knife around, letting the bladed end almost rest near his wrist. His thumb and first two fingers were at the grip, supporting it, though she could see how loose the hold was-- presumably to make it easier to throw the knife. Jacob looked to her and gestured with his head for her to copy his position. Florence pursed her lips, unsure if she was willing to risk accidentally cutting herself and facing her brother’s wrath, but, after a few moments of quiet deliberation, she did it anyway; she didn’t come all this way just to waste her and Jacob’s time.

He gave her a smile so reassuring and kind that something skipped or bloomed or… something in Florence’s chest and she had to look away.

No. We won’t be having any of that, Florence Abberline.

“Then, once you’ve got a good hold on it, you use the flick of your wrist to--” Jacob threw the knife and, to her amazement, it landed in the centre of the sack, “-- throw it. It can be difficult to get the power right but, once you’re as good as me, you won’t have to think much.”

Florence gave him a harsh side glance. “You continue to gloat even when I’m holding a knife? You’re a foolish, foolish man, Jacob Frye.”

He gave her a sly grin. “It appears you just make me lose all sense, dear Flor.”

Their eyes stayed locked for just a second too long and, in an attempt to distract them both, she threw the knife. Its trajectory was wobbly and the side hit the sack rather than the sharp end but, all in all, he had to admit that it wasn’t too bad; he’d seen some of the Rook initiates throw them worse than that.

Jacob’s lips curled into one of those ‘not bad’ frowns, brows darting skywards. Florence glowered at the fallen knife, never one to enjoy a loss. “Trying to make sense of one of these is ridiculous.” She sighed, pointing to the weapon in the dirt. “Can I not just use one of those as a… normal weapon?”

“It is a normal weapon.”

“Shut up-- you know what I mean.”

As he went to collect the knife, he gave a chuckle. “I suppose you can but only as a last resort; it’s not made for close-range combat.”

Florence huffed. “Well,” A light grew in her eyes, gaze flickering to Jacob. When he turned to face her again, he could tell that a thought was brewing; she had that same look when they first met, “if I were to ever fight someone further away from me, I would much prefer to use a gun.” She glanced down to his hips-- at the straps and holster that held his pistol.

Jacob shook his head, clicking his fingers to draw her attention. “My eyes are up here.”

She grinned, the dimple a deep crease in her cheek. There came a playful wink and a “What can I say? I like a man with who can handle his pistol well”. Innuendo dripped from her tone and he threw his head back to laugh.

“Are you only using me for my gun, dear Flor?” Despite his words, he still pulled the weapon from its holster, checking the cylinder to see how many bullets were inside. He removed all but one.

“If I am, you’re making it terribly easy.” A hand was on her hip when he handed the gun over to her, an impish smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “No resistance, Jacob? You seem like the type to treasure his weaponry.” Florence raised a brow, eyes raking over the pistol in her hand.

He shrugged as she held it up toward the sacks, moving to lean beside a nearby wall to stay clear of… whatever might happen when she shot it. “When a pretty lady offers to play with your gun,” Jacob scrunched his face up, pitch heightening, “you don’t tend to turn her down.”

Florence cackled, leaning over herself to allow her shoulders to shake for a few moments. “You’re terrible.”

“I do try.” He grinned. Then, one of his hands came out to gesture to the training area. “Right. Are you gonna shoot that or n-- pass it back to me.”

“What? Why--”

Jacob took a few urgent steps forward, leaning toward her with his palm open, “Pass it back--” She heard him quietly curse under his breath and stand up straight-- almost too abruptly. He was facing the opposite direction to her now and, as she turned to see who was there, he uttered a devastating: “Hello, Evie.”

Impending doom had appeared in the form of Evie Frye.

Florence could tell that Jacob was caught in between a rock and a hard place with how his brain appeared to have dripped out of both of his ears and he was stood beside her, completely absent. Evie looked between the both of them. Florence hoped that her hat obscured some measure of her face but she also knew that Evie wasn’t an idiot.

“Miss Abberline,” Fuck, “I didn’t expect to see you here of all places. Don’t tell me that my brother dragged you here.” Evie already knew what was happening and that made it triply worse when Florence decided that the best thing to do in the situation was to lie.

Pure desperation coursing through her veins, she grabbed the rook closest to her-- a skinny man in his mid-twenties-- and hooked her arm around his, shuffling herself so they looked like a couple. He didn’t look particularly convincing. “I was actually here to visit…” Florence looked into the bloke’s eyes, her lips drawn into a thin line and her expression panicked. He said nothing and she quietly kissed her teeth, “... Paul. He’s enchanting and I can barely keep myself away--”

“My name is Terrence.”

Beside her, Jacob’s hand flew up to his forehead and he turned away from the pair of them, breathing out a heavy sigh. Evie still stared at Florence, who had frozen in the face of her badly made lie falling apart.

In one last attempt to redeem herself, Florence slapped Paul’s-- Terrence’s-- arm in the same way a wife would when she has to laugh at her husband’s joke. “Don’t be so silly, my love.” She gave Evie a smile, to which the assassin returned but it seemed impatient and altogether unconvinced-- like she was simply trying to speed up her breaking point.

“Good old Paul likes to mess about to try to get Miss Abberline all flustered. He says that her blush is beautiful, isn’t that right Paul?” Jacob joined the fight again, though there was a dimness to his hazel eyes that told Florence that he already knew his sister had won.

Paul frowned. “I just said my name is Terrence. And, why is this woman holding onto my arm?” Florence and Jacob cursed in unison. A smile twisted at the gangly man’s lips, however, when he finally gave Florence a proper look over. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind having a go on a posh bird. You got any plans for tonight, love?”

Disgusted, Florence yanked herself away from him and crossed her arms below her chest. Jacob grimaced beside her and, with a flick of his hand, gestured for Terrence to leave. The man in question went into a sulk and began to kick dirt up as he disappeared around the corner.

“Are you finished?” Evie glanced between them. The pair said and did nothing, which Evie took as a ‘yes’. She pointed a finger to Jacob. “I need to speak with you about something important so you should--”

“Is it about the gang war, Miss Evie?” One of the rooks piped up from a few feet away, having just strolled into the middle of the chaos-filled alcove.

Jacob perked up at Florence’s side. “The what?”

Before Evie could ask the rook to be quiet, they had already started to speak again, “Kaylock has agreed to a fight over Whitechapel. Whoever wins owns the borough.”

He grinned, practically vibrating with excitement. “That sounds perfect.” Hazel eyes flickered between Florence and his sister. Both women seemed to anticipate his departure before it even began. “Sorry ladies but I have a borough to become king of.” He looked to the rook, who gestured loosely in the fight’s direction. Jacob nodded and was off on his way, musing “King Jacob: sounds good, doesn’t it?” as he passed the girls by, pinching the gun back from Florence.

Florence, finding the whole thing quite amusing, began to laugh quietly, while Evie at her left simply gave a sigh. Blue eyes dragged over to the smaller woman and she raised a brow, gesturing to the direction he left in. “One of the many reasons why anyone should just stay at home if Jacob invites them out.”

“I think his passion is inspiring.”

“Not when you’ve lived with it your whole life.” Evie gave her a solemn look.

Florence breathed out a chuckle, shaking her head. “You and Freddy would get along well.”

Evie, all things considered, didn’t regard Miss Abberline in a negative light; her apparent desire for adventure and little escapades through London didn’t work to destabilise something greater-- like the reckless decisions Jacob had the tendency to make. She only worried that having her brother form some kind of hopeless attachment to Florence would hinder any progress that he might make and keep him perpetually senseless.

A softer look gracing her features now, Evie gestured for Florence to walk with her. “I think, now that my brother has abandoned you, we should get you home, Miss Abberline. Will Sergeant Abberline be back by the time you arrive?”

Florence pondered then her answer came by way of an inconvenienced frown. “If he’s on his break, maybe. Knowing my luck, he will be.”

They finally reached the main street and Evie seemed to search for a carriage. Briefly, she turned to regard Florence, an eyebrow raised. “I heard that Sergeant Abberline didn’t seem particularly happy when you returned home last Tuesday. Has it passed?”

“This morning, actually.” Florence confirmed. “Lissie made us reconcile; she threatened to leave if not.”

“Your sister?” Evie asked, nodding her head toward a carriage parked on the other side of the road.

Florence followed after her, allowing a light laugh. “No. If anything, she’s more like an over-enthusiastic aunt. Lissie is our live-in cook. She tends to help me like a handmaid, though.”

For the first time, Florence heard Evie’s genuine laugh. Her grin formed in the same way that Jacob’s did but wasn’t given out as freely as he tended to. Reaching the carriage, she gave Florence a hand to help her up onto it before clambering into the driver’s seat herself. “Well, this Lissie sounds like a good woman.”

“Ah,” Florence smiled, huffing out a giggle, “only sometimes. I think she enjoyed when I moved in with Freddy; it gave her someone more lively to gossip with.”

Evie hummed, amused, then silence fell over them both for a small while, leaving Florence to gaze out at the changing boroughs of London and let her thoughts run loose. No matter what her mind tried to focus on-- the book she had been reading, the play her and Freddy were due to attend at the end of the week, the dress she so desperately wanted to buy-- all lines seemed to lead back to Jacob and the (albeit limited) actions they’d had throughout the past few days. It was ridiculous to have suddenly become fixated on this one man. He knew nothing about her and she knew just as little about him. Yet, the thought of him persisted.

Was it him? Or the adventure that came from him?

She began to chew on the inside of her lip, thumbs playing with one another in her lap.

Liking and love were not for Florence. She had tried love once and declared that that would be her last time. A life without that burden was liberating, she’d always told herself. It’s why she despises the idea of getting married and having someone always able to hold onto her reins. It was a useless endeavour and would not serve her in any way that she would like. It would suffocate and surround her. That’s what she’ll always tell herself.

She liked the adventure he caused.

“Miss Abberline?” Evie called over her shoulder and Florence straightened up again but her head was still spinning. The hum she gave would’ve been a voice break. “I think…” Evie gave a sigh, “I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if you don’t indulge my brother. He’s-- he needs to focus on our plans in London. We are working for the better of the people and being close to him-- us-- could put you in a delicate position.”

Of course.

"It's obvious that he enjoys the time spent with you and already counts you among one of his friends but I just..." Evie sucked a breath in through her teeth, leading the horses neatly around a corner, "He hasn't yet realised the gravity of our situation. He just needs to focus."

Of course. Of course. Of course.

It was really beginning to grate on Florence: the fact that everyone wanted her to leave something or another alone. Freddy wants her to stop her business in helping him. Her parents want her to stop messing around and find a husband. Now, Miss Frye wants her to stop interfering with herself and Jacob’s plans. It was only ever ‘stop’ and never a push-- an encouragement to ‘go’.

Frustration rioted in her blood. Her hands were shaking. They held each other tighter.

Maybe they were right. Perhaps it would be easier for everyone if she stopped doing and simply let herself be. Freddy only wanted her to be safe and sane. Evie was saying this to protect her and keep London’s best future on the cards. It wasn’t selfish of them to ask; it was selfish of her to disregard.

