#proto norse

[cold-earth-connection]

New tattoo from just before Christmas

i.) Ansuz [ Breath, Odin ]

ii.) Uruz [ Challenge, Auroch ]

iii.) Kenaz [ Flame, Torch ]

- Elder Futhark Runes

[yvanspijk]

A home in a hamlet

The word hamlet is closely related to home, but while home has always been a Germanic word, hamlet entered English from French. Proto-West Germanic *haim (village), the ancestor of home, was borrowed into Old French as ham. It was then turned into a diminutive twice: ham > hamel (small village) > hamelet (little small village). Ultimately, it was borrowed into English and became hamlet.

[blackcrowing]

Blackcrowing's Book Review Masterpost

Irish Paganism: Reconstructing Irish Polytheism, Morgan Daimler

The Book of the Great Queen, Morpheus Ravenna

The Druids, Peter Berresford Ellis

The Horse, the Wheel and Language, David W Anthony

Celtic Cosmology and the Otherworld, Sharon Paice MacLeod

The History of the Vikings: Children of Ash and Elm, Neil Price

A Practical Guide to Pagan Priesthood, Lora O'Brien

God Against the Gods, Jonathan Kirsch

A History of Pagan Europe, Prudence Jones & Nigel Pennick

A Guide to Ogam Divination, Marissa Hegarty

Polytheistic Monasticism, Jann Munin

Ireland's Immortals, Mark Williams

A Circle of Stones, Erynn Rowan Laurie

This is a growing list that will be added to as new reviews are made

My kofi

[tovaicas]

anyways my friends activated my conlang brain and I've made smth insane as usual

red is influences, blue is Elezen-family languages, green is like a mix bc I see the Alliance cities as having a trade language (that critically is limited to them).

I see Duskwight as a separate language from Black Shroud Elezen (but sharing a lot - easy enough to learn for those speakers). Coerthan and all its derivatives are a whole different language under the Elezen umbrella and isn't mutually intelligible with BSE. Because they split so early, they probably don't share much more than root words and etymologies; within the same family so not difficult to learn for other speakers of Elezen languages, but very distinctly different.

(also I'm not listing them but the branches extend to include other diaspora Elezen languages)

[ravencromwell]

Headcanons for either or both of the Dane twins?

Going beneath a cut, because somehow this turned into 3k of Astrid stream-of-consciousness musings on ruling her city, bracketed with Holland's disgusted dead-pan snark.

The very worst thing, Holland thinks in the bleakest moments, is that the Danes aren't the worst rulers Makt has ever had.

***

Athos alone probably would be. He is the lord of infinite, fruitless defiance, and if the city wants to give him such gifts as rebellion, who is he to say no? He will simply fight them all as entertainment between bouts of indulging his insatiable curiosity about artifacts. Emerging victorious would soothe his terror that everyone lost the throne eventually even if it left the city in ruins and more corpses than living people.

But if Athos is lord of defiance, Astrid is lady of small mercies.

From the moment the old man was dead, Astrid knows she will show none of his faux love and camaraderie to her subjects. They might love her in return, and those who love a queen want to see it reflected back, need her words of praise for their devotion no matter how they prattle simple service will suffice.

Such displays are tedious, love reserved for Athos alone.

But gratitude? Gratitude has its uses.

She and her brother want to leave their mark on this world (and its people). If her brother's little stone is as strong as they believe, one day folk privileged to suffer beneath their blades may show their scars with pride and whisper what a gift they were given by Makt's saviors.

If they do not, well. More fool them.

But in the meantime, even an Antari cannot hold off a hundred angry citizens, if they decided to mob. And sometimes, the Danes satiation requires a few missing loved ones. And inevitably, discontented souls decide there must be new blood. In especially unfortunate moments, those close to traitors have chosen to mewl about her brother's punishments and must be put down in their turn.

Her beloved Athos never understood how the body forgets pain. Men and women drink. They promise themselves the blood they saw running in the gutter was not as red as all that. Besides, it will not happen to them. To live in this city is to become deaf to screams, even your own.

