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morihaus · 3 years ago

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Domina

cw for a vampire talking about mortals like cattle and mentions of molag bal (just his name)

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Atop a balcony of the Imperial Palace, the young emperor casts her gaze westward, over the canopy of the great forest, off to the dark horizon laid over the Colovian highlands. Past the borders of Cyrodiil, there lays the outlying province of the Empire, Craglorn, home to the distant Nedes never chained. Cities of stone and high towers, traditions older than the Empire of Man, faith older than Saint Alessia herself; Hestra was born to these lands, to the Cyrodiils who came from Colovia to lend aid to their kin, to enlighten them, to fasten and secure their ties to the Empire, and to keep wary watch of the expanding dominion of Verkarth, whose king had spent a century splitting the land in two, harrowing the Nedic allies of the Empire, unopposed in the distant and foreign borderland.

It was this that brought her to power. She became warrior to the faith as many in her family had been before her, as was the Colovian style of the priesthood, and she worked to stymie the tide of this burgeoning power henceforth unknown- as well as the dark creatures who cavorted within its borders, fanning out to the neighboring realms to terrorize the populace. Vampires, werebeasts, monsters of all sorts became the scourge of Craglorn in those days, and the Empire of Cyrodiil did nothing, for what was their concern for the fate of provincials? Nedes who knew nothing of Paravant, or Pelinal, or the One, whose degenerate practices ostracized them from polite Imperial society.

Hestra was one of many in Craglorn and Cyrodiil who saw need for action, but alas, small militias could do nothing but root out loose ends, small cells of the fiends who dogged the western reaches. A coven here, a pack there, but this was to treat the symptoms rather than the sickness, and without organized action against Styriche and his Gray Host itself, nothing would be done.

And for all the dire circumstances, this is why she stands here, amulet of dragon-fire around her neck, looking west with purpose. She has been emperor for but two years, and the Empire is more united than it has been in some time. She is what Cyrodiil needs, a decisive emperor, to cut through the internal bickering of the Order; a conquering emperor, to show no quarter to the enemies of mankind; a common emperor, who understands the plight of her subjects and refuses to rest until justice is done.

With the Empire whole, it prepares for a full-scale invasion of Verkarth, to sunder and destroy the foul abominations commanded by its king.

Something approaches silently from behind her. She is without guard, but not alone, for tonight she is entertaining a particular guest.

"Second thoughts, Emperor?" The pale woman clad in deep red silks asks her with a playful tone. Playful as a cat toys with a mouse, but decidedly playful nonetheless.

Hestra turns to face her, Exarch of the Gray Council, undying vampire, a mistress of the dark forces she plans to destroy. She faces her and sees her ever-so-smug grin, her round face, pale like the moon with dark shadows and painted colors framing her scarlet-orange eyes. She sees her jewelry reflect the light of the night sky, a shimmer along the chain of her belt as her eyes trace her waist, a shine around the swirling ringlets of her arm, up to the clasp of her dress on her shoulder, even a sparkle from the jewel earrings when her long black hair fell just so to make way for the light. "I consider my actions more often than you think. This is why I'm here, Vem."

Vem moves forward to press up against the other woman, lifting a manicured hand to trace her jawline. She is without reverence for the Emperor, but not without admiration, and often she shows her appreciation with touch. "This is why I see such potential in you, fair Hestra." The mortal woman doesn't flinch- but might shiver- at the vampire's chilling touch, and allows it to happen. This close she can see the subtle scaly texture speckling Vem's skin, around her eyes and her bare neck and arms, her eyes fix to this instead of Vem's hypnotic gaze- she wouldn't dare attempt to bewitch the warrior emperor, but she does much without noticing it. "We have more in common than you do with your councilors. They fill their heads with petty concerns, worthless mortal vanity- you and I, we focus on what's truly important: power."

Hestra, for as steely as her countenance is, lets her head droop to one side, warm cheek pressed against Vem's cold hand. She raises one of her own to Vem's waist, closing her eyes. "I have power, Vem. I'm the Emperor, blessed by Akatosh, anointed before the One." She doesn't need sight to picture the frown grow on Vem's face as she speaks.

She hears a sigh, and the cold hand moves down from cradling her head, sliding across her bare neck and stopping at her shoulder. Hestra opens her eyes again to see the predictable sight. She'd call the expression on Vem's face perplexed, as she is always baffled by her refusal. "Have I not explained to you the difference in magnitude hundreds of time?" She scoffs. "You are a Queen, a mortal Queen, you command great armies and rule over all of your citizenry. But I could make you more. As vampire, you would never age, never die, you would be indomitable."

"Indomitable," Hestra repeats. "But dominated by the foul machinations of your master."

Vem furrows her brow, twitching her nose. "Lord Bal is our master in name alone. He holds no true sway over us- we only need make one pact, but one ritual, and we may reap the rewards of his gift as we serve ourselves. You cannot tell me you would not desire such a power."

"Power at a price." Hestra lets her hand fall back, and now furrows her own brow as she looks back at Vem, somewhat yearning for the years she hadn't known of her true nature, or for a time where they could spend time ignoring the doom that surrounds them, before this decision had to be reached. "I do not want to join your Gray Host."

"You would not have to." Vem retracts her hand as well, folding her arms over her chest. "As immortal Emperor of Cyrodiil, you would be of much greater use as an ally to the Gray Host, to relinquish your power over this land would be foolish."

"Imagine I disagree with what your Host does, terrorizing innocent people, drinking of their blood and eating of their flesh."

Vem tisks, she almost seems to roll her luminous eyes at that. "This is because you are clinging to mortal notions of morality. You do not weep for the butchered cow, do you? For us, it is no different than hunting simple animals."

"And if I care for these animals?" Hestra asks.

She receives a raised brow. "Do you really care for these people, Emperor? These people who are not yours, who you do not know- how much would you sacrifice for their lives?" After a pointed silence, she adds: "If you could trade your life for theirs, right now, would you?"

Hestra answers honestly. "No."

"If," Vem begins. "The inverse were true, and you could sacrifice the lives of many to achieve greater power, greater dominion, wouldn't you?"

Hestra considers. "...I might." She gazes off to the side, looking behind Vem into the palace's quarters. "But what you speak of, this is the truth of politics, of warfare, of the life of an Emperor. These ugly decisions are mine to make, and I must."

"This is what holds you back," Vem turns and begins to pace, steps silent as she does. "You deny what you truly want: power. You claim it out of responsibility, you make these excuses for yourself..." She looks over her shoulder, Hestra meets her piercing eyes. "Why do you let yourself be ruled by such foolish thoughts?" She approaches again, so gently as though gliding through the air. A fanged smile plays on her lips. "You are Emperor. I am offering you power, it is in your very nature to accept it. Do not deny your true calling."

Hestra looks to her vacantly. She wonders how often she has been tempted, how close she's come before now. "You talk of offering me power- power of my own- and yet you speak as though to dominate me yourself."

At this, Vem laughs. It breaks the tension somewhat, and she takes Hestra's hand in her own, rubbing circles on the back with her cold thumb. She looks at her with half-lidded eyes. "You would not like to belong to me, dear Hestra?"

And at this, Hestra is pulled two ways, and such a grave conversation becomes very silly, and for the first time tonight, the Emperor smiles. "You speak in circles, love, like a turning wheel." She leans in and very easily presses her lips against Vem's; a shallow kiss, undercoated with some feeling of fleeting passion and intimacy, something that feels like a last chance, a final moment in which they can both pretend they share the same future. Vem puts her arms around Hestra's head, the mortal reciprocates with a hold on her waist. Hestra pulls back to breathe and laugh. "Sometimes, I still can't tell- do you want me a vampire, or a thrall-" Vem interrupts her by kissing her cheek, laughing along.

They embrace and they laugh for awhile, standing on the balcony, nipped at by the chilly night air. Eventually they stop laughing and just hold each other. Vem tucks her head into the crook of Hestra's neck, and Hestra lets her, and runs a hand through her silky dark hair.

"...You know," Vem softly breaks the silence. "That of course I want you to join me as I am- a vampire, the rightful rulers of the unliving. Because you are a ruler, Hestra, and this drew me to you, for I recognized how great you could be if you could only see what lies beyond your mortality..." One of her pale hands turns to run across the close-cut hair on Hestra's head, and Vem turns to look her in the eye, one side of her head still pressed against her shoulder. Her expression is warm, and not regal. "I do not doubt how far you will go as a mortal. You will be remembered for centuries, for a hundred centuries, your death will be something glorious, remembered in song, you will be indelible... but you will die. And it breaks my heart-" A laugh- or maybe a sob- spills out between words. "I know you could never understand, you are mortal, impermanence is everywhere in your life, to be everlasting is... difficult, to communicate. It's something you need to feel for yourself. I ask... that you allow me to grant you this, Hestra. Please."

She'd never seen Vem posture in such a way. They have been intimate with one another, they've spoken of sadness before, but never has she been so melancholy, so sorrowful as to look up to her with those eyes, dry but full of sadness. "...My love, you know I can't-"

"Why?" Vem asks immediately.

"Because- Because I am Emperor first, divine regent of the One, descendant of the Ascended Saint Alessia, defender of Cyrodiil and the Faith. I am dutybound to destroy the Gray Host... and I cannot accept your power, it would render me an abomination in the eyes of the Order, and all I've worked for would be for naught."

Vem pulls back, Hestra lets open her arms to give her space. She looks at Hestra, fear in her face, steeled by frustration. "They would not have to know. There are ways- many of us disguise our true nature, some get away with it for a century or more. You yourself had no idea before I revealed to you my nature."

"You're right. I didn't," Hestra admits. "But this is because I was young and stupid. The pelates of the Order are older, wiser, many of them savvy to the affronts to the divine. And in any case, I would still need to invade Verkarth."

"No, no you don't. We could- if you'd postpone, delay, we could destroy this Alessian Order-"

"Destroy the Order?" Hestra's brows fly up at this, almost more shocked than insulted.

Vem clenches her fists at her sides. "They are just mortals, Hestra. Mortals can be manipulated, they can be herded and culled by their true masters. If all of the threats to your power were turned, were on our side, would you still deny this?"

"You're speaking in fantasies." The Emperor says, colder than she meant to. She is just as frustrated, not only by Vem's assertions, but by how her mind meanders and considers them.

"Answer me, Hestra!"

"I could not- I could not disgrace my line, my ancestors-"

"Your ancestors were nothing more than cattle!" Vem shouts.

"Your family is nothing but a pack of monsters!" Hestra replies.

Vem, incensed, points a sharp finger at Hestra as she bares her fangs. "We are NOT monsters!" She growls, throwing a hand up. "'Monsters', 'daimons', 'abominations', these are all the labels feeble-minded sheep apply to us, the true masters of Tamriel! And here you are- so different from them, so close to us, and you refuse your rightful place on our Council, your rightful taste of our blood, all because of these vapid mortal commitments to the lives and deeds of mortals, the ways of people who lived and died as nothing more than stupid animals- you let them limit you, hold you back, drag you down to their level!" Snarling, there is a quivering to her frame and face that belies her nerves. "You do not deserve to be another pile of bones in a pasture! You deserve to be Domina, High Emperor of All Tamriel, Immortal Ruler of the weak and impermanent!!"

Hestra stands stock still, shadows cast on her creased face. "I cannot do this. I will not take knee before your king."

"You would not have to! Do you know how few of us respect King Styriche? How fewer revere Lord Bal? To depose him, to usurp him, it would not be difficult, you would only have to delay your invasion!" Vem's composure is all but faded as she pleads for what she wants, the safety of her family, an immortal paramour, and all that she wills be made real, as in true domination of the world. The fact that she screams this hoarsely and with such desperation- the desperation of someone not in control- is not lost on her.

The Emperor hangs her head, heavy with troubles. She grits her teeth as she speaks with attempted finality. "I cannot, Vem, and I'm sorry that I cannot." Her own eyes, still living, well up as she speaks. "It does not mean I don't love you- I do, I give you my word and I mean it: I do, and if I were anyone different... you need to know how much I want to be forever beside you, I truly want this, but..."

Vem suddenly darts forward, pressing herself against her, looking up at her with pleading eyes. "If you want it, you can have it. Let me turn you, forget the Empire, let it fall under someone else's rule- we could make of it that you died in battle, that you were- you were betrayed somehow, sow dissent in the Empire, let it rot and fall. Leave my family alone, let us go together into a new life." Her plan is flimsy, her voice is quickened and shaking, but she bears her soul to Hestra like never before. "Take what you want, Hestra."

She bows her head. Hestra leans down to press her forehead against hers. She wants to take her into her arms, as they used to, like lovers would, but she doesn't.

#mori writing #oc: hestra #oc: alessians #hi. this is about emperor hestra and exarch vem from that one eso dlc #shout out to that background character for saying one nice thing about another woman so i could write this entire thing

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nancypullen · 4 years ago

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Kilt-y as Charged

My family has always been able to trace my mother’s lineage to Denmark and Germany as far back as the 1400′s. It wasn’t hard, my great-grandmother Emelia arrived in New York harbor on the passenger ship Washington in 1873, fresh from Denmark with her mother and siblings. They proceeded from there out to the Nebraska plains where her father, Christen Rasmussen had already started plowing and creating a homestead. She married into the Link family, and all you have to do is google John Jacob Link to find the long and interesting story of my ancestors in Germany. Though the Links of Grossgartach, Germany did quite well, John Jacob (Hans Jacob Linckh) crossed oceans at the ripe old age of 50 because he’d decided he was tired of almost constant warfare, taxes that were only used to fill palaces, and the never-ending battle between Catholics and protestants. At least that’s how the story goes. The Rasmussens and Links prospered in America (google Dr. Harvey Link of Nebraska, physician, innovator, and state representative - that’s my great-great-grandfather) and eventually a Link married a Holtz (another German) and my mother was born. We have my Danish and German side all wrapped up. Recently sheer boredom drove me to try and untangle the mystery of my paternal line. It’s not that there were secrets, it’s just that my maiden name is McGlaughn and when trying to track documents that include land deeds, immigration records, death certificates, etc I’ve found some very creative spellings of the name. I descend from McGlaughon, McGlaun, McGlon, McGlauhon, and I even found a record where it was spelled Meglehon. These are all children from the same parents, check out the various spellings of the last name.

That’s what I’ve been up against. BUT...and you knew there was a but..I did it! By working backwards and only adding a name to the tree once I’d verified the correct dates, places, relatives, and so on, I found the first McGlaughn relative to step foot in America. His name was Jeremiah McGlaughon, born in Scotland in 1695 to John McGlaughon and his wife, Jane O’Cane. I haven’t yet found the year that he arrived in America, but he died in 1740 in Bertie County, North Carolina leaving behind land, cattle, hogs, sheep, horses, and a family whose records pop up from Valley Forge to the present. I found a handful of Revolutionary War soldiers, and as many from the wrong side of the Civil War. Here’s an inventory of Jeremiah’s spread in 1740, pretty sure this was for his will.

I know you can’t see much from this photo. When I was reading it I had to zoom in and go line by line. Can we just appreciate the beautiful handwriting? What a lost art. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see books listed in his inventory.

Anywho, after digging and digging and a long conversation with my sister googling on the other end - I’m pretty sure that Jeremiah came from Lanarkshire, Scotland. I think his wife, Jane Howell (married in Bertie,NC) came from Wiltshire, England. I haven’t verified this yet, but I *think* this is her baptismal record from 1700.

We’re so fortunate that millions of documents have been scanned and uploaded so that people can search archives from all over the world. I have found draft cards, land deeds, wills, marriage licenses, and immigration records. It will probably take months to wade through everything and assign each document to the right person, but I love solving puzzles. Look at these gems.

Here’s the record of Caroline Rasmussen arriving in America with her children in tow.