It was considerate, the part of her mind that wasn’t fire and brimstone thought-- soothed.

“That sounds fine, Miss Frye.”

It’s for the best, the growing calm of her thoughts said in an effort to pacify.

“You have a fair reason for asking.”

All will be well and fine, her mind-- now having ceased its chattering-- assured.

“I’ll let him down gently.”

[bells-of-black-sunday]

The seraphic fold master post

Updtaed as of: 6/16/2020

So, the old master post isn’t good at all it’s mostly just Luci, Az, Gabriel, Michael, and Mary facts as opposed to how the fold works and functions, the caste system, social dynamics, etc. I will also be providing and updated list of all the angels that I write that live there along with the date it was updated.

Quick introduction to angels as a species and the fold itself, angels and demons are the same thing, no fall mechanic required. With how the seraphic fold and Burning planes are two neighboring realms that nearly completely overlap, the Seraphic fold is more like a gated community that rejects the idea of being as “low and grimy” as their “savage” cousins. They’re the living embodiment of “you can’t sit with us”.

The burning planes was created and is written by my friend so I will not be making a post on it ehrwh

I. The caste system and social dynamics

The caste system is simple, but the class divides are quite literal with huge guarded walls and gates separating each area. Angelic society is separated into spheres with a ruling class above everyone else. It goes as follows:

The council

First sphere

Second Sphere

Third sphere

The council are the ruling class of angelic society, but they don’t have one ruler. The seraphic fold is infinitely spreading making room for those that are born or reincarnated within’ it’s pristine walls. Each member of the council governs a small portion of the fold making general laws vary quite greatly aside from the constants that were decided when the fold was first manifested, but for the most part the fold is governed by strict social expectations.

1. Murder is prohibited unless you’re challenging the throne, failure to comply will result in execution 

and 

2. The murder and assault of death angels will result in either permanent exile or execution 

The council make their own laws as they see fit for their society, but despite there been quite literally billions of council members only a handful are well known and govern the most populated areas of the fold.  Azrael, Michael, Mary, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Sealtiel, Jehudiel, Barachiel, Samuel, and formerly Lucifer. Lucifer was and still is the most prominent council member in the folds history, he conquered nearly half of the fold before being exiled shortly after the storming of heaven. 

His section of the fold was broken up and given to the members of his council that didn’t take his side during the event, but rulers aren’t elected nor are they born into power. The thrones are constantly being fought over by those looking to get ahead in the first sphere, those that rule have proven themselves as both powerful in battle and worthy of respect.

The first sphere is home to wealthy politicians, the royal guard, merchants, soul collectors, high class chefs, gladiators and the like. It’s high class society is the strictest out of any of the spheres as everyone’s looking for a way to get rid of competition. Political assassins and body guards are a huge portion of the jobs offered in the back alleys, not to mention the dark underbelly of the “servant” trade where many angels are kidnapped from the third sphere to be “house keeps” and “servants” for the upper class. The first sphere is so full of pride and prejudice to the point where if you’re any bit sympathetic towards those below you or interact below you, you will face harsh scrutiny and possible assault. 

But it’s not all bad, the first class has the highest quality of living out of any of the spheres with running water, lighting, an abundance of food, etc. Not to mention the access to various delicacy’s made by soul collectors. Soul collectors are angels that collect the souls of the dead and turn them into fine alcohols, candies, tapestries, silks, cigars, weapons, and jewelry. Just like you’ll see in other sphere’s, there’s a wealth gradient. The further you get to the second sphere the poorer and worse the sphere becomes.

The second sphere is middle to low class, it carries over traits from the first and third sphere, but this is generally where you’re “peasant” jobs are. A lot of them are farmers or handy workers, but there are tailors and cooks here. Food shortages and poverty gets worse and worse as you get back towards the third sphere. These are generally average people who don’t have any extreme magical ability and their ability to collect and see souls isn’t the greatest. They’re just average people trying to make ends meet, it is possible to pull out of this sphere and into the first, but it takes a lot of time and effort, but it’s even easier to fall into the third.

The third sphere is where all those that are exiled and rejected by society end up. There is little possibility of pulling yourself out of here and generally laws don’t apply to those that society has forgotten and/or rejected leaving this section to be guarded by militias. Life in the third sphere is a lot more relaxed and free spirited ruled by rebellion and rejecting social standards despite the huge starvation problem, life has thrived here. But as time passes social unrest grows within’ this sphere making the sign of Lucifer and the removal of wings a sign of rebelling the society they’re oppressed and forgotten by.

Death angels are a huge part of angelic society, they’re angels that carry out Death’s will and thus are considered the highest of angel society and specially protected under Angelic law and thus are always either a part of the council or living within’ the first sphere.

Fashion is a huge part of angelic society it reveals wealth, social status, and job position, thus I will give a quick run down of it.

The council:  Long silks, armor, tight fitting clothing all are common place. The face is usually covered by a mask or hood, wings have been enlarged to give an imposing silhouette. Intimidation is key here as many council members face opponents rather regularly. Black and gold is extremely common place within’ fashion here. Many council members adorn their horns in jewelry. Generally fashions rules are much looser here than most of the other spheres. The lack of wings is an extreme taboo along with the lack of horns.

The first sphere:  Extremely extravagant clothing that often takes appearance over functionality. Masks are common place here along with long feather’s and more than one pair of wings placement varies to being framing the head, middle of the back, shoulder blades, etc. A lot of teal and gold is used in clothing within’ this sphere, the usage of black is reserved strictly for mourning. Jewelry is a must here to flaunt your wealth, wealth is often displayed and flaunted by how much gold and jewels a person wears as they’re quite expensive. The lack of wings is an extreme taboo along with lack of jewelry, clothing, silks, and masks.

The third sphere: The third sphere is often categorized by rebellion and rejecting the social standards of the fold. The removal of wings, horns, hooves, etc. in an effort to look more human is extremely common place, but they never look fully human. Any angels that still have their wings are social outcasts within’ this sphere as they desperately try to fit in with their peers, but they’re also more likely to leave the sphere. Clothing in the third sphere is extremely varied, others might wear only white, other’s black, or vibrant colors, but one thing that’s generally not used is gold. Very rarely is gold used and it’s usually stolen.  Wings, anything that would flaunt wealth is an extreme taboo within’ this sphere.

II. Housing and general aesthetic of the fold

The fold consists of whites, teals, blacks and golds to contrast the bright red veins angels get when angered. Angelic housing is basically like ancient Greek houses, but made out of smooth white marble and extravagant details galore, you get up into mansions as you get into the more wealthy sphere. A lot more gold and black marble or carpet is used in these palaces while common housing tends to either get white marble, wood flooring, or straw. Wealthy people tend to be able to live alone, while as you get further down it’s not uncommon to see multiple families sharing one home or one area of land. Housing isn’t hard to come by, but since the fold is a series of floating islands, it tends to be compact, reaching upward instead of outward.

III. Links + misc facts

Extra links to more info:

Dimensional clusters

Why don’t angels want to look human?

Angel diet kinda

Angels as parents

Angel gentialia (nsfw)

How angels change their body

Gender and pronouns usage

High priests and Apollyon

Nomadic ground dwelling angels

Angels don’t refer to who they’re married to as their spouse, they call them their mate and polyamory is not at all uncommon especially in wealthier sections of the fold where you might want to pool your money together. Divorce also isn’t seen as taboo or uncommon

Angels do reproduce sexually, yes, but since angels can shape aspects of their appearance however they want, gender isn’t seen as anything that’s worth talking about, everyone can have children if they choose to so even what’s in your pants doesn’t matter

Societal pressure tends to keep angels having the same appearance in everything but the third sphere, lack of facial features aside from the occasional shown eyes, horns, hooves, claws, and tails. 

Every angel is born with one set of wings, but while angels can choose to grow more, once they’re torn from their sockets the tissues too scarred to grown another pair leaving them permanently grounded.

Angels reach sexual maturity at one hundred years of age, but they have been known to leave home earlier than that.

Angels are immortal in the sense that they don’t die from old age, but disease, famine, etc. can all kill them

People do reincarnate in the fold and it’s basically a toss of the dice where they’ll end up when they do

IIII. Angel master list 

aka angels I write on this blog or if people make angels and want to be added to the list I’ll add them and link their blog/whatever

last updated 6/16/2020

Abaddon

Azrael

Lucifer

Mary

Michael

Rose

Apollyon

Lilith

[arcticdementor]

When I saw him, he was outside Payne Whitney. Nothing about the tall, gray façade suggests it is the university gym, unless there is a new trend of contractors housing athletics departments in Gothic cathedrals. You wouldn’t guess by looking at the frosted glass panes and arches that the third floor hosts the world’s largest suspended indoor swimming pool. It is a work of art, like the rest of Yale’s buildings.

Marcus was smoking by a bench, his face jaundiced from three packs that day. This is atypical for Yale students—most abstain from smoking. There was no reason for him to smoke so much, just as there was no reason for me to ride around campus on a blue Razor scooter. But Yale students tend to have such quirks. His suit-jacket was dusty and smelled of sweat—he didn’t mind lifting weights in a dress shirt and trousers if that meant more time to read Nietzsche alone at the bar.

When I hugged him, he felt skeletal. I asked if he had eaten today. He assured me that his earthly requirements were limited—no need for anything other than alcohol and cigarettes. “I can buy you a sandwich.” He refused. I insisted. A nice one. Bacon and egg. Or steak and cheese. I was testy now. “GHeav is right there. I’ll be back in six minutes.”

He turned his face towards me, warm with friendliness—and with one sentence, he changed our relationship forever.

“You know I’m rich, right?”

“What?”

“You know I have a trust fund, right? I can buy my own sandwich if I wanted it.”

This is the moment when after three years of friendship, Marcus sat down and told me his life story. His cottages in Norway. Sneaking into the family study. Learning about the cost of hardwoods and hearing his boorish, critical father sulk in 5-star hotel rooms.

Marcus did not act this way out of anxiety, grief, stress, or because he had nobody to tell him his habits will kill him. He lived as a starving writer not out of necessity, but for the aesthetic. Out of some desire to imitate the Bohemian 19th century writers. Out of artistry. Style. Intentional choice.

…

This is a story about an institution and an elite that have lost themselves.

…

Over the past decade, elite colleges have been staging grounds for what Matthew Yglesias has termed the Great Awokening. Dozens of scandals have illustrated a stifling new ideological orthodoxy that is trickling down into the rest of society through HR departments, corporations, churches, foundations, and activist organizations. The nation is becoming polarized and its parts disconnected. The right is evil, and the left is stupid. Or is it the other way around?

The campus “free speech” debate is just a side-effect. So are debates about “diversity” and “inclusion.” The real problems run much deeper. The real problems start with Marcus and me, and the masks we wear for each other.

…

Based on statistics from the class of 2013, approximately 2% of students hailed from the lowest income quintile, while 69% came from the top 20%. How did those poor students fare after graduation? Around 2% of students at Yale move from the bottom to the top quintile. In other words, nearly all of them. You show up poor, and you leave rich. Going to an Ivy League school may be the fastest way to join the upper class.