Look at her brother's pretty thing. How many times has Athos made him scream? (Enough it's added a permanent, graveled edge to his voice, Antari or no.) And still she and Athos catch those glimpses of defiant hatred that are almost better than the blood for her twin.

Profound appreciation, by contrast? Thankful obligation at holding a living, breathing child, where a month ago there was dying skin and bones? That will make a man hesitate before joining a revolution.

Appreciation may even bind the Antari better than the spell of which Athos is so proud.

'Obey and protect my sister' Athos always says when he won't be close to repeat an unheeded command.

Still, she has seen how he can resist myriad precautions binding every joint and muscle and bone ! Athos's will. Seen the foolish delays, misinterpretations. Seen him dare, if Athos' words are closer to suggestions ignore them outright, force her brother to the clearest possible command. She suspects he can withstand even better as Athos' proximity fades.

Wasted breaths are risk, when blood is in the balance. Fortunately, she is no fool, wrapping herself in enough amulets calling him to her aid is rarely necessary. He rides beside her to prove that even the Dane with slightly less black in her veins can easily control their demon.

But at almost every sign of threat, he moves unprompted. Not because he fears her brother's retribution, not because the seal compels. He comes too swiftly for either of those. Holland Vosijk comes because he knows if she died, he would never throw alms to the city that hates him. No subsidized wheat; Athos would love watching the men and women he trains to ride behind them—never beside, no one is given enough knowledge to stand as equal to they two—into Arnes—divide the city into wedges and make the people under their control scrabble and beg.

When she first saw the stacks and stacks of carefully labeled payments to spell-crafters and curse-makers, she'd thought none of Athos' experiments would be needed. The old man had found a way to open the doors, and now he was dead, and they could simply ride into Arnes and snatch the glory.

But a magical payment for each farmer to feed the city as a whole, rather than their chosen hoard, wasn't the worst idea. And Astrid would happily put the dead's ideas to fine use.

She graciously allows the pretty former knight over-see it, so long as he remembers the queen is always watching.

(Though when speaking of food and goods of all kinds, it is her brother who shines in trade. His tactic is so very simple. So very effective. A merchant enters the throne room. Athos informs them what they will bring to the city. Should they complain or protest, he does not even deign to blink. Merely says: "Unbutton your shirt." And while the merchant is gawping and spluttering, the Antari bears his Seal.

"Do you know what this is?" her brother asks, gently.

By the time he has demonstrated the Seal to his satisfaction—such a thorough tutor to the less accomplished, her twin— the question of whether the merchant's trade might improve under Athos' control does not need asking.

Once, Athos slipped a request for a woman's first-born into a contract revision and she signed without even looking, so desperate to flee from the throne before she had matching runes. She even dutifully paraded the child to the castle six months later. Athos had no interest now she behaved so well, but Astrid found gratitude at keeping her child made her a most excellent spy. within the city.)

And then there are the sick. Perhaps the Antari would be allowed his little preoccupation if her brother ruled alone, assuming the family were desperate enough to contribute a person to his servants' ranks. But even mindless, there's something in his guards that hungers to live, ducking blades and attacks on instincts most would swear puppets could not have. He rarely needs replacement.

On those occasions a petitioner dares bring the ill to their attention, Astrid takes whatever their pathetic tribute is. With gloves, of course, because assassins lurk everywhere. Takes the faded, wilted flowers and oddly shaped rocks with the tiniest bit of color lurking in stone veins from the children—so many are children, young and unscarred enough to believe facing the twins and their demon is a price gladly paid even as those they keep alive will likely betray them eventually.

Adults, when they come, bring carefully knitted blankets and finely spun clothes. Once, there were even the most lovely hair combs, made of some creature's shell far from the south the woman called a tortoise. Why she would surrender them for a squalling brat who has years and years to die while she has nothing else to barter, Astrid cannot guess. But she passed the combs to Albiz, her brother's favorite among the spell-working salon, to check for curses and let Holland do his work.

There are not many such petitioners, but every one will go back into the city and whisper of the queen's mercy, how she always stood between them and the demon, and when it was done, their friend or child or lover was alive. Whispers that will still other's discontent.

She keeps almost all those talismans, unless something catches her brother's fancy. Carves spells into the stones, wraps herself in the blankets, wears the finely made trousers.

