#pilgrimage scheme

[indianfasttrack]

तीर्थयात्रा योजना में अल्पसंख्यकों के साथ भेदभाव

महाराष्ट्र में तीर्थ यात्रा योजना की घोषणा के साथ, राज्य सरकार ने वरिष्ठ नागरिकों को सरकार द्वारा सूचीबद्ध 139 स्थानों में से एक तीर्थ स्थल पर जाने का अवसर प्रदान किया है। जिसमें अल्पसंख्यकों के साथ भेदभाव का आरोप .. (Discrimination against minorities in Maharashtra pilgrimage scheme) इस्माईल शेखमुंबई- सामाजिक कार्यकर्ताओं ने मुख्यमंत्री तीर्थ दर्शन योजना के तहत तीर्थ स्थलों की यात्रा के लिए…

[townpostin]

65 Muslim Pilgrims Depart for Ajmer Sharif-Fatehpur Sikri-Agra

Under the Chief Minister’s Pilgrimage Scheme, 65 Muslim pilgrims from East Singhbhum set off for a seven-day pilgrimage to Ajmer Sharif, Fatehpur Sikri, and Agra. A 65-member group of Muslim pilgrims, including attendants, from East Singhbhum district departed for Ajmer Sharif, Fatehpur Sikri, and Agra under the Jharkhand government’s Chief Minister’s Pilgrimage Scheme. JAMSHEDPUR – Under the…

[reportpunjabs]

Chief Minister's Pilgrimage Scheme: A Step Towards Promoting Religious Tourism in Punjab

[gentlemean]

I present to you: The Whitegull River Symphony.

A classical symphony in four movements, inspired by @thesiltverses! The most recent episode swept me away in a river of creative inspiration, and I couldn't help but follow this stream to whatever murky depths it wanted to take me.

Creative thoughts and details beneath the cut.

The Whitegull River Symphony is written in f-Minor for a full symphonic orchestra. My rendition was created in FLStudio, using Spitfire's BBC-Symphonic-Orchestra plugin, as I am just one mediocre violinist without an entire orchestra at hand.

First Movement: River Angels, Allegro Assai

The first movement is dominated by the steady rhythm of the celli and violae, who act as the slow waves of our murky river. Among these waves, the faithful have prepared a sacrifice. Their hopeful prayers flick aross the water in the first half of the movement, and are answered by the scutteling, chittering spawn of the river in the second half.

Second Movement: Pilgrimage of the Prophet, Adagio

In the second movement, we focus entirely on our favorite little prophet (whose brilliant performance inspired me to make this. The existence of this symphony is your fault, @sassylich). He marches on through the silt with slow steps, while the clarinet plays his theme. His little schemes behind the scenes are played by the string section, the obvious warning signs are announced by the horns. Nevertheless: In the end, everyone is playing his tune.

Third Movement: The Withermark, Andante

And here we go, the river's might is unleashed. The angels of the river god approach unstoppably, drawn here by the prophet: His clarinet is setting the tune for the overwhelming wrath of the trawlerman. Nothing can stand in its way, but after the tides have calmed, new life can grow in their wake.

Fourth Movement: Katabasis, Allegro Assai

Katabasis, the descent into the depths. Nothing escapes the greedy maw of the Trawlerman, nobody can float above, untouched. All the instruments we've hear so far return, desceding into the roiling depths of the bassline. This is not a comforting or hopeful ending, this is an apocalypse.

[minamorsart]

🌌✨The Empyreal Within character designs of Lotor, Allura, and Ven'tar! I might do Honerva and Zarkon next, we'll see! This is part of an upcoming project that I am super excited about and will reveal in time!!! 💜

Explanations of the outfits below! I thought about them a LOT hehe.

18 year old Lotor: these designs I am the most pleased with! Lotor's official design in the show is very different from the rest of the Galra, which I believe is significant to him venturing further away from the precedents established by his father and cementing his own individuality. However, as an adolescent it makes sense that he would still wear Galra attire, hence the bulky armor (to make him look bigger since he is smaller than the average Galra) and red and gold colors which appear to only be worn by the royal family. I like to think that the insignia on his chest is a symbol for royalty, but is also exclusive to Lotor's identity, as no one else wears that particular insignia in the show. And despite wearing clothes specifically chosen to represent the Galra Empire, I can also picture him wanting to incorporate his own personal tastes, so there are accents of purplish-blue (as blue is part of Lotor's color scheme) and the addition of his waist cape, both of which represent his growing desire for change and independence.

Mid-20's Lotor: this is during the many years of his banishment. I imagine him hopping from planet to planet, concealing his identity as much as possible while adopting a more humble lifestyle and pursuing his passion for exploring. It is during this isolated pilgrimage that he does a lot of introspection, self-actualization, and gains self-confidence both as a man and as the Galra prince. But before that happens, the lack of identity really shows in his clothes -- lots of neutral colors (with a hint of desaturated blue), absence of any insignias or designs that would connect him to any culture, whether Galra or Altean. These clothes in particular were inspired by Jedi ponchos and Sasuke from Naruto: The Last, and perhaps are worn while Lotor is on a desert planet for a short time! And just like with his armor as seen in the show, he has started to wear gloves to cover himself up almost completely, indicating his avoidance of vulnerability and getting close to others.

Ven'tar: for her fortunately I didn't have to change much about her character design! She is Lotor's age when they meet and the only other change I made to her was to take away her big cape so that she appears younger. Since her planet and species name is not revealed in the show, I want to come up with one myself. Caelifera is the scientific name for grasshopper, so I'm thinking I could do something with that!

11 year old Lotor: this design is also taken directly from the show, so I didn't have to do much there :P The cloak he wears in the little doodle is inspired by the one adult Lotor wears in S6E4. In this case, however, it is several sizes too big for young Lotor and drags on the ground.

Allura: sadly we don't know much about Allura's life on Altea, however in S1E9 we get to see tiny snippets of different stages throughout her life and her good relationship with her father, so I used those as references! I gave her braids, short puffy sleeves, and a slightly shorter skirt to give her that innocent little princess look, and then used the colors from her dress in the show to create a cuter and more childlike aesthetic!

If you read all of that you're the best 😆🙏 I'm definitely by no means an expert in character design and have lots more to learn, but I had a lot of fun coming up with the original designs! Especially Lotor's, but no surprise there hehe. I studied many different Galra armor and clothing featured in the show worn by Lotor, Zarkon, Honerva, and Galra commanders. More than anything I just really wanted to see Lotor wearing something different for a change 😂 and then everything else took off from there!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 5: Bells Each Hour]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 5.7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @ipostwhatifeel​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @quartzs-posts​ @tclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @chainsawsangel​ @itsabby15​ @serrhaewin​ @padfooteyes​ @arcielee​ @travelingmypassion​ @what-is-originality​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @blackdreamspeaks​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @jvpit3rs​ @sarcastic-halfling-princess​ @flowerpotmage​ @ladylannisterxo​ @thelittleswanao3​ @elsolario​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @girlwith-thepearlearring​ @minttea07​ @trifoliumviridi​ @deltamoon666​ @mariahossain​ @darkenchantress​ @doingfondue​ @atherverybest​ @namelesslosers​ @skythighs​ ​

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

You’re waiting for Aemond under the hundred-year-old cedar tree at the edge of the forest, Alonzo’s most recent letter in your hands. Midnight is grazing not far away, dewy April grass trampled flat beneath her hooves, silky black tail swishing. She won’t tolerate a lead chain, so she travels the woods unimpeded; but you know she won’t run. She never does. The slender pink ivory wood box is open on the ground, your sword propped against the tree trunk. Weeks ago, you carved four dates there in Roman numerals, infinitesimal inscriptions that you periodically trace back over so they never fade. They’re the days when you lost your children. You were permitted to keep no remnants of them, no stained cloths or recorded names. They belonged less to you than to the kingdom, and you were never allowed to forget this. All you have left are these shallow marks on a cedar tree as the world wakes up again: blossoms unraveling in the palace gardens, sprigs of jade-colored herbs piercing through cool rich earth.

Mother is possessed by conspiracies, Alonzo writes, forever a touch hyperbolic; you can picture his familiar wry smile as you drink up his words like roots swallow rain. He’s your oldest brother and thus the Crown Prince of Navarre. He’s been married for six years to Ippolita of Ferrara, three healthy children so far, one a boy named for your father. She swears there is something wrong with the water there, or the air, or the wheat, the culprit changes by the day. She frets, you know. As she always has. She wonders if we should dispatch one of our own bishops to bless you, or if you should undertake a pilgrimage to some holy site to beg the Virgin Mary for healing. More than anything, I think, she misses you. Her other daughters have found happiness in their marriages, and so it is easier for her to let them go and imagine it was for the best, but you…it is a different circumstance entirely, don’t you agree? Even Father has begun reassessing the illustrious English alliance he was once so proud of. He mutters that if you are to be childless either way, you might as well be home with your family, not trapped in some far-off, gloomy, turbulent land with a degenerate husband. We’ve heard things about Prince Aegon. Father says he never would have sent you across the Bay of Biscay if he knew what waited for you there.

I suppose what I’m trying to ask is…if the Pope would grant an annulment…if Father could work out an arrangement with King Viserys and the Duke of Hightower for you to come home again…would you want to?

All my love (and plenty more from Lita and the children),

Alonzo

You shred his letter so no one else will find it, looking up at a turquoise sky cluttered with fleecy white clouds, the same sky that stretches eastward to Navarre and beyond. You can’t go home; it would be a surrender, it would mean giving up any hope of a grander future. And it would mean giving up Aemond too. He’s not yours, but you can’t lose him. You feel like you can’t breathe every time you think of it. And there’s another reason why you can’t consider trying to dissolve your marriage. Not yet, anyway.

You rest your palms on your belly, vulnerable flesh beneath emerald-green silk, still at least a month away from starting to show. It’s early, very early, but by now you know the signs as well as the sounds of horses, the feel of the hilt of a sword in your grasp. It is your fifth attempt in less than two years. You have no reason to believe that this time will be different, that it will end in joy and triumph instead of ruin. Still, you suppose that anything is possible. It would be traitorous not to hope, wouldn’t it?