But this low number of 2% surprised me because when I was at Yale, everybody kept talking about how broke they were.

…

Poor people—actually poor people—don’t talk this way. They tend to stay under the radar because they don’t know the rules of the game. But I bought it—at least when I was a freshman. If they were constantly announcing how broke they were, my assumption was that they must have even less money than I do.

This turned out to be wrong. The reality was that they were invariably from the upper-middle and upper classes. I know this because they eventually told me, like Marcus did. But there were tells. These students didn’t act the way my friends and I did growing up. They didn’t know how much pens or flights or cars were supposed to cost. They couldn’t tell when a restaurant was a good deal.

Pretending to be poor is a lot easier than pretending to be rich—just because there are so many different ways to be poor. But there are still small quirks you have to get right. Social class doesn’t just influence how you walk and talk; it influences how you interact with others. The stereotype is that poor people are improper—but sometimes it is the opposite. They try to do things as they think they are meant to be done. Spending a hundred hours building bat wings for a Halloween costume. Renting a limo for their child’s prom.

But lying about anything is tricky—you risk being found out—so what were these people trying to accomplish by acting broke? And this raises the broader question: why pretend to be of a social class you are not?

…

What about the regular rich? Not the children of billionaires, but the children of millionaires. The common impulse is to emulate the people one or two levels above you—so they might also act poorer than they are. But whereas the super-rich learned purposeful discretion from their parents at weekly dinner table meetings, the regular rich did not. They learned it through mimicry—and with varying degrees of success. The less sophisticated copycats end up brazenly proclaiming that they are “broke” and “upper-middle class.”

For some people, this isn’t an act; they actually believe this. After all, they do seem poor when compared to the hyper-rich. They can’t afford spontaneous Spring Break trips to private Bali islands. They see their prep-school classmates’ Facebook photos and realize that they are one, or maybe two, pegs down from that, and so they use the term “upper-middle class” without really knowing what this term refers to. They have no idea how the actual upper-middle class, the middle class, or the poor really live. Those students never went to their prep school, so for all intents and purposes, they do not exist. Like Krasnoyarsk, Siberia—we know it exists. We can find it on a map. But we don’t need to concern ourselves with it. Often, this is what the real poor are to rich people—they are a theoretical construct that exist somewhere else.

…

In another instance, I was privately discussing with a professor the pros and cons of a Food Stamp reform proposal. After some analysis, I commented on my own experience with the program. His response was complete shock. “You don’t really mean you were on welfare. You just mean you were supported by your parents, right?”

In a world of masks and façades, it is hard to convey the truth.

And this is how I ended up offering a sandwich to a man with hundreds of millions in a foreign bank account.

…

On the surface, there is nothing wrong with haphazard and sometimes warped class signaling. But if you put on a façade for long enough, you end up forgetting that it is a façade. The rich and powerful actually start believing that they are neither of those things. They actually start believing that there is not much difference in status and resources between themselves and the upper-middle class, the middle class—and eventually, between themselves and the actual poor. They forget that they have certain privileges and duties that others do not. They forget that the inside joke was just a joke all along.

…

When these kids grow up, they end up at conferences where everybody lifts their champagne glasses to speeches about how we all need to ���tear down the Man!” How we need to usurp conventional power structures.

You hear about these events. They sound good. It’s important to think about how to improve the world. But when you look around at the men and women in their suits and dresses, with their happy, hopeful expressions, you notice that these are the exact same people with the power—they are the Man supposedly causing all those problems that they are giving feel-good speeches about. They are the kids from Harvard-Westlake who never realized they were themselves the elite. They are the people with power who fail to comprehend the meaning of that power. They are abdicating responsibility, and they don’t even know it.

…

There is another reason why people might pretend to be poor. This reason is much more serious than fitting in or avoiding hitmen. The rich and powerful are expected to take responsibility for things, and blamed when they go wrong.

“Check your privilege.” Just about every college student has heard this phrase since 2013. What it means is evasive. But like most memes that strike a chord with people—there is some point to it. The rich have privileges. They therefore also have responsibilities. The responsibilities are not always so fun.

…

Would you want to be the strongest man in the village right at the moment when you failed to use that strength properly and the village is dying and rivals are out for blood? Or would you rather be the average person, eating the normal amount of food, without being hated?

But that was just a thought experiment. Those are people in crises—in a hunter-gatherer village at war. We live in America. Certainly things are different during a stable, prosperous period, in a technologically advanced society. Would you want to be exceptional then?

Not necessarily. The elite are faced with certain hard burdens.

The elite are expected—by everyone else, and by each other—to use their power to make sure society works properly. That is, they are expected to rule benevolently. The reason they are expected to do this is that if they don’t, nobody else can or will. The middle class and the poor do not have the powers and privileges that the rich and elite do, and cannot afford the necessary personal risks. But without active correction towards health and order, society fails.

…

In times of political uncertainty, when things are not going well, elites face more scrutiny, and more internal pressure to find people to blame—whether rightly, or as scapegoats. It becomes a bigger liability to be openly elite.

Further, such times are themselves caused by political dysfunction among the elite, when elite institutions forget how to listen to reason (or have decided not to) and forget how to coordinate towards benevolent rule.

At elite conferences, they wonder how to regain trust, or otherwise deal with the rising atmosphere of populist discontent. They acknowledge that something is deeply wrong. But they dare not lay the blame at their own feet, caused by their own overreaches and dysfunction. Anyone who did would immediately be under suspicion. No longer one of us, but one of them. So, those who might otherwise lead the difficult but necessary elite self-critique instead keep their mouths shut, or they say the wrong thing without ideological, psychological, and social preparation for the consequences and get cast out. Only the true believers incapable of self-critique, the incompetent, and the cynics, remain as voices in the public forum. They talk in circles, never quite able to correct course and come to any new conclusions, except the need to double down on current ideological practices.

…

They say that the recent scandals at Yale had to do with racial and social justice. I don’t think that’s what it was really about. When looking at one or two scandals, it’s easy to buy the story that it is just students organizing and using their rights of free speech and assembly to protest what they see as injustices perpetrated by the university. But when looking at all of the scandals together, another narrative starts to emerge.

And that narrative is much closer to this: members of the ruling class are not sure what to do with themselves—and they are not even sure they want to rule.

…

When people think of universities, they think of their local state school, or else Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. And when they think about Yale, it is often when they are reading about a president, a Supreme Court justice, or the editor of The New Yorker. That’s because Yale graduates play no small part in running the world. It is the school the elite want to send their kids to. It is the school the lower classes assume their kids will never go to.

…

What happens when a school with this position is embarrassed about its role as an international trendsetter? What if instead of doing the hard work to set the tone for responsible rule, it abdicates that responsibility?

…

But the appearance of bottom-up protest politics is always a bit of a false narrative.  It would be one thing if the students were polled and a majority said they wanted the name changed, or some other process was used. At least the university could say that it was making decisions based on some objective democratic process, and wasn’t just being pushed around. But this is not what happened. No polls were taken. There was no authoritative process. The school said no for a few months, then caved. If the school were actually confident in its position to resist, it could have easily pushed back on the protests. Instead, it folded on demands from a small number of students willing to make noise. Either the university administrators are spectacularly spineless, or the protests just provided a convenient impetus and excuse to do something they already wanted. We can look at several more incidents and notice a similar trend.

…

What do all of these events have in common? Some had student support. Some did not. Some started as public outrage taken to the street. Some were completely internal. What they had in common was an administration and student body coordinated around an ideology that continually mutated to ensure moral entrepreneurship and a continued supply of purges, as new forms of human behavior or commonplace descriptors became off-limits. Some of this energy was genuine, some cynical.

These were not kids protesting the Vietnam war, or graduate students mobilizing for better pay and medical care. Nobody would have had a gun shoved into their arms and sent across the world if Yale had not fired the professors. Nobody would have lost money if they did not change “Master.” In fact—Yale lost money on these changes in the form of alumni donations and administrative time. Meetings, committees, redone paperwork, and brand new “head of college” plaques. These changes were neither meant to save lives, nor to save money.

But what was the point of it all?

…

Thousands of hours of human effort and labor. And for what? What was it for?

If you ask supporters, they will tell you the cost does not matter so much, because this is about creating an ideal world. Of course the professor should be fired—how dare she stand against the minority student organizations? Of course it’s okay that the Yelp reviews were published—she should never have written them. Of course names should be changed if they hint at or honor the wrong ideology. What does preserving history matter if history is racist? The university is handling things according to its proper ideals of empathy and inclusion.

In short, their point was that this was all to help poor people. Immigrants. People whose parents are from distant, impoverished lands. People of color. Changing “Master,” firing the dean, and firing professors was all for this.

Except this did so little to actually help any of these people that this could not possibly have been the main motivation.

None of this was actually to their benefit, except for the few activists willing to invest time and energy into the game. It is not easy to stay up-to-date with the new, ever-more complex rules about what you are allowed to say to qualify as the bare minimum of sociable and sane. It is cognitively and socially demanding. I had to not just study psychology and computer science, but I had to stay up-to-date with the latest PhD-level critical theory just to have conversations.

…

If words like “Master” are deemed offensive based on questionable linguistic or historical standards, then this means other words and phrases can become offensive at a moment’s notice. Under these rules, only people in the upper ranks who receive constant updates can learn what is acceptable. Everybody else will be left behind.

The people best positioned for this are professors at elite universities. They are ingrained in the culture that makes up these social rules. They get weekly or even daily updates, but even they cannot keep up.

…

A cynical observer might conclude that this is all just revolution as usual; a small clique of agitators seizing more and more power, and purging their enemies by virtue of their superior internal solidarity, a bold and demanding ideology, lukewarm popular moral support, and no real organized opposition. In some ways, that is what’s going on. They have the bold ideology, the ambient support, and no real opposition.

But importantly, they don’t have internal coordination by any means other than adherence to the ideology itself. Even members of the clique are never really safe. Anyone who contradicts the latest consensus version of the constantly mutating ideology, even if they have worked to its benefit or are otherwise obviously on side, gets purged. If you don’t keep up, you get purged.

It doesn’t matter that the ideology is abusive to its own constituents and allies, or that it doesn’t really even serve its formal beneficiaries. All that matters is this: for everyone who gets purged for a slight infraction, there are dozens who learn from this example never to stand up to the ideology, dozens who learn that they can attack with impunity if they use the ideology to do it, and dozens who are vaguely convinced by its rhetoric to be supportive of the next purge. So, on it goes.

This is the nature of coordination via ideology. If you’re organizing out of some common interest, you can have lively debates about what to do, how things work, who’s right and wrong, and even core aspects of your intellectual paradigm. But if your only standard for membership in your power coalition is detailed adherence to your ideology, as is increasingly true for membership in elite circles, then it becomes very hard to correct mistakes, or switch to a different paradigm.

And this helps explain much of the quagmire American elites are stuck in: being unable to speak outside of the current ideology, the only choice is to double down on a failing paradigm. These failures lead to lower elite morale, resulting in the class identity crisis which afflicts so many at Yale. Ironically, the result is an expression of that ideology which is increasingly rigid on ever more minute points of belief and conduct.