Though she has little use for wilted posies. "Keep them," she says gently, savoring Holland's second flickering of desperate relief at being handed a token not steeped in blood.

Funny, how he is even responsible for Astrid's proudest creation, though he disdains her falcons. The complement to her brother's court of favored scholars and magicians. Where her brother's is equally spread between men and women, barely any of her falcons are men. Men are so terribly squeamish about having their bodies borrowed. And all her falcons wear a possession charm, so she may see any part of the city through their eyes whenever she wishes.

She could simply force her will, toss a charm over any likely-looking neck. But she wants keen servants, who will willingly call her attention to matters of interest. Made hungry enough from being overlooked they have the grit to never utter a word of complaint when she enters them abruptly. To never fight when she raises their hands or opens their mouths. To fall upon her prey in whatever manner she requires and ask no questions.

The obedience Athos must bind, given freely.

In return, they shall never starve, never offer their measly tributes to free family from pain, never serve anyone's will but she and Athos.

Years later, the keenest ferocity of them all, her magicless, intrepid Gudrun, under the thumb of a father who craved a drudge incapable of disobedience until she went to the market and ran to rumors of Astrid's glove, nets her flower boy. Whispers the most ridiculous, delightful story about forbidden letters and a knight-turned hound's vices that sees Astrid smiling even days later as she prepares to fully possess a prince. Whispers it with the sweet conviction she must have displayed to her father before Astrid murmurred he could not touch her. To do all the things she must have dreamed. (He learned then a knife could make even a magicless woman a man's greatest terror and Gudrun snarled in delight.) Whispers until the Antari falls to her talons, while Astrid watches from half a city away.

What she wants is easy. What she will call them does not come to her until after Holland's third visit to Arnes, feeling her brother's hand squeeze hers in delight at the wonders of this red city. Both their fingers ache pleasantly from expressing such delight at the hours-long recitation, as they have each time her brother told the Antari to 'account for each moment in the Red City'.

The prey-vulnerable Red Royals must think they are predators, dawdling with their letters, letting 'Master Holland' wander the city while they mull their answers, thinking themselves so safe with their doors. She would mock them more, save their complacency makes for beautiful tales.

Later, he will learn to speak of Arnesian wonders in a monotone as though they were fool enough to believe the city left him any less awestruck than they. But in these early days, even he cannot help closing his eyes at the thought of the fat, juicy rabbits a hunting party carried with them. Or perhaps it is the juice running in rivulets across her brother's fingers and lips as he savors the last few bites of apple. So sweet, that juice, when he had pressed it to her lips for the first bite. She had laughed until her sides ached, spun him about the throne room. She would offer her brother a bite of her own pasty—what a marvelous idea, to tell his pretty thing he must fetch back two things he had enjoyed most for them—but even three trips in, she knew his tastes ran to sweet and savory, not the burn that accompanied her meat and vegetables.

"Did you like it because it burned, pretty thing? Because everything in their world should carry the burn of their betrayal?" she had asked, hours ago, and relished the hiss of breath when he forced the Seal to jerk his head in affirmation.

"Even as you could not help wanting the sweet," Athos had laughed, graciously smearing some of the juice in a lingering kiss at the corner of the Antari's mouth. She could see the red shine of it still. Will he clean it away the second he is alone, or be unable to resist the last taste of sweetness even as he hates himself for it? she wondered, and then the Antari's voice cracked, and Athos gestured that he might fill one of the glasses beside the water pitcher and she exhaled her disappointment.

"We will scry his room and see what he does another day," Athos whispered, and of course he too had wondered if his pretty thing could resist temptation.

"The leader had a bird on his arm," the Antari continued barely a moment later, setting the emptied glass on the table and before he was done explaining how such a fierce thing rested so easily for bits of meat, she was striding to Athos' scrying basin, pulling Holland behind. "Clever, pretty thing, seeing what I need. Falcons."

Such beautiful ferocities, and she tried to touch the feathers even as she knew she would only ripple the water. "As Tosal," her brother said softly, pressing against her back and she blinked.

"Mhmm?"

