#occupation: rainfall

[temuera-morrison-tournament]

Characters, round 3 poll 4

[b0ringasfuck]

nanorecensioni sci-fi: Occupation Rainfall ( 2020)

Una cagata di guerra con gli alieni e i pacifisti. B movie con qualche battuta finto umoristica.

Finale boh...

Anche NO. Ma no deciso.

[autismswagsummit]

Help save Marah's family!

As the colder months begin to settle in, it becomes pertinent to remind you about the conditions in Palestine. The people of Gaza are trapped in tents, while torrential rainfall drastically increases the risk of flooding and sickness from exposure. The Israeli occupation and genocide is, without a doubt, entirely responsible for this suffering. This is the suffering Marah and her family have been forced to live under for now (as of writing this) almost a full year.

This cannot be allowed to continue any longer. Marah deserves to finish her studies in engineering. Her parents deserve to recieve medical treatment for their diabetes. Her family deserves to feel safe in a world not hellbent on their destruction.

If you need verification to trust this, this fundraiser is found on the blog of @/90-ghost (linked here, the new blog is @freepaleatine95 but it's the same fundraiser), who is a trusted verifier. I implore you, please at least take the time to share. It is truly the least you can do.

[saxophone-cat]

My Snapchat AI tried to convince me that season 3 of The Mandalorian didn’t happen and that Lizzo didn’t play Jack Black’s wife

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer side story I

dont need to read the story to understand this

In which Cregan's meeting of Dusk parallels Daenys' first flight.

side story before chap 15, didn't know where to fit it in the chapters. 🩷

foreshadowing for chap 15 also

taglist: (i wasn't sure if I'm supposed to tag the list ppl if its only a mini side story, let me know if you only want main chaps)

@hueanhdang @beebeechaos @r-3dlips @emery-aka-emmy @watermel0nsugarhigh @delaynew @thelastemzy @pedro-pascal-love @fall-winter-heart97 @purple-1995 @itsaslaminak @saintkittykat @iv7867 @alexandra-001 @thatkindofgurl @theadharablack @reyndaisy @mandeepandee1997 @littleblackcatinwonderland

Daenys always remembered the day of her first flight on Morningstar well. Every vivid detail locked in her mind, even at the young age of seven that she was. Many memories of that time had long faded in her adulthood, but a few in particular could never leave. Some fond, some not.

The day did not start out pleasantly. Not at all, in fact. Her mother was busy fussing over young Luke in her chambers nusery rooms in the Red Keep. Her father was away at sea on another voyage, and had been for months.

Daenys was not mad at them, of course. She would not demand attention, especially when Luke had recently come down with his first fever. Those were always watched closely, by Maester or mother. Daenys had drifted around the nursery for a while before growing bored. Jace was preoccupied with some visiting young sons of House Massey, and Helena was with her mother, leaving Daenys to find her own occupation.

Outside, dark storm clouds gathered at a pace much faster than Daenys was comfortable with. There was rainfall in King's Landing often, yes, but nothing harsh and unforgiving. The sound of drizzling hitting her window on a cool day always calmed Daenys.

Even at sea, a storm could not tame a Targaryen or Velayron. She wondered how her father fared. If a storm was gathering above him, too?

After lazing around her chambers for a while, the storm had turned from a drizzle to a downpour quickly. The thunder 'boomed!' outside of her windows and the harsh water droplets sounded like rocks being pelted at the glass and stone.

Huddled in her room, she just wished the storm to go away.

Unluckily for Daenys, something much worse came. Aegon.

Barging into her sleeping chambers as if they were his own, Daenys was startled out from under her covers by his harsh yank.

"Come, niece! I have a surprise for you." Aegon said, a twinkling in his eyes.

Confused, Daenys did not move. Not yet a teen, the boy's taste for mischief grew every day. His main victim—Aemond. His second favorite, Daenys of course. Only because she was less easy to find, thanks to Ser Harwin's careful shadowing. The two were the easiest targets, though Jace followed Aegon around often like a little pup eager to please its owner. Helena was unreceptive towards such teasings, perhaps because she was unaware of their true meaning.

He tried again, "it will be worthwhile. It is a secret—only I know about." He boasted, chest puffed up like a peacocking bird.

Daenys slipped out from the bed, boredom and curiosity overtaking her common sense. It couldn't be that bad, surely. If Aegon found something cool in the Red Keep, she at least wanted to know what it is, else the unknown would knaw at the back of her mind for weeks.

"What is it?" She asked slowly.

"Wouldn't be much of a surprise if I told you, now would it?" He scoffed lightly, turning and striding out of her bed chambers.

Daenys followed quickly, reminding herself of Jacaerys as she cringed. A quick look and she'd return to her chambers.

The thunder continued beyond the walls as Aegon went to his chambers.

Within his rooms contained mostly simple things since he did not spend much time in them. Daenys, bemused, turned to look at Aegon, who clawed strangely at his walls.

"It's just..." he trailed off in his search. "Here!" He exclaimed, pushing open the wall to reveal a hidden space behind it.

Daenys gasped slightly, leaning forward to see behind it. "Paths, within the walls of the Keep." Aegon said proudly. "And I found them on my own."

"Now, come on." He continued, guiding her hurridly by a shoulder.

"We're going inside? What does it lead to?" She asked, apprehensive of getting lost in such dark tunnels.

"Everywhere." He shrugged nonchalantly.

The darkness was only broken by the torch that he held in his hand. The world was otherwise a dark pit, leaving Daenys to cling to his tunic like a child to her mother's skirts. Aegon allowed it only due to the fact that it made her walk with haste. The rain sounded louder as they went along, down some dusty stairs and winding trails.

As Aegon pushed open another piece of wall, he peaked his head out to check for people. The rain was clear as day when it had opened, revealing the storm in all its glory. Satisfied, he turned back to her with a grin and nodding his head towards the outside. "Look, you can see the entrace to the castle from here."

Daenys peaked just her head out, gawking at the sight. They were outside of the Keep's main building, able to see the stairs up to the grand entrance doors from their spot. The doors were closed, no guards bothering to stay outside in such conditions and instead closing the doors to the Keep instead of guarding them. No one would bother attempting to enter unwarranted in such weather anyways.

On the other side of the courtyard was the open arch towards the outside, King's Landing's city itself. Daenys had only ever been to visit the Sept and the dragonpit. With escorts, of course.

Without warning, Aegon pushed Daenys outside of the safety of the passage. Stumbling to catch her footing, she turned back to Aegon to ask why he had done that, only to be met with a slammed 'wall'.

Panicking, she pushed at the wall. Banging on it after it didn't budge, she yelled to Aegon, "let me in! This isn't funny, Aegon!"

She heard muffled speaking behind the wall, but was unable to make it out. After a short pounding on the wall, she presumed that Aegon had accidentally jammed the door and run off.

She prayed that he'd at least have the decency to admit his prank to Alicent and someone would be sent after her.

Daenys rushed to the entrance doors, repeatedly pounding on them. Pressing her ear to the door, she heard nothing. Only the ever-pouring rain all around her. She was soaking wet already, feeling like a drowned cat in her heavy day dress and loose hair. Coughing, she found little cover under the roofs of the entrance. With all the wind the effort was made futile.

She waited and waited for someone to exit the doors, but none came.

She wanted her father.

With Laenor gone for such long periods of time, the days dragged on endlessly with no means of communication between the kin. He was her best friend, besides perhaps Helena. He always cheered her up, made time for her, and took her on long rides in the skies with Seasmoke being the willing transportation. He would notice straight away that Daenys was missing from her chambers.

Giving up on her efforts, Daenys decided to go to the only other place she could stay safe and dry. The dragonpit. She knew the way there like the halls of the Red Keep, but had never made the journey alone before. Already shivering, she couldn't wait. Walking past the yard's archway, Daenys glanced around. The streets were empty beyond the stairs' bottom. Any passerbys gave her no notice as they scurried past, covering their heads or food with cloths.

Daenys ducked her head after passing every straggler, even with that information in mind. Any curious eye would notice the fancier clothes and jewels on the little girl, and who knows what one desperate person was willing to do. Luckily, in its wet state, her hair managed to look more grey and blonde than the moon-silver it was when dry.

It wasn't long before she reached the pit. Tiptoeing inside, she found that even the keepers had gone home in the midst of the harsh storm. What fools would enter a dragon's home, anyway?

The pit was pitch black, filled only with the sound of soft snores.

Daenys whispered out, "Morningstar?" For the young dragon she was bonded to.

Miraculously, the two were born on the same day. When an egg was placed in a cradle, it was usually weeks or moons before the egg hatched after the birth. The two were twins, beyond just a Valyrion blood bond.

Another deeper growl met her ears. Turning, she was met with a slight glimmer of gold. Sunfyre, Aegon's dragon. They had quite an impressive bond despite Aegon's lackluster skills in the dragon's known language.

She froze, preparing herself to be devoured by the beast. She had never spent time with The Golden like she had other dragons: Meleys, Seasmoke, Syrax, Vermax, and Arrax. They all knew her, welcomed her as their bonded riders had. Sunfyre was one of the only ones she had not interacted with except to observe his and Aegon's bonding time. As they all often did as a group, assigned by Viserys, of course.

If he was here, where was Dreamfyre? The massive blue dragon seemed to take the younger golden one under her wing, sticking with him when she was not out flying with Helena. Gulping, she backed up slowly. The dragon inched closer, now seemingly curious of the girl. His pointed snout poked at her, almost unintentionally knocking her over with its power. Hesitantly, she petted at his nose, earning a satisfied rumble from him. Attention starved, she was sure, from Aegon's forgetfulness.

Relaxing finally, Daenys allowed herself to lean into the dragon's warm touch. Laughing at his second nudge for more attention, she had to push him away reluctantly as she heard shuffling coming near. Morningstar, rising from the sound of her laugh, closed in on the two and rose her neck defensively toward Sunfyre like a baby snake. The other, though he was slightly larger than the white dragoness, huffed and backed away back to continue his sleep.