…

What is the point of this new ideology? This ideology is filled with inconsistencies and contradictions, because it is not really about ideological rigor. Among other things, it is an elaborate containment system for the theoretical and practical discontent generated by the failures of the system, an absolution from guilt, and a new form of class signaling. Before, to signal you were in the fashionable and powerful crowd, you would show off your country club membership, refined manners, or Gucci handbags. Now, you show how woke you are. To reinforce their new form of structural power, people dismiss the idea that they even have the older, more legible forms of status. They find any reverse-privilege points they can, and if they are cis-white-men, they pose as allies. On an institutional level, the old ways of legitimizing power are gone, and the new motto is this: diversity is legitimacy.

There is a deep comedy to this sort of signaling. Only around 2% of the student body was in the bottom 20% of American society, and yet extremely wealthy Singaporean students who had spent just a few years in America marched in the street and referred to themselves as “people of color.” People’s experiences were ignored when they volunteered information that countered the main narrative, because the surface-level debate wasn’t the point. The point was to signal that you were with the program. Only a select and secret group of student “leaders”—who were already savvy enough to engage comfortably with hierarchy—were invited in to chat with administrators.

Shouting from the rooftops that “They aren’t doing enough!” is much easier than following any traditional system of elite social norms and duties, let alone carefully re-engineering that system to reestablish order in a time of growing crisis.

…

But there is more to selling out that nobody talks about. These jobs are the dream jobs of the middle class. They’re not supposed to be jobs for the sons and daughters of millionaires and billionaires—these kids don’t actually need the money. They want independence from their parents and proof that they can make it on their own—and prestigious work experience—but they have wealth acquired through generations that they can always fall back on. These people are generally as harmless as the middle class—which is to say completely harmless. They keep to themselves. They quietly grow their bank accounts and their 401ks. And just like the real middle class, they don’t want to risk their next promotion through being too outspoken. They have virtually no political power. This mindset is best encapsulated by: “I’ll go with the program. Please leave me alone to be comfortable and quietly make money.”

They effectively become middle class, because there is no longer any socially esteemed notion of upper class. They have a base of power, of f-you money, that they could use to become something greater than just another office worker or businessperson. But there is no script for that, no institutional or ideological support. What would it even mean to be an esteemed, blue-blooded aristocrat in 2019? So they take the easy and safe way.

How else do Yale students give up their responsibility?

They go in the other direction. These are the people who call themselves idealists and say they want to save the world. They feel the weight of responsibility from their social status—but they don’t know how to process and integrate this responsibility into their lives properly. Traditionally, structurally well-organized elite institutions would absorb and direct this benevolent impulse to useful purpose. But our traditional institutions have decayed and lost their credibility, so these idealists start looking for alternatives, and start signalling dissociation from those now-disreputable class markers.

…

Who is winning? This question is an important one. Yale administrators had lofty goals. In an attempt to placate their own biases, the administrators and faculty forgot that they are the ones who are supposed to be teaching. Instead of expelling or suspending the small number of people actively undermining the student body and university as a whole, the university does nothing, or actively accelerates the process. The professors are the ones who leave. The radical clique feels emboldened.

Now we can begin to understand the real problem at Yale. It is not free speech—and it is not non-inclusivity. The standards of reality, and the standards of morality not based solely on being woke, are ousted. That’s because the conventional standards of elite morality, based on responsible use of power—actually responsible, not just a convenient feeling of doing good—are much harder, and based on the very self-consciousness that everyone is trying to avoid.

…

The result is an institution increasingly unable to carry out its own mission, as tuition rises to pay for more administrators, and ideological drama makes it harder and harder to actually teach. And now we are back at the original question. What was the point of Yale? What was the point of going to Yale? What is the point of elite institutions?

Is the point of Yale to promote the humanities and knowledge of the West that is hard to learn anywhere else? This is not the full mission. Donald Kagan and Lee Bass’s year-long history of the West program was cut, due to faculty protesting that it was not multicultural enough, despite having large interest and $20 million in funding.

Is Yale’s vision a futuristic, technocratic university? Is the university divesting from the liberal arts for the purpose of committing to the technology of the future? This isn’t the case, either. Computer science enrollment has increased significantly in the past decade. But Yale’s computer science department is lagging behind other schools. The university has taken steps towards improving the department, but in general shows no signs of a visionary commitment to expanding tech or significantly expanding professorships.

…

Maybe the university has lost every purpose other than giving students a social environment in which to party. If the students aren’t educated or visionary, at least they’re networking and hedonically satisfied.

Except they’re not. It would be one thing if they were happy—but even this is not true. They don’t know what is expected of them, or what they should aspire to be. The lack of expectations creates nihilistic tendencies and existential crises. In 2018, around one quarter of Yale undergraduates said they sought mental health counseling. One quarter of Yale students took the “Happiness and the Good Life” course in 2018 in an attempt to find answers. Students are demanding more mental health resources. A new wellness space was created with bean-bag chairs and colored walls. But the real sources of unhappiness are more systemic. They are rooted in uncertainty about the future.

If Yale students are uncertain about the future and their role in it, what does that say about the rest of society?

…

So what if Yale, and Yale students, are abdicating responsibility? We can all just send our kids to Harvard, or MIT, or move to California and go to a state school. I heard UC Berkeley is pretty good.

But the problems present at Yale are present at every other university, and schools outside of the United States look to elite American universities as role models. If things are broken at elite universities, things are broken, period.

…

Yale is supposed to be using its power and reputation to set standards for excellence, but instead it is abandoning its responsibilities and getting embroiled in controversy after controversy. Yale is not special in this regard—other colleges are also often embroiled in controversies. But the controversies of top colleges matter most because they determine what is acceptable for everybody else.

And what’s happening at Yale reflects a crisis in America’s broader governing class. Unable to effectively respond to the challenges facing them, they instead try to bail out of their own class. The result is an ideology which acts as an escape raft, allowing some of the most privileged young people in the country to present themselves as devoid of power. Institutions like Yale, once meant to direct people in how to use their position for the greater good, are systematically undermined—a vicious cycle which ultimately erodes the country as a whole.

Segments of this class engage in risk-averse managerialism, while others take advantage of the glut to disrupt things and expand personal power. The broader population becomes caught up in these conflicts as these actors attempt to build power bases and mobilize against each other. And like Yale, it seems a safe bet that things will continue and even accelerate until some new vision and stable, non-ideological set of coordination mechanisms are able to establish hegemony and become a new ground for real cooperation.

[thinkingaboutyoungroyals]

Tyrus Month: Wedding

Renewal Of Vows (AO3)

A/N: This is the last of the prompts for Tyrus Month and I just want to say how much fun it was to participate! I know I didn't do all of the prompts due to my own busy life schedule but I'm so thankful to everyone who took the time to read and enjoy what I've put out!I'm looking forward to what else this show has in store for us!

It was a warm sunny day. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. The kids were out playing. And Cyrus and TJ were on the playground swinging.

The two friends talked about everything and nothing, at the same time.

TJ talked about his summer math tutoring. Cyrus relayed ideas for his future screenplays. TJ narrated stories about the kids at work. Cyrus shared his anxiety about the upcoming school year, as he was finally entering high school.

“High school is a completely different territory from middle school,” Cyrus ranted as he kicked his legs in the air to gain a little more height (just a little). “The halls are probably more crowded and the classes are harder and the social status quo is stricter! I don’t know if I’ll survive!”

On the swing next to him, TJ let out a chuckle. “I can definitely attest to the crowded hallways. There are a lot of tall seniors and they’ll just push past you to get to class. If you need a bodyguard, I’ll volunteer.”

Cyrus blushed. In the two years he had known TJ, the older boy always seemed to say the sappiest things. Considering he was, at one time, a scary-basketball-guy to Cyrus, the younger couldn’t seem to get used to his flirtatiousness. He often wondered if the athlete’s words meant more than simple playfulness.

Sometimes, he even allowed himself to hope that his feelings for the older boy were reciprocated.

“Oh, look at that,” TJ’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Cyrus slowed his swinging and shifted his head in the direction the other boy was pointing at.

A group of kids were gathered around a little girl and a little boy standing side-by-side, their arms linked. They were standing by the sandbox and little girl was holding a bunch of flowers they probably pulled from one of the beds around the playground. In front of them was another little boy, holding a book upside down.

“Awww, they’re having a playground wedding,” Cyrus realized, a smile on his face. “I remember having one of those.”

At that, TJ chuckled again. “You married someone on a playground?” he asked, genuinely amused.

Up ahead of them, the two kids exchanged candy rings.

“Yeah.” Cyrus began to reminisce. “It was back in kindergarten. I was the new kid and I didn’t really have any friends yet. But there was this one kid who played with me and one day, he asked me to marry him on the playground." He let out a soft chuckle. "That should have clued me in that I was gay when I didn’t see anything wrong with it and said ‘yes’.”

“Awww, that’s cute,” TJ said, his lips quirked into an amused smile as he kept swinging. “Who was it?”

The memory of a blonde-haired kid with pretty blue eyes and played dinosaurs with him on the sandbox floated in Cyrus' memory. The other boy had proposed with a blueberry ring pop and another kid married them in front of all their plastic dinosaur toys.

“His name was Tyler," Cyrus narrated. "He was so cool. But, a week later, he moved and I never saw him again.”

He remembered being so upset when Tyler didn’t show up to school after that and then his teacher told him that he had moved. That was probably his first time experiencing heartbreak yet he didn’t even realize.

Meanwhile, beside him, TJ had dragged his feet on the ground as his head swiveled to Cyrus. His eyes were wide with shock and disbelief.

Cyrus furrowed his brows. “What?”

“Where did you go to kindergarten?”

Odd question but okay. “Maple Heights Nursery and Kindergarten. Why?”

TJ swallowed. “I went there too. When I was 6, my dad got a new job and we moved. Then, when I was 9, he lost his job and we had to move back here.”

Cyrus smiled, excitedly. “Really? Wow! Maybe we were in the same class!”

The older boy managed a smile. “Before we moved, though, I also married this kid on the playground. But I can’t remember his name. I felt so guilty for not telling him I was moving. But, I remember that I really liked him ‘cause he was fun to play with. And, he had a mole on his cheek… like you.”

It took Cyrus a moment for TJ’s words to sink in. And when they did, his eyes were wide and his words were caught in his throat.

“Do you know my full name, Underdog?” TJ asked.

Cyrus swallowed and shook his head.

“Tyler Joseph Kippen. People didn’t start calling me TJ until the first grade because there were three Tylers in my class and it just stuck.”

Cyrus’ breath hitched. “T-Tyler? Y-You're... Tyler?”

TJ smiled. “Hi, husband.”

His heart fluttered. “B-But… your hair… and your eyes… they’re different.”

TJ shrugged. “Hair got darker. Eyes changed color, I guess.”

Cyrus’ mind was blank at that point and all he could seem to do was look at TJ. As in, really look at him, trying to find glimpses of his kindergarten husband. Granted, his memory of the time was hazy since he was only 5 back then and TJ had changed a lot. He still felt skeptical.

