#red moccasins

[miquelzeoli]

[reasonsforhope]

Article Link

"Minnetonka first started selling its “Thunderbird” moccasins in 1965. Now, for the first time, they’ve been redesigned by a Native American designer.

It’s one step in the company’s larger work to deal with its history of cultural appropriation. The Minneapolis-based company launched in the 1940s as a small business making souvenirs for roadside gift shops in the region—including Native American-inspired moccasins, though the business wasn’t started or run by Native Americans. The moccasins soon became its biggest seller.

[Photo: Minnetonka]

Adrienne Benjamin, an Anishanaabe artist and community activist who became the company’s “reconciliation advisor,” was initially reluctant when a tribal elder approached her about meeting with the company. Other activists had dismissed the idea that the company would do the work to truly transform. But Benjamin agreed to the meeting, and the conversation convinced her to move forward.

“I sensed a genuine commitment to positive change,” she says. “They had really done their homework as far as understanding and acknowledging the wrong and the appropriation. I think they knew for a long time that things needed to get better, and they just weren’t sure what a first step was.”

Pictured: Lucie Skjefte and son Animikii [Photo: Minnetonka]

In 2020, Minnetonka publicly apologized “for having benefited from selling Native-inspired designs without directly honoring Native culture or communities.” It also said that it was actively recruiting Native Americans to work at the company, reexamining its branding, looking for Native-owned businesses to partner with, continuing to support Native American nonprofits, and that it planned to collaborate with Native American artists and designers.

Benjamin partnered with the company on the first collaboration, a collection of hand-beaded hats, and then recruited the Minneapolis-based designer Lucie Skjefte, a citizen of the Red Lake Nation, who designed the beadwork for another moccasin style and a pair of slippers for the brand. Skjefte says that she felt comfortable working with the company knowing that it had already done work with Benjamin on reconciliation. And she wasn’t a stranger to the brand. “Our grandmothers and our mothers would always look for moccasins in a clutch kind of situation where they didn’t have a pair ready and available to make on their own—then they would buy Minnetonka mocs and walk into a traditional pow wow and wear them,” she says. Her mother, she says, who passed away in 2019, would have been “immensely proud” that Skjefte’s design work was part of the moccasins—and on the new version of the Thunderbird moccasin, one of the company’s top-selling styles.

[Photo: Minnetonka]

“I started thinking about all of those stories, and what resonated with me visually,” Skjefte says. The redesign, she says, is much more detailed and authentic than the previous version. “Through the redesign and beading process, we are actively reclaiming and reconnecting our Animikii or Thunderbird motif with its Indigenous roots,” she says. Skjefte will earn royalties for the design, and Minnetonka will also separately donate a portion of the sale of each shoe to Mni Sota Fund, a nonprofit that helps Native Americans in Minnesota get training and capital for home ownership and entrepreneurship.

Some companies go a step farther—Manitobah Mukluks, based in Canada, has an Indigenous founder and more than half Indigenous staff. (While Minnetonka is actively recruiting more Native American workers, the company says that employees self-report race and it can’t share any data about its current number of Indigenous employees.) Beyond its own line of products, Manitobah also has an online Indigenous Market that features artists who earn 100% of the profit for their work.

White Bear Moccasins, a Native-owned-and-made brand in Montana, makes moccasins from bison hide. Each custom pair can take six to eight hours to make; the shoes cost hundreds of dollars, though they can also be repaired and last as long as a lifetime, says owner Shauna White Bear. In interviews, White Bear has said that she wants “to take our craft back,” from companies like Minnetonka. But she also told Fast Company that she doesn’t think that Minnetonka, as a family-owned business, should have to lose its livelihood now and stop making moccasins.

The situation is arguably different for other fashion brands that might use a Native American symbol—or rip off a Native American design completely—on a single product that could easily be taken off the market. Benjamin says that she has also worked with other companies that have discontinued products.

She sees five steps in the process of reconciliation. First, the person or company who did wrong has to acknowledge the wrong. Then they need to publicly apologize, begin to change behavior, start to rebuild trust, and then, eventually, the wronged party might take the step of forgiveness. Right now, she says, Minnetonka is in the third phase of behavior change. The brand plans to continue to collaborate with Native American designers.

The company can be an example to others on how to listen and build true relationships, Benjamin says. “I think that’s the only way that these relationships are going to get any better—people have to sit down and talk about it,” she says. “People have to be real. People have to apologize. They have to want to reconcile with people.”