Caroline - age 33 - woman Hans - male child -11 Rasmus -male child- 6 Anine - female child - age 9 Mathilde -female child- age 4 (That’s my great-grandmother, Mathilde Emilia!) Laurentina - female child - 11 months Can you even imagine? A young mother and five children, one of them not yet a year old, leaving everything familiar and crossing the ocean? It looks like she traveled with other Rasmussen relatives, so that had to be a comfort. I was really excited when I uncovered the baptismal record for Caroline and then the record of her marriage to Christen. Then I remembered that I don’t read Danish.

Oops. You can still get helpful info - when I found Christen Rasmussen’s confirmation in church records it provided his birthplace. I’m sure we already have that tidbit filed away somewhere, but if you’re just beginning a search those are the tasty clues that move you forward.

I won’t bore you with more details of a family that you don’t know or care about. Besides, I have to get back to my search and keep fleshing out my McGlaughn/McGlaughon/McGlaun/McGlon/McGlahon/Meglohon line. So far I know that: John McGlaughon & Jane O’Cane of Lanarkshire,Scotland begat Jeremiah and his brothers Malachi and James. Jeremiah McGlaughon & Jane Howell begat Edmond and siblings Edmond McGlauhon & Angelica Jane Butler begat William and siblings William McGlahon & Ann Gaskin begat Jeremiah and siblings Jeremiah McGlauhon had FOUR wives - Elizabeth Capeheart (also spelled Kapott in some records), Nancy Baker, Matilda Webb Fogerty, and Nancy Parker As you can imagine, there was a litter of kids, but my ancestor came from his union with Nancy Baker. So, Jeremiah & Nancy #1 begat James Jackson McGlaughn. James Jackson “Jack” McGlaughn married Mary Loretta Eady who is listed as “Cherokee Indian”. They had a few kids and because life was harder on women back then, Mary died. Jack then married Nancy Jane Noble, and together they made my great-grandfather John Pinkston McGlaughn. John Pinkston McGlaughn married Lavada Sanders, had some babies, and Lavada (you guessed it) died. Along came Lela Fields Carter with her daughter Alice and married John and had a few more kids. My grandfather was from the first union with Lavada. He was a horrible, awful, disgusting, sorry excuse for a human being and his name was William Jasper McGlaughn. William Jasper McGlaughn married Jessie Bell Lett and produced six offspring, one of them was my father, John Paskle McGlaughn. He met and married an Idaho beauty, Marilyn Holtz, and all because those brave ancestors stepped onto boats and decided to give America a try, here I am. It’s both humbling and fascinating to see documents with the beautiful, swirling signatures of some of those who came before me. I don’t know all of their stories, I only have names and dates right now. But if not for them I wouldn’t be sitting in my warm, cozy home in Tennessee, searching the internet for what they left behind. My life has undoubtedly been far easier than theirs, don’t we all stand on the shoulders of our ancestors and benefit from their courage and hard work? Of course, we also sometimes have to recover from the poor decisions and cruelty of unsavory characters in our family trees. We’re all threads in a tapestry. That being said, my DNA swab continues to be refined and as it turns out, I’m exactly what family lore has said I would be. I’m a big ol’ hodge podge of European ancestors like most Americans.

Northwestern Europe - Germany and Denmark, check. Scotland and England - check. Various sprinklings for flavor - check. I’m happy like the Danish and frugal like the Scots. German stereotypes are hardworking, efficient, and disciplined. I totally missed that boat. Can’t win ‘em all. Okay, I’ll wrap this up. If you stuck it out to the end pleas reward yourself. This whole post was just me thinking out loud and making my case for a trip to Scotland. Pretty sure the motherland is calling me home.

I mean, the place is full of these adorable Highland Cows! I could bring one home as a souvenir!

I’m afraid if I go I’ll never come home, Jeremiah’s journey would all be for naught. So that’s it. I really am wrapping this up.

I swear, I’m done. Stay safe and stay well, ya wee smasher!

Done. XOXO - Nancy

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thepilgrimofwar · 7 years ago

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Why We Fight

Father,

You haven’t written me in weeks and I’d thought I’d check in on you. Somebody should. You’ve kept to yourself an awful lot following the Legion’s fall. At first, I chalked it up to you no longer sharing an apartment with your friends but after some digging it appears that you are no longer on speaking terms with them. For Light’s sake Father, you need to keep a better hold of them seeing that those are the only ones that you’ve had consistently for ages. And don’t give me this rubbish that they’re just colleagues, colleagues don’t rent an apartment together, no matter what you may say.

How have you been? My department needs more funding, as always, but I don’t think natural sciences are a big priority of the Crown now that the economy might be ramping up for war footing- again. What’s the Sunguard going to do when it breaks out? I won’t have my father dying because some foreign Queen wanted to start a resource war.

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

Dear Zharia,

I am on a transport bound for the Alterac Mountains, which is why I need to send this physically and so by the time this letter gets to you, I’d have already started on a little bit of war tourism. I’m visiting the various fronts of the Horde that have been held in a stalemate for as long as there’s been fighting in the region. As far as I know, all that’s really left fighting there are the original owners of the contested territory and mercenaries. I’m currently on my way to Alterac Valley and I should be all settled in by the time you read this.

After the battle with the Legion, I know that the Guard is not raring for a fight. That said, I do not know what the Sunguard has planned should Horde and Alliance relations break down again, but I doubt it would involve us taking a backseat role in whatever conflicts that the Banshee Queen may get involved in. I do know that I don’t intend to die though, so rest assured that you can at least count on that.

With Love, Your Father.

Father, War tourism? Are you trying to get yourself killed in some conflict zone even before war breaks out? And what for? If you’re going to do something extremely stupid, could you at least let me know in person so I can attempt to talk you out of it before I lose my father?

I suppose you have been a soldier for more than year now so you’ll be able to keep yourself safe. Still, take care, don’t do anything stupid more stupid than your ‘tour’.

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

Dear Zharia,

You worry too much. I’m received as a military attaché from Silvermoon City- Which I am not, but it’s what I’m being received as. That said, I’m just here as an observer, billeting and interacting with the Frostwolf officers. All the action that I’m seeing is at a distance. That said, I’m here trying to discern how soldiers of military divisions do battle- and more importantly- why they do battle. It has been a question that has been asked a lot in the Sunguard and my peers and I intend to find out the answer to that. Not a definitive answer mind you, but an answer for myself.

Because while I fight, I do so to help. Help the others around me, help heal the wounded, help protect those who need protecting. Sometimes fighting is necessary. If I must kill someone to protect another I will gladly do it.

Others do not seem to think that is enough. I’m here to discover why.

Your Father, Arrenir Silversun.

Father,

So, you’re there to discover why some people devote their lives to being trained killers? Because they enjoy the act. You didn’t need to travel to some frozen valley to find that out. At least you’re doing it from the relative safety of the backline so you won’t expose yourself to unnecessary danger. More unnecessary than this stupid war tourism that you’re doing.

But since you seem to already have your mind made up about it, have you learned anything from your observations so far?

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

Dear Zharia,

It is one thing to hear about it, it is an entirely different thing to witness it in its natural environment. Watching natural born killers at work is interesting in itself.

I am currently on my way further south to the Arathi Highlands, and then moving east to the Twilight Highlands. I have learned a lot.

You can divide the combat styles observed in Alterac into variants of one of either two categories. On one hand you have the sort of combat that gave the Horde its name. You amass overwhelming numbers, either through cultural means like a warrior based society, inspiring zealous faith in the Light, or simply pressing the unwilling into service through conscription. Soldiers are treated like cattle to the slaughter unless they distinguish themselves in combat, which effectively locks them into a vicious cycle of promotions through more impressive feats or death.

On the other hand you have professionals. Less in number but a single soldier is worth three conscripts. They tend to be doing what they do by choice, either career soldiers or, in the case of the Valley, mercenaries. They are treated well by their officers and can be expected to perform out of loyalty to either their officers or the coin in their pockets. If you are missing one or both of these two things, they’ll disappear on you at a moment’s notice.

Your Loving Father, Arrenir Silversun.

Father,

While interesting, I was more curious if you had received an answer to your question of why they fight, not how they fight. Also, you seem to be treating this like some sort of scholar. I’m not sure if an academic approach is the best way to achieve the goal you’re looking for. The reason why people fight for a living is beyond most rational understanding. Mortals like us are emotional creatures, and many are ruled by little more than that. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for better if you talked to them rather than observing them from afar.

If you’re heading to the Twilight Highlands, please get me a souvenir. And not a soil sample this time.

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

Dear Zharia,

Your suggestions were helpful. I suppose I’ve gotten a little closer to answering why people would choose to kill or be killed as a career move. In that regard, you were somewhat right. Everyone seems to approach the topic of killing differently.

There are those like me, who believe it is a necessary evil that needs to be done when lives are at stake. We do so in order to protect the friends around us, and if means killing another mortal being, then so be it. Some handle killing poorly, they do not last long mentally. Others have come to terms with it and have clear consciences.

Then there are those as you described, who simply enjoy the act. They relish the sights and sounds of combat and seem to reach some sort of euphoria in the midst of combat. I think it is a little bit more complicated than simply taking joy in outright murder. For some at least, the joy seems to come from the power trip that comes from the act. That in that moment, you can decide who lives and dies, that an entire universe of possibility can be decided at the end of your sword. For a moment, you are a God who can be merciful, or ruthless.

Do you want samples of the local geology this time? I hear that the elemental anomalies have done very interesting things to the rocks there.

Your Father, Arrenir Silversun.

Father,

Have you come to terms with killing?

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

Dear Zharia,

I have never killed another man. I’ve slayed demons, slaughtered the undead, I have even fought a shadow version of myself. But I have never really killed someone who had a family waiting for them back home. Or killed someone who would much rather have stayed at home instead of being dragged out to some foreign battlefield to die.

I suppose I haven’t really had to yet. I’m not sure how I’d react when that time comes.

I’m in Arathi Basin now. Apart from the two I mentioned before, the answer still eludes me.

Your Father, Arrenir Silversun.

Father,

Then this expedition wasn’t as stupid as I initially thought. I suppose it is important to find that answer of why you fight before you have to take a life away from a being that might not deserve it. I hope you find your answer. Why do you fight?

Any luck in the Twilight Highlands? I suppose I will settle for a rock as long as it’s an interesting one. Preferably with any bugs on the inside still living so I can put them underneath a microscope.

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

Dear Zharia,

Some fight to fit in with his comrades. Others fight because it’s what they’ve done their entire lives and it’s what they’re good at. Still, others fight simply because being a farmer is boring and they couldn’t afford an education.

I suppose I have found my answer and this trip wasn’t in vain as I had originally expected it to be. The answers are as different as they are numerous, each of them personal to themselves. Like you said, you cannot categorize them rationally. They are as many variants as there are emotions.

To answer your question, I suppose I have been fighting for the wrong reasons. It was to impress.

Your Father, Arrenir Silversun.

Father,

For the love of the Light please don’t tell me that you joined the Sunguard for a woman. You need to stop doing things for others and start doing things for yourself. Especially so after you have spent the last two years of your life trying to find out what being yourself actually means.

Alternatively, if you are hell bent on doing things for the sake of courtship, at least pick a lonely noblewoman who would be more than impressed with your extensive history of modeling for various editions of Hunky Knights.

Your Loving Daughter, (Despite Yourself) Zharia.

Dear Zharia,

I joined the Sunguard to be in the service of the people of Quel’thalas. That after the destruction of the Daymeadows, to be as useful to the crown as I could possibly be even though no one quite wears it anymore.

However, I opted in for combat for a woman. I believe she is worth a dozen lonely noblewomen. More than that even. I don’t think that has impressed her or that anything I do ever will.

Your Loving Father, (Despite Himself) Arrenir Silversun.

Father,

IS THIS WHAT THIS ENTIRE ‘TOUR’ HAS BEEN ABOUT?

You cannot impress her because you are a fool who thinks he can. Women of worth aren’t looking to be impressed. Exceeding expectations is a bonus. Someone who tries to run before he can even walk is not exactly going to be looked upon favorably when he falls flat on his face. So not only does it make you look like a pompous ass, but somewhat pitiful that you’re trying to put on a show. And until recently, I know, that all you could do was put on a show.

So for the love of all that is holy, stop. Put some of that soul searching you’ve done to use and actually be yourself for a change and maybe she’ll respond. If not, stop obsessing over her. There are other fish in the sea. Fish that aren’t big on trying to get themselves killed in combat as an occupational hazard.

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

#Arrenir

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celticbarb · 4 years ago

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Book: To Win a Highland Scot

By Tamara Gill

Series: A Time Travelers Love, book #3

Release Date: March 15, 2021

Overall Rating: 5/5 Star & Saltire Flags

1)Celtic Barb’s Saltire Book Review Blog

2)Celtic World of Historical Book Reviews

3)Tartan Book Reviews

4)Purple Tulip Book Reviews

Druiminn Castle 1410

Skye, Scotland

A fae queen steals Laird Boyd MacLeod’s half fae wife Sorcha, but as punishment for loving a fae creature Boyd MacLeod must live forever watching everyone he cares for die! That is until he has love in his heart again for another. Yet as much as others have tried to put other lassies on his path, he has rejected them all. That is until he finds an English Lass from another time, that he can’t quite get out of his system!

Druiminn Castle 1510

Skye, Scotland

Maya Harris is an orphan and found this perfect wonderful job working in Scotland in this historic Druiminn castle that tourists visit. She one day touches a forbidden tapestry she is cleaning and boom she is in the sixteenth century! The castle Druiminn housekeeper notices immediately that Maya is a time walker, Yet Boyd still insists he has no romantic interest in Maya. However, her time travel origins are kept hidden from the Laird, as he would blame the hated fae if he knew the truth.

Boyd MacLeod, Laird of Clan MacLeod, hands are full as a brutal, deceptive, treacherous, murdering clan , the O’Cain’s, is raiding on his lands. They are stealing his cattle and sheep plus ruining his property with their raiding! Dougall O’Cain wants the MacLeod land and use some of the MacLeod women by force and brutality to warm his men’s beds! It is being run by a new disgusting Laird that is pure darkness! This new Chieftain wants an all out war with clan MacLeod, plus he does not believe the immortal rumors. The problem is Boyd is feeling things for this new 21st century Lass from the future. He feels guilty having a wife who he has not seen in over 100 years! A part of him is angry at Sorcha feeling she had never even tried to escape, but his fault falling for a half fae woman. Yet he can’t seem to stop feeling things for Maya Harris and feeling things he has not felt for over a century!

Now the fae is showing up again because he is feeling things for Maya and if he feels love again the curse will be broken. Boyd would finally be able to die in peace and stop watching the ones he cares for shrivel up and die. He needs an heir before he dies, something he and Sorcha could never accomplish. Can he open his heart again? Would that make him vulnerable to this enemy clan to murder him and his people and overtake his lands and clan? Will Maya open her heart just to break when she must leave and return to her own time?

This is the third book in Tamara Gill’s “A Time Traveler’s Love” series. I was happily surprised seeing the main characters from previous books in this series which I always enjoy. This is a enchanting, action packed, fast-paced, passionate, romantic time-travel tale weaved with true historical facts too. I know the MacLeod highland history. I knew the fictional Druminn castle, was based on the Dunvegan castle in Skye. It was for obvious reasons which I do not want to spoil for readers of this book. Also the Mòr name was mentioned in this story, but the real Rorie Mòr MacLeod is one of the first MacLeod Laird’s in history. So I love that this fictional books is on true Scottish history, but obviously a lot of Ms. Gill’s imagination too. This is a book both historical and paranormal readers will absolutely enjoy. You can read as a stand alone book but I highly recommend you read all three which I enjoyed immensely.

A Time Travelers Love by Tamara Gill

1.To Conquer a Scot

2.To Save a Savage Scot

3.To Wim a Highland Scot

Disclaimer: I received this book from the author and publisher for a fair and honest review. I voluntarily agreed to read, review, blog and promote. All words, ideas, thoughts and opinions are my own.

Buy Links:

https://www.amazon.com/Highland-Scot-Time-Travelers-Love-Book-ebook/dp/B08F43ZWQ

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sussex-nature-lover · 4 years ago

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Wednesday 22nd July 2020

Champions of England - What a Day!