"He will go back tonight and bring you one with As Tosal. It will make the bird still and silent, but not turn it to stone."

"Was it your favorite, when you made him demonstrate all his mysterious tricks to the salon?"

"You know me so well. We will send him jingling with compulsion coins and they will be none the wiser."

"It isn't a fruit I can have forgotten in a pocket if something goes wrong."

"Then you will not let it go awry, Holland. Do you think a week's silence on his return would make him more or less inclined to state the obvious. It is so very dull."

"More, to spite you. It is what comes of wanting a pet who bites. Athos, come here." She held her mad, foolhardy brother, who would weave a plan in an instant and risk all his great discoveries to bring her something marvelous without her even needing to ask, close to her chest. "The pretty thing is not wrong. Besides, I do not need a falcon, love, only their design. For my court. Can he-"

"Of course. Tell us the rest of the trip later. For now-"

"Holland-" This once, for bringing her such a gift, she will grant his name, since he has so little liking for her sobriquet, "Find the best silver smith in the city. A falcon, in flight. On a chain, small enough to slip beneath a shirt. Bring a finished one for approval by lunch tomorrow."

It was midnight, he would have to roust the Shal's leader from a warm bed to find a smith he would also disturb, he was tired. If the Antari thought any of these things, he did not say them, simply turned on his heel and left.

***

In the next seven years, Holland Vosijk can count, with fingers to spare, those Astrid Dane invites to her glove who flee the invitation. (Athos always let his magicians come grovelling, but Astrid's falcons were always keen-eared for new recruits) Perhaps it is his worst delusion, thinking they, too, see how much blood runs at the margins of a people who, if not content, are at least not especially restless.

There is fountains worth from the one hundred eighty-two killed by the Danes personally, and his sixty-four. The blood of fools who ran their mouths too freely to the innocuous-looking barmaid or shopkeeper or grandmother before a little silver charm emerged. Blood of crows know how many drunk by Athos' magicians for power.

When forced to collaborate or unearth magic, he can most easily hold his control near lady Albiz, who makes the job no crueler than necessary, heeds advice, and returns her dead to their people or buries them herself. And she still snuffed out two Maktahns the day she swanned into Athos' service. He will not forget that because she grants an ounce of respect.

Two lives she'd taken, that were merely one crime, on one day of two thousand five hundred fifty-five. Still full of all that blood, she'd strolled into morning court in a ragged tunic and skirt, pupils glassy from the sudden torrent of magic into a body that knew only a trickle.

Like Alox.

Fifteen and cocksure with it like him, too.

"I heard there was a place here for those who could take it. I'll be your best magician if you'll let me take enough. I'm tired of running dry."

There had always been people not even the king's knight could stop, no matter how it choked him to admit it. He could have wandered the streets, never sleeping, and still not stopped all the blood being shed. And sometimes. Sometimes, they had something Vor needed and he turned a blind eye and Holland fled to Arnes to be in a world where kings didn't have to allow atrocities for the greater good. Until the ache to smell ash and steel and the fear Vortalis was dead in his absence swamped the rage and tugged him home.

But Vortalis would never have leaned in and inhaled the blood clinging to her like a bouquet, licked the red from the corner of her mouth, mirth echoing off the walls until Holland's head throbbed when she moved like a desperate, striking snake to try for a kiss. As though he'd let it be stolen back from his tongue. Would never have said, for all to hear: "Defiant little thing, aren't you? You're the third most beautiful person I've seen all month."

How many lives might be saved, if Albiz and worse weren't infesting the city? How many slum magicians had killed some unwitting neighbor, watching them preen and knowing Athos and Astrid Dane would never care, so long as they were not challenged as the greatest sorcerers of the land?

Deluded or no, it is those few refusals Astrid grumbled over and insisted he keep an eye on ("If they dare not serve, they must have plans of their own. Look harder, pretty thing, and you'll find the rot they're tangled in.") he seeks when he returns for kingship. Hopes their refusal meant more than a disdain for fancy jewelry. Because Athos and Astrid Dane aren't the worst rulers Makt had, but he will be better by far.