At last Aemond and Vhagar appear, galloping across the field to meet you at the edge of the forest. He’s in the saddle with his hair flying like a white banner, the buckles on his tunic glinting in the sun. You smile until he is close enough for you to read his face: tension, vexation, thinly-veiled ire. He dismounts in one fluid motion and Vhagar moseys away to graze beside Midnight, her enormous hooves clomping, dandelions and clovers leveled like fields at harvest.

“When were you going to tell me?” Aemond demands. He comes so close he fills your vision, your air; your lungs draw in smoke and leather, work and skill, every thread of muscle fought for. “After everything, I had to overhear it from the gossip of servants?”

Oh. Oh. “I hadn’t decided how yet. I was trying not to hurt you.”

“I’m hurt that you kept it from me.”

“Aemond…” You hesitate. There’s no delicate way to say this. “I didn’t want you to have to think about that part.” His brother on top of you, inside of you, melding with you to create a new heartbeat.

“I already think about it,” Aemond replies, sharp and stabbing like thorns. “I think about it all the goddamn time.”

Now your voice is bitter too. “Well, soon it will be my turn to be so afflicted, right?”

He quiets and retreats a few steps, rubbing his face with his hands. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen him do that before. He looks genuinely rattled, pained, remorseful. Kunigunde, the lone surviving daughter of Frederick III, will arrive in London any day now. Sometimes you find yourself wishing that her ship would sink to the bottom of the ocean or that some last-minute diplomatic squabble would go unresolved and she would be returned untouched to the Continent…but to what avail? Aemond will have to marry somebody. You cannot seem to produce a son, Nico won’t even be able to start trying until her wedding in August. The Greens need more heirs, more allies. And no ally could be more beneficial to their cause than the Holy Roman Empire. You should recognize the momentous advantage in this match. Instead, all you can think about is Aemond lying with another woman and memorizing the secrets of her body until they begin showing up in his poems, hips and wrists and the bumps of her spine.

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says gently. “I don’t want to argue with you. You’re not at fault for any of this. You’re not who I’m really mad at.”

“It’s alright. I understand.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit tired, a bit nauseous. Nothing new.”

“Good. But that’s not what I meant.”

You look at him as you stand in the shade together under the vast cedar tree. “I don’t feel anything,” you confess, words you could not share with anyone else. They would think you were in need of an elixir or a prayer or an exorcism. “I don’t feel happy, I don’t feel anxious, I don’t feel excited or afraid or hopeful. I want to be hopeful, it is my obligation to be hopeful, but I’m not. I don’t feel anything anymore. This has happened too many times already. Or maybe I’m just broken in spirit as well as in body.”

“You aren’t broken at all.”

You smile bleakly. “That’s kind, but I don’t think it’s true.”

“Believe me, I’d know. Brokenness and I are well-acquainted.”

And you wonder before you can stop yourself: What does he look like under his eyepatch? How exactly did it happen? Does it still pain him, does it enrage him? Does it make his hands ache for vengeance?

He asks: “What can I do?”

You get your sword from where it’s propped against the tree and twirl it once. “Distract me.”

“Gladly.” Aemond glides his blade out of its scabbard and lunges. You parry and strike him lightly across the back. Then you swiftly retreat, waiting for his riposte, on guard.

“I always wanted children, you know,” you say. “Not just because it was required of me. I grew up in a castle that was loud and full of footsteps. My mother was eternally playing with us, reading to us, tending to us. I imagined the same for myself. I craved it.”

“You’ll have children,” Aemond insists, forever so sure of something that feels impossible.

“You should have been the heir. Maybe this is how it happens. I’ll remain childless and Aegon will drink himself to death, and then you and your sons with Kunigunde will inherit the throne.”

He swings and you block, his blade clashing with yours once, twice, again, driving you backwards until you are pinned against the cedar tree. “I don’t want it that way,” Aemond pants from the effort, your swords locked together above your heads. “Not if it requires your sacrifice.”

You gaze up at him as his eye rakes over you; you’re close enough to kiss if you dared to. But you want much more than that. You want his long hair knotted in your fists, you want his hands on your bare skin, you want his tongue and his heat and his moans. But you have to be careful, so very careful. To be discovered sparring would be bad, but to be branded as adulterers would be far, far worse. For Aemond it would likely mean banishment. For you it would mean death by beheading or burning; only the king could commute the sentence. Rhaenyra would not persuade him to have mercy. And hers is the only voice you are confident Viserys would hear.

“Ivy,” Aemond whispers, a name that only he will ever call you. For a second, and only one, his palm skates weightlessly down your belly. You hear the distant chimes of the Tower of London, bells each hour, and it’s strange how so much time can pass without changing the heart at all. “I wish everything was different. I wish it was mine and you were too.”

And then he retreats in several long strides and waits for you to collect yourself so you can thrust at him with your blade again.

An hour later, Aemond helps you to rebury your sword—you’ve taken to keeping the pink ivory box in a shallow grave under the cedar tree so no one spies you ferrying it to and from Westminster Palace—and then accompanies you back inside once the horses are returned to the royal stables. He is mindful not to appear too familiar within sight of the court, but there are small gestures that he cannot seem to purge himself of: a hand on the curve of your back as you ascend stairs, shoulders and elbows that push others away if they inadvertently jostle you, glances to decipher the mood of your face. He signals to a servant and they scuttle over to bring you a cup of apple cider, cool and crisp and sweet.

“Where in God’s name have you been?!” the Duke of Hightower scolds you from across the hall, departing from a conversation with the Montford patriarchs. They wear serene, confident smiles. They’ve named Joanna’s white-haired bastard Aegon—not very subtle—and are basking in their recent procurement of titles, land, and influence. Already you’ve overheard the idea proposed, more than once and by various nobles: your marriage could be annulled, Joanna wed to Prince Aegon in your place, her son retroactively legitimized. The plan is certainly not without its own obstacles, but the Duke seems to be intrigued by it. Your husband will not entertain putting you aside. When the notion surfaces in his presence—like a shimmering fish from the depths of a pond—Aegon walks right out of the room.

You reply, with practiced innocence: “Just outside strolling through the gardens, Your Grace. The weather is lovely—”

“You shouldn’t be strolling anywhere. Not inside, not outside, not even to the chapel to beg God for the long-overdue deliverance of a son. You should be in bed.”

“Grandsire,” Aemond says. “Surely she cannot be expected to live as a prisoner.”

“She will live in whatever manner gives us the greatest chance of an heir. She may not be a prisoner, but she is a princess and a wife, and sometimes the requirements of these stations are not as divergent as you might believe.”

Aemond’s face goes dark, goes defiant. “You cannot put it all on her shoulders.”

The Duke of Hightower grins arrogantly; he’s caught him in the perfect trap. “But it’s not all on her, Prince Aemond. Within a week you’ll be sharing that burden. Making it lighter, even.”

Aemond glares at the Duke and says nothing.

“You will be married as soon as Kunigunde arrives. Within two days, mark my words. You’ll begin trying for a son in April, Nico in August. Now we have no heirs. But by this time next year we could have three! Isn’t that a happy thought?” And he marches away to resume his scheming, still smiling about it.

Aemond walks you to your rooms and stays there with you. You embroider pillows as he reads to you—a book about Aegon I’s Conquest in 1066—in a voice that is soft and low and secretive. Nico and Daeron join you both for dinner, and then you and Aemond are alone again. It’s wonderous and yet excruciatingly painful, profoundly unwise and yet necessary. You never speak of the night when he touched you beneath your nightgown, but it’s always there between you, a ghost that flutters curtains and creaks open doors trying to get your attention. You’re playing Tric-Trac on the bearskin rug, the fire dying down, when your husband reels drunkenly into your bedchamber.

“Aegon?” you say, startled. Aemond immediately moves away from you, at first just withdrawing to the other end of the rug and then rising to his feet as his brother continues to approach. You aren’t sure what he could want; it is recommended that pregnant women not lie with their husbands, and you’ll gladly take any excuse available to you. He must have forgotten at some point during his fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth cup of wine. “While I’m with child, I can’t—”

“I know, I know. I remember.” Aegon falls down onto the bearskin rug and slings his arms around your waist, burrowing into you. He rests his head on your chest, white-blond hair unruly and tangled. After a moment—long enough to recover from the shock of it—you hold him, tolerantly and sympathetically, like a wife should. Aemond leaves the room, river-blue eye downcast. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice. He sighs contently as you run your fingers through his hair, as your palms trace his back over his plain white shirt. There are red splotches on it, some of them wine, some blood; there are tacky streaks of it around his nose. He’s never done this before. He’s never sought you out for contact that was pure like this, without directives, without prizes to be won.

“Aegon?” you ask after a while.

“Yes, wife?”

“What exactly happened to Aemond’s eye?”

“My fault,” he murmurs drowsily. “He and I were supposed to be practicing our sword fighting with Sir Criston. Aemond was in the courtyard, exactly where he was supposed to be, and I was hiding in a stairwell somewhere guzzling wine, trying to forget who I was. Sir Criston went looking for me and while he was gone, they found Aemond. Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena. Four against one. I don’t know much about math, but that doesn’t sound even to me. Aemond was a lot smaller then. He hadn’t gotten tough and mean yet. I’ve never been clear on who said what first, but eventually he was calling Rhaenyra’s sons bastards and they were calling him a worthless spare, unnecessary and unloved, at least in the king’s eyes. Neither of them were wrong, by the way. Aemond grabbed a rock. Luke had a knife. By the time Sir Criston returned with me in tow, it was over. I remember watching the physicians stitch up Aemond’s face, using tweezers and spoons to clean out the pieces of gelatinous flesh from his eye socket. Father did nothing about it. He cared more about Aemond calling Jace and Luke bastards than the fact that he was half-blinded for life. Aemond started wearing a sapphire in the socket once it finally healed. He still does, as far as I know, though I haven’t seen him without his eyepatch in years. It’s a reference to some folktale about a warrior with two sapphire eyes. Some metaphor I couldn’t appreciate. I think my tutors once tried to make me read that story and I never did.”