Aegon had been able to ride Sunfyre since he was 10 years old, praised for the young age that he was able to command a dragon. Though, he could not best her mother, who had been titled the youngest dragonrider in the realm. Her first flight with Syrax was when she was seven years old. Now, Syrax and Rhaenyra had an unbreakable bond, and the bronze dragon was still growing, though large and formidable, like her forebares.

Rhaenyra had suspected Morningstar would grow quickly and to an impressive size, given the ancestry of the white dragon. At seven, she was already approaching the size of a dragon almost four years her elder. Daenys didn't mind if she was big or small, though, as long as Morningstar stayed by her side.

Daenys turned to place a soft kiss on her dragon's snout, giggling at the jealousy of her dragon. "I was coming, don't worry." She cooed. Leaning her weight on to the dragon, she felt the sting of tears hit her eyes. Safe now, she could allow herself to relax in the comfort of Morningstar's warmth.

Though the dragon had other plans. One big purple eye never seemed to leave Daenys, a lingering need for something. Usually, the hungry look she held when a live sheep or deer was placed in front of her. Daenys couldn't understand her with words, but with actions. Leaning back from the embrace she attempted to hold the dragon in (barely, the same arms that could wrap around the dragon's neck entirely could not even reach from head to shoulders anymore), Daenys squinted.

"What do you need?"

Morningstar trilled, lowering to a suggesting crouch. The position made the idea spring to her head, gasping. It was the same that Syrax or Seasmoke lowered into to allow their riders to mount. The wing lay out in front of her, though it was too small and thin now for her to actually press her full weight on like an adult dragon's could handle. Gingerly, Daenys hopped on to the dragon's back. Spines and rough scales picked at her limbs as she uncomfortably shifted.

She was unsure if anyone had been able to ride saddleless, but she was determined not to let this slip past her. If Daenys could fly now, as she was destined to, she would no longer be confined to the Red Keep. At any time she wished she could escape. To the beach, where her father took her to comfort her, to Driftmark, where her grandmother and grandsire could welcome her in their home, to wherever Morningstar would take her.

Daenys did not wait any longer, grasping onto Morningstar's horns with a firm, "Sōvēs."

Immediately the command took, Morningstar running in the only way a dragon of her structure can; on her wings and hind legs. After breaching the pit's entrance, the dragon took flight. Even in the pouring rain, she could not be hindered or stopped. The dragoness was on a mission, whether of her own desire to allow Daenys to see what she saw daily or simply to comfort her. Whichever it was, she was grateful for it.

King's Landing seemed tiny behind her. It was such a small city yet it seemed to contain the entire realm's sins in its walls. Turning her head back forward, she only wished to forget the Keep for the time being.

She felt wild, free to do whatever she wished in the world. She could fly all the way to Essos, Dorne—The North. The thought was enticing. Flying far away from this filthy place and never returning. Her dragon-riding family was free to visit whenever they wished, but she would never be confined to walls again. Never locked out of her own home.

She imagined sailing the seas of Westeros and Essos, Morningstar above her scouting loyally. A fleet led by a Velayron and her dragon would be unbeatable—untouchable. Her father, too, at her side with Seasmoke. Luke, when he came of age to learn the duties of his heirhood, with Arrax following close behind the two elder dragons. They'd visit home often, of course, wherever they made their home, to be with the rest of their landlocked family who chose to stay behind and lead in the cities. Targaryens ruled the land while Velayrons ruled the seas, meeting in the air to be the most fearsome force any in history had witnessed.

Daenys would travel until she saw it all. All corners of the realm, a voyager at heart. Retirement would come slow and without issue, her heart filled with contentment and mind with memories to last a hundred lifetimes.

With her dragon, Daenys would be free.

🗡

Cregan was three and ten when his father died. Even younger when his brother and mother did. Loss was a familiar feeling to the young Stark. His only family left was his sister, Sara, and even she prepared to leave the Stark ancestral home for her martial days ahead. His uncle and his three sons had to be imprisoned in the dungeons under Cregan's own order—the only way to mercifully spare the power-hungry man. He was alone among his council, only guided by the same men who guided his father before him. They respected Cregan because they knew his capabilities, as shown by the small-scale civil war in Winterfell, but the distance was clear.

They did not hold the same affection for Cregan as they did for Rickon. They knew the young man was intelligent and clear-minded but still saw him as an inexperienced child compared to themselves. It was common that he had to correct members of his own council and remind them of their place, which was serving him and the North.

In time, Cregan was confident things would change for the better. It would take years of building assurance and trust, which he must practice patience for. He knew of his fate to lead Winterfell and the North as it's Warden since he could walk. The only unexpected thing was just how soon that would be. At seven and ten, he was ready to take the mantle back from his uncle. At eight and ten, he finally won it back.

Cregan held no happiness for the way he did, but it was the solemn duty of the Lord of Winterfell.

It had only been a few moons since he was named Lord Stark. Every day, he was nagged about different things.

"Lord Stark, it would be wise to start finding a Lady Wife."

"Lord Stark, the stockades for winter have been reduced for the commonfolk to recover from the spreading of illness."

Every day, it was the same. Solving problems for others was his responsibility, and he did it well, taking them upon his shoulders like he knew his father did years prior.

"Lord Stark, Castle Black has written to you about the Wildlings again."

"Lord Stark, your uncle Bennard is demanding to see you again. He is growing quite insistant."

Today, he was too tired to sit among the chattering bannermen on his council. He informed his men of him leaving on a solo hunt. Promising to return soon, Cregan swiftly left. One day a year, he got his own day. It was his nine and tenth nameday, the one time he allowed himself to serve his own desires instead of his people's.

They would not fall for a few days of being unguided. Cregan tried to shake the guilt he felt for leaving, if only for a few short days. With only his clothes, Ice, and traveling supplies, he left Winterfell's walls on Red.

Hours later, he felt tension leave his shoulders. Alone, there was no one hovering over his shoulders and murmuring in his ears about any problems or infighting. The only sounds were his own breathing and the snow crunching beneath Red's hooves.

The Wolfswood was a vast and expansive place, the perfect shelter for solitude. He had explored the wood so often as a child that it was no longer scary and foreign, instead a blanket of comfort to him. One of his few solaces which seemed to be less and less day after day.

His friends that warded in Winterfell to learn the duties as a Lord of their own Houses had left, old enough to either marry, take the mantle from their fathers, or serve at the wall. Cregan's cousin on his mother's side served there, too, a recent development that he both sympathized with and honored. His brother had passed when he was only a young lad, not even yet nine years of age before succumbing to illness. That solace was taken from him, leaving him rendered friendless and without most of his kin in his home. The bannermen that served him had served long and faithfully by Rickon Stark's side, and Cregan had no intention of replacing them with less experienced and wise men even at his own behest.

Loneliness was something he had grown used to. It had become its own comfort, a constant throughout his days. He knew he was the most reliable person in his life.

He longed for his family every day. His father, especially. The strong pillar of strength that he looked up to had left him so suddenly, reminding Cregan of his own morality. Every time he was nagged to take a wife, he knew they were right. He did not have the heart to lock himself in a loveless marriage, not when his lordship was so green. While his parents were lucky to find affection in their marriage, it did not change the fact that it did not start out so great. Rickon had been an ornery young man before he became Lord, fathering a bastard while he was bethrothed to Gilliane. Gilliane, while being a benevolent and kind woman, did not easily forgive a transgression like that.

It took years before they found love. They told the story to Cregan many times. He did not have time to spend building a relationship with a future Lady Stark, not when he was just starting to learn the full extent of his duties. The marriage would be strained and distant, he knew. Every day he postponed his decisions was another day the Starks went without an heir, making the North grow nervous and tense.

Sighing, Cregan forced dark thoughts from his head. Such things could wait until he was back home in the empty halls of the Great Keep.

Red trudged on, guided by instinct and Cregan's strong sense of direction. He hoped to bring home a deer, at least, to make the hunt worthwhile.

As the hours passed, Red seemed to grow anxious. Ears pinned to her head and tail flicking back and forth, agitated about something. Cregan pulled her to a hault, scanning the surrondings. If a horse as steady as Red grew nervous, something must be amiss.

Slowly, he dismounted and grabbed Ice from his shoulder. Scanning the forest around him, he saw nothing. Red shifted again, leaning almost away from the side opposite Cregan, but still she did not run.

He toed over to that side, not able to notice any shifts in shadows or footsteps. If it were wildlings, they'd surely make enough noise for him to hear. He was no stranger to their fowl tactics, nor clueless on how to deal with them.

Finally, it was only when Red 'neighed' with a panicked rear before she ran off that Cregan was able to notice the stalking wolf in the woods. Caught off guard, he couldn't brace himself properly before he was on the floor.

🗡

Grunting, he was given no time to think before he instinctively whriled around under the body pinning him. Snarling jaws met his bicep as he threw it out to cover his face. Only able to get on his side, Cregan struggled to reach for Ice. The wolf was a deep brown with big blue eyes that pierced hatefully into his own.

Unable to get his longsword, he instead punched at the nose of the wolf, earning a pained yelp but no release. Instead, he seemed to latch on harder. Cregan's arm burned like fire was leaking through his veins, the sensation almost numbing. Doing the only other thing he could think of, without losing a few fingers, Cregan bit down on the ear closest to him.

It was only then that the wolf finally let go, a bloody scar left on his ear from the force of the bite. The dip would be a painful reminder that humans were not prey, and Cregan's own scar was a reminder of his role in life—standing alone.

The wolf snarled and nipped at him again, but Cregan was able to kick him off of him this time. They both stood, staring each other down intensely. Both were ready to move when the other did, scanning and preparing for the next attack.