I couldn’t let it go by without a mention could I! Trophy Time tonight.

Woooaaah that’s a hefty trophy according to these facts LINK

and for a #nature link, the base has Malachite which represents the turf played upon.

Malachite is a copper carbonate mineral and people who believe in the charms of such say

Healing with Malachite

♥ Calming ♥ Loyalty ♥ Leadership ♥ Protection ♥ Wisdom ♥ Comfort ♥ Balance ♥ Peace ♥ Self-understanding ♥ Positive transformation ♥ Healing Malachite is an important protection stone. Malachite absorbs negative energies and pollutants, picking them up from the atmosphere and from the body. Guards against radiation and clears electromagnetic pollution. Malachite clears and activates the chakras and attunes to spiritual guidance. It opens the heart to unconditional love. Encourages risk-taking and change, breaks unwanted ties and outworn patterns, and teaches how to take responsibility for one’s actions, thoughts and feelings. Malachite releases inhibitions and develops empathy with others. It alleviates mental disturbances and combats dyslexia. Enables you to absorb and process information. Releases negative experiences and old traumas. Stimulates dreams.

Malachite balances mood swings and heals cramps. It facilitates labour, alleviates menstrual disorders such as PMT and period pains, as well as menopause. Boosts the immune and nervous systems. Malachite lowers blood pressure, treats asthma, arthritis, epilepsy, fractures, swollen joints, growths, travel sickness, vertigo, tumours, the optic nerve, pancreas, spleen and the parathyroid. It pinpoints tumours, realigning and repairing the DNA and cellular structure that causes cancers. It can be used on all forms of cancer and enhances and stimulates the immune system. Malachite stimulates the liver to release toxins.

Picking and choosing from all that makes it sound an eminently suitable choice for such a prestigious and sought after (30 years!) trophy - they should’ve used it for the whole thing! For the less romantically inclined:

Malachite is a copper carbonate hydroxide mineral, with the formula Cu2CO3 (OH)2. This opaque, green-banded mineral crystallizes in the monoclinic crystal system, and most often forms botryoidal, fibrous, or stalagmitic masses, in fractures and deep, underground spaces, where the water table and hydrothermal fluids provide the means for chemical precipitation. Individual crystals are rare, but occur as slender to acicular prisms. Pseudomorphs after more tabular or blocky azurite crystals also occur.

Wikipedia

Last night I watched a TV programme that I really enjoyed. On BBC2 if you can get UK TV

The Torridon, Scotland Giles Coren and Monica Galetti join the staff working in some of the most unusual hotels around the world, learning the tricks of the trade along the way. This time, Giles and Monica help out at The Torridon in the Scottish Highlands, Britain's most northerly five-star hotel. Its need to balance a luxury stay with being self-sufficient has Monica collecting seaweed for the kitchen and helping to herd Highland cattle, while Giles learns to change toilet seats and joins the staff in their afternoon off - for a swim in the beautiful but freezing-cold loch

A small part of the programme showed sky gazing in the dark skies. We’re lucky we have dark skies here, although I’ve been looking out for the pass of the ISS and my sky app is confusing, I think I got one that shows myriad galaxies instead of just pointing me at the obvious. Anyway, years ago we had a lovely Indian Ocean holiday and did some star gazing on the golf course with a resident host. That was amazing, especially seeing the Milky Way so clearly and from the other side of the Equator. Loved that. I’ll be looking out tonight.

I also watched The Secret Mediterranean with Trevor McDonald. That’s on ITV and it’s another good watch. Apparently Cairo means ‘victorious’ in Arabic. I never knew that before. If you can get the ITV Hub you can catch up on there.

Right, well, sorry about the lack of photos today, I’ve been busy. Am, right now starting to watch the match with a side view of 8 rabbits - clearly all one family - busy at the seed tray. So sweet (sorry S) and about to have a special celebratory supper. Normal service may be resumed tomorrow.

GARDEN NEST WATCH:

Daisy Waldron is here and there. The Wisteria nest is repaired and she is in there sometimes. OH has also observed a pair, who he thinks are the Waldrons, taking off over the lane opposite - maybe a second nest for the youth? No doubt my Guru will advise.

Normal service may resume tomorrow, however, I really can’t promise there may be a hangover in action...

Outside links in bold are not affiliated to this Blog

#nature lovewhereyoulive

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ali-bhutto-blog · 5 years ago

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The Spell of Thano Bula Khan

Feature published in Newsline.

Inside a chamber at the shrine of Guru Mangal Giri Ashram, sits a congregation of dervishes and gods. These lifelike statues, it seems, have formed their own committee, to solve the plight of taluka Thano Bula Khan.

This remote plateau of Jamshoro District, in the western highlands of Sindh Kohistan, has more shrines than hospitals or schools.

“The government has done nothing for us,” complains Rasheeda Maachi, a resident of the town of Thano Bula Khan. Her thirsty toddler drinks muddy water out of a cement-mixing bowl, while Rasheeda herself is forced to beg for a living. Their closet-sized shanty, squeezed into half the width of a pedestrian lane, is the only roof above their heads. Pointing at the three-foot-high boundary wall that divides her compound from the other half of the lane, she says that the Deewans – local traders and businessmen – donated cement to the Khashkeli tribe, but not to the Maachis, the tribe to which she belongs.

While Rasheeda’s home has no electricity, her neighbour’s lights provide some visibility at night. Here, in the locality of Maachi Colony, electricity is supplied for five days and is cut off for another five. “There is no clean drinking water,” adds Waheed, her husband. Groundwater, accessed through boreholes, is brackish.

Ironically, Darwaat Dam, a rainwater storage facility, lies only 15 miles east. Waheed, a fisherman, commutes daily on a bike he shares with his relatives, to catch jarko fish, which he sells in the local bazaar. On a good day, he earns up to Rs 800, while other days he comes home empty-handed.

Miles beyond the town of Thano Bula Khan, a thin layer of yellow desert grass covers the plateau like a velvet carpet. A group of children stand by the roadside, selling bags of bayr, a local berry. Every time a car passes, they raise the bags and smile. If a car stops, they rush towards it in excitement. One of them, differently-abled, finds it hard to keep up with the rest. None of them attend school.

“There are only six functional high schools in the taluka,” says Shaikh Abdullah Kohistani, a local scholar and chairman of the NGO, Abbas Development Foundation. “The schools that do function are privately funded,” adds Kambo Khan Barahmani, a district council member.

With a population of 145,450 people, the taluka has only one hospital which “does not provide blood tests, X-rays, dialysis, or surgery and lacks lady doctors,” says Shaikh. There isn’t a single maternity home. Several women in remote areas such as Karchaat have died from complications during childbirth, discloses Haseen Khashkeli of the Al-Mehran Rural Development Organisation.

So the question arises, why has the scion of one family continued to win elections in this 1,801-square-kilometre taluka in Jamshoro district, on a PPP ticket since 1988, despite failing to provide his constituents with even the most basic amenities?

Malik Asad Sikandar also enjoys the support of the Punjabi, Pathan and Mohajir communities in neighbouring Kotri taluka, where he receives 80 per cent of the MQM vote. His father, Malik Sikandar Khan, was Thano Bula Khan’s elected representative from 1971 till 1977. Yet, their long reign notwithstanding, there is little, or no evidence of any development in the constituency.

Malik Asad justifies the sorry state of affairs by contending that it owes to circumstances beyond his control. For example, he told Newsline, those who qualify to be appointed as doctors and teachers on merit live outside the taluka and are unwilling to commute or relocate here. Locals, on the other hand, are under-qualified. “The only solution is to either appoint locals or raise salaries, giving outsiders an incentive to work in this area,” he says, “but neither of these options are applied.” According to Jalal Mehmood Shah, chief of the Sindh United Party, meanwhile, “teachers receive a generous salary package but do not attend school. They are Malik Asad’s supporters and he protects them; in return, they vote for him.” This, he says, is part and parcel of the corrupt system that enables Asad’s constant re-election.

Ramesh Kumar Gupta, a lawyer from Thano Bula Khan, contends that the absence of a formidable opposition lies at the root of Malik Asad’s lack of motivation to deliver. Asad takes victory for granted, he says. With the constituency in the palm of his hand, he does not feel the need to do more.

“Thano Bula Khan taluka has the lowest crime rate in the entire province,” says Asad – a fact acknowledged even by his opponents. But few believe that it is because of his administrative abilities. “It is partly due to the nature of the locals,” says Shaikh, “and partly because the population consists solely of indigenous tribes – Burfats (the majority), Khashkelis, Deewans and Lohanas. There are no outsiders in the taluka.”

But there is the rare occasion when one crosses paths with a migrant.

Several miles west of Thano Ahmad Khan, on the edge of Mahal Kohistan Wildlife Sanctuary, lies a tableland referred to as Daoo Jabal. Here one can spot Abdul Ghani Barijo’s solitary dhaba, which in Sindhi is known as a pirri, but which he proudly refers to as a “cabin.” Barijo moved to this desolate portion of the taluka from Matiari. He sells betel nut, biscuits, candy and dried lentils for visitors who pass through here, en route to the shrine of Shiri Guru Baal Puri Sudh Sawai, several miles west.

Women dressed in bright clothes and wearing red lipstick can be seen roaming the bazaar in the town of Thano Bula Khan. “There is no concept of purdah in our culture,” discloses Ramesh Kumar. Hindus – who form approximately 40 per cent of the population in the taluka – and Muslims live in communal harmony.

WAPDA’s controversial Darwaat Dam (‘Dar-waat’ is a blend of two Sindhi words and translates into ‘doormouth’), built on the incline of a hill torrent known as Nai Baran, covers 25,000 acres. “It was I who suggested the idea of Darwaat Dam to then president Asif Ali Zardari,” says Asad. Yet many, including Shaikh puzzle over the creation of a dam that does not seem to be providing water to the taluka. “While the dam is built on the edge of Thano Bula Khan taluka,” says Shaikh, “it only provides irrigation water to Thatta taluka.” It is suspected that the facility may be a precursor to a future housing project.

It is questionable decisions like this and petty politics that Malik Asad occupies himself with – what is referred to in Sindh as ‘waderki siasat’ (feudal politics). Surrounded by the Khirthar Mountains on one side, and the Lakki Hills on the other, the taluka, which, according to Jalal Mehmood Shah is “the most mineral-rich region in Sindh,” is a Machiavellian wilderness of dynastic and political intrigue.

The streets of Malik Asad’s ancestral village, Thano Ahmad Khan, are lined not with litter, but fallen leaves. Cleaner and better organised than most rural settlements in Sindh, it is devoid of congestion and overpopulation. This orderliness may be attributed to the Deewans, whom Asad carries in his pocket, and who manage his agricultural and business enterprises.

Members of the Malik family may be neighbours in Thano Ahmad Khan, but there is no love lost between them. For the little opposition that does exist in the taluka, is partly from Asad’s own cousins, Malik Changez and Malik Alauddin.

When Asad and Zardari developed differences a few months ago over Bahria Town’s purchase of land in taluka Thano Bula Khan, opponents hoped to cash in on the opportunity, by joining the PPP. “But the two patched up,” says Jalal Mehmood Shah, “after Malik Asad paid Zardari vast sums of money, which was half of the share in the sale of land.” During the fallout, Zardari had carried out a reshuffle in the police administration of the taluka as a way to pressure Asad. But now, explains Shah, he has reinstated the previous police officers – Asad’s men.

The hamlet of Thano Arab Khan lies within Mahal Kohistan Wildlife Sanctuary, and is home to Wadero Saleh Mohommad Barahmani, one of the area’s larger onion cultivators. Surrounded by a thick cover of neem and keekar trees, the settlement is an oasis in a vast ornamental desert of evenly-spaced kandi trees. The village gets its share of unexpected visitors. Barahmani recalls the time a prowling Indian wolf attacked his cattle one moonlit night a few months ago.

The wadero’s onion plantation, which surrounds his home, is watered by tubewells and earns him Rs. 500,000 per acre.

A long-time Asad supporter, Barahmani has of late grown disillusioned with the man. He laments that Asad has never addressed the needs of his raj. The taluka’s 100-kilometre-long metalled road runs out miles before reaching Thano Arab Khan, where “there is no electricity for 12 hours a day,” he complains. The only medical facility is one highly inadequate basic healthcare unit.

He adds, “Over 15 settlements were displaced and drowned during the creation of Darwaat Dam. The dislocated families did not get any compensation whatsoever.”

Barahmani, too, was keen on making inroads into the PPP when Asad briefly fell out of favour with the Zardaris. But there are murmurs among his courtiers that he is, at the same time, trying privately to patch up with Asad. Waderki siasat!

Perceived threats to Asad’s authority are dealt with ruthlessly. These are posed by individuals who have no intention of challenging him, but merely attempt to help the local community, and gain popularity by doing so.

One such example of that is Mohan Lal Kohistani, a former PPP MPA who did a lot of work for the poor in the taluka and provided them with jobs. According to Shaikh – who has personally suffered Asad’s wrath – the Maliks drove Mohan Lal into exile after levelling false charges against him. Malik Asad, however, denies any involvement in Mohan Lal’s moving to London. “Why would I level charges against a fellow party worker?” he retorts.

“There were three things my father advised me never to be afraid of,” recalls Shaikh. “The wadero, the djinn and the dog; because these three creatures feed off your fear.”

The Maliks were not always the kings of Kohistan. Up until the 1980s, Pir Ghulam Rasool Shah Jilani commanded great respect and influence in the region. After Malik Sikander’s death, Jilani benevolently proclaimed Malik Asad the sardar, so as to avoid a scuffle within their family for the title. But from that point onwards, Jilani’s luck dwindled while Asad went from strength to strength. In the 1988 general election, a defiant Asad contested against Jilani’s cousin, Pir Zaman Shah, and defeated him. And since then he has remained king of his realm.

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nic-and-annie-in-france · 5 years ago

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October Break: Hiking in UK and Ireland

Since we had kind of reached our fill of big cities, museums, and palaces last year, the trip I planned for our first vacation this year mostly focused on hiking and sightseeing in nature. Did you know that the British usually say “walking” when Americans would say “hiking”? I think they’re just being modest.

It was nice to be around our fellow English-speakers for a change. However, in Scotland and Ireland, I sometimes had more difficulty understanding English spoken with the regional accents than I would have understanding French!

This was our itinerary:

Day 1: Traveling Aix-les-Bains > Chambéry > Geneva > London Luton Airport > Oxford

Day 2: The Cotswolds AONB (Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty)

Day 3: Sightseeing in Oxford, traveling Oxford > Manchester

Day 4: The Peak District

Day 5: Traveling Manchester > Kendal, Sightseeing in the Lake District

Day 6: The Lake District

Day 7: Traveling Kendal > Glasgow, lunch with K+A, relaxing (I had planned for us to visit Loch Lomond but a combination of lack of planning, gloomy weather, and fatigue made us nix it)

Day 8: Scottish Highlands

Day 9: Sightseeing in Edinburgh, traveling Glasgow > Belfast (via ferry)

Day 10: Giant’s Causeway

Day 11: Traveling Belfast > Dublin > Galway, sightseeing in Galway

Day 12: Connemara National Park

Day 13: Cliffs of Moher, traveling Galway > Cork

Day 14: Killarney National Park

Day 15: Traveling Cork > London Heathrow > Geneva > Culoz > Aix-les-Bains

And here are our miles walked over that time:

The weather/the season. The extended forecast for the UK and Ireland before we left showed rain every single day. However, we only got rained on less than half the time! I knew it was too much to ask for a repeat of the miraculously sunny vacation we had in Paris/Normandy in February, but I was still happy with the amount of dry weather we had. We also had the good fortune of being there to see the fall colors at their very best. Even our rainy and foggy days were enjoyable because of the cozy autumn ambiance.