You are sickened by grief, revulsion, fury. He was just a boy. A boy who had been neglected and ignored and brutalized, and his own father couldn’t care less. A boy who learned to idolize fictional heroes in the absence of real ones. “Yes,” you reply weakly. “That sounds like something Aemond would do.”

“All my fault,” Aegon says again, clutching you tighter.

“I’m sure he knows you didn’t mean him any harm.”

“He’s disgusted by me. They all are. Because I’m not suited to be king and never will be.” His voice is clotted with wine, shame, self-loathing. “I never asked to be built of disappointments. I didn’t choose to be this way.”

“You’ll make a fine king, Aegon,” you tell him, because you’re supposed to.

“Do you think I’m the cause of our losses?” he asks suddenly, and you think: Our losses, not mine. He called them ours. “You conceive easily. I can have children with others. Neither of us seem to be defective in body. But perhaps I have inflicted great stress upon you with my indiscretions. My drinking, my sloth, my affairs. I did not think I was hurting you. I did not think of much beyond myself at all, to be perfectly honest. But it was horrible to see you that way. At Christmas. So bereft, so wounded. You’ve suffered so much here. You deserve the consolation that children would bring you.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, shorter than any other grown Targaryen’s; he doesn’t want their name, their legacy, their looming war. “I don’t think you had anything to do with the miscarriages. I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“I want to be better this time,” he says, peering hazily up at you and placing one hand protectively over your belly. “A better husband, a better man. For both of you.”

You wish you could feel relief, feel joy, even a whisper of it. Instead, all you can think about is Aemond: his face, his voice, his hands. If I have to watch him touch another woman, I’ll never be able to get it out of my mind. If I have to watch him fall in love with her, it will kill me.

“Maybe it would have been different if we had met somewhere else,” Aegon says dreamily.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere very far away.”

His eyes dip shut and you stare into the dying embers of the fireplace: red like lust, like blood, like the flag of Navarre.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the next morning, and you’ve escaped as far as Nico’s rooms. She has what seems like hundreds of swatches of fabric strewn across a table, silk and velvet and linen.

“What do you think of this one?” she asks nervously, holding a scrap of butter-yellow silk to the bare skin of her upper chest. “It’s not really my best color. But the Duke of Hightower suggested I wear a yellow wedding dress. The flag of Milan has a great deal of yellow, you know. I don’t think he wants anyone to forget where I’m from. Or all the wealth and soldiers I’m bringing to his side.”

“How romantic,” you tease, smiling. “Doesn’t your flag also have a giant, murderous blue snake on it? Perhaps you could dress as one of those. We’ll sew you a nice long tail.”

Nico bursts out laughing, far too boisterously, as usual. “That would certainly get Daeron’s blood running hot, wouldn’t it?” Now she frowns down at the table fretfully. “I so want him to be pleased with me. I want him to remember how I looked that day for the rest of his life.”

How did you look on the day you married Aegon? Miserable, probably. Lonely. Empty. Nico will never have to feel that way. You’re happy for her; but it makes your own predicament louder somehow. “It’s your wedding day,” you tell her. “Wear what you like. What you feel most beautiful in. You can dress in yellow for Aemond’s wedding. The Emperor’s flag is yellow. I’m sure Kunigunde would appreciate that. You’ll make a marvelous first impression.”

“Brilliant!” Nico grins, assuaged. Then her eyes flick to the doorway. “Oh, hello there, Prince Aemond. Have you come to help with the wedding planning? We’re choosing flowers next.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much acumen in that realm. But do let me know when you begin discussing cakes.” He stares at you expectedly, arms crossed, lurking like a shadow. There is a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Go on,” Nico prompts you, tittering anxiously. “We can continue this later. I’m supposed to be meeting Daeron for lunch soon anyway.”

You bid some goodbye to Nico that you’re barely aware of. Then you meet Aemond in the doorway, feeling very much like someone caught in a mistake, a lie, a trap. He turns away without a word and you follow him through the winding halls, colored by aisles of midday light and the tolling of distant bells. “Aemond…?”

“I’m thrilled to hear how well you’re getting along with your husband. He stayed all night, from what I gather. The servants are buzzing with it. The Montfords are licking their wounds.”

“Are you delusional enough to believe that I have any say at all in where he spends his time—?”

“I saw you,” Aemond snaps viciously. “You weren’t just being civil. You comforted him, you had your hands all over him—”

You grab Aemond by the front of his tunic and yank him in close so you can hiss: “And where are your hands going to be once you marry the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter? I have a few ideas. Would you like to confirm them? And things besides your hands as well, I imagine.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he flings, ripping away from you. You dash after him through empty hallways; he’s headed to your rooms, to a place where you will have relative privacy.

“What do you want from me?!” you whisper fiercely, burying it in him like a knife. “You expect me to sabotage my entire life, to reject my husband and neglect my responsibilities so that you never have to be inconvenienced, so that you never have to experience any pain—!”

“Pain?! That’s a kind word for it, it’s agony, it’s fucking impossible—”

Aemond throws open the door to your rooms. Inside, a servant is fixing you a cup of apple cider…and sprinkling the contents of a tiny silk pouch into it. When he sees you and Aemond, he shoves the pouch into his shirt and scurries away.

“Wait!” Aemond commands. The servant starts sprinting. “Don’t drink that,” Aemond tells you, pointing at the cup, then takes off after the servant. He catches him in your bedchamber, hurls him against a wall, and snatches the pouch from inside his shirt. “What the hell is this?”

“Nothing, Your Royal Highness. Just spices from the kitchen.” But his words spill out in a stammer and sweat pours from his reddening face.

Keeping the servant pinned to the wall with one hand, Aemond pitches the silk pouch to you. A servant shouldn’t have anything silk at all; it’s too expensive, too rare. “Do you recognize that?” he asks you.

Inside is a fine, powdery dust of a dried herb, dotted with shriveled purple blossoms. It smells vaguely of mint. “I don’t.”

Aemond drags the servant out of your rooms and into the hallways. The man is openly struggling now, mewing and slapping at his jailer’s face and hands. Aemond takes no notice of this. He is calling for guards, for physicians. A pack of inquiring spectators materialize around him: Nico, Daeron, Alicent, Sir Criston Cole, many other supporters of the Greens. Aemond does not stop until he reaches the Great Hall, where King Viserys is holding an audience with Rhaenyra, Daemon, and their children, bouncing little Visenya on his knee as she giggles. The violins screech to a halt when you and Aemond enter the room. He throws the servant violently to the floor.

“Good afternoon, Aemond,” the king says with moderate interest, still looking at Visenya.

The Duke of Hightower storms into the Great Hall. “What is going on in here?!” His steely eyes flit from Aemond to the servant sprawled on the floor to the king, back to Aemond. “What’s happened?”

“This man was putting something in the princess’s cider. An herb of some sort. I want it identified.”

“An herb?” King Viserys says blandly. “Have you asked the servant himself? Surely there is a logical explanation—”

“I want it identified,” Aemond repeats. “Now.”

There is chatter from the observers, which is exactly what Aemond needs. They serve as witnesses, as assurance that his accusations will be heard. You wonder where Aegon is; drunk and oblivious somewhere, probably.

“Very well,” the king relents, and waves to a guard. “Fetch a physician.” Then he barks at the crowd: “Out, vultures! All of you! Everyone except family!” The Green-affiliated courtiers reluctantly disperse; Nico goes to leave with them, but Daeron grasps her hand. Alicent clings to Sir Criston. Rhaenyra has Visenya, Viserys II, Aegon III, and Joffrey taken back to the nursery.

The Duke of Hightower glowers at the silk pouch. “Let me see.” You give it to him, and he opens it and sniffs. His forehead crinkles. “I can’t discern this.”

Daemon drifts close to you, clipping by like a comet. “Do you think wearing Green all the time now will miraculously make you one of them? Not until you’ve paid your debts, I think. And women have been known to die in childbirth. Just ask our dear Alicent over there. She owes all her…” His mouth twists cruelly around the word. “Fortune to the late Queen Aemma.”

“It is so wise of you to always dress for a funeral, Prince Daemon,” you say. “You’ll be prepared for your own when it imminently arrives.”

Daemon’s grin doesn’t disappear, but it turns harder, more jagged.

“This is terribly overblown, I’m sure,” the king says, then pauses to cough into his sleeve. He’s been nursing the same chill since January, one that ebbs and flows but never dies. “It’s all just a misunderstanding…”

Queen Alicent gestures to the pouch. “Might I see that, Father?” The Duke passes it to her. She opens the pouch and shakes some of its contents into her cupped palm.

“This is utter paranoia,” Rhaenyra complains, keeping Jace and Luke close to her; but she steals an uneasy glimpse of Daemon.

“They’re always so eager to cast themselves as victims, aren’t they, Mother?” Jace says.

Daeron shouts back: “And you’re always eager to cast yourselves as people who would happily stab someone’s eye out!”

“He slandered us!” Jace cries. “It was self-defense!”

“It was inches away from being murder!”

“And isn’t that the proper punishment for treason?” Baela says smugly. “To lose one’s life?”

“You’re about to lose your fucking life!” Daeron dives for her. Baela howls and scratches at him as Sir Criston leaps in to try to untangle them. Daemon grabs Daeron by the throat and lifts him off the ground; Daeron’s feet kick wildly, his face turning blue. Sir Criston draws his sword. Nico races into the melee, slamming both palms into Daemon’s chest with such force that she stuns him enough to drop Daeron, who falls gasping to the floor. Sir Criston drags him to safety. People are yelling, launching accusations and swears. The king is doubled over hacking.

“You bitch,” Daemon growls at Nico, and rips his sword from its scabbard as he towers over her.

Without thinking, you rush to defend Nico. Aemond’s arms close around you and pull you back. He murmurs through your hair as you battle him: “No, no, no, no.” And then you remember. The baby. I can’t do anything to hurt the baby. And you feel a sudden, overwhelming longing to protect this life, to meet this child, an attachment you didn’t think you were capable of experiencing again.