Cregan was able to properly assess the wolf. Finding that it was barely older than a pup, gauging from the size of its bared teeth, but had the body mass of an adult wolf. A direwolf, he knew it had to be. They grew quickly and almost three times the size of a normal wolf. Cregan would be dead if this one were an adult.

It was not starving, either. Cregan's nameday landed in mid Summer, meaning prey was abundant for the wildlife. His coat shined with the nutrients he clearly got regularly. His teeth were all there, sharper every day. His frame was as burly as a young wolf's could be. It was simply an aggressive young wolf eager to prove itself and mark its territory, which Cregan had apparently encroached upon.

Cregan narrowed his eyes, faultering when a shooting pain shot to his head. When he opened his eyes, he saw only himself staring back at him. His eyeline was low, as if he were a babe looking up at a man grown. His body was still in an uncanny sort of way. He had never seen himself beyond the occasional check in the mirror, but being able to see one's own body entirely was a surreal experience. With a clenched heart, Cregan held his breath and tried not to panic.

He was in the wolf. Or rather, in its mind. Able to see through its eyes and control its body, Cregan had known what this experience was but never thought it would happen to himself. A warg, just like many Starks before him had been. Most bonded with birds, small forest animals, or the hunting dogs in the kennels of Winterfell. He was quite unsure if any had warged into a direwolf before. They rarely came below The Wall, creatures of the dark and unknown.

Cregan wished for his father.

He had no one to guide him, lest he chose to seek out advice from his crazed uncle. The very thought was traitorous to himself and Rickon Stark. He must navigate this alone, though he wished desperately to be guided by the firm but gentle hand of his father just one more time.

He moved, just slightly. The effort was different, walking on four legs instead of two. All his senses were heightened, and his ear stung and smelled of iron. Or, the wolf's ear, he should say. A few feet in front of his face, he could even smell himself and the blood pouring from his arm wound.

The sun was setting now, the day almost over. What a long day it had been. When Cregan blinked again, he saw the wolf in front of him. The brown direwolf did not seem so menacing now, instead looking up at him with interest instead of bloodlust.

Cregan hesitantly knelt to the floor, reaching an open hand out to the direwolf. With the same weariness it approached, sniffing at the gloved hand before meeting Cregan's eyes again. "Hello, Dusk." He muttered, petting the space between his eyes and smiling at the way he leaned into the newfound affection.

It seemed they both needed each other.

Perhaps he wasn't so alone, not anymore.

GIVE HOTD BIG DRAGONS. Syrax was not tiny 😭 they make her such a pretty princess dragon (she is) so she has to be small? She was described as large just not ferocious or battle-worn. She could've fought and done some damage if Rhaenyra was allowed to fight

anyone else think Sunfyre really isn't 'the prettiest' dragon? I didn't care for his face design it looked quite off compared to others. I think Moondancer or Syrax would the most visually pretty ones lol I adore Moondancer's stripes

This may have seemed extreme from Aegon but I think its realistic of a 11-13 year old boy to pull a prank like that bc he doesn't know the type of consequences it could have. also, having a prank go wrong but not asking for help because you KNOW You'd be in deep shit is so real

when Aemon Targaryen called Cregan the finest swordsman he'd ever fought I took that personally

i firmly believe they'd both slightly be daddy's girl and daddy's boy characters as kids. love both parents equally of course, but the bond between them and their dads was just untouchable and couldn't be replicated.

also didn't want to make Rickon stark a cheater, I don't think Stark men are cheaters ✋️

no animal abuse pictured they were simply throwing hands. I'd like to think they play fight still occasionally, also that bite was embarrassingly inspired by Snow Dogs (2002). When the guy bit Demon's ear to finally get him to cooperate I just think its so funny and Cregan would do it

[danielgillies]

Daniel Gillies as Wing Commander Hayes in Occupation: Rainfall (2021) dir. Luke Sparke

[myristca]

where: lost and found bar when: after the storm starts who: open no occupancy (2/2)

everything was too sudden for becca to truly understand. distractions took her attention before she could think; the hurried conversations, the rush of movement, the sudden noise of a hard rainfall on the roof and windows. even her own voice didn't sound right. it felt strained and warbled in her throat when she spoke, still caught by surprise just as she was getting the hang of this place. but her hands are steady on the injured ankle while she feels for irregularities underneath. "it's not a break or tear- that's good. now, i'm going to push on your foot and you let me know when it hurts too much."

[focsle]

"Here I am scribbling nonsense [in] when I should be engaged in the more useful [and] occupation of washing out some very dirty clothes of which I am the happy owner so with the permission of the reader if I am so fortunate as to have one I will once more haul taut + belay." - William Douglass Buel, whaler on the bark Wave, 1856

Since I am unable to do my heaps of laundry today because someone has inconsiderately monopolized AAAAALL the machines, it's time to write a post about whaleship laundry day to quell my fury!

"A person unused to the sight of the ship would take the Old Lucy Ann for a ready made clothing store, the rigging being hung full of wet clothing" wrote John Martin of his ship on laundry day in 1842.

As always, laundry was a dreaded task but also an absolutely necessary one, especially given how begrimed (or as one whaler put it, 'beshit') things would get on a whaler. William Abbe, a greenhand on the Atkins Adams in 1858, most viscerally described the mess that came from the work:

"To turn out at midnight and put on clothes soaked in raw oil. To go on deck and work for Eighteen hours among blubber—slipping + stumbling on the sloppy decks til you are covered from crown to heel with oil—eating with oily hands oily grub—drinking from oily pots til your mouth and lips have a nauseating oily luster—turning in for a few hours sleep — after wiping off your bare body with oakum to take off the thickest of the oil"

So you gotta clean that shit! 'Clean'. A relative sort of word.

First, whalers soaked their dirty clothes in the communal urine barrel, as the ammonia content of stale urine was one of the few things strong enough on board to start to cut through the grease. Sometimes the clothes would be towed behind the ship afterwards to rinse them, but that wasn't always the case. Rainwater was also collected in anticipation of wash day to have fresh water to rinse with. With this fresh water, a lye was also made using the ashes and crispy blubber scraps come from the trying out process. The deck would be washed in a similar way after trying out a whale, often using a combo of urine, lye, and sand. J.E. Haviland, of the Baltic in 1857 described the laundry work that he had never expected to be doing himself:

"Tomorrow all hands are to wash out their clothes with the ashes made from the scraps These ashes are put in a cask and then pour fresh water in the cask + this makes a very strong Lye which might take all the grease and slush out of the clothes without applying any soap. I have some 12 pieces to wash but I think I can do it as quick and as well as any wash woman. If any one had of told me two years ago I should be obliged to wash my own clothes, say nothing about mending then I should have thought them a fool. But man proposses + God disposses."

Whaling wife Almira Gibbs, who accompanied her family (Captain and young son) aboard more than one whaler had her own recipe for soap, despite Haviland's assertion that it wasn't necessary:

"1 lb castile soap 1 1/4 lb soda 6c worth borax add 5 pts water and let it simmer till it is all dissolved, take it off and add 9 pts water and let it cool."

Whaling wives aboard also complained about laundry and the difficulty of doing it aboard ship. The moldering of clothes in such a damp environment, the constant roll of the vessel sometimes overturning one's tub or making ironing dangerous, having to wait for rainfall for fresh water, and a sunny day for actually performing said wash, were constant features in wives' laments. Mary Lawrence, aboard the Addison in 1860 sarcastically wrote about her laundry attempt thwarted by the weather one July.

July 30 A wonderful circumstance. When we were called this morning, the sun was shining bright. “Now for a washing day,” thought I, “if it is Saturday.” So I went to work; had a large wash, it being four weeks since I had had one before. Just as I got about half through, the fog came thicker than I ever saw it before. I was obliged to put my white clothes in soak and dry the colored clothes in the cabin.

She also mentioned her young daughter Minnie who "took her little tub and washed her dog's bedclothes, for Jip has had a bed all the season that had to be made up like anybody's bed".

Sighting whales at any point would also put an interruption to the wash. This photo taken aboard the Sunbeam by Clifford Ashley in his brief 1904 research trip shows men hoisting up the whaleboats after taking a small whale, their Sunday laundry still hanging between the davits.

I'll close with whaling wife Mary Brewster's description of a wash day following the trying out of a whale on her husband's ship Tiger, one winter day in Magdalena Bay 1847.

"Calm pleasant weather. Employed in sewing till 4 this afternoon, when I went on deck, where I found every part, and everything about, very nice and clean. The sailors all washing up their dirty clothes, both trypots full boiling in ley [lye] and the rigging hung full. A few garments floating which had taken flight overboard to save washing. All presented a lively spectable and I could say with all hands, farewell to Greybacks [lice]."

[basketballanonsblog]

Happy birthday, Jihyo! The efforts you always put in all that you do are admiralable. Thank you for being the best leader. You're the glue that helps TWICE stick together 🎊🧡

I can't believe it's been a year since I wrote this for her birthday and @zyonamourolls

I'll be posting the rest of this AU over the next couple of weeks

Synopsis: After a lifetime of waiting, you finally found her again. (TW: slight violence and brief mention of blood. Flashbacks are in italics)

Finally found

"Get away from her!" Jihyo stood in between the man and woman whom he decided to target.

"Well, look what we have here, a mighty hero. You shouldn't interfere in things that don't concern you."

He tried to get to the other woman, but Jihyo fought him.

Where are you, my love? I need you.

"Run. Now!" She urged the other, who did what she was told. Before she could notice, he had pulled out a knife, gravely injuring her.

That was his first and last mistake.

The sky rumbled and flashed with thunder and lightning.

"Jihyo!"

The man was suddenly grabbed from behind and thrown against the wall with great force, knocking him unconscious. You'd deal with him later.

"No, no, no."

You rushed to her, bringing Jihyo as close as possible without aggravating her wound. Inspecting and putting pressure on it, you knew it was fatal based on the amount of blood she was losing.