TJ must have sensed his skepticism as he added, “I proposed to you with a blueberry ring pop and I kissed your nose. And I told you that when we grew up, I would marry you for real and we will have a house with a giant swimming pool and-.”

“And a dolphin named Flipper,” Cyrus finished, bits of the memory coming back.

TJ smiled. “We still have a lot of growing up to do but I don’t think we can have that dolphin.”

Cyrus felt himself glare. “You left me.”

TJ’s smile dropped. “I’m sorry.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t remember my name! Or me!”

“I remembered you! I just suck at names!”

Cyrus huffed. “What kind of husband just leaves his husband without saying goodbye?! You should make it up to me!”

“Okay, I will. Anything you want.”

“Good. You should marry me again,” Cyrus said, absentmindedly before his words registered and the horror sunk in. “No, wait, that’s not what I-.”

“Okay.”

Cyrus blinked. “Okay?”

TJ was grinning as he got on his feet and walked in front of Cyrus’ swing. “Where do you want it? Here in the swings or over by the sandbox like old times?”

“TJ, I was kidding.”

“I’m not. Because I like you, Cyrus.”

Cyrus blinked again. And again. And again.

He heard the words. He could comprehend the words. But those words only existed in his dreams. Surely, no way in real life did TJ just confess his feelings to him… right?

His silence made TJ’s smile falter. “If… If you don’t feel the same way, then you can forget what I said. I can buy you baby taters and a milkshake if you want.”

But, he did. Cyrus liked TJ. He liked him a lot.

“H-Here,” he managed.

It was TJ’s turn to blink and stare, blankly.

“I-I… want the wedding here,” Cyrus continued. “And… I like you too, TJ. I like you a lot.”

That was all it took for TJ to take Cyrus’ hand and pull him off the swing and into a tight hug. Cyrus’ heart was beating faster than ever and he felt his head swirling with so many emotions that he couldn’t say another word.

Because not only was TJ ended up being Tyler, his childhood husband, he also liked Cyrus back.

He liked Cyrus back!

“So… about that wedding…”

Cyrus briefly pulled away from the hug and beamed. “Don’t you worry. I have it all planned.”

The wedding march blared out of Andi’s smartphone and she was kind of glad that they had chosen a late afternoon when most kids and their parents were not around to witness this or else they would be getting so many strange looks.

She couldn’t believe that she actually agreed to spend one of her summer days at the swing set of the children’s playground, a small notebook in her hands, and watching Cyrus and TJ walk down a pretend aisle towards her, their “minister”.

Buffy was next to her, acting as witness and ring bearer. She had not stopped rolling her eyes since the “ceremony” began.

“Is this really for real?” her athletic friend whispered. “So they found out they were each other’s kindergarten husbands. Do they have to get married again?”

Andi chuckled. “It’s a renewal of their vows since they found each other again.”

“But…” Buffy trailed off when the two reached them.

Cyrus was practically vibrating with excitement and TJ had the softest look on his face that the two girls had never seen before. How their friend managed to get the normally cool and serious jock to agree to this, was a total mystery. The two's entire relationship was still a bizarre mystery to them, but at this point, they knew Cyrus was happy. Who were they to get in the way of that?

Andi cleared her throat as she opened the notebook that Cyrus had prepared for her and began to read. “Friends and… well, friends, we are gathered here today to witness the renewal of vows between Cyrus Goodman and… Tyler Joseph Kippen?”

She looked up at the two boys in confusion but both nodded so she continued. “Do you, Cyrus Goodman, take Tyler Joseph Kippen, as your playground husband, again, to have and to hold, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health? Wait, where’s the ‘til death do you part?”

“That’s a little too morbid for a playground wedding so I got rid of it,” Cyrus answered. “And, yes, I do.”

Andi pursed her lips. “Okay then. And do you, Tyler Joseph Kippen-.”

“Yeah, I do,” interrupted the older boy.

Andi flashed him a glare for the interruption and was surprised at herself for actually taking her position as minister, seriously. “Okay then.” She quickly scanned the next part of the instructions, raising her eyebrow at the ridiculousness of it. “Buffy? The rings, please.”

With a resigned sigh, Buffy stepped forward and handed her two packs of ring pops.

“Which flavors do either of you want?” Andi asked the two boys. “There’s blueberry and green apple.”

“I’ll take the blueberry,” Cyrus said with a knowing smile at TJ.

“Green apple for me then.”

So, Andi gave the blueberry to TJ and the green apple to Cyrus. She and Buffy watched as the two opened the packs and slipped the candy into each other’s fingers.

“By the power vested in me by… well, Cyrus,” Andi continued and she couldn’t help her smile at the next line. “I now pronounce you playground husbands, again. You may now kiss.”

Grinning, Cyrus closed his eyes. TJ leaned down and pecked his nose.

Andi resisted the urge to squeal because no matter how absurd this pretend wedding was and they were getting way too old for these games, it was still so darn cute.

Cyrus opened his eyes, beaming at his new boyfriend slash husband.

“I… kinda want our first kiss to be a little less… public,” TJ said, side-eyeing Andi and Buffy who were still watching them closely.

The younger boy let out a giggle before reaching into his pocket and throwing a plastic bottle on the ground before stepping on it.

“I’d step on glass but it’s a hazard to the children and I don’t want to clean it up,” he stated at everyone’s questioning faces before picking up the plastic bottle again. “It’s the symbolism that counts. So… Reception at The Spoon?”

“Finally!” Buffy exclaimed. “You two are so weird but… congrats.” She sent a glare at TJ. “Don’t hurt him, Kippen.”

The older boy chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Driscoll.”

Hand-in-hand, the two led the way to the diner, their intertwined hands swinging between them.

Meanwhile, Andi and Buffy were still standing together, staring at them and unable to believe that they actually just did that.

“Well… that was a lovely ceremony,” Andi stated.

“He better not hurt Cyrus or I'll hurt him,” Buffy said with a secret fond smile.

“Come on, we both know TJ wouldn’t do that to Cyrus. His crush was so obvious! Can’t believe it took him remembering Cyrus in kindergarten for him to make a move.”

Buffy sighed. “I guess. Anyway, they promised us free taters and milkshakes. So, let’s go!”

Arm-in-arm, the two girls followed after the happy new couple.

[whileiamdying]

MOVIES: A Separation

Make it your New Year’s resolution to go see this sad, funny, suspenseful Iranian drama.

BY DANA STEVENS DEC 30, 2011 ⦿ 2:44 PM

Leila Hatami and Peyman Maadi in A Separation © Sony Pictures Classics.

It’s fitting that its release comes in the midst of the end-of-year frenzy for rating and ranking and listing, because the Iranian director Asghar Farhadi’s A Separation serves as a quiet reminder of how good it’s possible for movies to be. You don’t always have to sacrifice complexity for suspense, or formal sophistication for visceral power. It’s possible, if rare, to come across a movie that has it all.

A Separation is a domestic drama in the strict sense: It takes place mainly inside the apartment of one family, a middle-class couple named Simin (Leila Hatami) and Nader (Peyman Maadi) who have a 10-year-old daughter named Termeh (Sarina Farhadi). Simin is in the process of beginning divorce proceedings against her husband: She’s obtained an exit visa and wants to leave Iran with their daughter and settle in the West. But Nader refuses to consider leaving behind his father, an Alzheimer’s sufferer who’s come to live with the family and requires round-the-clock care. “He doesn’t even know you’re his son!” protests Simin. “I know he is my father,” Nader responds.

At their divorce hearing, Simin and Nader are sent home by a patronizing off-screen judge: “My finding is that your problem is a small problem,” we hear him tell a furious Simin, refusing to grant the divorce until the couple can come to a mutual agreement to separate. But this family’s problems are about to get a lot bigger. When Simin moves out to live with her parents, Nader hires a caretaker, Razieh (Sareh Bayat) to look after his father during the day. This devout young mother is soon overwhelmed by the task of attending to a man who can no longer speak, dress, or wash himself. One afternoon, for reasons that aren’t clear at first, she leaves the old man alone while she runs an errand. The consequences of that act—and of Nader’s outburst when he comes home to find his father unattended—will eventually spiral into personal and legal disaster for both families, Nader’s and Razieh’s.

As plot summaries go, that’s a sketchy one, but I’ll leave it there, since one of A Separation’s great strengths is the way it gradually reveals the complicated half-truths and strategic evasions in each party’s version of the story. In a way, this is also a legal procedural, but one in which the truth becomes less and less clear-cut as the film goes on. As the battle between the two families escalates—with Simin taking the side of her estranged husband, and Razieh’s hotheaded husband Hodjat (Shahab Hosseini) forcefully intervening on behalf of his terrified wife—we get a sense of the complex web of social forces determining these characters’ choices. The better-off couple is secular and cosmopolitan, dismissive of the poorer family’s traditional Islamic values. But whatever their class or education level, the women—even the fiercely independent, plain-spoken Simin—are subject to the ever-present constraints of institutionalized sexism and social shame. When the judge who’s just forbidden Simin to divorce without her husband’s permission questions why an Iranian mother might aspire to bring up her daughter elsewhere, Simin’s sidelong glare says it all.

A Separation isn’t worth watching only as a precise sociological analysis or a political critique of contemporary Iran—those qualities would be cold comfort indeed if they didn’t exist in the context of a sad, funny, suspenseful story about love, grief, and the search for justice. The ensemble cast—especially Maadi as the harried, short-tempered, ethically conflicted Nader—is extraordinary. As has become a tradition in Iranian cinema, the child characters are not just props but essential participants in the story, and both young actresses—Sarina Farhadi, the director’s daughter, as the wise-beyond-her-years Termeh and Kimia Hosseini as the caretaker’s observant, saucer-eyed little girl—deliver impeccable naturalistic performances.

Despite some conflict between Farhadi and government censors while the film was being made, A Separation has now been released to acclaim within Iran and named the country’s official entry for the foreign-language Oscar. This is a dense, complex film that demands close attention from its audience (and richly rewards a second viewing). With one of Iran’s major living filmmakers, Jafar Panahi, currently in prison for his support of the opposition movement, and another, Abbas Kiarostami, now working abroad (this year’s Certified Copy is finally getting him the wider recognition he’s long deserved here), it’s a joy to see that there are still films of this caliber being made in that curiously cinematic country. It’s my New Year’s wish that even viewers who’ve never bought a ticket to a subtitled film in Farsi will give A Separation a chance.