The leadership at Minnetonka can also be allies in pushing other companies to do better. “My voice is important at the table as an Indigenous woman,” Benjamin says. “Lucie’s voice is important. But at tables where there’s a majority of people that aren’t Indigenous, sometimes those allies’ voices are more powerful in those spaces, because that means that they’ve signed on to what we’re saying. The power has signed on to moving forward and we agree with ‘Yes, this was wrong.’ That’s the stuff that’s going to change [things] right there.”"

-via FastCompany, February 7, 2024

[gumywyrm]

[atherpurest]

[whoyacallinyellow]

Maybe it’s because I like playing dress-up, but the “winter clothing” feature is so underused.

The story only takes you way up north once in the beginning / end, and I’m not okay with that.

[gb275]

Red wings 🪽

[theblackknightofworcestershire]

went for a swim at my regular river and finally saw a snake there other than a water moccasin!!

(it was a copperhead)

[neechees]

What a Cree Bride May Have Worn - 1880's.

[image description: semi realistic flat colored, digital drawing of a light brown skinned Cree woman with dark brown hair in braids, a cream colored tanned hide dress, who is leading an American Paint horse by a lasso. The Cree woman has two large dots of red ochre painted on the apples of her cheeks, and single line of red ochre across her forehead. She has 4 lined tattoos running down her chin, and to lines extending outward to make an inverted "V" from the corners of her mouth. Her braids are tied off with circular conch shell ties, and she wears a beaded blue belt with red triangular detailing, a blue beaded necklace, and a bone choker with red beads. She has red and white moccasins with a long, fringed dress, with red pigment yoke painted onto the dress, and blue and white quillwork underneath. She has a Hudson's Bay blanket over her right shoulder. Speech bubbles pointing to the relevant details are as listed in bullet points below. end image description.]

Weddings usually were not as formal, big events in Cree culture, but there were some formalities and gifts that were exchanged, including what's depicted here.

Horse: marriage dowry. She was gifted a horse in exchange for marriage. All horses belonged to her.

red ochre makeup, for special occasions, and chin tattoos indicating status as a married woman.

newly made moccasins and a blanket: gifts from her intended. She was gifted the moccasins alongside the horse.

[sidyashchiy-na-plakhe]

All WoF characters in alphabetical order ("W". part 1)

(click for better quality)

Yes, I didn’t start with A, because I want to do it randomly.

About designs:

Warthog is like warthog lol. He has a checkerboard pattern. It came from the design idea of his sister Moccasin, whose name is similar to the word "mosaic" which is why I gave her the mosaic patterns.

Wasp has wasps on her clothes and a crown that looks like a weapon on her horn.

Wharf is like a beach by the sea.

Webs has webs on his webs >:).

Weevil is as evil and red aristocrat as Senor Tomato from the Soviet cartoon "Cipollino".

Whirlpool's pupils are similar to whirlpools.

[st4rg1rl-16]

━━ ✶✶˖° 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗘𝗘 | 𝗡𝟰𝗦.

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴(𝘀) ━ 2019 to 2023!f1 grid x driver!female oc

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 ━ lewis responds to what arabella said in drive to survive starting a little rivalry between them

𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲 ━ 2019, 31st march

𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 ━ manama, bahrein

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ━ angst because bella tries to push everyone away, lewis being confusing and cursing

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 ━ not an accurate description of a race (i don't really know how to write that so this will do) btw seb is not going to be in the grid until 2021 bc you know we need that seat for bella but he will appear so don't worry

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ━ @namgification @louvrepool @d3kstar @omgsuperstarg @whoselly @yl90

• — need for speed’s masterlist

HER leg, clad in the red race suit, moved up and down. She bit the inside of her left cheek and played with the sleeve of her shirt. She was in her garage sitting on a bench that she had found, her car surrounded by her mechanics was not far from her.

She looked around her: this was definitely different from Formula Two.

Today was her second race in Formula One and for some reason she was nervous unlike the first one in which she felt nothing but excitement and adrenaline. Yesterday she qualified in fifth place so she had a good chance of winning or at least getting on the podium which was good news but the spaniard couldn't help but self-sabotage and think that she wasn't going to win.