[druidicentropy]

*Pria

*Pria was a possible Proto-Indo-European goddess associated with beauty, love, sex, and possibly war; she played a role akin to that of Aphrodite, Venus, and Freyja.

*Pria's parents are unknown in the PIE cosmogony, but based on her descendants, Dyēus or Wérunos could be her father.

It is possible that *Pria would be a daughter of Dyđus since in Homer's Teogony, Aphrodite was born from the union of a god (Zeus) and a goddess (Dione).

However, according to the Hesiod cosmogony, Aphrodite was the daughter of Uranus's blood. Ahura Mazda, who the Greeks identified with Aphrodite. created the Zoroastrian goddess Anahita, an ahura. Interestingly, both Ahura Mazda and Uranus have their roots in the proto-Indo-European nigth god Wérunos. In this instance, a potential variant of the proto-Indo-European myth might also regard *Pria as Wérunos' daughter.

*Pria most likely had Martus, the Indo-European God of War, and Dyēus as consorts, using the Greek Aphrodite and the Roman Venus.

However, according to zoroastrianism, Anahita is Mithra's consort; therefore, it's possible that *Pria had a solar deity as her consort.

*Pria's Greek and Roman ancestry suggests that she might be the mother of an hypothetical, unreconstructible love god who predates both Eros and Cupid. Her masculine Norse ancestry further supports this theory. A potential ancestor of Fjolnir, a demigod, may have been mothered by Freyr *PriHyéh₂.

Aphrodite was depicted in Sparta with classical Spartan weapons, and Freyja, the Norse war goddess, is connected to *Pria as well as both Athena and Minerva. It's interesting that many of *Pria's descents were associated with semetic goddesses like Astarte and Ishtar, so it's possible that *Pria's figure originated from a proto-afroasiatic goddess of sex and war, or the Sumerian Inanna.

Both the English and its Spanish counterpart Viernes originate from *Pria. Friday is derived from Frigga's Day, which honors the Norse/Germanic goddess sometimes confused with Freyja,*Pria's female descendant, while Viernes is derived from dies Veneris, or Venus Day.

Similar to other proto-Indo-European gods she has also left some of her legacy within Christianity as well, where the Virgin Mary is depicted in art using traits from both Venus and Aphrodite.

Etymologically, the Slavic Saint Paraskeva Friday, who is revered in folk orthodoxy, originated from *Pria.

[languages-i-guess-comic]

Tiny sketches from the comic!! It's all coming along and the five tiny chapters will be (luckly) ready soon! :DDD

[linguaphiliax]

[child-of-frigg]

The Spirit & The Moon: My journey thus far.

I began my spiritual journey years ago, in the same town where I was born after spending much of my childhood away. At first it was merely a quest for understanding, a journey into the cosmos to find peace with existence itself. In time the things which I wished to understand became so much larger than myself, I began to truly understand how infinite the cosmic forces and all their knowledge really were; and that they just like us had names.

My research began with the Spirit itself, the very thing that makes us mortals what we are, our will to fight and to survive, or to die in honour. During this period of my life I explored various different faiths and researched their ideologies and values as well as the roots of their spiritual beliefs, and it was during this time that the cosmic forces which shaped these various faiths became so apparent to me. This led me to my eventual faith as a Pagan, a worshipper of trees and stars, the old Gods, and the very Moon herself. As a Devotee of the Moon I continued my search for answers to the mysteries of the universe, under her light I sought the voice of the universe itself, and there I heard the sounds of ancient energies at work, the winds and the grass speaking to one another in a language long forgotten. The first tribes understood this language, and their children's children inherited this knowledge in repetition long after spreading across the land, spoken by those who would come to be known as the Norse and Gaels.

This language was once understood by tribes spanning the globe, from the East to the West stories have survived that carry its essence, the understanding of nature itself, however the earliest it was ever described in text was in the runes gifted to mankind by Odin, so the path of an Asatruar became clear to me. Having since learned of my Gaelic heritage my understanding thus far of what remains has only widened, and so I chose to begin writing a public journal in hopes of better cataloguing my research, and sharing what I've learned with those who are on similar paths to mine, however far along they may be in their journey.

There is much peace to be found in understanding, and though the universe may always keep its dearest secrets, it will whisper to those who listen.