“I know what this is,” Alicent says softly, and everyone quiets and turns to her. Her face is dazed, appalled. Her hand holding the crumble of dried herbs is trembling. “It’s pennyroyal.”

No one moves, no one speaks. The silence is deafening. And it’s no wonder why none of the men could identify it in its medicinal state, why you couldn’t. You’ve never had need of a plant known to encourage a woman’s monthly blood. Since you’ve arrived in England, you’ve bled far too much. All those months of longing, hope, loss. All those taunts and whispers and rebukes and pieces of fruitless advice.

When the words finally tumble from your lips, they are faint and very small, almost childlike. “It wasn’t my fault?”

Aemond releases you and tears his sword free, holding it to the petrified servant’s throat. “I want him dead,” Aemond seethes, wrath like wildfire, like Plague. “I want him drawn and quartered, I want him awake when they disembowel him, I want him to feel everything. But first I want him racked until he reveals who paid him to commit this barbarism. I want to listen as his bones rip from their sockets.” He turns to Daemon, his blue eye blazing, manic. “And I suspect I know whose name he’ll scream at the end.”

“This is a baseless accusation!” Daemon snarls derisively.

“Dear God,” the Duke of Hightower says, gazing at you in guilt-laden horror. His hands come up to cover his gaping mouth.

“Do you have any proof that Daemon is responsible?” the king asks Aemond.

“Viserys,” the Duke says incredulously. “Prince Daemon has threatened her more times than I could ever count, he has incessantly abused and provoked her, he is her most notorious enemy—”

“There’s no proof,” Rhaenyra says, looking to the king. “You hear them, don’t you, Father? They have insults but no proof. They mean to use this treachery as an opportunity to destroy us.”

“He’s been paid by someone!” Aemond explodes, jabbing the tip of his blade against the whimpering man’s throat until he bleeds. “He’s been recruited! Why would a servant take it upon himself to poison a princess, to risk his livelihood, his life? Why would he have a pouch made of silk to carry his lethal herbs around in? He’s been roped into a conspiracy, and who else would have cause to murder her children in the womb, who else would dare?!”

“There’s no proof,” Daemon says again, and they all join him in a chorus, Rhaenyra, Jace, Luke, Baela, Rhaena: no proof, no proof, no proof.

The king shakes his head at Aemond. “Your lifelong hatred for Rhaenyra’s branch of the family has blinded you—”

“They could have killed her!” Aemond thunders, and there are tears of raw fury gleaming in his eyes. “Don’t you understand?! It wasn’t just the pregnancies, she could have hemorrhaged, she could have died, they risked her life to try to keep Aegon from the throne—”

“The throne will never be Aegon’s.”

“God Almighty, Viserys, that’s not the point,” the Duke says. “If this is true…it would be a most unforgiveable sin. It would be treason. It must be investigated.”

“I simply cannot see any proof being offered here.” The king dissolves into another coughing fit.

“You had no wrath when my eye was taken from me, Father,” Aemond says. “You felt no obligation to protect your son or your wife from the bloody consequences of Rhaenyra’s pride. All those years ago you let her believe she was invincible and now we are all forced to reap the aftermath. Surely you must feel outrage for the grandchildren this has cost you, for the inhuman crimes committed against the princess. She is your family, Father. Aegon is your family. I am your family. Don’t you recognize us at all?”

Daemon stalks towards him like a wolf, each step slow and calculated. “She’s your brother’s wife, Aemond. Not yours.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh, haven’t you?” A hellish grin lights up Daemon’s face like the red flush of fever. “Tell me, how did it feel lying awake all those nights, staring up at the ceiling in your cold, lonely bed, knowing that your worthless brother was sinking himself into her again, and again, and again, and all that time he didn’t…even…appreciate it?”

Something breaks in Aemond, something cracks his atmosphere in two like lightning. He lunges at Daemon with his sword, roaring, swinging, stabbing. Their blades clang over and over again, shrieks of metal that echo through the Great Hall. The Duke of Hightower is bellowing, and Rhaenyra is screaming, and Alicent and Nico and all the children are too, everyone understanding that this could just as easily kill one as the other; Sir Criston is trying to help Aemond beat back Daemon, but the blows are so ferocious and swift that he has trouble keeping up with them. The Duke shouts for the guards and they flood in, a dozen men in full armor at last separating the two warriors like continents splitting apart. The king is rasping as he struggles to catch his breath. You are the only one who doesn’t make a sound. In your skull circles the same refrain like the ring of a full moon, like the cyclic chiming of bells: They did this to me. They did this to me. They did this to me.

In the midst of the chaos, the king lurches off his throne and collapses to the floor. Blacks and Greens alike descend upon him. Daemon cradles him in his arms, Alicent is sobbing, the Duke of Hightower is feeling the temperature of the king’s face and neck, Daeron is franticly trying to rouse him.

And even as he plummets into unconsciousness from which he will never recover, the king reaches only for Rhaenyra.

[txttletale]

bundletober #8: nasty, brutish, and long

welcome to bundletober, the txttletale dot tumblr dot com ttrpg blogging indulgence that absolutely everyone. is talking about? yes! today i read a slightly longer game than most of the ones i've been talking about here, because, frankly, it captivated me. nasty brutish, and long, by not writing, is a game about rebellion.

what instantly drew me into this game is that 'rebellion' isn't abstract and it doesn't happen for no reason. a lot of games like to style themselvs as being 'about rebellion' or 'about revolution', with no actual desire to engage in why revolutions happen--there's an evil empire and you're fighting it because it's evil. but nasty, brutish, and long is clearly deeply invested in questions of class and economics--part of the first session asks you to consider the economic state of the nation:

and yet another part gives you a 36-item table to roll on for an inciting incident for the revolution in question:

i love this shit--well, firstly, because i love games that give you strong plot hooks, games that tell you about their world, games that imply possibilities through options rather than grabbing your lapels and telling you what possibilities are on the table in tedious monologue. but second because this shows that the game wants to tell stories about the realities of revolution, that it is founding itself in history as more than just an aesthetic.

another really cool thing that happens before you even get out of character creation is 'backgrounds' -- as part of creating your character, you select four backgrounds (professions your character has worked), which are separated by social class (another choice you make at character creation). while you can always choose, the game encourages you to roll on yet more tables and make a story from that--i've done it a few times, and it's great fun.

for example, in the course of writing this post i created geoffrey--born a rural peasant class, he was taken in under the wing of a preacher after his family died. the preacher recognizes his potential and groomed him to be his successor--when the preacher eventually passed away, geoffrey, who'd always been a confident silvertongued lad, became his rural township's pastor. however, although he was convincing, he'd never been a true believer--so while when on a pilgrimage a merchant approached him with a simple scheme, using the legal immunity afforded to pilgrims to have him smuggle contraband into the country, he happily became a smuggler. this worked out great for a while, and saw geoffrey make a very tidy sum--but after a particularly close call he realized that he needed to get the hell out of this arrangement. with the sum of his ill-gotten gains, he travelled to a city and purchased a bookstore, becoming a middle class shop owner. he happily lived out the next few decades selling books--but at heart, he missed the fire of a sermon, having the ear of a crowd, so in his late years he passed his shop on to his son and became an elderly teacher, bringing literacy to the village of his youth.

this is exactly the kind of thing i fucking love about tabletop roleplaying games, the feeling that the game is chiming in with me as i try to tell a story, throwing me these weird curveballs i have to 'yes, and!' to create a backstory i'd never have thought of on a million years on my own. something else worth noting is that character creation is very open for a forged in the dark game -- you're unlkely to even have the same set of attributes as someone else, and you can pick backgrounds and abilities (mostly) totally independent of one another or any overarching playbook-type restriction.

the game itself diverges from blades in a lot of interesting ways. instead of blades' system of looking for the highest die, nasty, brutish, and long operates on a die pool system, which is what allows for it to add a large pile of levers for influencing rolls, including using multiple attributes for the same roll--there seems to be some OSR influence in here, with the open-endedness of the actual moment to moment gameplay and the vast amount of opportunities to use and exchange in-game resources. that said, unlike OSR stuff, there's a lot of effort being put in here to hand narrative control to players. instead of just saying 'you succeed' on a success, it says, 'the PC narrates what happens' which is a really cool spin on the usual success/mixed success/failure trifecta. players also get the ability to make up NPCs by expending resources, which is super cool.

other highlights include a take on burning wheel's drives system, a weird version of blades' resist mechanic that lets you change, rather than avert, the consequence your character faces, and a take on 'downtime' that frames it as more of a timeskip, during which years can pass. it's pretty cool stuff.

oh, and finally--the fucking style of this game is incredible. it does a lot with very little colour--a few splashes of dark red here and there is all it needs to complement its striking black and white, rich sense of texture, and

if there's one thing i don't like about nasty, brutish, and long, it's that it doesn't have any strong ideas about what the players need to be doing. the game establishes social turmoil and brewing revolution, makes a huge point of social class and class differences, but the verbs, the substance of what your player characters do, is deliberately left totally open. and that's cool for some people, some people like that openness a lot! but for me, who appreciates a tight and specific design, it doesn't do much. the tagline says its 'an game about class and revolution'--and i'm not sure i can fully agree with that. it'd be more accurate to call it a game 'containing class and revolution'. which is a step up from a lot of games that claim to be revolutionary, as i said before--but at the end of the day leaves me feeling like something's been left on the table.

still, there's a huge amount here worth checking out--even if you don't intend on playing it, it's a great look into the different directions you can take the forged in the dark framework, and a great tool for Making Up Guys. can't go wrong with making up a guy!

nasty, brutish, and long can be purchased as a digital download through itch.io

[cognitivejustice]

With hundreds of highly prized species, bird tourism is thriving in the country – and farmers are increasingly turning their land into nature reserves

“Wildlife tourism is far more profitable than farming but that’s not the only reason we made the change,” says Ajila’s son, Luis Jr. “We wanted to save not just the umbrellabird, but all the special creatures here, and safeguard them for future generations.”