Her anxiety began to take hold in her stomach and she couldn't help but think about her teammate. Last night they had confessed their feelings to each other and between kisses and whispers they fell asleep, which was special for her but when Arabella opened her eyes and quietly slipped out of the room to get ready to go to the circuit, reality crashed into her, giving her a slap all over the face.

Now she was in a relationship? –They hadn’t come to anything since they didn’t had time to talk but let's leave it at that– with her teammate which, according to the small print of their contract, was strictly prohibited so if they were discovered they could be fired in addition to the fact that it would be a scandal, they would call her everything and they would surely believe that it would be a point in favor of why there should be no women in Formula One and she knew that, unfortunately, Charles, just because he was a man, would not come out as badly as her.

She covered her face with her hands trying to block out the light and took in as much air as her lungs would allow before releasing it again. She had to talk to Charles and make things clear, but first she had to forget about that and focus on her career.

She called herself a fool in the four languages she knew. She was supposed to be smart, she had to think things through, know in advance all the possible scenarios that could arise as a result of her actions. She couldn't make mistakes, she was in the spotlight of thousands of people. She was Arabella Torres, the girl who had make it to Formula One at just eighteen years old and who was causing a sensation in the world of sports. She couldn't allow herself to make mistakes, not after everything she had suffered to get to where she was now, not after everything she had said. She couldn't make a fool of herself like that.

She would be a shame to her family, her friends and most of all to the women around the world that she represented. She wanted to make history and change it, she wanted to be the one who made the path easier for others but she couldn't do it if two months after debuting she was caught with her partner's tongue down her throat.

"Fuck," she cursed in a whisper in spanish, removing her hands from her face. Some leather moccasins were present in her field of vision, she looked up, meeting Alexander, her man of the radio, looking at her cautiously.

“You seem worried, are you okay?” The man, who was in his fifties and reminded her of her grandfather, asked.

She shook her head, releasing a sigh that she didn't know she contained. She faked a small smile "I'm a little nervous about starting in fifth position."

“You'll do well, I'm sure” He placed his hand on her shoulder and gave her a couple of pats as a sign of support “Who knows, maybe you'll win this race.”

"I wish" her smile changed to a real one, winning would definitely make her day better.

The half brit half italian smiled back, tightening his grip on her shoulder before letting go and pointing to his ears. “Don't worry, I'll be with you.”

She smiled tenderly before opening her mouth to answer him but she was interrupted when she heard one of the mechanics say Charles' name, then she heard the others greet him as well. Immediately her leg resumed moving up and down on her spot.

Mierda. Shit.

A couple of minutes later the green-eyed man was walking towards her offering her a smile that she could swear was worth a million euros. She reciprocated timidly and lowered her gaze when he finally reached her side.

For his part, Charles felt that at any moment he was going to throw up butterflies. He took advantage of the fact that she diverted her gaze to the ground to observe her better, the sleeves of her race suit were tied to her waist, leaving her fireproof shirt that hugged her body to view, highlighting her figure, her dark hair was tied in a low ponytail, she was not wearing makeup, leaving seeing circles under her eyes that confirmed that what happened last night hadn’t been a dream and that it had actually happened.

“You left without saying anything” He leaned towards her and whispered so that no one else would hear him.

She felt how her cheeks began to heat up and how the feeling of guilt began to settle in her chest “I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep so I went to my room. I didn't want to wake you up” She lifted her right leg and bent it, drawing it toward her body and then placed her chin on against her knee so she could see him better. She furrowed his eyebrows “Are you angry?”.

He shook his head slightly earning a sigh of relief from her to which he laughed extending his arm to gently caress her back. It was true, he wasn't angry but he would have liked to wake up with her in his arms.

“You start in fifth position, how do you feel?”.

“I think I will get on the podium”.

“Oh, yeah?” He smiled, raising both eyebrows in a mocking tone to which she smiled amused “Do you think you'll beat me? I have the pole”.

She liked talking to Charles, he made her feel calm and helped her escape from her tedious reality. The monegasque, apart from being handsome and a good driver, was also a good person. He was the type of person who looked for a way to make you feel good and comfortable, that he adapted to the person with whom he had a conversation, taking into account what to talk about and what not to talk about. That was one of the things she liked about him.

“Mmmh, you'll see, Leclerc” She wrapped her fingers in the laces of her shoe and nodded, smiling at him mockingly, playing along.