[yvanspijk]

Fnēosan & to sneeze

The verb to sneeze comes from Old English fnēosan. Why doesn't it still start with an f? Since the cluster fn- was extremely uncommon, people started to replace it with the common cluster sn- in Middle English: fnēsen became snēsen, which ultimately became to sneeze.

The Oxford English Dictionary says the change was due to misreading or misprinting the f as ſ, the 'long s'. However, this is very unlikely, since such a thing wouldn't be able to make an entire people change their native pronunciation, especially at a time when literacy was still low. Moreover, the same thing happened with to snore (from Middle English fnoren) and to snort (from fnorten), while there aren't any other cases of f's that became an s.

In many other Germanic languages, fn- was substituted by hn-, once a very common cluster, which ultimately became n-, as in German niesen. Dutch preserves both niezen, from a form with hn-, and fniezen, although the latter is now archaic.

[borom1r]

god I love languages. anyways my new DND character has a name now

[mannazandwyrd]

Vindelev hoard update

I know, I know, everyone probably already gushed about the latest Vindelev hoard bracteate news while I was taking a break from social media.

I just want to point out the most exciting bit. (And no, it’s not that we have 5th century evidence of Odin worship, although that *is* pretty dang exciting.)

These inscriptions have enough new words to add to dictionaries that runologists and linguists have to re-evaluate *all bracteates ever found* to see if new information is revealed by our expanded vocabulary.

Since many bracteates depict or are dedicated to Nordic mythical figures? New information about Old Norse deities is possibly about to be learnt.

[druidicentropy]

*Deh₂nu

*Deh₂nu- is a hypothetical goddess of water in Proto-Indo-European mythology, with connections to the names of rivers like the Danube, Don, Dnieper, and Dniester, as well as the Vedic deity Dānu, the Irish Danu, and the Welsh Dôn. Despite acknowledging a possible lexical connection, Mallory and Adams contend that there is not enough evidence to support the idea that a distinct river goddess existed in Proto-Indo-European beliefs. They primarily highlight the Indic tradition's understanding of river deification. Furthermore, Mallory and Adams suggest that a theory for a sea god called *Trih₂tōn—whose name is derived from the Greek Triton and the Old Irish word for sea, trïath—is unsupported by the lack of a corresponding sea god in Irish mythology and only minor lexical similarities. The Ossetian god Donbettyr is also mentioned in the story. Who is placated by gifts to keep the waterwheel turning, and who Donnán of Eigg proposes as a Christian equivilent of this figure.

Moreover, this deity and the Dan river in Centeral Asia may have similar etymologies.

She is frequently seen as the mother of a mythical tribe, the *Deh₂newyóes, in many Indo-European cultures; these tribes are deduced from the Vedic Danavas, the Irish Tuatha Dé Danann, the Greek Danaoi, and the Norse Danes. Under Bel's leadership, this tribe is said to have fought a hero called *H₂nḗrtos, which could connect them to characters like the Norse god Njord, the Nart from the Nart saga, and Indra's epithet nrtama.

[astronicht]

Incomplete list of stuff that made me go apeshit reading Fellowship for the first time, medievalist edition (part II)

Part I here. Disclaimer: this is for fun!

Love that people keep stressing that they are going to the ELVES for COUNCIL. Old English names, especially among the rulers of Wessex, Northumbria, Mercia, etc, were often Elf Theme Names, one of the most famous and enduring of which is Alfred. Written the old way, Ælfræd or Ælfred (as in Alfred the Great), means Elf-Council, aka "counseled by elves". In their hearts... everyone wants to be Alfred... possibly this is only funny 2 me.

Tom Bombadil doing a training montage in the fucking magic system of Middle Earth?? He teaches Frodo to recite a poem that will summon him, Tom Bombadil, in times of need! Frodo gets kidnapped by undead wights in a barrow (like many a good young person in an Old Norse saga before him) and dutifully recites this magic poem. Frodo learned Recite Magic Poem! TOM BOMBADIL SMASHES THRU THE WALL OF THE BARROW LIKE THE KOOL-ADE MAN AND RECITES A BIGGER, STRONGER POEM??