Projects such as this are eligible for funding from the Ecuadorian government. Launched in 2008, the Socio Bosque scheme offers “the poorest private and communal forest landowners annual payments for each hectare of forest cover maintained”, with sums of between $30 (£23) and $60 a hectare.

The Ajila family: Luis Jr, Alejandra and Luis Sr. Photograph: Dr Stephen Moss

But the income provided by birders alone has been enough to propel some farmers to take up the nature reserve model.A few years ago, Favián Luna decided to convert his 120-hectare tomato farm in the Tandayapa Valley, north-west of Quito, into a cloud-forest reserve and lodge called Alambi Reserve. Visitors go to photograph many species of hummingbirds, including the Andean emerald, native to the Chocó bioregion of the Ecuadorian Andes.

Nearby, at Mashpi Amagusa, former farmers Doris Villalbaand Sergio Basantes have created a reserve, lodge and garden, which attracts 260 species of sought-after birds. Highlights include glistening-green, flame-faced and beryl-spangled tanagers, and the rare, endemic rose-faced parrot.

At Finca La Victoriana in Pichincha, the owner Jacqui bought the house and land, and began to reforest the site while growing crops to feed herself. But during lockdown, when she was stuck in nearby Quito, all her crops were stolen. She was saved from having to sell up by a visiting friend, who heard an unusual sound from lower down the valley and realised this was one of South America’s most charismatic birds: the Andean cock-of-the-rock.

Male Andean cocks-of-the-rock (Rupicola peruvianus) lekking to attract a mate. Photograph: Jiri Hrebicek/Alamy

Since 2005, Ángel Paz and his younger brother Rodrigo have transformed their former dairy farm in Mindo into a bird reserve. At first, things didn’t go to plan: it took a month for the first visitor to arrive, and he paid just $10 for a four-hour tour. Since then, however, thousands of people have made the pilgrimage.

[sapphirepastries]

Octopath Traveler Yuu and Dorm Leader Stories

by stories, i mean what has each of them go on their respective journeys. im replaying octopath traveler 2 again, and i figured i might as well get some sort of solid base for each of the twst traveler's stories xD

riddle's story would most likely be about him chasing down a criminal. as the hunter, he brings order to both the forest and the town. i'll probably have his starting town either be in the leaflands or toto'haha. the criminal could be disturbing the ecosystem wherever they go, and riddle will have none of that. it's the duty of a hunter to keep the ecosystem balanced, to take only what you need

leona's story will be about taking his kingdom back, like hikari. farena has been usurped by a scheming court official and cheka's whereabouts are unknown after the coup. his starting town will be in hinouema. he lost everything and became a thief, planning to one day take back his home

azul's story is about him expanding his business. he's a successful merchant, but on his journey, he'll learn what it means to be a true merchant. kinda going the opposite direction of partitio's story in which a successful merchant will see just how important it is to share and share alike. his starting town will probably be in the brightlands or harborlands

kalim's story is basically the same as agnea's only he's doing it undercover because he's the son of a very wealthy noble family that's comparable to the rondwell family and roque brilliante. his story will differ in the fact that people are looking to take him down both in the world of dancing and in the world of nobles by any means necessary. if azul's starting town is in the brightlands then kalim will be in the harborlands

vil's story will be about finding the source of a poison. he's a traveling apothecary who happened to stumble upon a case of mysterious poisonings. this story might change, but this is what i got for now. his starting town will most definitely be in the winterlands because snow white xD

idia's story will start when ortho forces him to go out and see the world. im not entirely sure what his journey will be though. maybe something like cyrus's story where he'll have to find a missing something. or maybe he gets caught up in something and now he has to go find the mastermind. if riddle is in toto'haha, then idia will be in the leaflands which is ironic because he has not touched grass lol

malleus's story will also be about him seeing the world. im also not too sure what he will do, but i think it would be like a journey to understand people and how to be a good ruler. his starting town will be in the wildlands

finally, yuu's story will probably be similar to temenos's or maybe it'll be more like ophilia's in that its a pilgrimage. maybe going around and teaching about the sacred flame? like a traveling cleric or something. she could encounter people from the moonshade order which would be the beginning of her journey. her starting town is, of course, in the crestlands

and the big question with probably the most obvious answer: who's the protagonist? it's yuu, of course. and the order in which she finds her fellow travelers will be the same order you encounter each dorm in twisted wonderland. so we start off with riddle, then leona, then azul, and so on and so forth.

[jesncin]

Sons of Mars refs and nods pt1

I put a lot of references into Sons of Mars and I thought it'd be fun to have a post detailing all the nods and research from the comics there are!

The title is a spin on the Martian Manhunter solo (written by John Ostrander and drawn by Tom Mandrake) collection title.

We pulled the idea of J'onn and Ma'al going on a pilgrimage as a form of revisiting their origin story from the first issue of the "Son of Mars" collection, Pilgrimage. This line is lifted more or less from the comic (we even wanted J'onn to be talking to Clark like he does in the source material).

Double Stuff the cat is from Action Comics #1037 Martian Manhunter: A Face In The Crowd (written by Shawn Aldridge and art by Adrianna Melo)

This line about memories being passed down as a form of history is from In my Life (pt 1) (written by Ostrander, drawn by Eduardo Barreto). We pulled most of J'onn and Ma'al's relationship from this comic, since it goes into a lot of detail about their origin.

The general look of Mars (from the martians to the environments) largely pull from Martian Manhunter 2019: Identity (written by Steve Orlando with art by Riley Rossmo). I really like that they clearly took their time to develop a unique visual language for Mars, especially the organic look of the buildings and the fun shapes of the spaceships. Rossmo does not get enough credit for creating such a fresh take on not only the environments but the martians as well! All the martians look unique and have different outfits, which we wanted to do as well!

Our only rule for the environment was that we didn't want any pyramids. Because ancient astronaut theory is racist garbo and I don't want it in my Martian worldbuilding!

This page with Sha'sheen and M'yrnn is a direct homage to their page from In my Life. Idk how it happened but the parents look very t4t in our version lol

Another homage to In my Life. I wanted to imitate the color scheme and the martian outfits here too.

More In my Life homages! This time it's the manhunter training montage.

Telescope romance scene is from MM 2019: Identity! The color scheme and the vibes were already great, I didn't change much haha. M'yri'ah's characterization, J'onn geeking out about other planets, and J'onn's parents' disapproval of M'yri'ah as a partner are all from Identity. I really liked how that story fleshed her out as a character.

I also based M'yri'ah's design off of her Identity true and public forms. I went for less pixar-mom hourglass shape and more buff and built since she's a fighter in our version. We wanted her to be as much a renaissance man as J'onn is often depicted as.

M'yri'ah refers to Earth as Thu'ulc'andra and Mars is referred to as Ma'aleca'andra in our comic. This is a continuation of Ostrander referencing CS Lewis' Space Trilogy for how martians named other planets. However! In Ostrander's version he named earth Per'elandra, which is what Venus is referred to in the Space trilogy. This was later changed via community poll by Orlando for Identity.

Kind of a homage to In my Life (pt3): Earthfall, but really I found an opportunity to continue the tradition of showcasing martian boinking that always happens in J'onn's origin story for some reason.

Not a Martian Manhunter reference, but more a new spin on White Martians. Inspired off of the Draag from the French film, Fantastic Planet. I love colossal set pieces~

More In my Life parallels :>

That's all I can fit into one post for now! Pt 2 coming soon :)

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3

[goats-ablaze]

I need to talk about this setpiece in a fucking roblox lumberjack game.

The game works via having the players cut down trees and haul lumber to be processed, fairly simple in the grand scheme of things.

This setpiece is here for the easter event, you need to give the statue wood in order to have it give you an egg, which you sell to get your event reward.

I drove my truck with a chunk of lumber into a cave, marked mainly by there being something different in the cliff face, but I mostly just followed the pieces of wood, the spilt chunks of trees that fell out on people's pilgrimage to this... statue. The wood was overflowing, I had to leave my truck and haul my sacrifice by hand.

The thing that fucks with me is the environment, because of how the game works, players in the past have physically dragged trees sloppily into the chamber, cut off a bit, got their egg, and left. Leaving an ever increasing pile of scrap lumber and twigs at the beast's feet. You drive into this cave onto a pile of timber, there are large twigs and branches surrounding the statue on all ends. None of it was placed by a developer's hand.

Every single thing in this area other than the statue was someone else, doing this objective. Their footprints, as it were. This weird thing making this mundane ritual into some shared experience.

Due to how the event functions, it looks incredibly similar to some blair witch shit, and it was incredibly unsettling coming into an area with a horror setpiece generated mostly from normal player behavior. Nothing about making it like that was convoluted or intentional, and I don't think I've seen a game accomplish that, ever, really?

It feels different, in a way, to have a horror setpiece not because it was a designer making an area, but simply the footprints of everyone doing a thing in the most efficient way they could do it.

[void-damned]

The 'Worshipped Outsider' AU

This is the masterpost for the Worshipped Outsider AU, originally developed by me and one lovely person that remains anonymous for now. Additionally, thanks to these wonderful people for being interested and asking questions that helped me develop this story further, @no-light-left-on, @kg-clark-inthedark, and @astheturtlemoves Additional information will be added over time! Feel free to send asks about this - I will be using the Worshipped Outsider tag for people to keep track of the AU!

_______

The Outsider functions as the primary God worshiped through the Isles - he's a funky guy, honestly. Things are very religion-heavy - instead of being purist and violent, the Abbey preaches about His Intentions (instead of the Strictures), though it is merely their interpretation of the things the Outsider supposedly stands for*. They are still the Abbey of the Everyman, but the everyman here is dedicated to their God and behaves accordingly, denouncing any false God, leaving offerings, etc. But otherwise it isn't too strict about any form of worship. They are more oriented towards spreading faith and keeping it alive among the people, while the Oracular Sisters/Oracular Order are more spiritually based and focus on communicating with their God. 