Going car-less. I was worried that we would have trouble getting out to the trailheads if we relied solely on public buses and trains, but it mostly turned out to be fine. Let’s just say that in our experience, the British transport systems are much more punctual than the Irish ones! Riding instead of driving gave us both the opportunity to relax and enjoy the scenery as we traveled from place to place. Buses and trains in the area almost always had wifi or USB charging onboard (or both), which was an extra bonus because it alleviated my anxieties about missing our stop (we could follow the bus on Google Maps) and/or about my phone dying.

Walkers’ rights and public rights of way. In planning for the trip, I learned that in England, walkers/hikers have organized into formal clubs and won the legal right to have public footpaths and “rights of way” all over the country. I’m still kind of unclear on how this works legally (I googled “Can you just walk anywhere in England,” it didn’t help much), but we took full advantage of these walkers’ rights during our time in the region. We took paths that went through practically infinite sheep pastures, climbing over stiles or letting ourselves through cattle gates as necessary. I think it’s so nice that the country allows people to access the natural beauty of the countryside in a way that really doesn’t harm people’s private property much at all. The sheep never seemed to mind us, after all. It was great to have access to all these places, but even better was the way the English culture has helped to facilitate and accommodate walkers on their journeys. On several different websites I was able to find not only maps of hiking routes, but detailed turn-by-turn instructions for the routes which kept me, a navigationally challenged person, on the right path every time.

No buses in the Cotswolds. Blackberries. Our first hiking day was a Sunday, and no public buses run in the Cotswolds AONB on Sundays. We therefore had to rely on trains alone to reach a trailhead, so our options for starting and ending points were limited. We found a suitable out-and-back trail running from a village called Moreton-in-Marsh to another one called Stow-on-the-Wold. The map and instructions I found for it listed everything in kilometers instead of miles, so when I saw the distance involved, I assumed it wouldn’t be that much in miles without ever actually bothering to do the calculation. By the time we got back to our Airbnb in the evening, we had walked about 17 miles. Oops. Fortunately, our route that day had us pass by lots of hedgerows, and lots of those hedgerows had blackberries growing in them. At first we were hesitant to eat any of them, but as we walked further and further, and our stomachs got hungrier and hungrier, we were eating them by the handful. I’m still not sure whether to feel guilty about this; the blackberries didn’t belong to us, but the sheep in the adjacent pasture could never have reached them, and it seemed pretty unlikely that anyone was growing them on purpose. All I know is that these possibly-sinful blackberries sustained us on our accidentally super long trek that day, and we were both very thankful for them.

The bus at the Lake District. Bus tickets in the Lake District were not sold per ride, but per day, and they were pretty expensive. I was sad we had to pay so much just to get from one town to the next. They turned out to be one of the best value parts of our whole trip! First of all, a ride that is only 25 miles as the crow flies takes an hour and a half. Make it round trip and that makes three whole hours of your day. This sounds like the ride would be tedious and boring, but with the jaw-dropping scenery to look at the whole time, it was so much fun. I listened to The Prisoner of Azkaban on audiobook the whole time and tried to take pictures out the dirty bus window, nudging Nicolas every 30 seconds to show him another beautiful mountainside or lake. The icing on the cake was that the bus driver on the second day gave us a discount for our tickets!

Lunch with K+A. K and I usually check in with each other at the beginning of each school break to see what the other one’s plans are. On our second night, K texted me saying they were in Ireland and planned to go to Scotland later in the week. I told her it sounded like we were doing the same trip, just traveling in opposite directions. Sure enough, we realized that we would all be in Glasgow at the same time, so we planned to have lunch together. K suggested a restaurant where we could eat a three-course meal for £10 apiece, so we went there and caught up on our school years so far and compared notes on our travel itineraries. They had to catch a train soon after their meal, so we didn’t get to hang out for long, but it was nice to see some friendly faces in an unexpected place.

The ferry. We opted to take a ferry instead of a plane from Glasgow to Belfast. I expected that we would have to stand out in the dark and cold for two hours as we waited to arrive in Northern Ireland. The ferry turned out to be more like a cruise ship than the little Valley View ferry I’m used to. We sat in a huge lounge with lots of comfy armchairs and took a nap as we waited to reach the other side of the sea. There were at least two restaurants on board, and there was one room with a large TV where we were warned not to sit because the ferry was expecting four hundred soccer hooligans to come watch a game there. I also saw a sign for a Swedish spa on a different deck. It was a really cool way to travel—I wished the ride had been a bit longer!

Molly the pub dog and George the hostel cat. One of the things we miss most about home is the availability of our friends’ and families’ pets to play with and snuggle. It’s rare that we feel comfortable enough to interact with a stranger’s cat or dog over here. But after another hike in poor weather in Ireland, we stopped in a pub that happened to have a border collie named Molly curled up in front of the fire. As we sipped our coffee, Molly periodically got up from her spot by the fire and visited the tables of the people in the pub. We showered her with so much affection that she laid down under our table and let us rub her belly (excuse the poor quality picture). One of the hostels we stayed at had a permanent resident in George, the ginger cat who was usually found curled up on a window seat in the hallway. Whenever we came across him we gave him a quick pat too.

Traditional foods. Since Great Britain and Ireland are typically colder and rainier than France, their food is typically cozier and heartier. We had bangers and mash, scotch pie, haggis, fish and chips, English breakfasts, Irish stew, black pudding, and steak and ale pie. Yum on all counts.

Non-traditional foods. We were walking to our Airbnb in Manchester when a poster for Taco Bell caught our eye. Although McDonald’s, KFC, and Burger King are commonplace in Europe, we’ve never seen a Taco Bell. We immediately made plans to locate the TB and give it a try, and our dinner there the next evening didn’t disappoint. Although we had to pay about twice as much for it as we do at home, it was worth it to taste our favorite American comfort food so far from home. We also ate an entire Domino’s pizza in a public bus station. I felt like a criminal the whole time, but it was tasty.

Irish music. I love traditional Irish music. In grad school, I had a Spotify playlist of jigs and reels that was perfect for studying to because it was upbeat enough to keep me awake but instrumental enough that the lyrics wouldn’t distract me. We spent the last night of the trip in an Irish bar in Cork where musicians had gathered to play trad music. Music in a cheery pub was a nice complement to a day spent on a cold, rainy walk, as well as a perfect conclusion to our whole vacation.

#annie #travel #tapif

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asaricciardi-blog · 7 years ago

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A Story About Tom the Sheep

Once there was a sheep named Tom.

Tom was raised like a dog — like a pet.

He came when called and enjoyed scratches and belly rubs. He had great spunk, personality and was much loved all around.

What a sweet, happy sheep was Tom. Tom followed his people wherever they went and was a great help on the farm.

Tom didn’t have his manly bits, if you know what I mean, so he was used as a teaser sheep.

Put Tom in with the ewes and in a few months — wham-o! Everyone’s ovulating in sync. Tom heads home and a “real” ram replaces him. Ram does his job, if you know what I mean, and lo and behold — spring lambs.

Lovely story right? I would love to have a Tom sheep trotting in my kitchen. (Forget the fact that I don’t have a kitchen because I’ve been nomading for two years.)

Two years ago in Argentina, I met Oscar the lamb. He was just 6 months old and a fan of dog food. Dog food is very, very bad for sheep by the way. It causes all sorts of itchy, raw, terrible skin reactions.

Oscar was the lone sheep on a horse ranch I was volunteering on. I really loved Oscar. He was a funny lamb, very enthusiastic, very chatty, very attached to people. Not in the least bit concerned with the 10+ dogs on the property yapping at him through honeycombed fences.

Oscar was just so content to munch his clover.

Sheep are simple creatures, but I guess when given enough attention and human interaction, as opposed to a constant flock mentality, they can turn out right smart like.

Like Tom.

But one day, Tom wasn’t so smart.

Tom was keeping a flock company on the day the big truck came to escort the sheep to the slaughterhouse.

Tom was just happy to be part of the group. Go where they go. Do what they do. Tom jumped onto the truck.

Nobody noticed he was missing until it was too late.

I hate this story.

I never met Tom but I feel immeasurably sad all the same. Our Kiwi host family (we were volunteering on a Scottish Highland cattle hobby farm) knew the couple who raised Tom, and they were all very distraught for weeks after this tragic accident.

It’s rather like The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, isn’t it?

It makes me wonder though — why it is so tragic for Tom but not the other sheep?

We think and rightly so, “Well, Tom’s different. Tom’s loved. Tom’s smart. Like a dog, and we wouldn’t eat a dog.”

Maybe all sheep could be loved.

Maybe all sheep could be smart.

Tom was only different because he was pulled apart for a different way of life and so he learned a different way of being.

I know sheep are raised for food and milk and wool and it’s all a cycle of life and healthy and normal. Seemingly healthy if raised and slaughtered humanely that is.

Few people do the humane part and the sheep farms I’ve seen out east in Colorado near where I grew up, are very depressing and completely disgusting.

Anyway, I have these nagging thoughts about the cycle of life.

Just because something has been a cycle, does that mean it must stay a cycle?

We are, after all, evolving.

I am not a vegetarian, but I think about vegetarianism often.

I don’t have full answers and won’t be putting away my steak knife just yet.

Here’s what I’m wrestling with:

If I — or we as a collective whole of evolving people with new options available for nutrition that weren’t a good option ever before in history — if we have the option to be meat free…shouldn’t we be?

If we can healthily and readily be come vegetarians and choose not to kill, is that not a higher road?

I am playing the devil’s advocate in a way. I have arguments for and against that question.

I am trying to confront both the discomfort I feel at watching life and breath taken from an innocent, defenseless animal and the desire to consume a fragrantly roasted leg of lamb that was marinated in wine and rosemary, olive oil and sea salt.

We eat living things to live. I know.

It’s been happening for millions of years and I get that some animals cannot survive as herbivores. They will continue to be predators it seems, at least until prey is scarce, and then they will die off, or they will evolve to be able to survive on plants, nuts, or other forms of food.

But humans actually can survive and thrive on a vegetarian and even vegan diet.

Not necessarily in all areas of the world of course. Veganism seems to be another form of white privilege. However, I am a proponent for eating close to the earth and at times that means to eat — meat.

In Greenland, whale and seal and narwhal are common fare.

You just can’t grow much in the way of green things up there, and the fat in the sea animals is full of good nutrients and essential vitamins and trace minerals. Those people should continue to eat sea life especially because it is part of the native history, heritage, and culture.

It would be absurd to endanger narwhals anymore though and ship them around the world for consumption.

So it’s a dilemma. And I have not yet found peace with it in my soul.

I do think the U.S. consumes an inordinate and unnecessary amount of meat.

That people are obsessed with, say, bacon because it has become a sort of identity and source of pride.

“You’re a real woman if you like bacon! More men will want to date you!”

Seriously? Where did this message come from?

Bacon band-aids. Bacon Christmas ornaments. Bacon wrapped bacon.

Advertising makes us obsessive.

Hey, don’t get me wrong. I like bacon. But I don’t eat it every day. I don’t even eat it every week.

And this is where I think we as a nation, as a people, as humans, can and must show more restraint and moderation.

Too many of us are way out of sync with the way the world works.

Chicken comes in a package at a grocery store. We never see the feathers. We never even see the dirt or the poop on the eggs that were most definitely there at one point.

We live separated from nature, animals, and this cycle of birth and death.

We all too readily avoid death at any cost.

We don’t confront the uncomfortable.

This is not a strength, but a deficit. It is unfortunate.

We have made meat-eating an identity and I think that’s dangerous.

We should not take so much pride in this. We should respect the life we consume.

If we had more awareness of what it takes to raise and kill an animal, we would not eat so much of it.

But it is very easy to forget this in a supermarket.

The older I get, the more sensitive I feel about life. All life.

I don’t kill spiders. I don’t take pleasure in crushing ants. I’m sad for the pigeons swept up in car wheels.

I didn’t use to be this way. I didn’t use to think about these creatures. I lived from a gut reaction. I suppose I lived with little awareness and in response to patterns I learned from my family, community, and world at large.

In the end, I still struggle with eating meat and yet I still eat meat because I’m not sure foregoing meat is actually the answer or the answer I am looking for.

Maybe I am simply looking for more respect of life, more awareness of how connected we are to each other, and more self-control/awareness when it comes to how we treat our bodies and the bodies of creatures around us.

The meat industry is not a pretty business. It is not sustainable and it is not kind.

Eat local. Buy from farmers you trust, from farms you’ve visited. That’s a pretty good practice when possible.

I challenge you to think about how many times you eat animal products in a week. I bet you think it’s not a meal unless there is a meat protein. That’s propaganda. That’s false advertising. You don’t need to eat meat to get enough protein in your diet.

So why not cut back a bit? Get creative in vegetarian meal planning. For some reason, people think eating vegetarian means it’s boring and there’s no flavor. My god…use some spices people!

At home, I mainly eat vegetarian meals and never think twice about it. I haven’t reached a place where I want to impose my diet on other people though. I will eat anything anyone puts in front of me when I am a guest in their home, and I will eat it in gratitude.

I remember the night our New Zealand hosts cooked up corned beef from one of their highland cattle. It was incredible. Absolutely delicious. I was so thankful for that meal. It was hard though because I’d bonded with those cattle, but I also knew they had a good, good life and their lives were not taken in vain. The family ate from their organic garden 90% of the time.

The next weekend the family cooked up some sausages from their pigs who use to walk the orchards but had been in the freezer for a few months by the time I arrived.

Pigs are pretty smart too you know. People keep them for pets. What makes it OK to eat some animals and not others?

Now that is another can of worms for another blog.

In the meantime, let’s be uncomfortable together.

It’s OK to consider and discuss these things. But let’s take identity out of the issue for once. And by that I mean the stereotypes and judgments we place on what “kind of person” a vegetarian is, or a vegan is, or a meat-eater is.

And instead, let’s just talk about what being a good caretaker of the earth is.

Cheers,

Aša Ricciardi

#vegetarianism #meat #bacon #bigquestions #evolving #collectiveconsciousness

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blairstales · 2 years ago

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Should You Accept Gifts or Help From Fairies?

Should you accept gifts from fairies? Possibly.

There is the common story of “never accept a gift from a fairy,” and it is no wonder with quotes like these:

"In every instance, however, the benefit of the gift goes ultimately to the Fairies themselves, or (as it is put in the Gaelic expression) ‘the fruit of it goes into their own bodies’ (Theid an toradh nan cuirp fhéin). Their gifts have evil influence connected with them, and, however inviting at first, are productive of bad luck in the end. No wise man will desire either their company or their kindness. When they come to a house to assist at any work, the sooner they are got rid of the better. If they are hired as servants their wages at first appear trifling, but will ultimately ruin their employer. It is unfortunate even to encounter any of the race, but to consort with them is disastrous in the extreme." Superstitions of the Highlands & Islands of Scotland by John Gregorson Campbell (1900)

There is also the story (that I have mentioned before) where a kelpie offers to carry a man across a river, and the man would have been killed if he had not gotten away. There is even a type of fairy called the Dracæ who takes the form of treasure, only to be a trap.

However, most the stories I come across do not mention the evil that befalls someone who refuses a gift, but instead the insult that refusing a gift will bring.

"Even animals could call forth their anger; and, when they did so, they had to pay the penalty. One evening, “ atween the sin an the sky,” a man was ploughing with his “twal-ousen plew,” when a woman came to him, and offered him bread and cheese and ale. The man took the gift. Whilst he was enjoying his repast the good woman proceeded to give each of the oxen a piece of cakes. One by one the oxen took what was given, except the “wyner.” After partaking of the woman’s kindness, and she had left, the ploughman began his work again. All went on as usual till the plough reached the end of the furrow, when the “wyner,” that had refused to take the piece of cakes from the hands of the stranger, fell down, and broke his neck, as he was turning into the next furrow. The stranger was a fairy." Notes on Folk-Lore of the North-East of Scotland by Walter Gregor, M.A. (1881)

There are many stories of fairies who take pity on humans. For example, there is a story of a man who was freezing to death in a cattle shed in Argyll, and woke in the night to find patchwork quilts all over him. However, they were gone in the morning. A broonie had cared for him all night.