"I'm here now, love. I'm sorry I couldn't be here sooner. I'm going to get you help." You got ready to fly, but she weakly grasped your arm.

"I'm not going to make it, y/n."

"Don't say that. It's not too late." Your voice quivered, but she smiled at you.

"Shhh. It's okay, y/n. Our time together in this lifetime may have been cut short, but I know you'll find me again in the next."

Jihyo kissed you before wiping your tears as best she can.

"I love you, my angel."

"I love you."

She continued smiling as her eyes fluttered shut and she went limp.

"Jihyo?...Jihyo!"

No response.

You desperately sobbed, gently rocking her body.

"No, please, please. Please. Come back to me, don't leave me."

The heavens opened, but you shielded her with your wings. The unrelenting rainfall coincides with your grief and tears.

~◇~

Jihyo shot upright in a sweat, trying to catch her breath. She's been having quick snippets of the same dream almost every night. But this, this was more vivid.

"So much for not waking up early on my day off." She mumbled to herself as she walked into the kitchen, which contained one occupant.

"You had that dream didn’t you?" Mina was the only one she had told, only because she had overheard Jihyo talking in her sleep.

"Yeah. But this time it was different, more detailed." She explained her dream, and Mina looked pensive at the end of it.

"What's your opinion on the theory of being reborn?"

"Huh?"

"You know, people contemplate whether or not soulmates and reincarnation exist. Based on the amount of detail, maybe this dream is from a past life of yours."

Jihyo looked at her, bewildered.

"Yeah um I think you might have been watching too many romance dramas...or too busy pining over Chaeyoung."

"Unnie!"

~◇~

Trudging through your apartment, you collapsed onto your bed. Another shift at the hospital was completed. Being the chief obstetrician brought feelings of purpose, and it was rewarding, helping life come into the world; but it could be exhausting. Especially when complications arise.

You considered whether to go flying around for fresh air. At the thought, your wings sprung out, but in the end, you decided to have a nap.

"Sorry." Your wings tucked themselves back in as you closed your eyes.

Not even half an hour after falling asleep, you were abruptly woken by the sound of music blasting throughout the place. Considering that you lived alone, you knew who it was.

Curse your sibling.

You stormed to the living room, yelling.

"Lucifer! Can you please turn -" You went from irritated to breathless at the sound of a familiar yet foreign voice. A voice you hadn't heard in nearly a century.

"Who- who is that?"

"They're TWICE, a K-pop group."

"The one singing a moment ago, what's her name?"

"Oh, that's the leader, Park Jihyo."

You had to sit down before your legs gave in. The shock was so great that Lucifer had to shout your name a number of times in order for you to snap out of it.

"Brother. It's her."

He stared at you, confused, until his eyes widened as it clicked.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go to her!"

"Yeah, because they're just going to let me waltz in and talk to a famous idol." You quipped sarcastically.

He thought for a moment before looking cheerful.

"Leave it with me, sis. I'll handle it."

He threw you a wink, making you grimace. Things with Lucifer can go haywire but at this point, you'd try almost anything.

-×-

Another day, another shift. You were getting ready to help one of your patients until...

"Y/n!" Lucifer appeared beside you, with a stupid grin on his face.

"Oh for the love of- what the hell are you doing here?"

"Can't a guy visit his sister?"

"Not at work, especially when she's prepping to deliver a baby." You walked away, but he grabbed your arm.

"Wait. At least hear me out."

"Fine. Ten seconds, go."

"I got us tickets to see TWICE, and I managed to charm the staff to let us meet the members. You can reunite with her, y/n."

"I..."

So many emotions swirled within. You almost cried then and there. You were fortunate to have a sibling like him. Not that you would ever say it out loud. His ego was already big enough.

"You could've at least waited until I got home to drop this bombshell. Goodness knows you barge into my apartment whenever you damn well, please."

Walking away once more, your heart was racing. Lucifer just found it hilarious.

"You're welcome, sis!"

~◇~

The concert began not long after you had sat down but you were still restless.

Until you saw Jihyo.

Oh, how you had missed her. How you managed to wait this long, you'd never know.

"Are you okay?" Lucifer whispered.

"I'm fine."

"But you're crying." Huh. You didn't even realise.

"It's just a lot to process right now, but I promise I'm alright." No further words were exchanged; not that you could talk anyway. Especially when you kept your eyes on Jihyo the entire time.

You never did stop crying throughout the concert.

Seeing her so energetic, finding joy and happiness in performing with the members. That's all you wanted for her, to find passion in life.

On Jihyo's side, there was something different in the air tonight, besides the usual bursts of excitement they get. She felt compelled to keep looking at a certain section of the audience but could not figure out why.

Almost as if she was being drawn in.

The thought kept nagging in the back of her head, but was brushed away because in the blink of an eye, the concert was over.

~◇~

The members waited patiently for the people who their manager said had wanted to meet them.

Lucifer walked in alone, greeting them respectfully.

"Hello, I'm Lucifer. I'm here with my sister, who should be here soon."

You had gone to the bathroom to freshen up before you reunited with the love of your life. So your brother covered for you, making small talk to pass the time.

But you were taking too long, and idols could only give so much of their time. Their manager informed them it was time to go.

"No, wait! Please, my sister has been waiting for so long to meet you. I'll get her."

"Fine. Five minutes." He bolted out of the room, searching.

Lucifer found you curled up, outside the bathroom. As your younger brother, he always looked up to you; for him, it was unnerving seeing you look so... small.

"Y/n, what's wrong?" He sat beside you.

"Lucifer. I can't do it. How can I face her after what happened? I know she doesn't remember, but I don't deserve to meet her again. Jihyo is better off without me."

"No." He looked at you seriously, with a frown.

"What?"

"Don't make that decision for her. She made her choices back then, so let her make the choice now, whether or not she wants you in her life."

He gave you his handkerchief to dry your eyes.

"I know the past still hurts you. But don't let it make you so afraid that you would let her slip away again. Having another chance like this is nothing short of a miracle. Don't waste it."

You looked to him in awe.

"Who knew the devil could be so wise?"

Lucifer smirked and shrugged, then stood, offering a hand to pull you up.

"So what's it gonna be, y/n?"

~x~

Their manager glanced at her watch, sighing.

"We need to go." They all got ready to leave when the door abruptly slammed open; you and Lucifer stormed in, out of breath from running there.

"We're here!"

Jihyo's jaw dropped. It's you. The girl from her dreams.

You bowed, half in greeting and half in apology.

"Hi everyone! Forgive me for making you wait. I'm - "

"Y/n." She finished your sentence before she could stop herself.

Everyone including you, looked at Jihyo in shock and making her flustered.

"You know her, unnie?" Tzuyu asked.

"No, but -"

"How did you know her name?" Dahyun chimed in this time.

"Well..." How was she going to explain to her members that she's been dreaming of this stranger, that your name was engraved in her heart and mind.

That you were the person she's been unknowingly yearning for for months.

"Lucky guess, I suppose! People always say I look like a y/n." Not really, but you didn't want her to feel embarrassed.

Jihyo looked at you with relieved gratitude, and you smiled shyly in return.

She stepped forward, offering a hand shake, which you gladly accepted.

"Hello y/n."

"Hello Jihyo."

And as for you, your lost and troubled heart was finally at ease; for it had found its way back home.

~◇~

"You have some nerve asking me that. Especially after what you've done." You stood, drenched from the rain, bruises and minute traces of blood on your knuckles, before God himself, your father.

Pleading with him to bring Jihyo back.

"This is an outlandish request, even for you y/n. You are not the first or last person to lose someone. I can not outright bend the rules for you, regardless of the fact you are my child."

Your hands clenched, tears flowing while you dropped to your knees, head bowed.

"Then turn me human." You begged.

"Excuse me, you want me to what?"

"Turn me human. Everything is meaningless without her."

"You would really give up your birthright for her?"

"Yes." You answered too quickly for your father's liking. The way he stormed off was evidence of this.

But you stopped caring the moment you lost her.

He had returned a few hours later, much calmer after talking with your mother about the situation. Although, he didn't expect you to still be kneeling where he left you.

He mimicked you, going down to your level, that you may talk face to face.

"This human, she means that much to you?" He asked gently. You nodded tiredly.

"Father, I love her. I do not wish to live in a world where she doesn't exist."

He had never heard you sound so broken. Even if he had high expectations for you, you were still his firstborn. What kind of parent would want to see their child in pain?

He sighed in defeat and conceded, placing a hand on your shoulder.

"Okay."

~x~

You sat in front of her gravestone, fingers tracing the surface, where Jihyo's name was carved.

"Sorry I'm late, my love, Lucifer keeps dragging me into his outlandish schemes. He says it's because I'm the only sibling willing to put up with his antics, but I think he's just trying to cheer me up. He won't admit it, though, stubborn man. He would've liked you, I wish I didn't wait to introduce you. It was me being selfish and wanting to keep you far away from the dysfunctional circus that is my family."

You laughed almost bitterly while wiping your eyes.

"I miss you Jihyo, but please wait for me amor. Even if I have to spend the entirety of my existence looking, you have my word that in another life, I will find you again."

[kiatheinsomniac]

Hello, when you can I’d like a little something for Altair, Connor, Edward, Jacob, Arno and Ezio. I was watching Harry Potter and when Hermione smells the potion which clarifies who/what shes attracted to. So that gave me an idea for an ask. What is each characters ^^ signature scent like do they smell like mangos random I know but an example. I don’t necessarily mean perfume though I mean by natural scents.

☾ ⋆ﾟ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 / 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: ooooo it's always interesting to get headcanon requests about the characters themselves and not ones that involve the reader. I feel like I could talk ab these boys for so long after how much time I've put into playing the games and reading the books lol

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒: Altaïr, Ezio, Edward, Connor, Arno, Jacob

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: none

｡･:*˚:✧｡ altaïr ibn-la'ahad

♡ his own scent and frankincense.