The people carve charms and runes out of bones and antlers to leave him as offerings; everyone flies indigo and various purple fabrics decorated with gold. Households. commonly hold such cloth and hang it on their walls or drape them across private shrines. Even the Abbey's banners match the very same colour scheme. 

The Outsider himself scarcely appears, sometimes speaking to the Oracular Sisters, but there are many instances documented across the millennia - people speak of the Outsider walking among them, always in the same shape and same Void-filled eyes (but sometimes he appears with pale Pandyssian eyes when he is feeling like blending in more). They never talk about him doing anything big or remarkable, any miracles, nothing, really. He's just kind of there, though sometimes he's seen watching the whales or people in general. 

(Speaking of the whales, they would be sort of sacred but that does not mean that they aren't poached and used. The people believe their existence is a benevolent act of their God who wants them to use his gift. It's an Abbey made excuse, though*. )

Paloma used to be particularly religious and often took to carving charms, even as much as including pieces of carved bone in the clothes she would make; when Corvo was younger, she would make him kneel (even by force) at their makeshift altar and press a piece of singing whalebone into his hands for safekeeping - he was never as pious as his mother, nor as his sister - there was always with a streak of rebellion in him. 

Jess, much like his mother, had been an image of faith and as an Empress, she was an Avatar often said to be aided by the Outsider himself - she certainly had to be approved by him to reign; both her and Paloma would have often joined the pilgrimages across the blackened erratics that climax in the Shindaerey Peak where the Outsider had been made once. The pilgrimages happen once every 2 or so years as a 'celebration of suffering' or whatever the Abbey calls it. 

The Marked are respected for being blessed by the Outsider, no matter who they are and what they do; in fact, they are rather hounded and sheltered, considered too precious to be left wandering around freely, lest something happens to him. In a way, they are also seen as Prophets. Those like Corvo and Daud hide their marks, not wanting those to define them - neither could ever bear to live such a. lifestyle. Some tend to fake their marks, and such an act is often seen as offensive and punishable by the Abbey. So is worshiping false Gods and icons. Vera Moray was a Marked kept like a precious pet but the treatment had made her insane, leaving the Abbey to further isolate her and pretend that she's doing just fine. Meanwhile, Delilah yearns to be treated like a Queen and keeps threatening the Outsider, trying to take his position as a God.

That and either Jessamine never died of Daud's hand and Corvo had never been blamed, a different man held the blade and paid for his transgressions,or, well, honestly, the Marked are pretty much worshipped, though the way the Abbey goes about it is more or less forcing the other Marked people to hide their marks overall. Corvo could still get labelled as a false worshipper and framed for murdering the Empress as an act against their God. It is eventually revealed that his marking has been real this entire time and that he was framed by people who wanted to oppose the Outsider. Still not Daud's job, though. 

There is a potential connection here to be made, a parallel where the circumstances of the Empress' death also lead to the metaphorical death of the Outsider.

*Not to mention that the Abbey is still very much eh and often seems to hide sacred texts, preach about everything in the wrong way, and only ever interpret them the way they see fit. The shit His Intentions speak of are hardly anything the Outsider would have ever said/meant. Some bits do hold truth to them but the way they are presented indicates a lot being lost in translation or simply being translated falsely. Any runic expert who had been asked to see the scripts or tried to research them had been chased off in fear of translating things differently and therefore invalidating the Abbey and their preaching. 

There's still a lot of ground to be cover but this is the gist of it. And in case you're wondering why the Outsider doesn't correct them or do much himself, he absolutely refuses to speak to the Abbey or have anything to do with them.

[reportpunjabs]

Discovering Spiritual Routes: Punjab's Chief Minister’s Pilgrimage Scheme Unveiled

Chandigarh, November 6, 2023: Punjab Government to start Chief Minister’s Pilgrimage Scheme, under which people of Punjab will be facilitated to travel to places of pilgrimage.

[kursedmayo]

Story time. I think Donnie would also hate most lipbalm. They're so fucking greasy on the lips and good lord, I would rather feel the pain of dry ass lips than have it plump and moisturized but feeling like I just put cooking oil on, so with the power of headcanon on my side I'm inflicting this annoyance to him too.

I bet he takes like an obscene amount of time researching on lip products before realizing that there's no guarantee that they'll help all too much because he's half-turtle, his skin is different than a human's, which eventually compels him to go on a sort of lip care pilgrimage trying out all sorts of lip balm, like a lot of them. A LOT of them. He jots down the results in a fun little spreadsheet before he manages to narrow down to one brand which happens to be from a smaller, more ethical company than the rest. Even if that brand was much more expensive than others, its not as if he didn't have money that he stole to spend on quality products, so he managed to put his cracked lip woes to rest.

Unfortunately for him however, his brothers keep stealing from him so he barely even get to use the stuff he buys.

Mikey's the biggest culprit of this of course, he's one hell of a yapster (/pos ofc I love Mikey) his lips dry out easily, and he doesn't usually carry a lip balm with him (because he forgets to/keep losing them/keep eating them) so sometimes he just swipes on those bad boys off Donnie's pouch and he doesn't even notice and well, its not as if Donnie wants to take it back anyways. Its already got his lil bro's cooties all over it.

Meanwhile, Leo mostly just steals for funsies. He doesn't even use the ones he steals from Donnie, He's got like, a whole stash of flavored lip balms because he's the face man, he doesn't want chapped lips it'll ruin his gorgeous face! Anyways he gets a whole different bunch in case he loses one (which he never does) and keep buying some until he amassed a whole ass collection (which Mikey also steals from, not that Leo minds). He doesn't need to steal Donnie's, but its REAL fun to figure out how to. He'd literally figure out a whole ass 8 step plan in his head and even learn new tricks with his portals because Donnie literally had to resort to locking his lip balms up in a multi-password protected vault, only to end up not even using the damn stolen things because like Donnie, ew his twin's cooties.

Donnie's extra offended because of that cuz like, at least use the damn thing like Mikey does you heathen he paid 15 dollars for a tube!!

Anyways, since Donnie's no pushover he schemed to get revenge on Leo and begun to steal his chapsticks too, much to Leo's (hypocrital) annoyance and amusement, so now there's an unspoken war that's happening in the Hamato household at the moment which they both refuse to back down on.

Meanwhile, Raph's at the corner just shaking his head in exhasperation. He doesn't really care much about lip balms in the first place because he didn't really use those, but Donnie got disturbed seeing him walking around with El Niño on his lips one winter and begrudgingly gave him one to use, which Raph does use but only sparingly so he doesn't run out, though it's not like he doesn't have money to buy his own cuz he does off jobs in the hidden city then and again. Also he kinda gave up trying to stop the disaster twins from fighting over lip balm because they're gonna keep doing it anyways, so he kinda just kinda tune them out when something inevitably explodes in Donnies lab and Leo comes out running holding a lil tube. Mikey gets let off the hook though, lil bro priveledges you know?

So yeah.

Even if there's a huge L in Leonardo there's still two Ls in Donatello. He's gonna be having PTSD flashbacks whenever someone mentions chapsticks near him for sure.

[morihaus]

Beloved

I am a Lover of the Rose. Yes, even still.

For 200 years, I have been her priestess. Since the turning of eras, I've committed my soul to her, and in return, she has lent me her guidance. Gracious Azura, she foretold of the disaster on Vvardenfell that would redden the skies and choke the sun; she led her faithful to safety, far from the troubles that enveloped our homeland. I was a novice in the cult then. I walked the pilgrimage to Skyrim with so many others who, like me, felt the warmth and compassion of our goddess in the coldest of nights.

I helped to raise that statue and establish that shrine. I tended to it, I heard her voice, and obeying her wishes I tended to my fellows and myself. Azura is a spirit of love, of true, beautiful, all-consuming love. No matter how lofty she may be, no matter where in the heavens she walks, her love is felt by her faithful. Not one of us would ever doubt it. She bade us fly to Skyrim to escape the dreadful fate of our homeland, but also, to make preparations for those who would follow in our footsteps. Those who her voice could not reach, the blind, the deceived, the lost, her soul swells with love for even them. Our people flocked to Skyrim to escape the chaos of the Red Year, of the Arnesian War, of the fall of the Tribunal and the dawn of a new era, and it was we, the Lovers of Azura, who welcomed them, who guided them as she had guided us to the embrace of her sanctuary.

It has been some time since I last visited that shrine. I spent centuries there in worship, in devoted service to the brilliant soul of my Lady. I worked with others to make a place for our people, to soothe their pain, to give them surety and guidance in those dark times, but little by little, they began to dwindle around me. Lady Azura is kind, but her prophecies are not always so. In those dark times, it was difficult to accept the fates of those around you, the horrible things foreseen. Tragedies like the collapse at Winterhold, the deaths of so many more Dunmer who had taken this place as their new home… not all were made to withstand these tests. In the end, only I remained.

And I remained because she had told me to. Because one day, her Champion would arrive in this land, to that very shrine, and defend her honor. She told me this long before her birth, over a hundred years in fact. And for all she had done, and still did for me, why would I refuse her request? Was it not the least I could do? Did I not do it out of love?

As I kneel before her image, I can feel the eyes of her Champion on my back. I am not atop that mountain, not at the feet of her statue, but instead at Windstrad Manor in Hjaalmarch, knelt before a traditional etching of Azura. The one who took me away from that place of sacred duty is standing on her porch, wrinkling her nose up at the goddess's portrait.

Azura's Champion is not fond of her. Who can say why? Why it is that she was destined to be her chosen, this I cannot surely know. I can no longer ask my goddess such things. Our tie has been severed, well and truly, with the completion of Vivynne's duty, and my own. But I can wonder-- stare up and wonder at the blending hues of twilight and attempt to decipher her scheme. Sometimes I do. Other times, I only lock my hand with hers and lean close.

Why it is that she dislikes her, she has told me herself. While it is true that she has never been fond of marching under the orders of her betters, whether her family, her house, or the gods themselves, she has quite adamantly argued that she begrudges the manner in which she has treated me. It took some time to understand what she meant. After all the wonderful things she's done for me, after saving my life and the lives of countless others, what have I to complain about? I would not have lived and loved in devotion to her for so long if there was even a shadow of doubt. Vivynne knows this and never means it to insult me, but in her eyes, it is unfair to have served her for so long only to receive nothing once my work is done.