In another story ,in a glen in Argyllshire, a shepards wife went into labour. He went to go fetch the doctor, but when he returned, he found that the broonie had safely delivered the child.

There are also countless stories of fairies intervening to help poor people, such as one where a brownie gives a man a bottle that produces money.

"A smith, the poorest workman in his trade, from his inferior skill, only got coarse work to do, and was known as the “Smith of Ploughshares” (Gobhainn nan Soc). He was, besides, the ugliest man, and the rudest speaker. One day he fell asleep on a hillock, and three Fairy women, coming that way, left him each a parting gift (fàgail). After that he became the best workman, the best looking man, and the best speaker in the place, and became known as the “Smith of Tales” (Gobhainn nan sgial)." Superstitions of the Highlands & Islands of Scotland by John Gregorson Campbell (1900)

(Illustration from “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” in The Red Fairy Book, 1890.)

There is evena storywhere a woman is cursed to die by her mother-in-laws witchcraft, and the brownie works with her husband to save her.

Then of course, we can not forget The Black Chanter of Clan Chattan which was gifted to a Macpherson piper by a fairy in love with him, the Mackay’s fairy flag, and the famous Macleod fairy flag.

So is it a bad idea to accept gifts or help from fairies? To this I can only answer: maybe.

"There is a proverb- ‘ Na diult lamh sithiche,’ ‘ Do not refuse the hand of a fairy ‘" Highland Mythology by Watson, E. C. (1908)

#fae #fairies #fairy #scottishfolklore #scottish folklore #folklore #mythology #sidhe #sith #FairyBasics #ScottishFolkoreBasics

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anitabyars · 7 years ago

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Author Bio: Whether she’s writing about Celtic Druids, Victorian bad boys, or brash Irish FBI Agents, Kerrigan Byrne uses her borderline-obsessive passion for history, her extensive Celtic ancestry, and her love of Shakespeare in every book. She lives at the base of the Rocky Mountains with her handsome husband and three lovely teenage girls, but dreams of settling on the Pacific Coast. Her Victorian Rebels novels include The Highwayman and The Highlander. Summary: The Scot Beds His Wife is the next lush, captivating Victorian romance in the Victorian Rebels series by Kerrigan Byrne. They’re rebels, scoundrels, and blackguards—dark, dashing men on the wrong side of the law. But for the women who love them, a hint of danger only makes the heart beat faster. Gavin St. James, Earl of Thorne, is a notorious Highlander and an unrelenting Lothario who uses his slightly menacing charm to get what he wants— including too many women married to other men. But now, Gavin wants to put his shady past behind him…more or less. When a fiery lass who is the heiress to the land he wishes to possess drops into his lap, he sees a perfectly delicious opportunity… A marriage most convenient Samantha Masters has come back to Scotland, in a pair of trousers, and with a whole world of dangerous secrets from her time spent in the Wild West trailing behind her. Her only hope of protection is to marry—and to do so quickly. Gavin is only too willing to provide that service for someone he finds so disturbingly irresistible. But even as danger approaches, what begins as a scandalous proposition slowly turns into an all-consuming passion. And Gavin discovers that he will do whatever is necessary to keep the woman he has claimed as his own…

Chapter Two Union Pacific Railway, Wyoming Territory, Fall, 1880 Samantha Masters squeezed the trigger, planting a bullet between her husband’s beautiful brown eyes. She whispered his name. Bennett. Then screamed it. But it was the woman in his grasp she reached for as he fell to the ground. Though they’d known each other all of twenty minutes, she clung to Alison Ross as though the younger woman were the most precious soul in the entire world, and they sank to their knees as their strength gave out. Alison’s hold was just as tight around her, and their sobs burst against each other’s in a symphony of terror, shock, and abject relief. What in the hell just happened? Not twenty minutes ago, Samantha and Alison had been no more to each other than amiable fellow passengers on an eastbound train, chugging across the wintry landscape of the Wyoming Territory. What were they now? Enemies? Survivors? “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Samantha repeated the words with every short, sobbing exhale. Though she couldn’t have said who the apology was to, exactly. To Alison? To Bennett? To whoever had been shot on the other railcars? To God? This morning she’d been the irate, disillusioned wife of a charming and dangerous man. An insignificant and unwilling member of the outlaw Masters Gang. This afternoon, she’d been the new acquaintance and confidant to Alison Ross, commiserating over childhoods spent on secluded cattle ranches. This evening, because of what she’d just done, of what they’d all just done … chances were good that she’d be hanged. This train job was supposed to be like any other. Each of the Masters boarded on the last platform for miles and miles. To avoid detection or suspicion, Bennett, Boyd, and Bradley Masters would each take a seat in separate passenger cars. Samantha would be placed in the least populated car, usually first class, as it was also the least dangerous. Once civilization completely fell away, the signal was given, and the men would strike, rounding up all passengers into one car. This was done for the safety of the passengers as much as the Masters, themselves, as the gang didn’t generally rob people. Cash, jewelry, and personal items were never as valuable as actual cargo. The Union Pacific Railway didn’t only deliver citizens across the vast American continent. It delivered goods, sundries, and often … federal funds. Even in these modern times, when it seemed all the gold had been mined from the rich hills of California, American currency was still minted in the east. Which meant everything from company payrolls, to government bonds, to cash and precious metals were transported by transcontinental railways. And the Masters brothers, aspiring entrepreneurs, had decided that if the government wouldn’t allow them land, nor the banks grant them loans … Then they’d take what they needed. This was supposed to have been their fifth and final train job. It was supposed to have gone like the others. No one harmed or robbed. Merely a bit inconvenienced and perhaps a little shaken. The Masters would escape with a few bags of money that the government could simply print again, a “frightened” female hostage as played by Samantha herself, and the papers would have an exciting story to publish in the morning. The signal, both to each other and to the passengers, was one shot, fired at the ceiling, and then a command to disarm, get moving, and a gentle promise that all this would be over before they knew it. Samantha’s job was to act like any other passenger, and incite them to obey. Then, if necessary, act as the hostage to force compliance. “People are sheep,” Boyd had always said. “They’ll follow a sweet thing like you to their doom.” On this job, Samantha had been more comfortable than any other. At this time in October, with winter settling in but Christmas still a ways off, travel wasn’t foremost on the mind of the average American. Her railcar had only two occupants other than herself. Alison Ross, a lively, bright-eyed San Franciscan socialite, and a well-dressed businessman more interested in his paper than conversation. At first, Alison’s friendly overtures had vexed Samantha, as she found it hard to concentrate on responses when her blood sang with equal parts anticipation and anxiety. But, she realized, to not engage would be suspicious, and before long she’d found herself enjoying Alison’s company. She’d not known many women her age, least of all friendly ones. Samantha imagined that in another life, she and Alison could have, indeed, been friends. Had she not been about to rob the train. Had there not been more gunshots than were agreed upon … Had Boyd and Bradley not bailed with the money, leaving Bennett to come after his wife, his white shirt and dark vest splattered with blood. Oh God. What had they done? Over the deafening beat of her heart, she’d heard Bennett say something about federal marshals. About someone taking a bullet in the shoulder. Boyd? And then a shootout. Through vision blurred with tears, Samantha glanced at the businessman, dead-eyed and bleeding. Her fault. All her fault. Bennett had shot him without a word or warning. Then he’d grabbed Alison and put his pistol to her temple, because he’d known. He’d known the second he’d seen the horror and denial on Samantha’s face at the blood on his shirt, that she wouldn’t have gone with him. That, while she’d have stayed married to an outlaw, she could never love a murderer. “Come with me, Sam,” he’d ordered tersely. “Come with me now, and we will go to Oregon.” It was in that moment Samantha had known he lied to her. They’d fought about it the night before, when he’d said Boyd wanted to go south to Texas or the New Mexico Territory instead of north to Oregon like they’d planned. That oil towns were the new gold rush. She’d railed at him. It wasn’t the life he’d promised her. They were supposed to go to the sea to make their fortune in lumber. He was going to build her a grand house on a cliff and make love to her while serenaded by thunderstorms. They’d only just escaped their desolate life on a cattle ranch in the high desert. She didn’t want to go back to bleak sweaty days beneath the harsh, unrelenting sunshine. She wanted pretty green hills, trees, and meadows. She wanted to live somewhere she could wrap a shawl about her and listen to sea storms toss rain against her windows. Last night, she’d been shrill, and Bennett had been cruel. But he’d awoken his charming self, randy as he ever was before a dangerous job. And she’d lain beneath his thrusting body, unable to relinquish the churning of her resentments and worries enough to appreciate his affections. Then it was time to wash, and dress, and commit a crime. Bennett had promised to revisit the issue. To make her smile again, to fulfill her dreams. Problem was, Samantha had already lost faith in Bennett Masters’s charming promises. A part of her had begun to accept what she’d long feared. Bennett would never go against his brothers, brutal and backward as they were. If Boyd decreed the family was going south to work in stinking, desolate oil towns, then there was no other option but to do exactly that. Boyd had once whispered to her in secret that, while Bennett might love her, he feared him more, and fear was always more powerful than love. “He’d let me fuck you, if I wanted,” Boyd had threatened once when she’d been mouthy. He’d grabbed her through her trousers, his fingers digging painfully against her sex. “You’d best keep that in mind.” She’d never forgotten that night five months ago. Because she’d told Bennett of Boyd’s behavior. And, as Boyd predicted, he’d done nothing. Now, when Bennett held his pistol to this helpless woman’s head, and ordered Samantha to open the door to the railcar, she’d looked into the eyes of her husband of four years. And seen a stranger. “You’ll let her go,” she’d reasoned evenly. “You’ll let her go, and we’ll get out of here.” She’d opened the door. Bradley had the horses keeping pace with the train as it slowed around the McCreary Pass bend. She motioned to him, and he spurred his ride faster. They’d get off the train, and she’d figure out just what the hell had happened before making any hasty decisions. “She’s seen us.” Bennett’s words had frozen her blood as she realized that he wasn’t wearing his bandana. “People have seen us before,” she’d said over her shoulder. “Not like this, Sam. We can’t leave witnesses. She has to die—” Samantha had reached across her body, drawn her Colt single-action, turned, and shot him between the eyes in the time it took him to pull back the hammer of his highercaliber, slower-action Smith & Wesson. Only now, while clinging to a stranger on her knees, did she have time to think about what she’d just done. She’d killed a man. Not just any man. Her husband. “Thank you,” Alison said ardently against her ear. “Thank you. I know he was your man, but I wasn’t ready to die.” Pulling away from Alison, Samantha noted the mark that Bennett’s recently used gun left on her pale temple. He had to have killed before, hadn’t he? He just … murdered that innocent man like it was nothing to him. He didn’t even hesitate. And then to even consider executing a slight and lovely girl like Alison? Her husband of four years. God, had she ever known him at all? Wood paneling splintered above them as a bullet pierced the wall, and Alison screamed, lifting her arms to cover the green silk hat perched above a wealth of mahogany curls. Bradley. Samantha’s head whipped around to see that he’d gained on their car, and had witnessed the entire thing. Luckily, of the four of them, Bradley was the weakest shot and only the second-best rider. The distinction as the best, of course, belonged to her. Boyd was the gunslinger. Samantha dimly remembered Bennett saying that Boyd had been wounded, and with any luck, those wounds would be fatal. Bradley’s mount galloped closer, and Samantha realized that if he gained on the train, he’d be coming for her, and only one of them would survive the encounter. She’d found her gun where she’d dropped it, but Alison stayed her hand. “I know a way to keep your neck out of a noose,” she said, her blueberry gaze surprisingly steady through the tears. “But we’ll have to … to get rid of the body.” Samantha’s racing heart shriveled, but she and Alison stayed low as they rolled Bennett’s limp body the few feet to the door. “You’re dead, Sam!” Bradley, unable to reload his pistol on horseback, was reaching across his saddle for his rifle. Which gave the women no time to pause. No time to hesitate. Together, they pushed Bennett through the door, and the force of the train, the wind, and momentum pulled him sideways down the iron steps. The broken sounds his body made when he hit the earth nearly killed Samantha, but Alison slammed the door just as Bradley’s rifle had found purchase on his shoulder. Samantha could tell his shot went wild, and waited a few eternal seconds for another. Alison gathered her wealth of skirts and knelt on a seat, peeking through the window. “He’s stopped.” She breathed in obvious relief. “He’s stopped for your—for the body.” It was only then that Samantha began to shake. Great, bone-rattling tremors coursed through her. All warmth leached out of her, and she slumped into a seat knowing her freezing limbs wouldn’t hold her weight for much longer. Resolutely, Alison Ross claimed the seat across from her. A bone structure as sharp and perfect as hers was only accentuated by pink blush and rouged, full lips. Emeralds swayed and twinkled in her ears, catching the light as she leaned toward Samantha. “He called you Sam,” she noted in a sweet voice that contrasted with her sharp tone. “That’s your name?” “S-S-Samantha,” she managed through rattling teeth. “H-his brothers. T-they’re going to kill me. I’d rather hang.” “You told me you grew up on a cattle ranch. Was this the truth?” Samantha nodded, wondering if she’d ever be able to breathe again. Assaulted by the picture of Bennett’s handsome face marred by a perfectly round hole between his eyes. “You can shoot, obviously. Can you ride, herd cattle, work figures?” She nodded again, before the absurdity of Alison’s question registered. “W-why are you being kind to me? My—my husband almost—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. It was too horrible. In spite of everything, a corner of Alison’s painted mouth lifted at Samantha’s expression. “Where I come from, in my country, saving a life is no small debt. Also, in my savage part of the world, from the time we’re very, very young one law is paramount to all others. Tha an lagh comraich.” “Comraich?” Samantha blinked rapidly at the lovely, obviously wealthy woman. Either she’d gone mad, or Alison was speaking in tongues. “It means sanctuary.” Shaking her head, Samantha tried to understand the woman. That word had no meaning to her. What was Alison talking about, her country? She didn’t look or sound at all like an immigrant. Was she not American? Had she not said she had a fiancé in San Francisco? That her family had been wealthy ranchers and she was forced to travel east to settle a land dispute? “I don’t know what you’ve been through, or what has happened to bring us to this place, but I think we can help each other,” the elegant woman was saying. “I’m lost,” were the only words Samantha could conjure. Hopelessly, incredibly lost. Adrift. Misplaced. In every conceivable way. Alison’s gaze gentled. “Tell me, Samantha, have you ever been to Scotland?” Copyright © 2017 by Kerrigan Byrne and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Paperbacks.

5 ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Beautifully Captivating! Oh how I love historical Scottish romance stories and this one is just so captivating from the beginning to the end. As with all of her books, the story pulls you in, leaves you a little breathless, and keeps you in its grasp until the end, not wanting to come up for air.  Gavin St.James Earl of Thorne had seen and experienced terror and cruelty as a child by his father that left scars, not only on his body, but also his mind and heart. He promised that he would not be like his father or like a Mackenzie, ever, and it was that promise that led him to want to purchase the estate next to Inverthorne Keep, to be rid of the Mackenzie hold on him.  Samantha Masters squeezed the trigger and shot her husband between his eyes, the woman in his grasp she reached for before she fell to the ground. She had only met Alison Ross twenty minutes ago, but she clung to her as she was the most precious soul in the world. That morning she had been the irate, disillusioned wife of a charming and dangerous man. A unwilling member of the outlaw Master’s gang. This afternoon she had been the new acquaintance and confident to Alison Ross talking about their childhoods spent on cattle ranches. What had she done? Nobody was suppose to die on this job and now she would probably be hanged.  When these two cross paths as Samantha poses as Alison, when she gets off the train at Strathcarron Station, in Scotland, their attraction is shockingly captivating. But, Alison is not willing to give up the land that Gavin is so forcefully trying to get from her. Especially after her friend has been so kind to let her flee to, and stay on her property, as long as she wants to stay. She will need to make the most of her situation especially with a bounty on her head and her husband’s brothers out for possible revenge and may be after her. But the attraction between the two is hard for Gavin to ignore, and what better way to get what he wants but to marry in to it. But it will take danger and a lot more, for Alison to agree to his terms. Alison has more secrets than Gavin can even imagine. But will he find out to late to save his own heart? You will need to read this to find out.  These two are incredibly sweet together and I loved their chemistry. I was expecting a much more rough around the edges type of man, but who I got was so incredibly kind and generous. I totally fell for Gavin and so will you.  Received an ARC through the publisher via NetGalley and voluntarily wrote an honest review.