The boy stared at her for a few seconds without saying anything, his gaze traveled quickly from her eyes to her lips and back again before leaning towards her again to speak in a low voice “You don't know how much I want to kiss you right now”.

"Charles!" She reprimanded him in a whisper, placing her hand on the boy's face and pushing his head back. She laughed because she thought it was funny but she tried to hide it "We shouldn't talk about that in public."

He rolled his eyes regretfully “Right.”

An applause was heard, drawing the attention of both, Arabella hurriedly released the monegasque's head when she saw Mattia Binotto approaching them at a quick pace.

“Good morning, guys!” A big smile covered the lips of the man with glasses “I hope you slept well because today we need you to have energy”.

They both shared a look and smiled slightly.

Wow, so sneaky.

“Charles, you are in pole position which is fantastic. I'm proud” He praised the boy who smiled and responded with a thank you. His gaze shifted to the girl, who shrank in her place somewhat nervously "And you, Arabella, are doing so well Fifth position in your second race! Great, simply great”.

“Thank you very much, sir,” She smiled politely. She felt the tension expelling from her body little by little.

He pushed up his left sleeve revealing a watch that looked like it was worth quite a bit of money and looked at it before covering it again "Well, I'm pretty busy today and since I won't be able to talk to you the rest of the day I wanted to wish you both luck” They both let out a thank you again, this time in unison making him laugh “By the way, I know you both want to win but whatever happens we will be happy and proud. See you guys”.

And without further ado he left, leaving them alone again.

“He was acting a little strange, don't you think?” With a frown and looking in the direction where the team principal had disappeared.

“A little, yes” He played it off, taking his phone out of his pocket to look at the time.

It was already eleven thirty in the morning.

“What are you going to do until lunch?” He locked the phone and returned it to his pocket while he mentally reviewed his agenda.

“I have a couple of interviews for a DAZN Spain. What about you?”.

"I don't know yet, I'll look for Emma and ask her" He shrugged and looked around the workshop in case he saw the publicist near her. When he confirmed that the woman wasn’t there, he turned to his team mate “Do you want to eat together?".

"Sure" She agreed before her own publicist approached her. She nodded when she told her that it was time for the interviews and she got up from the red metal bench, looked at the boy and raised her head in dismissal "I'll send you a text when I'm done."

He gave her a thumbs up, smiling at her, and stood up too, ready to go to his part of the garage and find his publicist.

Arabella looked at Elvira, her publicist, trying to look for any sign that she suspected something about the two drivers but the black-haired woman was too absorbed in her phone. She wrinkled her nose looking away from her trying not to be caught staring.

“Well, Albert Fabrega will interview you. It won't be anything out of the ordinary: he'll ask you how the car feels, if you think you'll win, he'll talk about your position in the standings and little else” She finally took her gaze off the phone, taking her index finger to her black-rimmed glasses, pushing them towards her face.

“Okay, and then?” She accepted the bottle of water that a Ferrari assistant offered her, thanked him with a smile when he walked next to her with an umbrella in his hand ready to cover her from the scorching sun.

“You'll talk to the DAZN Spain team for a while and ehm….” She looked again at the electronic device in her hands “There are some rich fans who have access to the paddock, you will take a couple of photos with them and you will sign whatever they want you to sign, then you can go to eat. You will met Charles for lunch, right?”.

“Yes” She began to unscrew the cap of the bottle and then take a good sip. She laughed "Do you know that the other day a girl asked me to sign her boobs?".

"Ew" Elvira made a disgusted face before waving her right hand "I'm so glad I'm not famous sometimes, anyway I think it's good that you go to lunch with Charles, so we can know where you are. I'll make sure Lando stays away from you, I don't want you two to start playing again” She looked at her accusingly over her glasses and she laughed guiltily, knowing she was referring to when she and the McLaren driver got together on Friday, playing tag and by accident they broke a sign.

They spent half an hour apologizing to Red Bull for tearing in half a poster with Pierre's face, who didn’t hesitate to make a dramatic scene about the situation.

But what could they do, after all they were just children.

“I THINK I have a good chance of getting on the podium today, I'm starting fifth so...” She shrugged, giving the camera a toothless smile. Her right hand held the microphone they had given her while her left held her body against the railing that separated the drivers from the press.

The journalist nodded “And what about your rivalry with Hamilton? As you said in Drive to Survive, you will do everything possible to beat him”.