And when she tells me this, time and time again, I smile so that the creases of well-loved centuries show around my lips, and I say this to her. "I did not receive nothing."

I said I wasn't sure why Viv was chosen, yet in my own time, I have reached some conclusion.

It had to be someone like her, ash of the earth, whose irreverence would shock me, unglue me from that stylite station of long-held duty. For so much of my life, that was all I knew. Serving the Queen of Dusk and Dawn, her intermediary, her follower, her Lover. It's who I became under her light, a mirror of her loving soul. Could anyone but Viv have coaxed me off that frigid perch? Could another devotee have roused me from that complacent pattern of true and tireless loyalty? Lady Azura knew my path- she has known it since the moment she first spoke to me, since the moment she foretold of her Champion's coming, she knew I would serve her well and never waiver, and one day, that I would be relieved of my service, and that she would need to relinquish me.

It seems cruel, I will admit. Viv said I was cast aside the moment my purpose was fulfilled. But how can we pretend to know better than the goddess whose sight extends across the twilight of time? To mortals, the actions of gods seem arbitrary, but we, their lovers, we can scarcely glimpse the depth of sentiment in each and every choice they make, and we know, I know, that she has not abandoned me. She has not let my love for her go unrewarded, unanswered. It was her who brought me a new love, a kind of love I could only grasp if I had left. If her champion convinced me to leave. If her champion was a jaded wizard without any heed for the gods or their worshipers.

So when Viv tells me I've been abandoned, overlooked, ignored by my goddess, I only laugh and press myself against her. When we lay together, our bodies so perfectly intertwine, as though they were always intended to. And here and now, when she wraps her arms around me and I bury myself in her embrace, I know, I am her most beloved.

[ausetkmt]

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ENOUGH PAYWALLS AND ENOUGH CLICKBAIT

----------------------------------------------------------------------

If you step into the headquarters of the Internet Archive on a Friday after lunch, when it offers public tours, chances are you’ll be greeted by its founder and merriest cheerleader, Brewster Kahle.

You cannot miss the building; it looks like it was designed for some sort of Grecian-themed Las Vegas attraction and plopped down at random in San Francisco’s foggy, mellow Richmond district. Once you pass the entrance’s white Corinthian columns, Kahle will show you the vintage Prince of Persia arcade game and a gramophone that can play century-old phonograph cylinders on display in the foyer. He’ll lead you into the great room, filled with rows of wooden pews sloping toward a pulpit. Baroque ceiling moldings frame a grand stained glass dome. Before it was the Archive’s headquarters, the building housed a Christian Science church.

I made this pilgrimage on a breezy afternoon last May. Along with around a dozen other visitors, I followed Kahle, 63, clad in a rumpled orange button-down and round wire-rimmed glasses, as he showed us his life’s work. When the afternoon light hits the great hall’s dome, it gives everyone a halo. Especially Kahle, whose silver curls catch the sun and who preaches his gospel with an amiable evangelism, speaking with his hands and laughing easily. “I think people are feeling run over by technology these days,” Kahle says. “We need to rehumanize it.”

In the great room, where the tour ends, hundreds of colorful, handmade clay statues line the walls. They represent the Internet Archive’s employees, Kahle’s quirky way of immortalizing his circle. They are beautiful and weird, but they’re not the grand finale. Against the back wall, where one might find confessionals in a different kind of church, there’s a tower of humming black servers. These servers hold around 10 percent of the Internet Archive’s vast digital holdings, which includes 835 billion web pages, 44 million books and texts, and 15 million audio recordings, among other artifacts. Tiny lights on each server blink on and off each time someone opens an old webpage or checks out a book or otherwise uses the Archive’s services. The constant, arrhythmic flickers make for a hypnotic light show. Nobody looks more delighted about this display than Kahle.

Brewster Kahle, the Internet Archive's founder and biggest cheerleader. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

It is no exaggeration to say that digital archiving as we know it would not exist without the Internet Archive—and that, as the world’s knowledge repositories increasingly go online, archiving as we know it would not be as functional. Its most famous project, the Wayback Machine, is a repository of web pages that functions as an unparalleled record of the internet. Zoomed out, the Internet Archive is one of the most important historical-preservation organizations in the world. The Wayback Machine has assumed a default position as a safety valve against digital oblivion. The rhapsodic regard the Internet Archive inspires is earned—without it, the world would lose its best public resource on internet history.

Its employees are some of its most devoted congregants. “It is the best of the old internet, and it's the best of old San Francisco, and neither one of those things really exist in large measures anymore,” says the Internet Archive’s director of library services, Chris Freeland, another longtime staffer, who loves cycling and favors black nail polish. “It's a window into the late-’90s web ethos and late-’90s San Francisco culture—the crunchy side, before it got all tech bro. It's utopian, it's idealistic.”

The Internet Archive headquarters houses clay sculptures by artist Nuala Creed. Each sculpture depicts an employee or collaborator; getting one is a rite of passage. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

But the Internet Archive also has its foes. Since 2020, it’s been mired in legal battles. In Hachette v. Internet Archive, book publishers complained that the nonprofit infringed on copyright by loaning out digitized versions of physical books. In UMG Recordings v. Internet Archive, music labels have alleged that the Internet Archive infringed on copyright by digitizing recordings.

In both cases, the Internet Archive has mounted “fair use” defenses, arguing that it is permitted to use copyrighted materials as a noncommercial entity creating archival materials. In both cases, the plaintiffs characterized it as a hub for piracy. In 2023, it lost Hachette. This month, it lost an appeal in the case. The Archive could appeal once more, to the Supreme Court of the United States, but has no immediate plans to do so. (“We have not decided,” Kahle told me the day after the decision.)

A judge rebuffed an attempt to dismiss the music labels’ case earlier this year. Kahle says he’s thinking about settling, if that’s even an option.

The combined weight of these legal cases threatens to crush the Internet Archive. The UMG case could prove existential, with potential fines running into the hundreds of millions. The internet has entrusted its collective memory to this one idiosyncratic institution. It now faces the prospect of losing it all.

Kahle has been obsessed with creating a digital library since he was young, a calling that spurred him to study artificial intelligence at MIT. “I wanted to build the library of everything, and we needed computers that were big enough to be able to deal with it,” he says.

After graduating in 1982, he worked at the supercomputing startup Thinking Machines Corporation. While there, he developed a program called Wide Area Information Server (WAIS), a way to search for data on remote computers. He left to cocreate a startup of the same name, which he sold to AOL in 1995. The next year, he launched a two-headed project from his attic: “AI and IA.”

That “AI” was a for-profit company called Alexa Internet—“Alexa” a nod to the Library of Alexandria—alongside the nonprofit Internet Archive. The two projects were interlinked; Alexa Internet crawled the web, then donated what it collected to the Internet Archive. Kahle couldn’t quite make the business model work. When Amazon made an offer in 1999, it seemed prudent to accept. The Everything Store paid a reported $250 million in stock for Alexa, severing the AI from IA and leaving Kahle a wealthy man.

Kahle stayed on with Alexa for a few years but left in 2002 to focus on the Internet Archive. It has been his vocation ever since. “His entire being is committed to the Archive,” says copyright scholar Pam Samuelson, who has known Kahle since the ’90s. “He lives and breathes it.”

If Silicon Valley has a Mr. Fezziwig, it’s Kahle. He’s not an ascetic; he owns a handsome black sailboat anchored in a slip at a tony yacht club. But his day-to-day life is modest. He ebikes to work and dresses like a guy who doesn’t care about clothes, and while he used to love Burning Man—he and his wife, Mary Austin, got married there in 1992—now he thinks it’s gotten too big. (Their current bougie-hippie pastime is the seasteading gathering Ephemerisle, where boaters hitch themselves together and create temporary islands in the Sacramento River Delta every July.)

What he really loves, above all, is his job.

“The story of Brewster Kahle is that of a guy who wins the lottery,” says longtime archivist Jason Scott. “And he and his wife, Mary, turned around and said, awesome, we get to be librarians now.”

The Internet Archive’s headquarters, a former church. The graffiti van was commissioned by Amir Esfahani, who runs the Archive’s artist-in-residence program. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

Kahle is now the merry custodian to a uniquely comprehensive catalog, spanning all manner of digital and physical media, from classic video games to live recordings of concerts to magazines and newspapers to books from around the world. It recently backed up the island of Aruba’s cultural institutions. It’s an essential tool for everything from legal research—particularly around patent law—to accountability journalism. “There are other online archiving tools,” says ProPublica reporter Craig Silverman, “but none of them touch the Internet Archive.” It is, in short, a proof machine.

What makes the Internet Archive unique is its willingness to push boundaries in ways that traditional libraries do not. The Library of Congress also archives the web—but only after it has notified, and often asked permission from, the websites it scrapes.

“The Internet Archive has always been a little risky,” says University of Waterloo historian Ian Milligan, who has a forthcoming book on web archiving. Its distinctive utility is entwined with its long-standing outré approach to copyright. In fact, Kahle and the Internet Archive sued the government more than two decades ago, challenging the way the Copyright Renewal Act of 1992 and the Copyright Term Extension Act of 1998 had expanded copyright law. He lost that case—but, certainly, not his desire to keep pushing.

One of those pushes came in 2005. At the time, beloved hacker Aaron Swartz was often working on Internet Archive projects, and he cocreated and led the development of a new initiative called the Open Library program along with Kahle. The goal was to create one webpage for every book in the world. Kahle saw it as an alternative to Google Books, one that wasn’t driven by commercial interests but loftier and decidedly kumbaya information-wants-to-be-free ambitions.

In addition to its attempt to catalog every book ever, the project sought to make copies available to readers. To that end, it scans physical books, then allows people to check out the digitized versions. For over a decade, it has operated using a framework called controlled digital lending (CDL), where digitized books are treated as old-fashioned physical books rather than ebooks. The books it lends out were either purchased by the Internet Archive or donated by other libraries, organizations, or individuals; according to CDL principles, libraries that own a physical copy of a book should be able to lend it digitally.