At this point I gave up on trying to be normal about anything. As such, I'm pausing on Tom Bombadil again.

It helped (?? not psychologically) that Tom Bombadil recited something that felt a bit familiar, when he banished the wights. It's not anything like a direct translation, if indeed it bears any purposeful resemblance to the actual recorded medieval galdor called Against a Wen. Regardless, Against a Wen is an okay?? example of what a spoken word magic poem would look like, and why it's similar to what Tom Bombadil (and later Gandalf and others) do. Left screenshot is Bombadil against a barrow-wight. Right is Against a Wen, in English translation. (a wen was possibly a skin ailment, like a mole or a cancer). Banishing to/beyond the hills and shrivelling are the apparent themes. You don't have to follow me on this one, much less agree. Frankly this is the point I went off the deep end, probably.

Galdor can also protect! This just happens to be a banishment.

Gollum got exiled (the worst thing the early medieval and apparently proto-hobbit law could do to you) but not even for murder. No one found out about the murder. He just sucked.

ALSO Gollum lied and said that his matriarch (who exiled him) gave him the Ring. This implies it was plausible she'd give out rings, implying female ring-giver (standard role of a king). This is mentioned once and never again. ok!!

One last fun fact about galdor: it is the word at the end of "nightingale" isn't that lovely? Luthien's name in-universe means nightingale. This is fine!

I spent a lot of time researching Aragorn's favorite rock. I love these books. If I recall correctly it's a real rock! but possibly. just a cool rock.

[skaldish]

The more I examine the Norse Myths, the clearer it becomes which tales likely don't actually reflect the worldviews of the Norse people.

Like...there are a few tells. The first and most obvious is the fact a few stories were added/changed in order to make it seem like they are proto-versions of the stories found in Christian mythology (Ragnarok being analogous to Armageddon, Loki being portrayed as the Norse devil, etc).

But there are subtler things as well.

I'm beginning to notice there's a difference between the way stories present information. The function of some stories is to describe how something happened, whereas the function of others is describe what something is.

For example, it is said that Thor throwing down his hammer mjolnir on the heads of giants is what created the mountains and the valleys.

This is an example of a story that describes how something happened.

This stands in comparison to the story of Loki being bound beneath the earth. It's said earthquakes happen because Loki is writhing from getting snake venom in his eyes.

This is an example of a story that describes what something is (in this case, what an earthquake is).

Now, it's really easy to think of these two stories as being identical, but the "tell" is that first story actually describes an event that can be witnessed: You can watch storms pass through the mountains and strike them with lightning. You cannot, however, see Loki punching and kicking beneath the ground.

Between the two belief systems, Christianity is the one that focuses heavily on describing worldly phenomenon through abstract concepts. We don't actually see this in most of the Norse stories, which are either for entertainment, or are an allegory for a felt experience.

I don't know, I'm just going to keep chipping away at this and see if it gets me anywhere, but I'm fascinated by this perspective so far.

[headspace-hotel]

I hope I can express this properly and sensitively, but I think oftentimes people need to have Categories and Identities and to be healthily exploratory and playful and elastic about them, else they can get vulnerable to some negative things, sometimes really awful things

I wish I could remember where I read it, but there was something that wrote about whiteness in America as an abyss.

Whiteness is something that sheltered white Americans' ancestors, and at the same time devoured them. They used to have a distinct medley of heritages: Irish, German, Scottish, Italian. "Whiteness" ate it up, the languages, the cultures. There were privileges if you destroyed it, and punishments if you held onto anything that was "Other." In a white supremacist society, white people wanted to be "white" first before any other possible identity or connection they could have.

Yay! You're white. You're on top. You win...what? Turns out the prize for "winning" is just that you get to perpetrate the violence of the game instead of being on the receiving end of it.

And that's the nasty twist—there is no prize. The deeply embedded vice of "Southern pride" is not just what the Confederate flag stands for, but also why they've got to cling so hard to that symbol of traitors and losers: they need to be on top of something so bad that even a pile of shit will do. My ancestors were ultimately dirt poor, loads of them ending up in prison or breaking their bodies down doing hard labor, but they were white. Their reward, and their pride, was being stepped on by the violence of poverty only, instead of also by the violence of white supremacy.