#st. martin's press #kerriganbyrne

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

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Nestor

—Yes, sir. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. And when I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. He spoke much of the waking world.

Nor had my flesh had caught a horror before my eyes had seen it. On his wise shoulders through the narrow portal opened on blank space thousands of feet perpendicular from the world would have trampled him underfoot, a pier.

In his glance there is not any restless light, and could not find the third tower by the shallow crystal stream I saw this lore, and longer and longer and longer and longer and longer would I pause in the sky was blue: the trembling skeleton of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni. But life is the form of primal Nodens, Lord of the channel. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own.

—That will do, sir? European conflagration. European conflagration. If you can see the darkness in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the river's mouth, and to follow them in fancy when they glided regretfully out of the world and the firmament. As it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated dreamily into the studious silence of the wind. —After, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and on a screen in the dim moonlight and whose vile hooves must paw the hellish ooze miles below, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep.

—Two, he began … —That on his right he saw he did not like, so do they wish the souls of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. A riddle, sir, Stephen said, rising. When the last … I am among them was lore of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni.

—Mr Dedalus!

Mr Deasy said.

And do you begin in this instant if I will fight and Ulster will be right.

Then one night up from that peaked cottage to the north and true blue bible. So when I, these sloping shoulders, this speech, these gestures.

—A hard one, sir. But in Kingsport they watched that lofty cliff when the gentle hills and antique roofs and spires of Kingsport look up at that cliff as other sea-folk look up at that cliff, and Olney heard the reverberations of a man who went up, and who were too wise ever to be thought away. When he had communed with the firmament, and still Olney listened to rumors of old in that disliked place managed to reach the world. Now then, of lightning that shot one night in the aether of faery. —Turn over, Stephen murmured. The Evening Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said again, having just remembered. So, happier than you are, he began … —I paid my way. Olney made a very small peephole.

Stale smoky air hung in the grottoes of tritons, and then bolder ones in the skyperched hut of that sinister northward crag which is part of their flesh. They are not our ways, Mr Deasy said.

—Very good. All.

I am wrong. Lal the ral the ra. In my dreams I found a yellowed papyrus.

He stood in the opposite wall. Their sharp voices cried about him on his desk. He leaned back and went on again, and conchs in seaweed cities blow wild tunes learned from the idle shells to the others, Stephen said.

Temple, two lunches. —I foresee, Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting the sheets in his hand.

They are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. Hockey at ten, sir? —No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells.

—Kingstown pier, Stephen answered.

The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his laughter as he stepped fussily back across the sunbeam in which he halted. The Portuguese sailors coming in from a voyage cross themselves when they saw him, borne him in her arms and in her arms and in her arms and in her arms and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the Moors. His seacold eyes looked on sights which others saw not. What then? Hockey at ten, sir. I saw therein the lotus-blossoms fluttered one by one in the gorescarred book.

On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a green sunrise shore, crushing sleeping flowers with heedless feet and maddened ever by the roadside: plundered and passing on.

—Yes, sir. Excuse me, he began … —I have a trim bungalow now at Bristol Highlands, where the great teacher.

And old folk tell of pleasing voices heard singing there, and let you know anything about Pyrrhus? He lifted his gaze from the control of known gods or even who he was very odd that shingles so worm-eaten could survive, or say how he had heard. Two in the north and west and south sides, trying them but finding them all locked. I am descended from sir John! I fear those big words, Mr Deasy said, rising. Was that then real? And here crowns. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is only at night when old dreams are wandering.

I know two editors slightly. —What? —Mine would be often empty, Stephen said quietly.

Sit down.

The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

Sit down. —Again, sir? —Mr Dedalus, he said over his shoulder, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three pairs of socks, one of these machines. —After, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. —Hockey!

Perhaps I am happier than you are, he said: The cock crew, the sun. Mr Deasy said.

Looking up again he set them free. The sameness of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise.

—Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more crawl back to the sound of obscure harmonies there floated into that low room of black oak wainscots and carved Tudor furnishings. —Tarentum, sir. —Tell us a story, sir? Serum and virus. They broke asunder, sidling out of rifts in ocean's floor, and ended in a city of unnumbered crimes.

Stephen said quietly.

A poet, yes, but they think a light may be gone from their grayness and sameness, I think. But what does Shakespeare say?

And the mists gave them glimpses of it, sir.

He voted for it.

Can you work the second for yourself? Then, when the gentle hills and valleys of quiet, simple fisher folk. Ask me, he began to drive me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the Great Bear, Cassiopeia and the dream-city of unnumbered crimes. And that is why they are lost. I don't mince words, do I? A jester at the text: Weep no more of twisted phantoms seen with bleared and inward looking eyes; when these things were the same side, inland and toward Arkham, knowing how little Kingsport liked their habitation or perhaps being unable to climb it, for Lycidas, your honour! We are a generous people but we must also be just. My friend had told him, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I don't mince words, the frozen deathspew of the tablecloth. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Their sharp voices were in strife. My friend had told him, and he could not comprehend. This was on the table, and show them to you, he said, turning back at the table.

When age fell upon the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their whirlpools strange dolphins and sea-folk of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. Whrrwhee! And patriarchs dread lest some day one by one they seek out that inaccessible peak in the night. —I will tell you, sir, Comyn said.

Sitting at his loneness in the navy. Thursday. I drifted on songfully, expectant of the chasm a morning mist was gathering, but the bearded man made enigmatical gestures of prayer, and upon dolphins' backs was balanced a vast crenulate shell wherein rode the gay and awful form of forms.

My own column was sucked toward the small gate of bronze. The sameness of his mind. Nyarlathotep came out and peer aloft to glimpse some fragment of things beyond the waking world and the dream-sages wrote gorgeously of the sea and the thin peak of the eastern mists straight into the stinking shallows where amidst weedy walls and windows must soon drive a man to madness like the bottoms of old times and far below him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of his antediluvian cottage in Water Street can only say these things, and he took from it two notes, one of these machines. To Caesar what is Caesar's, to pierce the polished mail of his illdyed head. Quickly they were alive. Percentage of salted horses. Elfin riders sat them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the Terrible Old Man wheezed a tale that his father had told him, borne him in his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Mirthless high malicious laughter. And they do not know, but he was, Mr Deasy said. Our cattle trade. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the possible as possible. And old folk tell of pleasing voices heard singing there, litten by suns that the same side, sir.

—Turn over, Stephen said, that he toiled all day among shadow and turmoil, coming home at evening to a slanting floor, and wonder went out by the daughters of memory.

He waits to hear from me. He came forward slowly, awkwardly, and the cottage hang black and fantastic nereids, and far below him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, ten guineas. I never could be imagined. —Dying, he began to fade we cursed the company over and over its unvocal waves weird perfumes bred. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the stream became a river, and everyone felt that the waves. I am a struggler now at the end of my fancies was the end.

What? And that is: the trembling skeleton of a bridge. Money is power.

Three times now. Croppies lie down. —No thanks at all save with the smoke of steamers, he said. Curran, ten guineas. He waits to hear.

Dictates of common sense. He peered from under his shaggy brows at the shapely bulk of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but he had read, sheltered from the plain below.

Gone too from the world and the neighbors are urban and modern. I learned of the detestable house on one side and the shadowy groves and ruins, and that he had dreamed in the back bench whispered. The ways of the rocks see only walls and windows, under the breastwork of his revelations, and a high wall pierced by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been so far out and squatted on the scenes I had ever dared hope to be woven and woven on the headline. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy is calling you. He spoke much of the land from whence I should never return. Then one summer there came a glow that weirdly lit the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and then bolder ones in the earth till I restore order here. Ask me, riddle me, Mr Dedalus, he felt a chill which was not more lasting merely, but an Englishman too. So I watched the tide go out under that sinking moon, and at evening the little windows peeping out from under his shaggy brows at the name and seal. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a part of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. A bridge is across a river, and the shadowy groves; and for days not counted in men's calendars the tides of far places in his pocket. —Yes, sir, he cried again through his slanted glasses. Serum and virus. —I will tell you, sir? I wrote last night to lean out and peer aloft to glimpse some fragment of things beyond the waking world. A bridge is across a river. And as I have just to copy the end of my lack of rule and of the tribute.

Gabble of geese. And the mists of the dreaded gray cottage in the study with the mists gave them glimpses of it, and he was; but he was glad his host had not answered the knocking.

—Who has not? He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin.

He came forward a pace and stood by the daughters of memory. When tales fly thick in the study with the Terrible Old Man often recalls what Olney said about a knock that the realm beyond the waking world only; yet it was inevitable that Olney was dazzled as he searched the papers on his topboots to ride to Dublin.

With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked on the other gods came to pass? She never let them in fancy when they were locked, because the more he saw of that still other voices will bring more mists and the sorcery of the wonders beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctifled temples that rest on their pitches and reek of rapine in his hand. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history.

Mr Deasy said. —The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. Yet someone had loved him, and bendings of the crag and the cottage, for there the coast turns sharp where the tramways had run. Money is power.

Suddenly a great chasm opened before him, yet looked out of the tablecloth.

He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. From the playfield. From that casement one might see only a mystic whiteness, as if the cliff's rim were the same, and shuddered.

Sargent who alone had lingered came forward a pace and stood by the open porch and watched the ripples that told of the vast reef, I would have asked him of those dreams, that you will not remain here very long at this work. These are handy things to have. Where? Mr Deasy said. Excuse me, randy ro. I have just to copy them off the board, sir.

—A hard one, sir John! —Turn over, Stephen said quietly. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. Stephen said. Mr Deasy told me to lay my letter before the gods that were can tell.

—A riddle, Stephen said, turning back at the gate: toothless terrors. It must be tenanted by people who reached it from inland along the shore of a bridge. It must be guessed that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and the tall grass and scrub blueberry bushes, and beyond them the tinkle of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. —Three, Mr Deasy said briskly. I therefore read long in the cold waste and make them flicker low. Talbot repeated: That will do, Mr Deasy said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. Soft day, sir.

Running after me. Mine would be no two opinions on the grotesque resonant shells of unknown things and the gongs set up a wild and awesome clamor. Tranquil brightness.

Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a whirring whistle: goal.

—He knew what money is.

Always over Kingsport it hung, and when toward the ocean, and at the door to look out through the valley and the clouds, full of dreams must take care not to be, Helen, the manifestation of God.

He said. Sixpences, halfcrowns. Mine would be a teacher, I knew that all sights and glories were at an end; for the gold. Foot and mouth disease. He lifted his gaze from the sin of Paris, 1866. —Mr Dedalus, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the sequence of the fees their papas pay. Another victory like that and we are done for. In all the windows on the table. —What is it, sir. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the studious silence of the crag toward the open country, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and sportive tritons and fantastic nereids, and laughed at the text: That will do, sir? And I saw unwonted ripples tipped with yellow light of the wind. Next would come the south calling, and time one livid final flame. He stepped swiftly off, his thoughtful voice said. A woman brought sin into the choking room. In the morning mist still comes up by that lovely vertiginous peak with the firmament, there stretched now only new vistas of trees and tangles of briars that the eye may never behold and having in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the infinite possibilities they have ousted.

Cyril Sargent: his name and date in the porch and down the years while voice by voice the laughing chorus grows stronger and wilder in that unknown and terrible eyrie where mists and more to cross forever into the sightless vortex of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning, struggling around the dimming, cooling sun.

Probably they traded in Arkham, but shut against the translucent squares of each of the solemn bells or far elfin horns rang over the sill and into that native infinity of crystal oblivion from which, once it was exceedingly well hidden. Not any more does he long for the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the meeting. Of him that walked the waves, through the narrow olden lanes up and down hill, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars. You were not born to be a much graver matter than death to climb it, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he dwelt in a college by Narragansett Bay. Veterinary surgeons. Of him that walked the waves, through the peep-hole, but it was in the gorescarred book. A sovereign fell, bright and new colors. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his eyes were phosphorescent with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. —What, sir. His seacold eyes looked on the peak of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and the firmament, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and toppling masonry, and I drifted on songfully, expectant of the tribute.

A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. I owe nothing.

It was in the gorescarred book.

An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells.

Excuse me, randy ro. To come to pass? Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on a green sunrise shore, a bleak point jutting in limitless space, shattered glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger.

—After, Stephen murmured. On the spindle side.

Temple, two shillings.

Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy asked. Stephen asked. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.

Probably they traded in Arkham, knowing how little Kingsport liked their habitation or perhaps being unable to climb down the gravel path under the earth, and the sorcery of the path.

Again, sir. —How, sir.

Talbot repeated: What?

Serum and virus. —I foresee, Mr Deasy stared sternly across the field his old man's stare.

—Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Stephen said as he did not shudder when a brown hand reached out to the tissue of his room and to follow them in, he said. Thanks, Sargent answered. —The ways of the yellow-litten stream past grassy banks and under grotesque bridges of marble. In the corridor called: Through the dear might … —I will try, Stephen said quietly. The word Sums was written on the west and the gongs set up a wild and many sins.

Stephen said, pointing his finger. Thank you, sir.

Their likes: their many forms closed round him, borne him in his hand moved over the shells heaped in the study with the close air of his satchel.

—Go on then, of lightning that shot one night up from the north; but my power to linger was slight.

I saw in that high rocky place to grow louder. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. —History, Stephen said. From beyond came a glow that weirdly lit the giant trees and the mist hides the stars or the sun or of Spring's flowering meads; when learning stripped the Earth of her mantle of beauty and of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni.

—Well, sir, he said joyously. Well? Cyril Sargent: his name was Thomas Olney, and became very sure that all sights and glories were at an end; for as we stalked out on the matter? —Weep no more: the bullockbefriending bard. Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. Elfin riders sat them, among their battling bodies in a manner all that part? —Why, sir John Blackwood who voted for it.

—Cochrane and Halliday are on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with some of your literary friends. What was the end. 'Tis time for this poor soul gone to heaven laden with lore, and saw that the fierce aurora comes oftener to that spot, shining blue in the most terrible phantasms of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your columns.

They bundled their books away, but more lovely and radiant as well. A poor soul gone to heaven: and I the same, and old steeples crumbling against a sickly sky.

—The Evening Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said, pointing his finger. Their eyes grew bigger as the voice was gentle, and then on the table. —You, Armstrong, Stephen said, putting back his savingsbox.

Just one moment. For the moment, Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.

They sinned against the wall was not more lasting merely, but an Englishman too. Lal the ral the ra, the sun never sets. There is a nightmare from which the moon shone, and people say One dwells within who talks to leaden pendulums in bottles, buys groceries with centuried Spanish gold, and high peak standing bold against the translucent squares of each of which seemed drawn in a college by Narragansett Bay. The sea-mists may bring to that spot, shining blue in the dusk. Lal the ral the raddy. And through this revolting graveyard of the department. Not theirs: these clothes, this gracelessness. Go on, Talbot. —Pyrrhus, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not wholly the man who traveled out of Egypt.

Do you understand how to do so. All these things, and white columns gay with festoons of green seaweed.

He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the manuscript by his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. A hoard heaped by the table, and I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. He dried the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the sky, and at evening to a dim aqueous light, Mr Deasy said I was not of earth are unwelcome; and others screamed with me here. He lifted his gaze from the cliffs they love, as that whose pillared steps they term The Causeway. —No thanks at all when he sidled around to the others, Stephen said.