[letsbitchyfestcollection]

I'm looking at The Outsiders through the lens of Catcher in the Rye because Catcher's large footprint overlaps into the Coming of Age genre and so many people are familiar with Salinger's literary classic. The Outsiders is about two groups of feuding teenagers, Greasers and Socses (pronounced "soshes"). Greasers are from the poor side of town, the east side. The Socses are from the upscale west side. The story is narrated in first-person by a Greaser, fourteen year-old Ponyboy, an orphan who lives with two older brothers, Darry and Sodapop. There are three levels of conflict: the grudge between the two feuding factions, inter-family conflict between Ponyboy and twenty year-old Darry, and Ponyboy's inner struggle with self identity--what and who he wants to make of himself. At 180 pages, the book was an easy read despite the unrefined writing style, which I struggled with but readily accepted because the roughness of an untrained authorial voice sounded realistic. I was first drawn to The Outsiders because I kept running across comments about the book in discussions concerning The Catcher in the Rye, a book that I have reread and analyzed extensively with great enthusiasm. I am a great fan of Salinger. I am also writing my own coming of age novel and find it helpful to study other works in the genre. The Outsiders has sold over thirteen million copies to Catcher's sixty-five-plus million. The two books have similarities and differences worth examining. Narrative Voice: Both stories are told in first-person. Holden, though unsympathetic, scattered and seemingly unreliable, is convincing and believable. Ponyboy is sympathetic and scattered but sometimes unconvincing because of the rough writing. In the beginning he kept boring me with long descriptions to set up the characters and situation. And later on he would make repetitive asides, telling instead of showing or letting it evolve naturally. Here's an example from page 3: "We're poorer than the Socs and the middle class. I reckon we're wilder too. Not like the Socs, who jump Greasers and wreck houses and throw beer blasts for kicks, and get editorials in the paper for being a public disgrace one day and an asset to society the next. Greasers are almost like hoods; we steal things and drive old souped-up cars and hold up gas stations and have a gang fight once in a while. I don't mean I do things like that. Darry would kill me if I got into trouble with the police. Since Mom and Dad were killed in an auto wreck, the three of us get to stay together." (The passage goes on for most of a page.) I know Holden does the same thing, but his voice clicks from the very first word. Listen to Ponyboy's opening line: "When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house I only had two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home." The sentence was expressed in reverse order. It threw me off. It should have read: "When I stepped from the darkness of the movie house out into the bright sunlight... ." Holden's opening line reads: "If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, ... ." Smooth. It's not fair to compare the writing of a kid with that of a seasoned master, but it illustrates what I'm trying to get across--writing that flows is more digestible and less intrusive. Characters: In both novels, the authenticity of the narrator's voice is the most critical factor. In first-person, the reader is locked inside the narrator's head. But this is where the similarity ends. Holden comes across as privileged, arrogant and whiney, an unsympathetic character, whereas Ponyboy is at the opposite end of the socio-economic scale and quickly earns our sympathy and interest, starting with the fact that, along with his brothers, he's a recent orphan. Also, in the opening pages he get's attacked by a gang and is rescued by his two brothers and four other members of the Greasers' gang, Steve, Two-bit, Dally and Johnny "Jonnycake" Cade. The reader is drawn in by the loyalty of the boys to a member in trouble. Other sympathetic characters include: Cherry, a cheerleader and a Socs leader's girlfiriend; Randy, a Socs who leaves his gang; Mr. Syme, Ponyboy's English teacher; and Marcia, a friend of Cherry's. Hinton spends a distracting amount of time describing her characters' physical appearance. Salinger describes his characters briefly, with laser precision and only when necessary. A major weakness of Outsiders is the ensemble of villains that are flat, not sufficiently rendered to make the reader feel Ponyboy's fear of them. The Socs are pretty much faceless except for Randy, who turns out to be a pretty good guy. A major difference between the two books is that Hinton stays with this core cast of characters for the duration of the novel, whereas Salinger takes Holden through a series of mini-dramas with a succession of characters and locations, exposing the reader to a broad spectrum of Holden's life. I had trouble relating to some of the characters in Outsiders. They didn't seem real, where as all the characters in Catcher did. Setting: Neither book pays a lot of attention to setting. Salinger handles setting methodically, with surgical precision. Hinton's treatment is more haphazard. There's too much in some places and none in others. Although research indicates the novel is based on Tulsa, Oklahoma, the author tells us only that the location is a city in the Southwestern United States. Ninety percent of the novel takes place on the east side of town, Greaser territory, with the rest occurring, after a short train ride, near Windrixville during a weeklong hideout in an abandoned church on a hill. Catcher covers forty-eight hours in the mid 1940s, whereas Outsider has an approximately two-week duration in 1967. Plot: Catcher is virtually plotless. The reader is kept off balance by not knowing what's coming next but readers are so invested in Holden that they're willing to go along. Outsiders moves along rapidly with few surprises. The plot feels predictable and I don't feel much of a threat from the Socses. The plot doesn't grab me, but I read along because I'm hooked on the sympathetic main character, Ponyboy. An outstanding feature of Outsiders is the way the Greasers stick together as a surrogate family, sharing chores and looking out for one another in a bond of love and respect when functional parents aren't around to guide them. The primacy of sibling affection is a major theme, if not the premise, in both books. The book is an amazing achievement for such a young author.

[bluebeetle]

So. My step-aunt and her family are millionaires, ok? literally the richest people in my family (and they gave me a total of $25 last time they gave me any money for a event, lol anyways--). like. really rich--they live in a huge victorian era house thats been heavily renovated, they’re kids go to private school or fully-paid university, really well off (All from owning a vistors store by the boarder + inheritance) 

Yeah....... my mother can’t stand them and I JUST this year found out why--they’re the reason we don’t have big family christmas parties anymore. 

Ok, so--my grandmother remarried in the 90s, after my grandfather died and my step-grandfathers wife left him for her brother-in-law or something? so their kids were not only grown up, but several including my mother already had children. My step-grandfathers family was well off tho not all millionaires, while my grandmother came from a lower-middle class background. 

But yet, despite all this, my step-grandfathers four daughters (and their families) felt VERY entitled to my grandmother. Like, one of them literally called up my mother’s younger sister to chew her out once--why? because she was spending christmas with her mother and step-father because she was the only of her siblings without a spouse. They yelled at my aunt. For spending christmas with her mother. Less than 5 years after the death of her father.

great start--but that step-aunt isnt usually invited to things, but turns out other family members are. something. that was a different aunt from the rich ones, but they ruined things too--christmas parties at my grandparents usually involved mostly my step-family, as my mom’s sister eventually moved to the US and my mom’s brother rarely showed up (possibly bc of these people and theyre attitude, since they were the poorest of all of us) 

Now, my family is the only one who attended who was from outta town so we usually left early. and it turns out! that the Rich Aunt and Uncle would talk shit about us behind our backs, including at the parties! according to my grandmother, they were super entitled and basically just thought they were better than us, in large part bc my family is middle class with a poorer background (my mom’s family struggled growing up, and my dad’s from a family of farmers and soldiers who never went past high school) 

it apparently got so bad that my grandmother just. stopped inviting them over for dinners and stuff and now spends thanskgiving and christmas at our house, along with her husband and usually my dads parent(s) too.

anyways rich people suck but im glad my grandmother sided with us. 

[catsnuggler]

Parental death mention, abuse mention (not description). Stalin mention (brief). General venting.

[[MORE]]

Lived somewhere green, not far from the Pacific Coast. Was yanked to the desert at 8 because my mother died when I was 7 and my father remarried to a woman who, quite frankly, used us. I grew up in this desert, but it's never been right for me. Yet my birthplace was also a place I didn't fully know before I left. Not to mention my first hometown has shaped up to be not that great. But my second, current hometown is not for me, either.

I was raised Mormon. But my family could never fit the mold, and so I wasn't Mormon enough for the Mormons. Yet I was a Mormon, and up until my early-midteens, I believed in it, which got some reproach from others. Some of it was deserved - trying to convert friends is now something I frown upon, but I didn't always. Some of it was because Mormons were "weird". And Mormons are weird in some pretty profound ways. Conservatism wasn't the way in which it was/is weird to the people of the area I live in, though. The folks who don't like Mormons here are as often conservative Christians as they are non-conservative and/or non-Christians.

I was raised believing I was in the "middle class", whatever that American rubbish is, even when it was obvious I was poorer than other "middle class" people in some big ways. Even a fair amount of more obviously poor folks had phones years before I got one, which was just last year. I wasn't "middle class", I wasn't poor.

I'm an anarchist and a communist, but I'm in the conservative-reactionary suburbs. The "left" here are mainly liberals and the occasional socdem. There's no big decolonization group, no big communist group, no big anarchist group. And being dependent on a father who is emotionally, occasionally physically, abusive, who I think has neglected me some, too - though I've also made efforts to avoid him - who is the kind of social democrat who makes me think Stalin was close to having a point about "social fascists", is just one factor in the several of why I'm unable to act on my beliefs, to stand in solidarity with fellow oppressed people of the earth. I don't get along well with local, conservative people, and I'm useless as a leftist.

Not to wokescold humblebrag, but I haven't really tended to get along well with fellow cishet guys, or girls for that matter, as I have with LGBT people. Members of that community generally tend to be better friends with me, and, I hope, I with them. I'm not even sure I could get along in a romantic relationship with a straight woman, either, since it seems most every straight woman out there is, at furthest left, a liberal. I'm not dating outside of my politics (libertarian communist - councilists and other libertarian Marxists I'm well open to), nor outside of the general scope of my religious beliefs (polytheist, does not have to worship the same gods as me so long as we believe each others' faiths to be legitimate and respect each other). Not like my dating history thus far was very successful, either. Nor as if I'm going to enter into another romantic relationship any time soon. I've got to sort myself out, first.

Oh, the religion thing, too. I'm a polytheist, as previously mentioned. Specifically Norse/Germanic, though I believe all Gods exist in some fashion;it's just that currently, I only worship those gods. As many people know, there are Nazis who claim to follow this faith. Occasionally, I encounter such reactionaries, and of fucking course, I'm wearing my hammer, and the fucking bastards think I'm one of them. Fuck them, death to them! But more people here are Christians, and conservatives, often enough of an evangelical bent whether or not they're technically evangelicals, and I want to wear my hammer to spite them, but they often see it as an invitation to proselytize! So why wear my hammer? But dammit, I have the right to be Heathen and not let the Nazis take away the hammer, and dammit I have the right to be Heathen and not let the evangelicals preach at me! Regardless of faith, fuck reactionaries! But I'm surrounded by them. Not every person is one, but there are "enough" of the assholes.

In these ways and more, even when I'm on a side, I'm not. I'm stuck in the middle, away from everyone. Do I have people? Where are they? Where is right for me? Is any place right and healthy for me? Where will I find refuge? When? Will I ever? Will I ever finally have a side I can stay on, people to have company with? Or must I be content in solitude?

Whenever I am angry at someone, not simply for being incorrect, but espousing a position I find hypocritical, I often feel an intense rage-filled compulsion inside - which most often, I keep to myself - to shout "Die and live at the same time!" to highlight the absurdity and untenability of such a position. But I feel I've been dead and alive at the exact same time for a while now.

[galaxy-koi]

1-100 do it I dare you

HERE WE GO. Long post ahead!

and I mean long post

1.    If your character wasn’t an adventurer, what livelihood would theylead?

It’shard to imagine Cynthia as anything but an adventurer, if I had to be honest. Ifthere wasn’t a Living Plague to deal with, she may have simply joined her dwarfuncle in arena fights. Alternatively, maybe she would have joined Jinri intravelling to places that needed healers, aiding the sick in poorer villages.

2.    Who in the party would your character trust the most with theirlife?

Shetrusts Sune with her life and soul, but of the Player Characters? Paddy is youranswer.