♡ Altaïr's clothes have captured the labours of his occupation and the smoke of the incense burning in the bureau. It's a lingering but subtle smell.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ ezio auditore

♡ musk and amber.

♡ these were both popular scents during the renaissance and he smells quite strongly of it. During the renaissance, people believed that miasma carried disease and so they would try to ward off illness with more pleasant scents (think of the lyrics to Ring Around the Rosie). Though, he's still an assassin so it's not too string that you can smell it unless you're very, very close to him, that is.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ edward kenway

♡ the sea breeze.

♡ the salt in the air has made its way into nearly every part of Edward after so many years at sea, notably his clothes and sun-bleached hair. He always smells like the seas that have become like a second home to him.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ ratonhnhaké:ton | connor kenway

♡ fresh rainfall or sage.

♡ Connor spends a lot of his time outdoors so I think that would show in how his clothes and hair smell. He would smell of the fresh rainfall that he just got back from being caught in, of ferns and pine needles. Also, I think Connor would keep up with some of his cultural practices, even after what happened to his village. Perhaps burning white sage and inviting in better energy in the place of what it's cleared out is one of them? He would smell like the smoke after.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ arno dorian

♡ coffee and old books.

♡ the guy lives above a café and has stacks upon stacks of books and papers around him. They've permeated the air of his whole living space and, consequently, him. On worse days, he might smell more like the wine he downed to forget his troubles the night before but his entire wardrobe has been filled with the scent of coffee and he doesn't even realise at this point that his home smells like a library.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ jacob frye

♡ soot and violets.

♡ Victorian London had a definite issue with the smog everywhere as a consequence of industrialisation and he lives on a train so the smell of soot has, without a doubt, embedded itself in his clothes. Cologne wasn't a very big thing at the time and Victorians had moved on from believing in miasma, germ theory having been popularised. Perfume was no longer practical but aesthetic and wasn't very popular among men in the late 1860's. However, Evie once bought a violet perfume that she quickly grew sick of but Jacob quite liked. He doesn't wear a lot but it's enough for a few people to pick up on and he uses it as an opportunity to get close and flirt.

☾ ⋆ﾟlike my work? why not: 

∘ buy me a coffee? ∘ join my taglist ∘ consider following/reblogging

🏷️@gojohater101 @ayameiris4 @veryfancydoilies @asuni921  @writing-noah @danielle-marie@havatnah @aarnodoriann @asianbutnotjapanese @daddyadler @b3k1720

[temuera-morrison-tournament]

Characters, round 2 poll 8

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Extreme drought, climate change and criminality drive explosion of fires in Brazil

A huge cloud of thick smoke covers almost all of Brazil. The colors of the mega-biodiverse country that, among other ecosystems, is home to the world’s largest rainforest have given way to gray smoke, and acrid soot. As a resident of São Paulo, the largest Brazilian city, I can’t remember the last time I saw the sky. Unbelievably, this scenario is the same in about 60% of the Brazilian territory.

The situation that led São Paulo and its metropolitan region, according to the IQAir website, to register, earlier this week, the worst air quality among all the world’s metropolises is the result of a combination of climate change impacts and criminal forest burning for land clearance and occupation. At the same time, more than half of Brazil is also suffering the direct impact of the climate crisis, facing our worst drought in the last 44 years. When it comes to fires, the country is about to surpass an astonishing 160,000 fire outbreaks in 2024 – a number 104% higher compared to last year, in which almost 78,000 outbreaks were registered.

According to Cemaden (the National Center for Monitoring and Warning of Natural Disasters), a total of 1,995 Brazilian cities are in a situation of extreme drought, and more than 1,300 municipalities are facing severe drought conditions. It is the first time that a deficit of rainfall has been observed for such a long time, regular rains are expected just for mid-October, in such an extensive area of Brazil – conditions which drives the spread of fires. The fires that spread through practically all Brazilian ecosystems, with the Amazon, the Cerrado and the Pantanal being the most affected, are caused by human action in 90% of the cases.

According to the government, in the first seven months of this year, more than 5.7 million hectares were burned, a growth of 92% compared to 2023. Mato Grosso, Pará, Amazonas and Tocantins, all states in the Legal Amazon, lead the fires. In Mato Grosso, for example, the increase in fires jumped 646%, from 1,400 last year to almost 10,700 this year.

The explosion of fires, as well as coincidences in the burned areas, raises suspicions of criminal and orchestrated acts. In the state of São Paulo, for example, according to information from IPAM (Amazon Environmental Research Institute) 2,600 hot spots were registered between August 22 and 24th, 81% of which were concentrated in areas of agricultural use. The analysis also shows the appearance of columns of smoke in the state in a short interval of 90 minutes, raising even more suspicions about criminal acts.

Continue reading.

[albino-parakeet]

Last Line Game

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like).

Thank you so much for the tag @desfraisespartout !!!

I was actually trying to write something when I got the notification lol.

Listen I am not a writer so this probably isn't the best. 😅 It's mainly just descriptions.

The sour smell of mold eating away at any exposed surface, slowly encroaching through out the skeleton of an isolated wing. It’s doors barred shut from the main body of the building, wooden boards haphazardly nailed in place showing its age with their splintering grain. The tile, once spotless and waxed, now broken and crunch under each foot fall. 

Deep clean sanitation chambers, revered for their excellent sterilization, harbor clouds of spores from the trapped moisture. Glass panels looking into the main room, all smashed long ago, long since dried blood littered what remaining shards still stood on the frames edges. Thin streams of rainfall finding its home in the crevices of high tech computers and machines left to rust away in the humid tropical weather.

Memories of snarling teeth and rotten meat still connected to something living. Loud screams and festering wounds, desperate pleads for help to no avail. Quick claws and cut lines. All still haunt the one remaining occupant of this rotting corpse that housed the products of genetic achievements. A single soul slinking through the backdrop of this waking nightmare

No clue if there is anyone I can tag but whoever is interested can participate!

[newyorkkiss]

Rainy Taxi (1938), also known as Mannequin Rotting in a Taxi-Cab, is a three-dimensional artwork created by Salvador Dalí, consisting of an actual automobile with two mannequin occupants.  A male chauffeur with a shark head is in the front seat, and a female sits in the back seat. A system of pipes causes "rainfall" within the taxi. The female wears an evening dress, her hair is tousled, and lettuce and chicory grow around her. Live snails crawl across her body.  The piece was first displayed in 1938 at the Galerie Beaux-Arts in Paris of the Exposition Internationale du Surréalisme, organised by André Breton and Paul Éluard. The main hall of the Exposition was designed by Marcel Duchamp and Wolfgang Paalen, who was responsible for the supervision of the water installations.  A reconstruction of the original installation is installed in the open courtyard of the Dalí Theatre and Museum in Figueres, Catalonia. 

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

☀️ Cast No Shade 🐎

jomary fic - 5193 words - rating: T - western au - read on ao3

There isn’t much to Saint William, the motley one street town that the surrounding ranches flee to when their occupants need to get supplies, food, or drunk. Luckily for Jo Harvelle and Mary Campbell (barmaid at the Roadhouse Saloon and stablehand of the Singer Stables) their occupations fall well into these categories. And so: while they are not content, they are earning, and there is much to be said for that for two young women in a small town nearing the bottom corner of Nebraska.

Jo and Mary: cowgirls, sapphics, and gender extraordinares. They're running and they're kissing and, most importantly, dicussing their names and shattered pasts.

i cannot thank @kerryweaverlesbian enough for betaing this fic. i really couldn't have done it without you <3

written for my josjoyousbday celebration!!

It’s early evening on a scorchingly hot July day when Jo Harvelle drops by the Singer stables. The temperature has only just become bearable. Jo tugs her bandana down from around her mouth as she wanders along the ramshackle wooden stalls. The dust outside is unmanageable, what with the lack of rainfall for almost a month now, but inside it gets just that bit easier to breathe. Whether that’s truly from the break in the dust or simply because her mother isn’t standing, hovering over her shoulder is probably up for debate. 

Either way, Jo takes her time making her way through the long corridor of the stables and greeting the horses on either side of her. The town is small enough she knows all of them pretty easily. She gives a congenial pat to Eileen’s broad bay, Sam, who looks to be more moose than horse. Conversely, she keeps a wide berth of Cas, Meg’s horse, who Meg always complains seems to have come out the farm with a crack in his hoof.  

She produces an apple from her pocket for Claire. Claire had been Jimmy Novak’s horse, before Jimmy got himself killed on some holy mission several years ago while Claire was young. Claire is now in the habit of bolting for the fields the second she sees an open gate, and Bobby once explained to Jo it was likely because of the trauma of losing Jimmy. 

“Horses,” he’d said, “are surprisingly human creatures.”

Since then, Jo has felt a particular kinship to Claire, and an apple shared between them is a ritual she likes to think does them both good. Today, though, that ritual is cut short, as Jo spies movement in another stall out the corner of her eye.

There’s one horse, in the stall beside her own, that Jo hasn’t seen before. She’s a gorgeous Arabian mare, with a hide so black she looks like she’s been dipped in rich ink. And she’s tall, too: Jo can’t see her legs from here, but she knows they’ll be lean and strong. This is a horse built for running. But no one runs through the meager, fatigued town of Saint William if they can help it.

So who’s here running? Who from? Or, Jo ponders, who to?

Jo is so deep in thought over who could possibly be the owner of that beautiful horse, the fact the door to her own horse’s stall is slightly ajar slips her by. It continues to slip her by until she goes to unlatch it, and finds the wooden panel bangs restlessly against the post. It then swings away, freely, revealing a skirt-covered behind bent over a rake. The person the behind is attached to appears to be turning the hay on the stable floor, a shortish head of blonde hair almost indistinguishable from the hay around her. 

“Holy hell!” Jo splutters, managing to bang the stall door into her fingers in the shock of her surprise. She hisses a curse. By the time she’s shaken her hand out and opened up her eyes again, the girl has risen to her full height and is looking on apologetically.