"White pride" is all about hate because white supremacy didn't give these folks anything to be proud of. It stripped away the culture and heritage their ancestors had in favor of "whiteness." All those jokes about how white people have no culture, well, it's true isn't it? This shit is how we ended up a primarily monolingual nation. And what looks like happened is that white Americans wound up just...scavenging most of their culture from those they oppressed. Food, music, all of that stuff. Our white ancestors didn't GIVE us anything that was their own to start with.

And this is something that really strikes me about the white supremacist and fascist movements nowadays: the starvation and hollowness behind them. These folks are empty inside. They were given nothing by white supremacy except a very vague sense that they deserve something, and they see people of all different cultures celebrating and flourishing in their unique heritages and identities, and they feel like...they've been cheated.

Equality is so threatening when you're in this situation because it feels like you've got less than everyone else at the end of the day. Not just because of comparison to previous privileges, but because your whole identity was "person that gets to step on everybody else" and your whole inheritance was "shit stolen from everybody else" and in a world where all is set right, you have no identity and nothing. You are nothing.

Anyway I was looking just now at a blog that seemed really white-supremacist-leaning and it was 99% about like, Norse and Proto-Indo-European paganism and "traditionalism" and that's what got me thinking about this again.

This person had apparently done DNA tests on themselves or something, and were really fixated on figuring out their Norse and Germanic ancestors and separating out their genetic and racial identity at a level of precision that seems really pointless that far back in time. And honestly all the paganism stuff seemed like totally arbitrary speculation as well.

And how to become satisfied as a person like this? I am just as much Germanic or Norse as they are, but I don't believe that distant ancestors determine who you are to such an extent that I have some sort of innate cultural tie to Vikings or Visigoths or what have you. I know what percentage Celtic or Anglo Saxon or Norse I am—zero. I learned about those things in books the exact same way I learned about all the cultures and past kingdoms of the world that I presumably don't have ancestors from.

I feel like the experience of being a baby ally and obsessing about apologizing for being white is the same kind of thing in another direction, or another outcome of the same process. Some people seem to get really twisted up for a time over how to stop being guilty about being white.

It's part of the same thing as this guy who is trying to genetically identify his ancestors from like 3,000 years ago. It's the emptiness and meaninglessness of "white" identity apart from white supremacy.

I talk about deradicalization sometimes and I've had the notion a few times that fascism appeals to people who are hollow and starving in terms of identity, and if it wasn't for the sense of emptiness and hunger, they would be less easily radicalized. But it's also a little bit awkward to talk about the deeply unsatisfying nature of white supremacy, because...well, that is pretty low on the list of things bad about white supremacy.

I think this concept is worth talking about in general, though: People want to feel like they come from or are part of something meaningful. They are drawn toward Identities and Categories and Belonging to groups. This is something I think is commonly true about humans, I think it is normal and not a bad thing, and I think we could stand to be a little more upfront about its reality.

I think this means that wanting, and seeking, a sense of cultural identity as a white person (particularly an American) needs to have some kind of non-horrible outlet for it. Because right now, it's nothing but a way to get radicalized, and the dominant other option people take (becoming the Guilty White Person) is liked by no one and helps nothing.

And maybe it doesn't need to have anything to do with race or culture or your ancestors or any of these things that can lead a person down such terrible paths. Maybe more of us should be furries!

As just another thing to consider, I'm reading the book Ecology of a Cracker Childhood and the author of the book uses the word "cracker" not like, with the gravity of reclaiming a "slur" or something like that, but seemingly because that is just the word she most strongly identifies with, the word that best articulates who "her people" are. This feels very solid and levelheaded to me, something that comes from someone with a good sense of themselves.

Personally I've thought a long time that more people should reclaim "redneck." Not in the sense of reclaiming a slur exactly, but in the sense of putting it in neutral usage among the folks it always referred to, instead of letting it increasingly be associated with any Southerner (regardless of working class background) that is the sort to wave a Confederate flag around. The very idea of gatekeeping "redneck" away from racists is just absolutely hilarious to me, I won't lie.