That wasn't in the plan. She bit the inside of her cheek and swayed slightly wrapping her right foot around her left leg. “Yes, I said that but I don't have any rivalry with Hamilton other than, well, the typical one on the track that I have with all the drivers”.

“Don't you know what Hamilton has said about you?” The question left her frozen and for a moment she was worried but quickly composed herself and denied, looking out of the corner of her eye at her publicist and manager, who looked at her just as confused as she was before taking out their phones. The interviewer approached her, handing her his phone; it showed an article from the spanish newspaper Marca which about her and the champion.

She read the headline "Hamilton makes it clear that he is not worried about Torres" and she frowned as she watched the Mercedes driver's words being recited more quietly.

"I don't think she's a rival for me."

“Do you have anything to say about that?” Because she had tucked the microphone under her arm so she could grab the phone, the journalist brought his own microphone closer to her face. She opened her mouth to respond but nothing came out. "In the Melbourne GP you didn't get close to him, finishing in eighth place when he was second. Do you think you'll beat him today?".

She glanced at Elvira and Nicholas again, who shook their heads but she ignored them. “He can say whatever he wants. I'm not going to say that I'm going to beat him today because no one, much less me, knows what's going to happen today, but if I don't beat him today I know that one day I will. Maybe not today or tomorrow but one day I will and rest assured I will take the title from him.”

A smile was planted on the man's lips when he heard her. “Thank you, Arabella. That's all”.

“Thanks to you” She gave him a small smile that didn’t hide her annoyance and, after extending the microphone to the sound people, she turned around and walked away from there. In a second her publicist, her manager, the assistant with the umbrella and the Netflix team were at her side struggling to keep up with her.

Both adults looked at each other while the poor assistant was sweating profusely trying to hide it from the sun.

“Arabella...” She raised a hand stopping the woman, who with her mouth open looked at the girl's manager.

"I don't want to talk now, Elvira” She growled, heading to her room, ignoring everyone she found in her way. When she got to her room she locked herself in, putting the latch on, slamming the door in the faces of both adults.

The blonde knocked on the door. "Bells, don't lock yourself in. Talk to me”.

She was pissed off, very pissed off. One of her idols had underestimated her in public and she didn't understand why. Lewis seemed to be kind and good, she hadn't had the luck –or, now, misfortune– to talk to him yet but still the champion never failed to give her a smile when their eyes met. Was it all for appearances?.

She clenched her jaw, feeling how the tears of rage and frustration began to accumulate in her eyes, pushing against each other eagerly to slide down her cheeks. She swallowed and let her knees give way, causing her back to slide against the door until she was sitting on the floor.

It wasn't the first time they talked bad about her, it wasn't the first time someone was condescending towards her but damn, when he was one of the people you admire most in the world, it definitely hurt more than anything.

The sound of a notification rang from her pocket, she wanted to ignore it but she knew that it was most likely Charles looking for her to eat. Swallowing her tears, she took the phone out of her pocket and looked at the time, there were less than two hours left until the race, she had to go eat.

A single notification occupied the screen confirming her suspicions upon seeing the Monegasque's name.

She smiled though her smile warped into a pout as she felt a sob run down her throat. She suddenly felt worthless and that she didn't deserve anything that was happening to her. She closed her eyes tightly, smashing the palm of her hand against her mouth, trying to silence the sob. She wasn't going to cry, she didn't want to cry, she couldn't cry. She had to be strong.

“Ma belle?” She heard a knock on the door and then she could hear the boy's shy voice. She shook her head, she didn't want to be seen like that, much less for Charles to see her like that. My beautiful.

She stood up, leaving the phone on the floor and hurried to grab the box of clinex that she had in the television cabinet. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt before walking to the door and bent down to pick up the phone, opening the camera app and looking at herself on the screen. She was more or less presentable.

"Bella, please," she heard him speak again, this time with a pleading tone “Can I come in?".

She took a breath in and out before faking a smile and opening the door, finding Nick, Elvira, and Charles behind it. The three of them were looking at her with concern.

“Well, are we going to eat or what?” She smiled wider before leaving the room and passing between them ready to head to Ferrari's cafeteria.

The three looked at each other and Nicholas let out a sigh, running a hand over his face before looking at the boy dressed in red. "Go to her, she won't want to talk to us."

The driver nodded before starting to run in the direction of the girl. When he was close to her he wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled her up, making her stop. "Hey, what just happened there?".