“Sorry,” she says, in a drawl somewhere between sweet and gravelly; like a siren with dust in her throat. Jo likes it. “I didn’t mean to startle you- is your hand alright?”

Nodding, Jo manages a small smile. “Sure. May I ask what you’re doing with my horse?” Her tone comes out perhaps a little sharper than she intended, as the girl recoils away slightly. But still, the girl’s in Jo’s stall, Jo reckons, and even if it’s a free country she has the right of way.

Her horse isn’t a horse to be trifled with, either. Everyone knows that. A dashing gray Quarter horse, Blade had been raised alongside Jo such that they were more like brother and sister than horse and rider. She’d named him Blade while she was young enough for her father to be alive, and quite rightly, too: his hide shines, almost metallic silver in the sun. 

“I was clearing his stall out, miss. I’m the new stablehand.”

Jo folds her arms. “I ain’t heard of no new stablehand.”

“Well, I am one,” the girl rebuts, with a certain amount of her own spunk. “You can ask Mr Singer if you really want, but all you’ll hear is that I arrived yesterday and started work today.”

“Where are you staying?” Jo quizzes.

“Mr Singer is letting me board.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Lawrence. Kansas.”

“Why are you here?”

“My parents died,” the girl says, and lowers her chin in such a way Jo instantly knows this part of the conversation is over. 

The girl opposite her is not much older than Jo herself, if at all. Her hair falls around her face unevenly, like she hacked it off herself in some dingy saloon mirror; strangely, something like jealousy rises in Jo’s chest over that surely undesirable image. The skirt she’s wearing is tattered around the hem. Similarly, her shirt is crumpled and mud-stained, visibly wearing at the elbows and collar. This is the appearance of a girl who hasn’t got much, and so Jo is inclined to believe her.

“I’m sorry,” Jo says, scuffing the toe of her boot along the floor. “I’ve lost my Daddy too.”

The blonde girl nods. She opens her mouth as if she has something more on the topic to say, but then seems to change her mind. She lets whatever idea she had go with a little puff of breath and instead says, “Mr Singer was a friend of my pa’s. That’s why I’m stayin’ here, so you know. I ain’t some nobody.”

“No,” Jo mutters, and she can feel her cheeks reddening. “I didn’t think you were. I was surprised to find you here, is all. Bobby didn’t say anyone new was coming.”

“Well, I’m here,” the girl says with a shrug. A hint of a smile catches on her lip as she takes the moment to rather blatantly look Jo over, from tip to toe. Jo feels like she’s being inspected, or studied, or something. Like if the girl were to take an exam on her now, she’d get all the answers right. “Might be a good thing too. I’m Mary Campbell,” the girl, now Mary, announces. 

Jo nods, feeling her own cheeks dimple. “Mary,” she repeats softly, feeling the name in her mouth. It’s a little plain, as all the girl’s names seem to be in these parts, but it fits her, Jo thinks. There’s always more to a Mary than meets the eye.

“And what’s your name?” Mary asks, turning back to her work in the stall. Blade doesn’t seem to mind her presence at all, happily munching from his food box. If nothing else had made Jo trust Mary already, that sign alone would have.

“Everyone calls me Jo,” Jo supplies in turn. She pushes the stall door to, so she can lean against it and peer over as Mary works. As Mary bends over again, it’s another one of those moments where Jo wishes women got to wear unforgiving denim jeans like the men did. 

“That short for anything?” 

“My mamma seems to think so,” Jo huffs. “But it’s really just Jo. Jo Harvelle.”

“Alright then. Howdy, Jo Harvelle, it’s nice to meet you.”

**

There isn’t much to Saint William, the motley one street town that the surrounding ranches flee to when their occupants need to get supplies, food, or drunk. Luckily for Jo and Mary (barmaid at the Roadhouse Saloon and stablehand of the Singer Stables) their occupations fall well into these categories. And so: while they are not content, they are earning, and there is much to be said for that for two young women in a small town nearing the bottom corner of Nebraska.

A year after Mary’s surprise arrival, the July sun scorches the land as surely as it did the very first time Jo and Mary met. Jo pulls her hat from her head and fans herself with it a little as she slips into the Singer Stables, in a move now so habitual she barely thinks about it. The late afternoon’s fingertips are starting to loosen their grip to the cooler breeze of evening. Only just, though. 

“Hey honey, I’m home,” she calls out among the seemingly empty stalls. 

Blade snorts fondly at the sound of her voice. A second later, Mary’s blonde head pops out of the stall beside Blade’s, the stall now belonging to the horse which had stolen Jo’s attention that day a year ago. 

“Hey,” Mary says, a smile curling across her lips at the sight of Jo. Her gaze drops from Jo’s eyes as she rambles closer, drifting across her chapped lips instead.

“Hey,” Jo agrees, falling readily into the kiss Mary presses between them. It’s too chaste, like a tequila shot; leaves Jo wanting a chaser, wanting more. But still, it’s kinda perfect. 

Since Mary ran into Jo’s life, it’s been far more kinda perfect than it ever was before. 

The contact is over, but still they stand in each other’s orbit, neither of them wanting to pull away. The heat seeps through the skin and straight to the stomach, on days like this. It doesn’t matter that to stand so close means yet more warmth. Not when the rising devotion in Jo’s stomach has her singing for intimacy. 

“How’s Baby?” she murmurs, lips still close enough to Mary’s cheeks to grace her sun-weathered face. Jo feels, easily, how the hairs on both of their necks rise and stand like a freshly lit flame. 

Mary grins, turning away to gaze at her horse so tenderly it almost makes Jo jealous. The Arabian mare stands, gleaming black as ever. “She’s good,” she says. “Wheels need oiling a little, maybe, but she’ll run.”

Jo laughs, feeding her fingers between Mary’s buckled hands. 

They’d fallen into a relationship in the brisk air of last October, rather in the same way the Earth turns. One day, they weren’t ferociously making out in the back corners of local barns and yet, the next they were. 

One thing which Jo had noticed almost from the first kiss though, was how crooked Mary’s fingers were. Like they’d been broken and trampled and never given the time to heal right. But it was a hard question to ask, how a girl got all her fingers broken and crudely healed again by the ripe old age of 19.

Jo had chanced it once, and got the blunt reply that “my parents were bounty hunters. They wanted me in on the family business. But sometimes, the bounties hunt you back.” Then Mary had dipped her chin again, in the way that Jo knew meant she was starting to pour salt into a wound not yet healed. 

It hadn’t taken much to put two and two together and realize that bounty hunting was probably how Mary’s parents had wound up dead. It also took a single glance at Mary to see she was glad to be out of it. It must be a terrible thing, Jo mused, for that kind of death to feel like an escape. But if the paper she had seen crumpled on Bobby’s desk was to be believed, it seemed that her parents’ death had almost been Mary’s. 

Now, with her fingers entwined around Mary’s, still broken, Jo wonders - and not for the first time - what it’s like to come back from the brink of death. How it would be to come back, and not know if you’ve come back wrong. 

But then again, Mary’s fingers have healed in all sorts of finicky, wrong ways. And Jo loves how exquisite they are all the same.

“Tell me you’re finished up here, and that you’ll take me somewhere fun,” Jo hums.

“Can do, cowboy,” Mary chuckles.  “Let me get my hat and we can go.”

Mary brushes off the hay from her skirt, gives one last caring look over all the horses, and sets her brown hat firmly on her head. Then, she grabs Jo’s hand and marches them back out into the staunch heat of the unbroken street.

“You know what I fancy, in this shitty weather?” Mary asks loosely as they wander up the road. Past Rufus’ grocers on one side, past the doctor’s office Garth runs on the other. 

Jo shrugs, always happy just to let Mary chat on in her own conversation. Contrary to what her mother might think, Jo doesn’t always need to be talking. She’s more of the quiet type, really. It’s easier to hear more about others, that way. And perhaps to hide more of yourself.

Then they’re along past the Sheriff’s office, where posters with crudely drawn pictures scream ‘WANTED’ for a Nick, a Uriel, a Ruby. Sheriff Jody and Deputy Donna wave from inside, friendly-like, as Jo and Mary pass by. 

“Now, you mayn’t like me for this but I think it’s an awful good idea,” Mary stipulates, and Jo begins to see where they’re headed, and feels the excitement drain from her bones. 

“Come on,” Jo moans, feet still moving weakly towards the top of the street.

“More than anything in the whole world, what I want right now is a drink,” Mary says triumphantly, pointing towards the beaten up, almost knocked down sign reading Roadhouse Saloon.

Jo sighs. Her breath comes out lukewarm, and the heat suddenly turns her stomach more towards apathy than any romantic notion. 

“I’ve just spent the whole day in that saloon, I don’t want to go back,” she huffs, pushing her weight against the direction Mary is still towing her in. 

“Think of it - a nice cold beer at the end of a working day-”

“Think of it,” Jo lays out clearly. “My mother.”

“Just imagine her as a coyote, she won’t attack you as long as you don’t provoke her,” Mary assures her. She gives Jo’s hand another encouraging pull. “Come on, please.”

Jo shakes her head with a definite grump, but there’s a smile growing on her face, and she knows she’ll probably give in.

“Come on, Josephine,” Mary laughs, dragging her towards the Roadhouse. “Let’s have a bit of fun.”

Jo halts at that, though. The name that slipped through Mary’s mouth oh so easily. 

“My name ain’t Josephine,” she says, tugging her hand free from Mary’s. She stops in the street, still, a few feet from where Mary now stands. All trace of amiableness gone, Jo scuffs the dust with the toe of her boots.

Mary turns to face her. Her hat has fallen from her head and so rests at the back of her hair, caught on the string around her neck. The ashy strands of her bangs glint in the dry sun. Her smile hasn’t faded; “yeah, I know, you’re just Jo-”

“No,” Jo says. “I mean, my name ain’t Josephine. It’s Joanna.” She heaves a sigh. “Joanna-Beth.”