3.    What is your character’s core moral beliefs?

- TheLiving Plague is a bitch- Roland is also a bitch- Follow Sune, even if it means a horrible death.

- Lawscan be wrong, but Sune is never wrong.

- Protectyour crew to your dying breath. Never back out of a fight if it brings yourcrew into danger.From a previous ask: “Yes! She’s a paladin, so she does have to strictly follow amoral code. She takes it really seriously too because she loves her goddess.However, despite this, her alignment is more Neutral/Chaotic good because shewill take whatever means are necessary to accomplish her goal. She follows anoath, sure, but she won’t hesitate to break city laws and illegally purchase anairship.She will do everything she can to protect those she loves, and she shows loveto those she does not know.”

4.    What relationship does your character have with their parents andsiblings?

Herrelationship with her biological family is mixed at best, as she knows theyabandoned her, possibly leaving her to die. However, she had a beneficialfamilial relationship with Mordecai (before he died), and her relationship withJinri and Daergron has certainly been great.

5.    Does your character have any biases for or against certain races?

Shedoes her best to not display any traits of racism, as Sune teaches herfollowers to love everyone equally. (However, she does seem to have an aesthetictaste for gnolls.)

6.    What is your character’s opinion on nobility? On authority?

Cynthiadoesn’t mind nobles as long as they put their money towards a good cause.However, she is uneasy around authority, especially after what happened inEkrund. She does her best to coexist with authority, but she has done illegalthings to get what she wants.

7.    Describe your character’s current appearance: clothes, armor,scars they’ve picked up along the journey, etc.

((I realizedtoo late that this says “current appearance” whoops))

- Face-Amber, wavy hair falls to a bit above her shoulders, ending in a dramatic curl.Her bronze skin is covered in brown freckles around her cheeks and the bridgeof her nose. The facial structure is only slightly feminine in nature, with apronounced chin, normal cheeks, and rounded jawline. Her eyes are white withgolden irises and seemingly no pupils, which is the most distinctive Aasimartrait she has. There’s a healing burn scar [from S21] that’s faint and surroundsher eyes and upper nose. Additionally, purple rings are common under Cynthia’seyes, as she is a known insomniac. Her nose is somewhat large and is rounded.

- Body-Bronze skin with freckles around the shoulders. She is quite muscular innature, especially in the abs and arms. There are plenty of scars from her adventuresand from her past. Three claw marks are along her right shoulder [15 years agofrom a swamp beast], multiple separate scars along her sides due to the armorbeing weak there, and [AAF AU Only] grey scars along her left side frommultiple near-death incidents. It’s common for her to have a couple of bruiseshere and there from fighting recklessly. Her torso and thighs are large butonly slightly muscular for balance. On her right arm is her holy symbol, whichis a simplified, maroon depiction of Sune.- Clothes [Captain {Post-S18}]- A long, leather trench coat with elbow-lengthsleeves. The cuffs at the end of the sleeves have a golden trim. A golden sashis wrapped around the waist with the Featherstone crest sewn into it in blackthread. She wears a black cami and leggings underneath the trench coat, and shehas leather boots that go up to her knees.

-Clothes [Formal]- A cream dress of a thin, rough material. The dress falls downto her feet in length, and she has white flats and stockings to match. A goldensash is wrapped around the waist, and there is also a golden line below her chestthat wraps around the body. Two golden bands of fabric drape and reconnect onthe line, each with three feathers that hang from it with metal loops. Thesleeves are short and somewhat puffed. Finally, there’s a section that lookslike the shoulders of Belle’s dress from Beautyand the Beast, golden in color. I don’t know what it’s called.

-Armor- Her armor is full plate, and it is rather simple. I wish I knew how todescribe armor; it’s been something I’ve been meaning to do! On the breastplate,there is a very small line where the pieces of the breastplate were weldedtogether, and it almost divides it into fourths. Her left arm is fully platedand has a metal gauntlet, but the right arm is only plated to her elbow. Thebelt has a quartz piece in the middle of the front side that has theFeatherstone crest carved into it and painted black. Three plates cover the tophalf of her thighs on the sides. The boots are also metal, but areappropriately sectioned to allow for mobility.

- AdventuringGear- A small backpack filled with maps, miscellaneous items from the Explorer’sPack, 3 poison vials, and a leather doll that Roth’s fiend likes to possess.She has a bronze/copper kite shield, and a unique longsword [no bonuses to hit,but does 1d12+1/1d14+1 damage, which means she has a +5 to hit and 1d12+5/1d14+3damage]. The sheath for the longsword allows it to be drawn from the back withsome ease.

8.    What location encountered in the campaign has your character feltthe most “at home” in, or just generally liked the most?

She’srarely felt at home, mainly because she misses Kelemvor’s Snout so much.Hundelstone was fine until it got destroyed, Ekrund was incredibly sketchy toher, Vunedar was fun until Paddy nearly died twice, and then there’s themountains. She doesn’t know how to explain it, but that isolation and wildernessthat most of the mountain travel had felt peaceful to her, and was probably theclosest to feeling like home. The ice castle, if it weren’t for the eighty children,probably would have reminded her of Mordecai’s mansion a bit.

9.    What deity, if any, does your character worship? What’s theiropinion on other people’s worship?

Sheworships Sune, goddess of love. She doesn’t mind other people’s faiths, especiallywith the crew having such a wild diversity in the pantheon.

10.  If your character had time to pick up any artisan’s tools, gameset, instrument, etc., what would it be?

She wouldhave plenty of time if she wasn’t unconscious so much, but she would probablygive one of the game sets a shot.

11.  Describe your character’s current relationship with the playercharacter sitting to your right.

Well,the person to my right currently is my DM, but I assume this infers that I’msitting with the group. I usually have ArkVeil [Wall’s player] on my right, sohere’s Cynthia’s opinion of Wall.She feels bad for manipulating him to believe in lies, but she knows Wall wouldtry to apprehend every single one of them if she told him that they werepirates. She knows she can trust Wall, as his intelligence and wisdom farexceeds hers. However, it appears Wall is a bit more critical of the captainthan she is to him, and he has every reason to be critical of her decisions. Cynthiais naturally self-sacrificial, which has led into some very questionabledecisions made by the captain in an attempt to protect her crew, one of which(at least in canon, the AU has many more) inspired Wall (and Roth) to actagainst the captain and knock her unconscious before she could enforce herdecision. Of course, Cynthia does not remember this, so she has not questionedWall for it… yet.

12.  What is your character’s current goal, summed up in one sentence?

Shewishes to rid the Living Plague from Iotath, whatever it takes.

13.  Does your character ever want to “settle down” with a spouse,children, house, etc.?

Despitebeing the oldest member of the party (?? Unless Wall is older), Cynthia has notreally had a serious time to wonder about things like that. She never got thechance to settle down except when she was dealing with serious grief, and shenever liked the idea of staying put anywhere. Her mind has been constantly seton the ridding the Living Plague, and she doesn’t want to do anything else untilit’s over.

14.  Has your character ever been in love?

Yes;she has had some previous crushes and small relationships. This is includingbut not excluded to: Parisa Lajani (S0-S7), Bruno (S5-S7), Korst (S13-current?),Sylsys (S14). However, her main relationship is currently with Paddy McLoughlin,a human artificer who is also her quartermaster/first mate/lieutenant/co-captain.She’s had a crush on him since a little before the fall of Hundelstone, but thetwo did not go into a relationship until S15. She’s polyamorous and panromantic.

15.  What battle in the campaign has been most memorable to yourcharacter?

TheFall of Hundelstone (S6-S7) is probably the most memorable in the campaign toher. (I, however, think S15 had the most memorable fight because oH BOI)

16.  If your character wasn’t whatever class they are, what would theybe instead?

Iwould say Cleric, but considering her WIS score is 10, probably Fighter or Barbarian.

17.  What is your character’s favorite season?

I’msure I’ve answered this once before and I’m now changing that answer to fall.

18.  What would your character’s Zodiac sign be, followingstereotypical astrology?

Vriska

19.  Where in the world does your character most want to visit?

Kelemvor’sSnout

20.  What is the biggest mistake your character has ever made?

Inthe campaign, that award goes to everything she did in S20. She did nothing rightin that session. In the AAF AU, the answer changes to S24A.

21.  Does your character have any noticeable scars? If so, what aretheir stories?

Answeredin #8.

22.  What animal best represents your character?

Cynthia’sfursona is a cat. I’m sorry, I don’t make the rules

23.  If your character could go back in time and change one thing abouttheir life, what would it be?

Shewould have found a way for Mordecai to be saved instead of her during the fallof Kelemvor’s Snout.

24.  Which other player character does your character find themselveshaving the most in common with?

RothPhilious, for sure.

25.  Does your character regret any particular choice the party hasmade?

Doyou mean: that she’s made? Yes. She’s the captain, after all, so the finaldecision often lands on her. She kind of regrets heading into the mountains forthis long, especially since the Plague has spread quickly since the fall ofHundelstone. However, she got a sword out of it, and she’s now had time to mostlyrecover from the Plague’s infection. She wishes Paddy had not approached thegnome man in S20, mainly because he nearly instantly died from the poisonblade. She occasionally regrets picking up Wall as well, as she’s actually hadto be clever with her lies around him. She does not regret picking up Poth atall, though.

26.  What would your character say their best trait would be?

Shevalues her ambition and determination.

27.  What is your character’s greatest fear? Deep, irrational?

Shefears losing the crew, and she also fears the Living Plague.

28.  What is currently motivating your character to stay with theparty?

Hercrew are all valuable members to have, and she knows she needs others if shewants to rid the Plague.

29.  What are your character’s hobbies and interests outside of theirclass?

Sheenjoys writing in her journal and is quite skilled in calligraphy. Additionally,she knows how to play the flute, but this rarelycomes up in the campaign.

30.  What would most people think when they first see your character?

A lotof the NPCs have commented initially on Cynthia’s natural charm and charisma,some even disliking her for it. Some have noticed her age and compared it tohaving good experience in adventuring (which is false). These have givenCynthia an upper hand with being on good terms with some of the NPCs (exception:Jeeves).

31.  What stereotypical group role does your character play in theparty? (The Mom, the Mess, the Comic Relief, etc. Optionally: What role wouldyour character play in the “Five Man Band” structure?)

Sheis simultaneously “The Mom” and “The Mess” of the party.

32.  What is your character the most insecure about?

Shecan be insecure about if Sune actually likes her or not, as she does almosteverything to try to sway Sune to like her. Sune is her last connection toMordecai that she will have, and she definitely does not want to lose it.

33.  What person does your character admire most?

Sheadmires Mordecai Featherstone the most, as she was his squire.

34.  What does your character admire and dislike the most about theplayer character sitting to your left?

RiahkHaladin(Paddy’s player) usually sits to my left, so this will be about PaddyMcLoughlin.She admires his charming looks and aesthetic the most, but in close second ishis innovation in many scenarios. Paddy has come up with a lot of strangesolutions that Cynthia barely understood how he came up with, but they mostlyended up working. Those two things are why Cynthia picked him to be hersecond-in-command.