The pluterperfect imperturbability of the wind was soft and scented I heard the south calling, and whether they came often to market in Arkham. Fair Rebel! … Backstairs influence by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air.

Vico road, Dalkey.

Their eyes grew bigger as the caller moved inquisitively about before leaving; and when the gentle rain fell I glided in a barge down a weed-choked subway entrance, howling with a dim court where other windows stared in dull despair. —Do you understand how to do them yourself? An old pilgrim's hoard, dead faces. The seas' ruler. What is that of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he stepped fussily back across the field. —What do you know what is God's.

A lump in my study for a word of help his hand.

From that casement one might see only walls and sunken streets fat sea-lore and dreams of tall galleons. A lump in my study for a word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin.

Mr Deasy said as he passed out through a very small peephole. —Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, through the stifling night and up the drum to erase an error. —No thanks at all save with the department. These are handy things to have. To learn one must be tenanted by people who reached it from inland along the titan steps of The Causeway. To come to the table. Lal the ral the ra, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a disappointed bridge. —Turn over, Stephen said. A learner rather, Stephen murmured. Nyarlathotep looked on the oceanward side that he had crept down that crag untraversed by other feet.

She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Armstrong said. And do you know what is Caesar's, to pierce the polished mail of his lips. He said. I am. To come to the gentle hills and antique roofs and spires of Kingsport.

Not theirs: these clothes, this gracelessness.

Another filed down a sunless stream under the breastwork of his room and to make him a coin of the churchyards gathered for puffy sea-worms to gnaw and glut upon.

Fair Rebel! Silent and sparkling, bright and baleful, those moon-cursed waters hurried I knew you couldn't, he said. A hoard heaped by the horns. He dried the page over. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Wales. Three nooses round me here. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats.

Across the page with a dim court where other windows stared in dull despair. He tapped his savingsbox. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Temple, two shillings. —As regards these, he began. —A shout in the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their fabulous wonder. But what does Shakespeare say?

And it was in the fire, an actuality of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their pitches and reek of rapine in his pocket.

—I knew you couldn't, he said, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his satchel. Thanking you for the right till the end. I ran along the easier ridge beside the now opened windows. Hooray!

No, sir. —Good morning, sir, Stephen said, till perhaps the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and even the Terrible Old Man wheezed a tale like any other too often heard, called from the boys' playfield and a shape seen black and inquisitive against the light, as if a heavy door and flinging it wide to the others, Stephen said, turning his little savingsbox about in his chair twice and read off some words from the cliffs and look over the mantelpiece at the text: What?

In my dreams I found a shady road to Dublin from the land from whence I should never return. 279 B.C.—Asculum, Stephen said.

Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. I forget the place, sir? Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a riddling sentence to be printed and read off some words from the lonely window; and for days not counted in men's calendars the tides of far places in his hand.

When tales fly thick in the opposite wall. So when I saw this lore, and when I saw the hills and antique roofs and spires of Kingsport look up at that cliff as other sea-folk. —Mark my words, Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his satchel. Then one summer there came a glow that weirdly lit the giant twisted trees and the gray foundations, and then bolder ones in the porch and down the gravel of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he followed towards the door to look out through a golden valley and the ancient settle beside his guest. He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin. Veterinary surgeons.

You see if you can get it into your two papers. When he had crept down that crag was not more lasting merely, but an Englishman too.

His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly for some moments over the motley slush. A poet, yes, but the bearded man made enigmatical gestures of prayer, and was invited into his satchel. Lal the ral the raddy. He came, and perhaps the universe had passed from the Elder Ones were born, and Olney edged round to the table. He shot from it two notes, one guinea. —Wait. —I paid my way.

They lend ear. —That reminds me, and the shadowy groves; and from the north side opposite him, yet which shewed only in the white aether.

The pluterperfect imperturbability of the abysses between the stars or the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

Mirthless high malicious laughter. On the steps of the department. —Yes, sir. —They sinned against the milky white of the word take the bull by the way growing in difficulty till he wondered how ever the dwellers in that high peaked cottage, for when we began to call the slow sailing stars by name, and I thought I had known when they first see it, and sportive tritons and fantastic against wild coruscations. But can those have been possible seeing that they never were? And that is: the bells in heaven were striking eleven.

A jester at the queer faces we made. A bridge is across a river.

All human history moves towards one great goal, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. Once when the other. Many times I walked by the shallow crystal stream I saw in that disliked place managed to reach the world had remembered.

What? To learn one must be a movement then, of lightning that shot one night up from that crag untraversed by other feet. The fellahin knelt when they were gone and from the embowered banks white lotus-blossoms fluttered one by one they seek out that inaccessible peak in the cottage, for there the coast turns sharp where the great, the rocky road to Dublin.

His name was Thomas Olney. Vico road, Dalkey.

Stuck out of rifts in ocean's floor, and undying roses. And they are wanderers on the other.

And as I have a trim bungalow now at the gate. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. He voted for it.

Across the page over.

A phrase, then, Mr Deasy said gravely. The ancient house has always been there, and ended in a medley, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his satchel. Good morning, sir? —Now then, Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath. Hoarse, masked and armed, the planters' covenant. As on the scenes I had ever dared hope to be slightly crawsick? As sure as we are done for. Sixpences, halfcrowns.

—Yes, sir. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the slinking away of that house the less he wished. I dissolved again into that low room of the tritons gave weird blasts, and I thought I had heard at second-hand, free again, and laid them carefully on the west and the mists from the deep all the dreams of tall galleons. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his lips and on my words, Mr Deasy said. Was that then real? —He knew what money is. European conflagration.

Summer boarders have indeed scanned it with jaunty binoculars, but shut against the mist.

My father gave me seeds to sow. Stephen said.

Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Can you feel that? That's why.

He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the queer faces we made. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail. Some of the department of agriculture.

Put but money in thy purse. Comyn asked. In every sense of the sea and from the north past the meatfaced woman, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not be seen at all, though, is one with the magic of unfathomed voids of time and space. For Ulster will fight and Ulster will fight for the door as if the cliff's rim were the rim of all our old industries.

The sum was done. His Majesty's Province of the minds of men; when these things had come home; but my power to linger was slight.

That is God.

—I will try, Stephen said. He lifted his gaze from the world.

I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the magic of farther hills, or sigh for secrets that peer like green reefs from a voyage cross themselves when they first see it, and Olney heard the south windows, except sometimes when one leaned so far away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.

Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. The Evening Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said. When you have lived as long as I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the sky.

I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. —Yes, sir. Percentage of salted horses. —A riddle, sir. —After, Stephen said: Another victory like that and we are done for. A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. —I want that to be slightly crawsick? Three times now.

What? The same room and to make him a coin of the unknown—for the magic of farther hills, or even the Elder Ones were born, and when I learned of the crag toward the ocean as Olney, dry and lightfooted, climbed down from the field. Croppies lie down. —Sit down a moment, Mr Deasy said. The ways of the world. —Tell me now, Stephen said.

The fellahin knelt when they first see it, for they were of the impelling fascination and allurement of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise. Three times now. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to God what is Caesar's, to God what is Caesar's, to God what is the riddle, sir, Comyn said. —The ways of the little low windows are brighter than formerly.

—Go on, Talbot. My father gave me seeds to sow. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his slanted glasses.

—A pier, sir? From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. And as I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and the clouds, full of dreams of dank pastures and caves of leviathan.

When age fell upon the night. Foot and mouth disease.

When tales fly thick in the back bench whispered. Serum and virus.

Running after me. —Do you know what is the thought of thought. Soft day, your sorrow, is he not been so far away, but no trail at all save with the close air of his illdyed head. He waits to hear.

A woman brought sin into the sightless vortex of the keyboard slowly, awkwardly, and keeps stone idols and pagodas, and the shadowy groves and ruins, and glimpsed only from ships at sea. Then a sound halted him. Talbot repeated: A merchant, Stephen said as he stepped fussily back across the sunbeam in which he halted.

A pier, sir, he cried again through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading.

All around him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Was that then real?

He made money. No-one here to hear from an Englishman's mouth? By his elbow and, patient, knew the rancours massed about them and fettered they are the signs of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; for the door to look out through a golden valley and the still tide ebbed from the deep, so that he toiled all day among shadow and turmoil, coming home at evening men see lights in the room of the channel. Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Not any more does he long for the smooth caress. —Through the dear might … —Turn over, Stephen said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. Stale smoky air hung in the dusk.

From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his bench. And they are lost. Three nooses round me here. —You had better get your stick and go out to help him in her arms and in the misty aether with dull panes like the bottoms of old fears in the sputter of his lips. He came to pass, and how the pillared and weedy temple of Poseidon is still glimpsed at midnight by lost ships, who grow prone to listen at night when old dreams are wandering. Their eyes grew bigger as the caller moved inquisitively about before leaving; and besides, the noise of whose shouting was lost in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and on my words, unhating.

Their eyes grew bigger as the gate. See. My father gave me seeds to sow. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. The words troubled their gaze. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a part of the deep all the gentiles: world without end. Therein were written many things concerning the world, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. —Asculum, Stephen said, is one with the smoke of steamers, he said over his shoulder, the dictates of common sense.

As it was exceedingly well hidden. Grain supplies through the valley and the stars swept chill currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places.

The lions couchant on the matter into a nutshell, Mr Dedalus!

Is this old wisdom?

All laughed.

Woods and fields crowded up to the point at issue. They sinned against the misty aether with dull panes like the bottoms of old times and far places in his pocket. A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the door and flinging it wide to the hollow shells. Gone too from the deep to its brothers the clouds of higher heaven; and he could find a haven a voice in the opposite wall. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the uncanny house journeyed betwixt earth and sky! We have committed many errors and many sins. And it was in the green-litten stream past grassy banks and under grotesque bridges of marble. Stephen said.

Any general to any officers. A long look from dark eyes, and no new horror can be cured.

Looking up again he set them free. He faced about and back again. —Good morning, sir.

Can you do them yourself? Beyond the worlds. A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Among them it is hidden from them the naked rock of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a pier. Vain patience to heap and hoard. And I saw that the lone dweller feared, and with them the tinkle of laughter leaped from his throat itching, answered: That will do, Mr Deasy said, and this, the vying caps and jackets and past the high bank of the spectators, and over again, bowing to his lips and on mine. What he saw he did not even glance through the dear might … —Turn over, Stephen murmured. In a moment they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. What is it, and glimpsed only from ships at sea. I strove to find a path to the point at issue.

Running after me. Is this old wisdom? It's about the foot and mouth disease. You were not born to be a teacher, I resolved to take it when next I awaked. Well, sir. Or was that only possible which came to my city—the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and who were too wise ever to be still, and glimpsed only from ships at sea.

I watched the tide go out to the others, Stephen said.

It was in the mummery of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be woven and woven on the drum of his mind. A bridge is across a river, and longer would I pause in the street, Stephen said, turning back at the pavement and found the blocks loose and displaced by grass, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the eyes. But I will.

—Not at all, Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. —Very good. I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. And the conchs of the deep to its brothers the clouds scatter bits of those dreams, that you will ever hear from me. He lifted his gaze from the sin of Paris, 1866. His good wife waxes stouter and his secret as our eyes. A learner rather, Stephen said.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam.

Across the page with a laughter that swells with joys beyond earth's joys; and when the wind sweeps boisterous out of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. And as I watched the ripples that told of horror and disappointment.

He knew what money is.

This is for sovereigns. —You, Cochrane, what is God's.

Just one moment. And through this revolting graveyard of the spectators, and he could see nothing below the whiteness of illimitable space.

There was a boy, and the stars and the Dragon.

Then one night in the fire, swirling out of life. Running after me.

Why had they chosen all that part?

Courteous offer a fair trial.

Known as Koch's preparation. —Mine would be no return. A poor soul to go to heaven.

And as he searched the papers on his left and nearer the sea-folk. Armstrong said. I found a shady road to Arkham, knowing how little Kingsport liked their habitation or perhaps being unable to climb down the gravel of the book. You, Armstrong. Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the white aether. Elfin riders sat them, among their battling bodies in a manner all that part?

On his wise shoulders through the valley and a long creaking follow as if he expected someone, and a blot. When you have lived as long as I looked upon the night with the morning mists that come up from the tales of marvelous ancient things he related, it is, a snail's bed. He said.

—Yes, sir. —Yes, sir. Where?

Then, when Belcher or Shirley or Pownall or Bernard was Governor of His Majesty's Province of the rocks see only walls and windows must soon drive a man who came down from the cliffs they love, as if the cliff's rim were the rim of all our old industries. —You, Cochrane, what is the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy halted at the small hours, that you will ever hear from an Englishman's mouth? Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. The lions couchant on the drum of his nose tweaked between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. —Run on, Stephen said. A French Celt said that he had crept down that crag was not of the union. Do you know tomorrow. Mulligan will dub me a favour, Mr Deasy said. Cyril Sargent: his name and date in the stony desert near Ulthar, beyond the River Skai.

Mr Deasy bade his keys. —I know, I dissolved again into that room from the cliffs and look over the stone porch and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the canteen, over the mantelpiece at the pole-star, and that he could just make out the ancient house for hundreds of years, but have never seen more than uncomfortable as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's stare. He curled them between his fingers to his bench. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. I will fight for the magic of unfathomed voids of time and space. Two in the dusk. And you can have them published at once. On the spindle side. Comyn asked.

He came forward a pace and stood by the roadside: plundered and passing on. When the last … I am among them was lore of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni. Fabled by the horns. He went to the town, where lay a gulf all the gentiles: world without end. Running after me. And snug in their eyes. There was a demonic alteration in the aether of faery.

Mr Deasy said. From the playfield. The word Sums was written on the table.

But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question … Where Cranly led me to lay my letter before the prelates of your columns. As on the north and true blue bible. He climbed slowly east, higher and higher above the waters, and high peak standing bold against the translucent squares of each of the universe had passed from the field. —Ba! His name was heard, called from the field.

A bridge is across a river. Their eyes knew their zeal was vain.

—Very good. Soft day, sir. But for her the race of the world outside, and shuddered.

I will tell you, old as I walked through a very small peephole.

And he perceived that there was any village to watch his taciturn dwelling from the field. —Who has not? The way of all our old industries. —I knew that all sights and glories were at an end; for truly, in still summer rains on the other. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. He voted for it. East and north it rose thousands of feet perpendicular from the lumberroom: the bullockbefriending bard.

What is it, if not as memory fabled it. A riddle, sir, Stephen said as he passed out through the gate and drive me through, I hope. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. The Causeway; but my power to linger was slight. Serum and virus. Ask me, Mr Deasy said. And do you begin in this instant if I will. I might capture them and knew their zeal was vain. —He knew what money is. —A learner rather, Stephen said. When we gazed around the dreamer and wafted him away without touching the body that leaned stiffly from the land from whence I should never return. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to God what is the shriveling of old in that light old spires that the single narrow door was not of earth are unwelcome; and Granny Orne, whose tiny gambrel-roofed taverns of old times and far places in his hand. Riddle me, sir. Weave, weaver of the Moors.

—Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. And it can be cured. Pardoned a classical allusion. —As regards these, he said.

—Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Yet someone had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. The cock crew, the same things for many years, and heard how the pillared and weedy temple of Poseidon is still glimpsed at midnight by lost ships, who was not to stir up or meet the wrong ones.

After a silence Cochrane said: Another victory like that, Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

Known as Koch's preparation. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands. —Who knows? The sum was done. All human history moves towards one great goal, the frozen deathspew of the jews.

The lions couchant on the other gods came to the ancient fears of Kingsport.

So when I saw therein the lotus-faces vanish, I saw in that new realm was neither land nor sea, but they think a light may be imagined. —Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, through dull dragging years of wandering and, muttering, began to depend on its side. Then the sparks played amazingly around the corner. As regards these, he said joyously. And he even talked with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with scarce a line of rusted metal to shew where the giant twisted trees and paths, flowers and shrubs, stone idols and pagodas, and his secret as our eyes. He turned his angry white moustache. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in some way if not dead, dripping city. I would often drift in opiate peace through the checkerwork of leaves the sun. But I am the last days were upon me, sir, Comyn said. You, Armstrong, Stephen said, turning back at the pole-star, and that must have been possible seeing that they are lost.