Mary’s mouth forms the ‘oh’ before Jo hears it. It’s frustrating, that even like this, when Jo has this restless anger shifting about in her, Mary still looks so downright kissable. She stands a little awkwardly, like she wants to close the distance between them but doesn’t know how to. “Sorry, I didn’t know. I just kinda assumed…”

“I know,” Jo shrugs simply. And just like that, the anger dissipates again, like there was no reason for the itch ever to be there. “I didn’t tell you. But now I have.” 

The street is empty around them. A part of Jo’s brain cries out that this feels somewhat like a shootout; Mary shot first, and she hit the heart now bleeding on Jo’s sleeve. But why her name is causing this consternation, Jo isn’t really sure.

“‘S not really a big deal,” she says, stepping forward to be closer to Mary again. “I’m still just Jo, really.”

Mary hesitates, for a frightening second, like she has something more to say on the matter. And maybe she should. Almost a year they’ve known each other, and only now does she know Jo’s full name. 

But then her face curves back upwards into a smile. “Yeah, you’re just Jo. And as it happens, I like Jo quite a damn bit.” She leans in conspiratorially. “So it works out.”

Jo feels a fresh blush ignite her cheeks, and Mary offers out her hand. Under the sun, her pale palm seems to radiate its own light. Mary wiggles her fingers tantalizingly. Broken, but exquisite. Just-Jo takes her partner's hand, and lets her drag them both into the saloon.

**

A week later, Jo and Mary are collapsed under a tree, nestled in a dell between the swathes of long grass. The day is hot again, but not like before, not unbearable. Just managing to err on pleasant: in the shade the yellowing tree is casting, it’s particularly nice. 

Their horses are grazing in the field nearby. They’d ridden out of Saint William until it was nothing but a blur on the horizon, flickering feverishly in the warm air. Now, it’s one of those days which are completely spontaneous and entirely planned all at the same time - like neither of them knew it would happen beforehand, but once it did, there was never another option. 

Mary is slumped against the trunk of the tree, wide brim of her hat pulled low over her head. The slight wind plays mildly with her short hair. She hasn’t bothered to put it up, what with the ride being easy and the day not being wildly hot. 

The deft waving of the sun-bleached strands are somewhat hypnotic to Jo, as she lays perpendicular to Mary, with her head in her lap. Staring up at her from below, Jo is blearily reminded of the globe in the table of the town’s’ schoolroom. When she was young, she’d sit by it on the floor in class and gaze up at the countries no one properly saw from above. Antarctica, Australia. And now, looking up at Mary, she feels equally let in on a secret. It’s like Mary becomes the whole world.

“I have a question for you,” Mary says, breaking open a very comfortable silence. Apart from their voices, the only other sounds are the occasional snorts of Blade and Baby; a swish of their tails as the flies get too close. 

Mary’s been running her fingers through Jo’s hair, just softly, molding little rivers of hair over Jo’s forehead and brushing them aside. With her other hand, she’s working her way leisurely through an apple, and the faint tang of the fruit wafts in the air around them.

“Sure,” Jo says, rising a little from the half-doze that Mary’s gentle brushing of her hair had instilled in her. “Ask away.”

“You haven’t got to answer it,” Mary assures her, and for the first time Jo realizes that Mary is unsure about whatever it is she wants to say. Her hat casts a long, steady shadow over her face so that Jo can’t quite see the detail of her eyes. If she could, she isn’t sure what she’d see.

Jo props herself up on her elbows and tilts her head up towards Mary’s. Mary pulls her hand away from Jo’s hair, and leaves it hovering in the air beside them. Like static - Jo doesn’t have to see it to know it’s still there. Closer to her face, Jo can feel the heat radiating off Mary’s cheeks. 

“Okay,” she murmurs. Her voice comes out a little lower than the intended, and maybe she just wants to but she feels Mary shiver a little with it. “What’s the question?”

“Why do you want everyone to call you Jo? I know it ain’t up to me, but. Joanna-Beth is such a pretty name.”

Jo nods. She hums, to buy time with an answer more than anything, and settles back down in Mary’s lap. Mary’s hand hovers over her head, as if she’s unsure she can touch her again. Jo finds Mary’s gaze in the cool wash of the shade and shoots her a smile. With the brim of her hat all around her head, Mary looks like she has a halo. But not one made of light, one made of chestnut felt. A cowgirl angel. Mary places her hand back along Jo’s parting, running her fingers lightly against her hair again. 

“Do you like the name Mary?” Jo asks. It’s not in lieu of an answer: she’s building up to it. Mary, as she understands almost everything, seems to understand this. 

“Well I guess I don’t mind it,” Mary answers fairly. “I don’t know- it’s a common name, easily. A lot of girls in this town are called Mary. Makes me feel a little plain. But then again, it’s never really been a problem for me. My name was just something given to me, and I never thought about not taking it.”

Jo hums again. With one of her hands, she searches in the grass around her for a second to find what she wants. When she curls her hand around a blade good enough, she gives it a sharp tug and brings it to her mouth, letting her jaw work around it. Something to do while she thinks of what to say.

Mary knows this all, knows she hasn’t got to go on to fill the silence, but she does. “I guess, now, if there’s one thing I don’t like about it, it’s about how Mary is a mother’s name. Virgin Mary, Mother of Christ, all that. Now I love Christ as much as the next woman, don’t get me wrong-”

Jo huffs a laugh.

“-but I don’t want to be giving birth to him. I don’t want to be a mother like that. And when you’re called Mary- why, feels like that’s what you were put on this earth to do, I guess.”

“I don’t think you were put on this earth for that at all,” Jo intercepts, finding her voice again. She’s well aware it’s a weakness, but she can always find her voice when she’s not talking about herself. “I think you were put on this earth to ride horses and leave this town and settle on a nice ranch and watch the sun go down over the mountains.”

She should’ve really said ‘you were put on this earth to do whatever you want to do,’ because that’s what she means. But she knows Mary enough to know that everything she just listed is what Mary wants to do. Lord knows Jo just wants Mary to want her by her side for all of it too.

“Thanks, Jo,” Mary murmurs. Her fingers are constant along Jo’s hairline again, but the rhythm seems to change, now. Becomes a thank you as much as a you are loved.

“And to answer your question myself,” Jo begins, because she believes in fair play, even if it does take her a while to get there. “I’ve never liked Joanna-Beth. It’s just never felt right. My mother always calls me that - ‘specially when she’s angry with me. She’s always been proud of calling me it, though, ‘cause she thought of the name herself. Loves it. Took her a long time to call me Jo.”

Jo takes a breath then, reading herself for the monologue. Sometimes, she gets the feeling she’s just a body built of dams, waiting to burst. Every joint is a blockade, and every day she’s trying to keep every one of them closed. But sometimes, when someone asks the right question, it’s hard to keep even one of them shut. That’s why she talks so little, and then all the time. She never could do anything by halves. 

“But my daddy, ‘fore he died- he loved calling me Jo. Always said I should be whatever I wanted to be. Lookin’ back, though, maybe he just wanted a son. Maybe I want to be his son, I don’t know. But I can remember him saying it. I can remember his voice saying ‘Jo’, and not much else of him. So maybe it’s a way to keep him alive.”

Mary sighs darkly. “I know that feeling,” she says. “My name is the only thing my parents gave me that I have left.”

Jo reaches her hand out and grasps Mary’s, giving it a tight squeeze. The loss is fresher for her still than it is for Jo - it’s been over a decade since Bill Harvelle died. It’s been not even two years since the Campbells were murdered.

They stay like that for a while, Jo’s hand locked around Mary’s. A sign of sympathy and empathy and all that’s between. Jo’s still got the straw in her mouth, and she chews it, roughly and repeatedly while she thinks of her own question she maybe shouldn’t ask. It’s an odd one, she knows that. But if Mary doesn’t want to be a mother, maybe she’s more like Jo than Jo could’ve previously hoped.

Jo coughs, roughly. The words are scratchy in her throat, like she’s forcing them out.  “Did you ever want to be a son, rather than a daughter?” Jo asks. She’s trying not to think about how hard that was to say.

Mary pauses, resettles herself against the tree. “What do you mean?”

Jo can sense her face flushing red under Mary’s question. But now the words are in the air with the scents of grass and apple and she can’t take them back.

“I don’t really…” she trails off. Are there even the words in her to be found to explain what she means? “I don’t think I’ll be able to say it right. But I mean- do you sometimes think you like girls more than you want to be one?”

It’s Mary’s turn to hum, now, as she works the question over in her mind. Jo picks at the stubs of her nails while Mary does so; for all that Mary’s patient with Jo’s silence, Jo can never quite repay her with the same grace.

“I think being a girl in a place like this is hard,” Mary says, eventually, carefully. “There’s aplenty of times when I’ve wished I were a fella just to get by a little easier, or so another girl would want me how I want them. But I don’t know if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t think I know either,” Jo sighs, restless. “It’s hard to tell the difference.”

“To tell the difference between what?”

“Well, between wanting to be with a woman, wishing I could do what a man does, and being seen as a man myself, I guess.”

Mary places her apple on the ground, and presses her fingers purposefully to her own lips, and then to Jo’s. Jo can taste the bittery sweetness of the apple’s flesh even as Mary’s fingers leave her mouth. 

“What were that for?” Jo asks, helplessly falling into a smile

“‘Cause I see you got a lot happening in your mind, and I want you to know I love you for all of it.”

The words find residency in Jo’s heart and sit there, twinkling, making her feel a way she could never quite dream of describing. “Oh,” she smiles breathlessly. “Thanks.”