35.  Why is your character’s lowest stat their lowest (the in-characterreason, not “because there’s no reason for a wizard to have 16 strength, duh”)?

Due toher optimization, she has three dump stats, with INT and DEX both tied forlowest score as an 8 (-1). In-character, however, there is some explanation.Mordecai trained her to be similar to him in mind and body. Mordecai never trainedher to be quick or agile, just strong and able to land a powerful hit.Additionally, Mordecai didn’t really educate her on book smarts since his partyusually took care of that and because Cynthia rarely paid attention to him whilehe tried.

36.  What would be your character’s theme song/favorite band/favoritegenre of music?

Thishas separate answers… It’s been currently established that her theme song is “Rubik’sCube” by Athlete. Her favorite artistwould probably be Hozier, and herfavorite genre would probably be indie or gospel.

37.  What stereotypical role would your character play in a high schoolAU/if they attended a normal high school? (Nerd, jock, bully, goth, etc.)

JOCK

38.  What treasure/item/artifact that your character has collectedduring the adventure is the most important to them?

It’sa tie between her diary and her new longsword!

39.  Is there any particular weapon, item, etc. that your characterlongs to find?

Shekind of wants to know if Mordecai had a diary, and if so, if she can find it.However, she also jokes to herself that it may just look like chicken scratch, asshe gained her calligraphy skills from Jinri.

40.  Where does your character feel the most at home?

Kelemvor’s Snout

41.  Does your character care about how they’re perceived by others?How do they change themselves to fit in with other people?

Yes!She did attempt to act more formal around Paddy’s family, and as I statedbefore, she does everything for Sune. She manipulates people to like her onrare occasion as well, but she hates resorting to that.

42.  What does your character think is the true meaning of life?

(offucking course this is question 42)She believes it as finding some goal and then accomplishing that goal, nomatter how big or small that is.

43.  What is your character’s scent? (Bonus points for a descriptionthat sounds like it could be from a bad [or awesome] fanfic.)

I’mgonna be honest, I don’t like this question, but I’ll do my best to answer itfor you. She does have basic hygiene. Sometimes, the “smell of metal” (funfact! Metal doesn’t have a smell, and the smell is from a reaction from theoils on our skin and the metal!) stays on her after a long adventure, or shecarries the smell of blood from being seriously injured so many times. However,in non-canon examples like “An Angel’s Fall” where she’s in a formal situation,she carries the smell of roses with her.

44.  Does your character think more with their heart or their brain?

Youthink Cynthia, with 8 INT/10 WIS/18 CHA, would think with her brain? No. Shethinks with her heart.

45.  What is your character’s most recent or frequent nightmare?

Shefrequently has nightmares of the more traumatic sections of Cynthia’s past, buther most recent nightmare would have been the night before S24 ended, which wasmost likely about losing her crew to the potential upcoming fight with a lich.

46.  What opinion does your character have on [CERTAIN ESTABLISHEDGROUPS/AUTHORITIES IN THE GAME WORLD]? (Dragonmarked Houses, royal crown, etc.)

Shedoesn’t like any of them, mainly because she believes none of them are doinganything about the Living Plague. However, the Council of Vunedar is prettylikable because they’re actually trying to do something. She hates the cultiststhey met in Ekrund, as they managed to corrupt the city government.

47.  How did your character spend their childhood? Where did they growup/who were their childhood friends?

Shehad a few childhood friends in her early childhood; a couple of older Aasimarboys were her friends that led her into occasional mischief. As a squire, she metquite a few people of her age, but only for a few days or weeks.

48.  What aspect of your character’s future are they most curiousabout? (If they could know one thing about the future, what would it be?)

Doesshe get to go back home?

49.  What colors are associated with your character?

I’vedone my best to associate each party member with a color. Cynthia’s colors areorange and gold.

50.  Who in the party would your character prioritize rescuing, in direcircumstances?

I’mso sorry Party 4, but she wouldn’t hesitate to save Paddy.

51.  Is your character the most swayed by ethos, pathos, or logos?

Pathos

52.  If your character was granted a single use of Wish, what wouldthey use it for?

OH IWAS GOING TO WRITE SOMETHING RELATED TO THIS QUESTION! She would attempt tobring back Mordecai. Why not rid the Living Plague? Because there’s no good wayto wish it away.

53.  What is your character’s favorite spell? If they don’t use spells:what is their favorite personal weapon/combat maneuver/skill/etc.?

Whileit’s not a spell, she tends to use Divine Smite and Lay On Hands a lot. Herfavorite, however, is Find Steed because of Nur! :D

54.  How does your character feel about keeping secrets from the restof the party?

Horrible.

55.  What type of creature in the world is your character the mostintrigued by?

She’svery intrigued by dragons; Mordecai told her a tale of him conquering a dragon,and ever since that, she’s wanted to find one herself.

56.  When they were a child, what did your character want to be, orthink they were going to be, when they grew up?

She wantedto be a paladin, so everything worked out for her in that regard!

57.  The player character to your left admits that they’re passionatelyin love with your character. How would your character respond?

Thishappened, and that’s called the Pathia ship. It’s great, and I definitely recommendit.

58.  If somebody (an NPC, someone from their backstory, etc.) yourcharacter trusts/loves asked your character to do something against the party’sbest interest, who would they side with?

If it’sSune, then she would turn against the party. Otherwise she’s ride or die withthe party.

59.  Does your character value their own best interest more than theparty’s?

Yesand no? The only thing that stands above her party’s interests is taking downthe Living Plague.

60.  What decision would the party have to make in order for yourcharacter to consider splitting off from the group?

Anypossible decision that could fill this answer’s criteria would be wildly out ofcharacter, so we’re safe for now! :D

61.  How does your character imagine the way they will die?

Sheoften thinks about how she may die to the abominations of the Living Plague,and she feels it will be in combat. She doubts there will be a natural deathfor her, especially with her being immune to natural diseases.

62.  What is your character’s greatest achievement?

Therewas a similar question in an earlier ask meme, so I’ll shorten it: taking herOath and being cured of the Living Plague are tied.

63.  Is your character willing to risk the well-being of others inorder to achieve their goal?

She’swilling to risk the well-being of herself to achieve her goal, but she’shesitant when it comes to others.

64.  What is your character’s opinion on killing others?

As longas there’s a good reason to kill them, it’s fine.

65.  What is your character’s favorite food? Beverage?

She’skind of like me in this sense where she just likes food.

66.  How generous is your character? Especially to those they don’tknow?

She’ssort of generous.

67.  What is your character the most envious about, regarding anyone inthe party?

She’senvious of Poth for still having childhood innocence.

68.  The player character to your left and the player character to yourright are both telling your character two different versions of the truth. Whodoes your character believe?

She’dtrust Wall over Paddy, mainly because she doubts Wall is capable of lying.

69.  What is your character’s sexuality/relationship with sex?

She’spansexual.

70.  What is your character’s biggest pet peeve?

Rolandexisting

71.  Describe how your character feels about the party’s currentsituation/objective/etc.

She’sexcited to try to explore the dungeon, but she’s worried that she’s about tomake a mistake entrusting her only hope of living to Uther.

72.  Who in the party would your character trust the most to keep animportant secret?

Roth!

73.  If your character knew that they were going to die in a month, howwould they spend the rest of their life?

She’dabsolutely make sure Iotath was taking action against the Plague before shedies. When she’s getting close, she’ll go hunt for Roland and try to kill him.

74.  What makes your character feel safe?

Whenshe’s being held by someone she can trust

75.  If your character had the chance to rename the party/give theparty a name, no questions asked, what would it be?

Shesimply calls herself and the others the members of the Grey Rat, and she’s honestly contempt with that name.

76.  What memory does your character want to forget the most?

Shewishes she could forget every single moment leading up to the fall of Kelemvor’sSnout.

77.  If your character had to multiclass into a class they currentlyaren’t the next time they level up, what would it be and what reason would theyhave for doing so?

If shehad to multiclass, she would probably go for Fighter since it’s the closest toPaladin that doesn’t involve her horrible stats.

78.  What television/book/video game/etc. character would yourcharacter be best friends with? (Or: what media character is your character themost influenced by/similar to?

a) I’d want her to be friends with Magnus Burnsides from The Adventure Zone!

b) She was originally influenced by Moxxi from Borderlands 2, and I would eventuallyhave other characters influence Cynthia as well, including other OCs.

79.  What unusual talents does your character possess?

The abilityto have impressive saving throws and yet somehow still fuck up horribly

80.  How does your character feel about receiving/giving orders? Arethey more of a leader, or a follower?

She’sdefinitely a leader in nature, but she prefers to hear opinions from the crewbefore she makes a final decision.

81.  What does your character’s name represent to them? (Or: why as aplayer did you choose your character’s name?)

Cynthia’sfirst name doesn’t speak much, but her inherited last name, Featherstone, meanseverything. It’s a reminder that she has a legacy of adventurers to follow withher heart, and it’s a name that she keeps close to her. It’s incredibly unlikelythat she’ll change it, even if she ends up marrying someone.

82.  Is your character more of an introvert, or an extrovert?

Extrovert!

83.  How far is your character willing to go to pursue the “greatergood”? Do they believe in a greater good at all?

No matter what.

84.  What does your character want to be remembered by?

Shewants to be the one remembered for ridding the Living Plague.

85.  What would be your character’s major in college?

Ahfuck I know I had a domestic AU somewhere but I don’t remember my answer umuI might have said a Humanities major or some Religion major but idk :(

86.  Does your character consider themselves a hero, villain, orsomething else?

She’sthe only hero the world has.

87.  What major arcana tarot card best represents your character?

TheFool

88.  Where does your character see themselves in 20 years?

Hopefullydone with the Plague shit and adventuring around

89.  What is your character’s relationship with magic? Are they scaredof it, wish to know more about it, indifferent to it?

Hermagic is divine, and so her relationship with it is pretty spiritual.

90.  Who is your character’s biggest rival?

Roland,but she mainly just wants to kill him.

91.  What is your character’s guiltiest pleasure?

She may enjoy getting hurt a lot

92.  What does your character hope for the afterlife?

Shewants to be reunited with Mordecai in the afterlife.

93.  Who in the party does your character trust the least?

Noone should ever trust Poth

94.  What is your character’s biggest flaw?

Hertwo big flaws is her dumbass energy and being way too self-sacrificial.

95.  How did your character learn the languages that they speak?

Hernative language was Celestial from her biological family, and Mordecai slowlytaught her Common.

96.  What is your character’s favorite school of magic/type ofweaponry?

Evocation/Enchantmentand longswords!

97.  What is most important to your character: health, wealth, orhappiness?

Happiness!

98.  What advice would your character give to a younger version ofthemselves?

“Goodluck because everything’s going to go to shit and you’re going to get blamedfor it”

99.  Are there any social or political issues your character feelsstrongly about?

Yeahand it’s called why the fuck is no one doing shit about the Living Plague?

100.   What, currently, is your character the mostcurious about?

She’scurrently curious about the mystery surrounding the Braveheart’s. Why are theretwo of them? Who is responsible for it? Why did she meet both of them? Arethere more?