An archive employee at work. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

The project primarily appeals to researchers for whom specific books are hard to attain elsewhere, rather than casual readers. “Try checking out one of our books and then reading it—it’s tough going,” Kahle says. He’s not lying. A blurry scan of a physical book on a desktop screen compared to a regular ebook on a Kindle is like music from a tinny iPhone speaker versus a Bose surround sound system. Most borrowers read what they check out for less than five minutes.

Like other digital media, ebooks are typically licensed rather than sold outright, at a much higher rate than the cover price. Libraries who license ebooks get a limited number of loans; if they stop paying, the book vanishes. CDL is an attempt to give libraries more control over their inventory, and to expand access to books in a library’s collection that exist only as physical copies.

For years, publishers ignored the Internet Archive’s book-scanning spree. Finally, during the pandemic, after the Internet Archive took one liberty too many with its approach to CDL, they snapped.

In March 2020, as schools and libraries abruptly shut down, they faced a dilemma. Demand for ebooks far outstripped their ability to loan them out under restrictive licensing deals, and they had no way of lending out books that existed only in physical form. In response, the Internet Archive made a bold decision: It allowed multiple people to check out digital versions of the same book simultaneously. It called this program the National Emergency Library. “We acted at the request of librarians and educators and writers,” says Chris Freeland.

Kahle remembers feeling a vocational tug in that moment for the Internet Archive to do whatever it could to expand access. He thought they had broad support, too. “We got over 100 libraries to sign on and say ‘help us,’” Kahle says. “They stood behind the National Emergency Library and said ‘do this under our names.’”

Dave Hansen, now executive director of the nonprofit Authors Alliance, was a librarian at Duke University at the time. “We had tremendous challenges getting books for our students,” he says. “What they did was a good-faith effort.”

The Internet Archive's collection includes a sprawling array of old newspapers and periodicals from around the world. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

Not everyone agreed. Prominent writers vehemently criticized the project, as did the Authors Guild and the National Writers Union. “They are not a library. Libraries buy books and respect copyright. They are fraudsters posing as saints,” author James Gleick wrote on Twitter. (Today, Gleick maintains that the Internet Archive is not a library, though he says “fraudsters was a little harsh.”)

“They seem to work by fiat,” says Bhamati Viswanathan, a copyright lawyer who signed an amicus brief on behalf of the publishers in the Hachette case. Viswanathan thinks it was arrogant to circumvent the licensing system. “Very much like what the tech companies seem to be doing, which is, ‘we're going to ask forgiveness, not permission.’”

The Internet Archive was in its first full-blown PR crisis. The coalition of publishing houses filed its lawsuit in June 2020, alleging that both the National Emergency Library and the Internet Archive’s broader Open Library program violated copyright. A few weeks later, the Internet Archive scuttled the National Emergency Library and reverted to its traditional, capped loan system, but it made no difference to the publishers.

The publishing houses and their supporters maintain that the Archive’s behavior harmed authors. “Internet Archive is arguing that it is OK to make and publicly distribute unauthorized copies of an author’s work to the global public,” Terrance Hart, the general counsel for the Association of American Publishers, tells WIRED. “Imagine if everyone started doing the same. The only existential threat here is the one posed by Internet Archive to the livelihoods of authors and to the copyright system itself in the digital age.”

After the lawsuit was filed, over a thousand writers signed a letter in support of libraries and the Internet Archive to be able to loan digital books, including Naomi Klein and Daniel Ellsberg. One supportive author, Chuck Wendig, had very publicly changed his mind after initially tweeting criticism. Even some writers who currently belong to and support the Authors Guild, like Joanne McNeil, were staunch supporters of the Archive. She sometimes reads out-of-print books using the lending service and still sees it as a vital tool. “I hope my books are in the Open Library project,” she says, telling me that she’s already aware that her critically acclaimed but modestly popular books aren’t widely available. “At least I’ll know that way there’s someplace someone can find them.”

The shows of support didn’t matter. The publishers didn’t back down. In March 2023, the Internet Archive lost the case. This September, it lost its appeal. The court refuted the fair use arguments, insisting that the organization had not proved that it wasn’t financially harming publishers. In the meantime, legal bills continue to pile up for the Internet Archive’s next challenge.

After the initial ruling in Hachette v. Internet Archive, the parties agreed upon settlement terms; although those terms are confidential, Kahle has confirmed that the Internet Archive can financially survive it thanks to the help of donors. If the Internet Archive decides not to file a second appeal, it will have to fulfill those settlement terms. A blow, but not a death knell.

The other lawsuit may be far harder to survive. In 2023, several major record labels, including Universal Music Group, Sony, and Capitol, sued the Internet Archive over its Great 78 Project, a digital archive of a niche collection of recordings of albums in the obsolete record format known as 78s, which was used from the 1890s to the late 1950s. The complaint alleges that the project “undermines the value of music.” It lists 2,749 recordings as infringed, which means damages could potentially be over $400 million.

“One thing that you can say about the recording industry,” Pam Samuelson says, “is that there are no statutory damages that are too large for them to claim.”

The Internet Archive's basement, the site of many animated discussions about encryption and internet freedom. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

As with the book publishing case, the Internet Archive’s defense hinges on fair use. It argues that preserving obsolete versions of these records, complete with the crackles and pops from the old shellac resin, makes history accessible. Copyright law is notoriously unpredictable, and some find the Internet Archive’s case shaky. “It doesn’t strike me, necessarily, as a winning fair use argument,” says Zvi Rosen, a law professor at Southern Illinois University who focuses on copyright.

James Grimmelmann, a professor of digital and information law at Cornell University, thinks the labels are “vastly exaggerating the commercial harm” from the project. (If there was a sizable audience for extremely low-quality versions of songs, he reasons, why wouldn’t the labels be putting out 78-style releases?) On average, each recording is accessed only once a month. Still, Grimmelmann isn’t convinced that will matter. “They are directly reproducing these works,” he says. “That’s a very hard lift for a judge.”

It may be years before the case is resolved, which means the uncertainty about the Internet Archive’s future is likely to linger, and potentially spread. And if it is resolved through either a settlement or a win for the recording industry, other copyright holders could be inspired to sue. “I'm worried about the blast radius from the music lawsuit,” Grimmelmann says.

In Kahle’s view, the Internet Archive’s legal challenges are part of a larger story about beleaguered libraries in the United States. He likes to frame his plight as a battle against a cadre of nefarious publishers, one piece of a larger struggle to wrest back the right to own books in the digital age. (Get him started on the topic, and he’ll likely point out that both ebook distributor OverDrive and publishing company Simon & Schuster are owned by the global investment firm Kohlberg Kravis Roberts & Co.) He’s keenly aware that everything he has built is in danger. “It’s the time of Orwell but with corporations,” Kahle says. “It’s scary.”

Losing the Archive is, indeed, a frightening prospect. “There is a misperception that things on the web are forever—but they really, really aren't,” says Craig Silverman, who thinks the nonprofit’s demise would make certain types of scholarship and reporting “way more difficult, if not impossible,” in addition to representing a disappearance of a bastion of collective memory.

Just this September, Google and the Internet Archive announced a partnership to allow people to see previous versions of websites surfaced through Google Search by linking to the Wayback Machine. Google previously offered its own cached historical websites; now it leans on a small nonprofit.

The Internet Archive also has challenges beyond its legal woes. For starters, it’s getting harder to archive things. As Mark Graham, director of the Wayback Machine, told me, the rise of apps with functions like livestreaming, especially when they’re limited to certain operating systems, presents a technical challenge. On top of that, paywalls are an obstacle, as is the sheer and ever-increasing amount of content. “There’s just so much material,” he says. “How does one know what to prioritize?”

Then there’s AI, once again. Thus far, the Internet Archive has sidestepped or been exempt from the new scrutiny on web crawling as it relates to AI training data. This June, for example, when Reddit announced that it was updating its scraping policy, it specifically noted that it was still allowing “good faith actors” like the Internet Archive to crawl it. But as opposition to rampant AI data scraping grows, the Internet Archive may yet face a new obstacle: If regulators and lawmakers are clumsy in attempts to curb permissionless AI web scraping, it could kneecap services like the Wayback Machine, which functions precisely because it can trawl and reproduce vast amounts of data.

The rise of AI has already soured some creative types on the Internet Archive’s approach to copyright. While Kahle views his creation as a library on the side of the little guy, opponents strenuously dispute this view. They paint Kahle as a tech-wolf disguised in librarian-sheep clothing, stuck in a mentality better suited for the Napster era. “The Internet Archive is really fighting the battles of 20 years ago, when it was as simple as ‘publishers bad, anything that hurts publishers good,’” says Neil Turkewitz, a former Recording Industry Association of America executive who has criticized the Archive’s copyright stances. “But that’s not the world we live in.”

A portion of the servers holding the Archive's vast data collection. Each time someone accesses a book, website, movie, song, or other file, a light flashes. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

When I talk to Kahle over Zoom this September, shortly after he’d learned that the Internet Archive had lost the appeal, he’s agitated—an internet prophet literally wandering around in the wilderness. He’s perched in front of jagged cliffs while hiking outside of Arles, France, a blue baseball cap pulled over his hair, cheeks extra-ruddy in the sun, his default affability tempered by a sense of despondency. He hadn’t known about the timing of the ruling in advance, so he interrupted a weeklong vacation with Mary to jump back into work crisis mode. “It’s just so depressing,” he says.

As he sits on a rock with his phone in his hand, Kahle says the US legal system is broken. He says he doesn’t think this is the end of the lawsuits. “I think the copyright cartel is on a roll,” he says. He frets that copycat cases could be on the way. He’s the most bummed-out guy I’ve ever seen on vacation in the south of France. But he’s also defiant. There’s no inkling of regret, only a renewed sense that what he’s doing is righteous. “We have such an opportunity here. It’s the dream of the internet,” he says. “It’s ours to lose.” It sounds less like a statement and more like a prayer.