Mary is gazing fondly down at her, her own cheeks dimpled. She takes a breath, and twists a strand of Jo’s hair around her finger. Whether to fiddle or to keep Jo close, Jo isn’t sure. “Listen, I don’t know if this will help or not,” Mary begins. Maybe Jo would follow Mary through the darkest mine and deepest ocean, or maybe Jo just believes whatever Mary says will help. “But bein’ with you… makes me want to be a woman more than anytime else. I love loving you like this. And if you feel like you need people to see you a certain way- well I see you an’ I think you’re perfectly lovely.”

Something seems to slot into place, then, like the out of tune piano at the Roadhouse finally hitting the right chord. The words resonate, bringing the world out into a harmony which rings, rises, and then falls quietly back, like nothing has changed at all. But Jo knows it has - and she also knows the flush on her cheeks is reaching a furious red. “I didn’t just say all this to get complimented.”

“I know,” Mary laughs, and it sounds like singing. Her siren song. “But it’s true. If Joanna-Beth is strictly off limits, then I’ll call you Jo ‘til we’re sat watching the sun go down over those mountains.”

Jo furrows her eyebrows. “Well, it’s just… everybody calls me Jo,” she says, worrying at her lip. But then she thinks of that perfect chord resonating out across the long grass which Mary’s words caused. In that moment, she didn’t mind how long her hair was, because it was Mary working her fingers all the way through it. And she stares back up at Mary’s face, where the whole world is haloed by her chestnut hat. “But you ain’t everybody.”

Mary grins. “No?”

“No,” Jo replies firmly. “You call me whatever you see fit.”

She gets up properly, then, pulls the straw from her mouth with abandon and threads her fingers through the hand Mary had been carding through her hair. On her knees, Jo crawls to where Mary has her back against the tree. Mary peels herself forward, tugging Jo in with gravity until they’re both closer and closest to one another’s faces. 

When their threaded hands move tenderly towards each other’s cheeks, Jo cannot tell which of them is leading the movement. They’ve merged, become one, the gossamer strands of blonde hair fluttering between them belonging to either of them.

“Just call me-” Jo pants, losing her voice as her longing overcomes her.

“What?” Mary asks. Her breath is hot and palpable against Jo’s wet lips. 

Jo swallows. “Just call me yours.”

There’s a moment of just looking, where their gazes are shared with such intensity it’s like the air is honey between them. Then, they crush together, the honey dissolving as their lips meet one another’s with all the urgency of a world on fire. 

Or maybe a world in flood, as everything else falls away, is carried away around Jo as she melts entirely into Mary’s desire. Mary’s hat is knocked aside with the force of their kisses, and she drags her hands up and away to throw it plain off her head before rushing her crooked fingers right back to tug on Jo’s hair, caress her cheeks. 

The world is thrown open in bright sunlight - now, Mary casts no shade. The light blossoms in Jo’s eyes with the sudden change and the world is rendered white. White for bliss, white for desire, white for absolute stone-sure adoration. The shade was comfortable but this, oh this. This is a perilous serenity.

“Mine,” Mary whispers. She dips her head to press her lips to Jo’s neck and draws a sweet nectared whine from Jo’s throat. God, let her leave bruises. “Cowgirl, you’re all mine.”

[infantisimo]

Professor Irfan Habib traces the aspects of development of the caste system with respect to the agrarian history of India.

below are some passages i found interesting

Wheat and barley cultivation began in India after 7000 BC, with the earth pierced only with the manually wielded hoe, yielding, therefore, a very low rate of output. Rice seems to have come to north India from China around 2000 BC or a little earlier. (One must here be on guard against the tendency of some Indian archaeologists to assign impossibly early dates to their supposed finds. That is a habit that has unfortunately grown during the last 50 years.)

———

Now, it was during this period (around 7000 BC and later) that what Gordon Childe called the Neolithic Revolution took place in the Near East. Essentially this meant that after cattle domestication, cultivation with the plough would be the next step. But there was no iron, and therefore, where there were dense forests, neither agriculture nor urban culture could take root. Thus, the Indus Civilisation, whose dates are about 2500–1800 BC, could not advance beyond the line of 30 inches or at the most 40 inches of annual rainfall. We would like to know more about the Indus Civilisation and whether there was any form of caste system in that society, but as the inscriptions on its seals have not been deciphered, it is better not to speculate on it, and instead come to the time of the Rigveda or the early Indo-Aryan settlements, datable to about 1500 BC and thereafter. In the time of the Rigveda the “Āryas” practically occupied the same area as the Indus Valley Civilisation, perhaps with some settlements piercing the Jamuna–Ganga doab, but still not going beyond the 40-inch line of annual rainfall. That means that the major forests were still uncleared.

———

Things changed only with the coming of iron. The archaeological evidence shows that iron came to India, to south India as well as to north, around 1000 BC or a little later. It took time, of course, for ironsmiths to learn their trade and to lighten the plough by replacing the stone slab with the iron point. Ultimately, by Mauryan times, we have the standard peasant using a plough with an iron coulter, a light wooden structure drawn by two bullocks. And it was this particular technological development in the Iron Age, I think, that at last created the Indian peasant (ploughman and bullock-owner in one).

This raises the question of the association of the Shudra caste with the peasants. Since earlier the cattle-owners, being also plough-owners, were Vaishyas, the caste system was faced with this new situation, where the plough-owner was himself a worker with a pair of bullocks to feed. In the Manusmriti there is, therefore, a deprecation of the peasant’s position. It is now the Buddhist ahiṁsa doctrine that is appropriated by the author of the Manusmriti, namely, that since the iron plough injures earth’s creatures, ploughing is a condemnable occupation, and peasants therefore cannot belong to the “twice-born” castes (the first three castes) and so must remain Shudras. But still, since earlier texts had treated peasants, or at least plough-owners, as Vaishyas, that classification is not directly contested in the Manusmriti. As Professor R. S. Sharma has shown, the tendency is now increasingly – even among the Buddhists, as one can see from Yijing’s account around AD 700 – to denounce the peasants’ occupation as violative of ahiṁsa, which justified their being counted among the Shudras.

———

There is a second aspect also of the change in agrarian conditions, and that is the creation of the “outcastes.” With the introduction of iron and its increasing use – particularly after the arrival of the shafted iron axe – forests began to be cut down, so that for the first time there were large clearances made in the Gangetic basin, especially in Magadha and Kaushala. The process began long before the Buddha, but continuing in his time, involved a long process of subjugation and humiliation of the forest communities. The forests were not previously without human beings. They were full of what Gordon Childe called “gathering communities” – animal hunters, food gatherers, woodcutters, and those who trapped small animals, all of these constituting a large number of communities. These communities were now seen as enemies of the settled populations. As forests were cleared, they were either killed off or subjugated. Those who survived came to form the outcaste communities. If one looks at the list of such communities in the Manusmriti, one finds leather workers, workers in cane, fishermen, carpenters and wood workers, hunting communities, and others. About four or five communities whose names are given in the Manusmriti lived by hunting and killing animals. And then we have the general categories of Chanḍālas, Shvapāchas, etc., comprising all who were involved in what Gordon Childe called “gathering” occupations in society.

———

The Manusmriti thus shows how, as forests were cleared, these forest communities became major components of the class of Chanḍālas (outcastes). Their members became seasonal field labourers and were assigned what were regarded as the most humiliating professions, like leather work, dirt removal, and as porters – the professions furnishing their means of survival in off-seasons. This was because in the Indian conditions, where there were two sowings and two harvests in a year, agriculture needed extra labour only at these times; there had now to be a reserve of labour for that extra work, which was provided by outcastes.

———

Buddhism has a particular role to play in this process, a role that is often overlooked. Despite the humanitarian vision one attributes to Buddhism and Jainism, and despite their condemnation of the Brahmans, we seldom find any direct condemnation of the caste system in their early texts. In fact, the Buddha is said to have taken pride in the strict endogamy practised by Kshatriyas. But there are two major new elements to consider at the ideological level. First of all, there was the doctrine of transmigration of souls initially put forward, not by Brahmanical sects, but by Buddhism and Jainism. We may recall that even in the Upanishads (the Chhandogya Upanishad, for example), the source of the doctrine of transmigration of souls is traced specifically to the Kshatriyas; and both Mahavira and Gautama Buddha, who espoused this doctrine, were Kshatriyas. When the doctrine was popularised, it immediately provided an important justification for the caste system, because one’s position by birth in the caste hierarchy could now be justified by one’s presumed deeds in a previous birth.

Secondly, the ahiṁsa doctrine, as I have already mentioned, could be used to denigrate the occupation not only of foresters but also of peasants, and thereby reduce them to the status of Shudras. One greatly admires Ashoka, and it must be said to his credit that in his Dhaṁma, the varna or caste doctrine finds no place, partly perhaps because at that time the caste system as it developed later was only established in parts of Bihar and Awadh in the Gangetic basin and not in other parts of his empire. As far as one knows, the Indus basin and the Deccan possibly did not have the varna system at that time. Certainly, the historical records of Alexander’s invasion do not make any reference to its presence in the Indus basin, although Brahmans are mentioned. It is only Megasthenes, who visited Magadha, who offers us a description of a fairly developed caste system. But still Ashoka, otherwise so peaceable, warns the forest-folk that if they persisted in their occupations, they would be killed; they are marked as the enemy in his so-called Kalinga Edicts.

———

In condemning the forest-folk for killing animals, there was surely also a major economic impulse, viz., to turn them into Chanḍālas and similar outcaste communities: reduced to extreme privation, they could provide cheap agricultural labour. And it is perhaps true to say that until the last century, it was the outcastes who provided the bulk of the agricultural labour needed by the Indian peasantry. No such institution existed anywhere else in the world. When we examine the literature that Professor R. S. Sharma has explored in his Shudras in Ancient India, and other ancient Indian sources studied by his colleagues, as well as the medieval evidence that is so profuse, we always find that agricultural labourers belong mainly to the outcastes, the “untouchables.” This constitutes a fundamental feature of India’s agrarian order.

here's a different lecture by the professor on the topic