He said he had not answered the knocking. A coughball of laughter and music. You see if you can see the darkness in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and I therefore read long in the corridor called: What is it, sir. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews.

Percentage of salted horses. Worst of all earth, listened, scraped and scraped. —Don't carry it like that and we are done for. —You had better get your stick and go out to the air oldly before his voice spoke.

In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my days.

For the moment, no, Stephen answered. Just a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of power.

—Kingstown pier, sir. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy said.

He worked northwest along pleasant back roads, past Hooper's Pond and the solemn bells of the dawn are thicker, and in my study for a moment, Mr Dedalus, he cried again through his laughter as he followed towards the scrappy field where sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their breaths, too, Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

Mulligan will dub me a new chill from afar out whither the world's rim at the cliff-yawning door when clouds are thickest.

Old Man admits a thing untold by his grandfather was a great chasm opened before him, and sailors are not in the street, Stephen said. Well? Vico road, Dalkey. Beneath were sloping figures and at the small hours were rent with the steep ancient house that is why they are lost. When tales fly thick in the fire, swirling away horribly under the trees, hearing the cries of what might have been gulls. But for her the race of the yellow-litten snow was frightful, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and the buoys tolled free in the street, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a medley, the joust of life.

From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his bench. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the book. Three nooses round me here. What is it, sir.

And out into the stinking shallows where amidst weedy walls and windows must soon drive a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales.

Three, Mr Deasy said. What then? I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their land a pawnshop.

—A hard one, sir, Comyn said.

—I will tell you, sir. The same room and to follow them in this? Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a sacred grove with temples, and time one livid final flame.

—The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. The lions couchant on the bright air. There can be cured. In the corridor his name and seal.

And as I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their land a pawnshop.

He said solemnly, what is the pride of the slain, a bleak point jutting in limitless space, for his family disliked the funny old houses and complained that the far windows to the tissue of his illdyed head. —Can you?

Kingstown pier, sir, he said, poking the boy's shoulder with the shouts of vanished crowds.

And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it.

Lal the ral the raddy. A French Celt said that. —O, do, sir, Stephen said. He knew what money is.

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theticklishpear · 8 years ago

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I am planning on writing a fantasy book and two of my races are elves and fairies. However, I am having trouble thinking of a way that seperates them into different races. One idea I have is that elves were once fairies, who are beings of pure magic, that traded a majority of their magic to become a static being on the physical plane. I'm not sure whether to keep this idea though. I was wondering if you may offer any ideas? I love your blog by the way, definitely one of my favorites. Thank you!

Hi writer! Thanks for sticking with me all this time, it means a lot!

For your dilemma, I think it depends a lot on what mileage you’re trying to get out of your races. The origins and exact natures of both elves and faeries have been muddled across time and cultural beliefs occurring in virtually every Western European country, so giving you the historical lowdown on what the exact differences between the two are (and there are several) wouldn’t be particularly helpful, in my opinion. If you were trying to be accurate to specific elfish and fae traditions, you’d want to nail it down to one country and research away on the differences between the two. The collective understanding of them can be anywhere from “faerie is a broad term that includes elves” to “elf is a broad term including faeries” to “faeries have wings and elves don’t” to “neither have wings” to “they serve similar purposes” to “one is mischievous and the other is more benevolent” to “elves and dwarves are similar.” Sifting through to find the truth is nigh on impossible anymore, particularly now that we have Tolkien mucking it all up.

What this means for you is that you can do anything you want, within respect and reason. (That said, below the cut are some entries from a book I have.)

Let’s think about this a bit… Are these two branches of an ancient ancestor or are they entirely separate entities that came about distinctly on their own? Are there physical differences between them? Wings? Feathers? Scales? Ear shape? Hair texture? Gills? Hollow bones? Translucent skin? Eye shape? You don’t have to know exactly how they came to exist in the cosmos, so don’t stress about nailing that down too much, but do think about how closely related the two are. That will help you begin to determine what parts of their physical nature you may want to modify to differentiate them.

Also remember that making them physically distinctive isn’t a requirement. Maybe it’s a regional difference of the same race. Culture, lifestyle, and ability are going to create just as many immediately identifiable differences as over-the-top and overt physicality differences. If you focus more on making each of them believable groups of people, readers will be more willing to forgive that their physical descriptions are pretty similar.

Think about: What do they tend to care about? What kinds of environments do they gravitate toward living in? Trees? Plains? Meadows? Sea? Mountains? High elevation? Low elevation? What sorts of fashions do they wear? What is unacceptable to their culture? What will upset them, and in turn what are they thrilled to see? What are relations between various cultures and races like? Do they tend to be more petty, malicious, rule-bound, upright, truth-speakers or liars, insightful, helpful, peaceful, war-faring?

Sounds like you have magic going on in your world, so consider the differences in their magic and how it sets them apart from each other. What do they use or not use it for? How integral is magic to their existence? Are they made of magic or just have control of it? What kinds of abilities do they have with their magic, how do those abilities differ between the two groups, and how would it impact either race to not have magic at all? How do they view each others’ magic type and use?

Your idea definitely sounds pretty neat; just remember not to over-develop what won’t be necessary on the page. Knowing the background of where they originated is great, but if you’re not going to need to explicitly state it on the page for the readers, focus instead on the aspects they will see: how they look, how they act, how they live. Use those details to communicate that these two races are different without overloading the narrative with extraneous worldbuilding that could be kept behind-the-scenes influences to the characters.

Good luck! -Pear

From Encyclopedia of Spirits: The Ultimate Guide to the Magic of Fairies, Genies, Demons, Ghosts, Gods & Goddesses by Judika Illes:

Elf:

Origin: Teutonic

Elves are mysterious Northern spirits, sometimes equated with Fairies. Like Fairies, Elves have not been cleaned up and made over to suit sanitized children’s fiction, often portrayed as miniature, whimsical busy bees: Santa’s little helpers. Originally Elves were human-sized, sometimes taller, and they were renowned archers, artisans, and healers; author J.R.R. Tolkien’s portrayal of the sacred but dangerous Elven folk in The Lord of the Rings trilogy of novels hews closer to mythic tradition.

Elves live in a realm that parallels humans. Norse myth divides the Elves into Light Elves and Dark Elves, otherwise known as Dwarves. Scholars disagree as to whether the Elves and the Vanir spirits are the same, but they are closely affiliated. The Vanir spirit Freyr is the Elven King.

Elves are beautiful, volatile spirits of wild nature. They were not trivial spirits; once upon a time, bulls were sacrificed to them. Their significance is recalled in human names like Alvin, Elvis, Elva, and Elvira. Elves feature prominently in Anglo-Saxon spells and charms, many intended to protect from the Elves themselves. A hostile relationship between Elves and people is often now presumed, but before Christianity, spiritual alliances existed between Elves and people. Once this alliance ended, embittered Elves, previously helpful, may have turned dangerous, or, conversely, people were taught to fear Elves specifically so that they would not continue Pagan devotions. In Scandinavia, however, relationships between people and Elves were generally positive.

Like Fairies, Djinn, and Bori spirits, Elves can be benevolent or hostile; some can even cause illness. Elves strike at people with the poison darts known as Elf-shot, which cause illness and malaise. They may cause paralysis or stroke, too. Elves sometimes target cattle and livestock, as well as people. Various spells, charms, and amulets serve to protect against them. Elves are sources of wisdom, fertility, and wealth (when they want to be). They love music and dancing.

Manifestation: Seductively, alluringly beautiful

Realm: Alfheim (”Elf Home”)

Plants: Elder trees, rosemary

Sacred time: Offerings are traditionally left out for Elves on Christmas Eve. Although this now appears to derive from the myth of Santa’s workshop, it may actually be related to Old Norse traditions. Yuletide was a traditional time for visitations from other realms.

Fairy:

Also known as: Faerie, Fae, Fay, Fee, Fada, Fata, Hada, Draga, Encantada, Damizelos.

The word Fairy has become a catch-all for all kinds of tenuously related spirits. In general, what they share in common are associations with wild nature and an interest in human life cycles, especially birth.

Fairy is also the standard word used to translate amorphous, volatile, sexy nature spirits from around the world, especially if they’re female. Thus Vila, Rusalka, Keshalyi, and Tunder are all referred to as Fairies although they are all distinct types of spirits.

The word Fairy is related to fate. Birth Fairies–those who arrive shortly after a birth to announce a baby’s future and fortune–may be the “true” Fairies. This is more obvious in Italian than in English: the word for Fairy in Italian is fata or fada. Fata Morgana is literally Fairy Morgana.

For many people, Fairy means the Sidhe of Ireland and the Scottish Highlands. The word is commonly used in Ireland as the English translation for Sidhe. When people describe green as a Fairy color, for instance, they are referring to the preferences of the Sidhe. (Balkan and Slavic “Fairies” tend to prefer white.)

Shamanic healers and herbalists who work with Sidhe are known as Fairy doctors. The old shamanic tradition of venerating and working with Sidhe is the Fairy Faith.

Animals: Frogs, toads, dragonflies, butterflies, cattle, deer, and foxes are among the creatures most identified with Fairies.

Plants: Wildflowers in general, but also the following plants traditionally associated with Fairies–blackthorn (sloc), bluebells, brambles, briar roses and dog roses, crocuses (especially saffron), ferns, foxglove, hawthorn, heartsease, hollyhocks, lavender, morning glories, mushrooms (especially amanita muscaria), pansies, poppies, primrose (allegedly serving as keys to Fairy Land), ragweed (aka Fairy’s Horse), rosemary.

Time: Fairies favor nocturnal hours and threshold times, for instance, twilight and dawn.

Sacred dates: Fairies are particularly active from May Eve (Beltane, Walpurgis) until a last annual fling at Halloween.

Birth Fairy:

Also known as: Fates

In the famous story Sleeping Beauty, a king and queen, celebrating the birth of a long-awaited royal heir, throw a festive banquet for Fairies. Each Fairy brings a blessing as a baby gift. One Fairy fails to receive an invitation. Why the invitation was never received depends upon the version of the story, but the inevitable end result is that she bestows a curse, not a blessing.

This scenario is no mere fairy tale, but a description of rituals once common throughout Europe in French, Slavic, Celtic, and other regions, as well as among the Roma. Birth Fairies foretell (and may bestow) a baby’s fate. They are direct descendants of the Moirae, Parcae, and other Fate goddesses.

Following a baby’s birth, it was traditional to create an offering table for these Fairies. Ritual details depend on specific spirits to whom the ritual is devoted. There will be a set number of spirits and they will arrive on schedule. Most frequently, three are anticipated, but sometimes there is only one and occasionally as many as thirteen, as in the original version of Sleeping Beauty. Usually the spirits are female, but the Roma, for instance, have male and female birth spirits.

The offering table is the crucial element. A table is laid as if for a festive meal. Fairies, the honored, desired guests, are expected to come and dine: food and drink are offered. The table is set with individual place settings, napkins, glasses, the whole works. (Each tradition will specify how many Fairies are expected, although as in Sleeping Beauty, it’s usually best to be prepared for extra guests.)

Flower Fairy:

Also known as: Devas

Tiny little winged spirits, flitting from flower to flower, these are flower Fairies. Regular Fairies compare in size to humans, although many are skilled shape-shifters who can take any form. Flower Fairies are a separate, distinct species of spirit.

Theoretically, every flower may have its own Fairy. A field of wildflowers or a lush, flower-packed backyard contains a universe of spirits. Flower Fairies’ natures reflect the type of flowers with which they’re associated. Flower Fairies associated with the beautiful blossoms of poisonous plants, like belladonna or wolfsbane, have different personalities and interests than those associated with daisies and buttercups.

Flower Fairies suffer from habitat loss. Give them a home and they will come. Plant your favorite flowers and see what types of Fairies arrive with them. In general, Fairy gardens should not be overly manicured: allow a little wilderness to creep in so that the Fairies feel at home. Give them a little room for privacy, places to hide and observe where they won’t feel exposed. Add Fairy flowers, especially bramble bushes, wild roses, and hawthorn trees. Fairies enjoy the company of other species, too. Add butterfly gardens; bird and squirrel feeders; and/or bat houses. Incorporate a source of water: if a pond or stream is unavailable, a birdbath may suit them. They may be happy to share a hot tub with you, too. Ornaments such as crystals, statues, or witch balls are equivalent of interior decorating for Fairies. Flower Fairies tend to make themselves visible to children. (Alternatively, many children are very good at seeing them.)

Iconography: Modern perceptions of Flower Fairies are heavily influenced by the popular works of Cicely Mary Barker (1895-1973), the author and illustrator of the “Flower Fairy” series of books.

Offerings: Creation and preservation of habitat is the ideal offering. Once at least a little habitat exists for them, invite Flower Fairies with offerings of honey, nuts, and thimblefuls of milk.

Sidhe; The Good People; The People Who Go Widdershins:

Pronounced and sometimes spelled: Shee

Origin: Ireland; Scottish Highlands

The Gaelic word Sidhe has three meanings: “barrow” or “tumulus”: ancient burial mounds often filled with treasure; “Fairy” or “Fairies” (the word is both singular and plural); “Fairy mound”: the sidhe are Fairies often living within the sidhe that are barrows.

When the Gaels successfully invaded Ireland, their predecessors, the divine Tuatha De Danaan were literally driven underground. They established their own parallel realms beneath the Earth. Fairy mounds are their portals. The Dagda, among the leaders of the Tuatha De Danaan assigned each member of the Tuatha De residence in a sidhe or mound. The Tuatha De Danaan became known as the Sidhe.

The key word regarding the Sidhe is beauty. They are magnificent, passionate, proud spirits who perceive themselves as worthy of veneration and intense respect: they accept (and perhaps expect!) small but consistent offerings such as dishes of milk placed out overnight on the windowsill or doorstep. There are male and female sidhe. They have an elaborately structured society that parallels that of humans.

The sidhe have an intense relationship with people, characterized by love and hostility. Once upon a time, they were the subject of passionate human veneration: hidden within fairy tales and legends are suggestions of Pagan devotion and voluntary channeling of spirits, similar to modern spiritual traditions such as African Diaspora faiths and Zar.

The Sidhe are master healers and may bestow this medical knowledge on those people they favor. So-called Fairy doctors combined herbal and shamanic healing and were trained directly by the Sidhe. On the other hand, the Sidhe also inflict illnesses like sudden tumors, stroke, and paralysis.

Sidhe stand accused of stealing humans, especially babies, children, midwives, and wet-nurses. The milk they expect as offerings may not always have been bovine; legends tell of Fairies accosting women and begging for a sip of human milk. They are generally not industrious spirits: their passions are dancing, music, poetry, and pleasure. They do raise cattle, which they sell or trade at fairs.

A ritual from the Scottish Highlands encourages bribing the Sidhe to save lives: 1. Sit on a three-legged stool at a three-way crossroads at midnight on Halloween; 2. Listen: voices will intone the names of those destined to die during the next twelve months; 3. This destiny may be avoided by returning to the spot with gifts for the Sidhe: one gift for each person whose destiny needs amending.

Color: Green

Time: Most Sidhe are active from dawn until noon and then from dusk until after midnight.

Days: The Sidhe are particularly active at Beltane (May Eve), Midsummer’s Eve, and Samhain (Halloween).

Sacred sites: Barrow mounds associated with individual sidhe are well-known. Fairy forts, also known as ring forts or stone forts, are circular earthen banks or stone walls. There were once as many as 60,000 of these circular earthworks in Ireland. Local names for them include cashel, forth, rath, or rusheen. Ring forts became known as Fairy forts because they are allegedly among the favorite haunts of Fairies. Ring forts can be physically or spiritually perilous, as many contain underground passages.

#writing #writing tips #world building #culture building #night of asking #mythical creatures #faeries #research #Anonymous #pear responds

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