"Nothing, I got angry, I calmed down and that's it" Charles frowned in denial when he saw her smile that could be seen for miles that was false, he was beginning to get annoyed with her "everything is fine" attitude.

“I was in my room when you arrived, you were going like the devil was chasing you. I also heard the door slam. Don't lie to me, Arabella” The false smile that was on her lips fell to the ground as soon as she heard him, she looked around them. Some of the staff watched them talk.

She gently released herself from his grasp. “It's not a good idea to talk here, Charles.”

"I don't give a shit," It surprised her because, to be honest, since she knew him she hadn’t seen him like this, much less heard him curse. He continued, "You can't throw a fit, worry everyone, worry me, and then act like nothing happened. That's not how things work, Arabella.”

She looked at him in silence, he was right but she wasn't going to give that to him. She didn't like to talk about her feelings, much less when they were bad ones.

Charles looked at her too, waiting for her to say something, anything. He wanted her to open up to him, to trust him with her feelings like she had done last night, she wanted him to know that he was there for her.

"See you on the podium," She then told him in a serious tone, after she turned around and disappeared.

SITTING in her car she felt like a king although the looks of the mechanics around her made her feel like she was a bomb about to explode. They looked at her, talked and even were cautious around her.

Apparently the word had spread..

She glued her gaze to the halo that surrounded her, the famous phrase "I feel the need, the need for speed" was printed in white letters. She clenched her jaw when she saw the cameras pointed in her direction, she knew that tomorrow people would be talking about her face.

Her tight jaw that highlighted her features and her intense gaze fixed on her halo would be something to talk about the next day. Some would say she looked attractive, other would would criticize her.

Fuck them.

Nicholas approached her with her helmet and the balaclava in her hands. He held them out to her and she took them. She looked at her helmet and with her index finger caressed the black 9 that stood out among the red and white.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw how the six foot man squatted next to her car to get a better look at her. "Good luck, speed. We are with you.”

The smallest smile of hers was present at her nickname and she raised her gloved hand formed into a fist, soon she felt the man's fist collide with hers.

“Arabella, you're out in five!” She heard someone shout and nodded, putting on her balaclava, someone helped her put on her hans and her helmet. She closed her eyes as she quickly crossed herself.

She pursed her lips thinking about her family. It had only been twenty minutes since she had called her mother to talk to them and say her goodbyes, something she always did before a race since she had that accident. She said goodbye to them in case she didn't leave the track alive, her parents weren't happy about it but she needed it, she needed to tell them that she loved them just in case she couldn't tell them again in person.

She watched as Charles' car pulled out of his garage as the lead car passed in front of them. She felt a small sting in her chest, she pressed her lips together knowing well that it was her fault. They hadn't spoken again since their "argument", they hadn't even eaten together like they had talked about in the morning.

She felt bad for pushing him away but she couldn't help it, she was like that despite herself.

Her jaw clenched again when she saw the black and white car pass by. She was going to win or at least get on the podium so she could shut up the Brit. She was willing to make her life in that race hell. She was going to make him fight for first place.

She watched as the flag in front of her lowered and hurriedly stepped on the accelerator to leave the garage. She followed Bottas being followed by Verstappen.

She took a deep breath, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. Well, here we go.

“Arabella?” She heard Alexander's voice on the radio “Can you hear me?”.

"I hear you," she replied without taking her eyes off the end of Valtteri's car.

She swallowed and lowered the visor of her helmet. The silence embraced her completely, the only thing she could hear was her own breathing. And then every red light turned green in a blink.

Lights out and away we go!

She tried to overtake Bottas but the Red Bull driver tried the same with her. She clicked her tongue when she felt the Dutchman's car pull up to hers.

"Get him off or you'll crash." She heard the man in her ears and she opened her eyes obviously, she wanted to respond with a sarcastic comment but knowing that the communication was being recorded she decided to remain silent.

“Copy” she tried to get away from him but in less than a second Verstappen was already next to her again. She cursed under her breath.

It seems that Verstappen is not making it easy for Torres.

“Not today, Max. Not today, damn it”.

“Carlos is trying to pass, take advantage of it and pass Verstappen” she nodded to herself and prepared to accelerate, she watched as Carlos made space to the left of the Red Bull car, causing the three cars to be stuck together, covering the entire road. When on the 33rd she saw that Sainz was trying to pass, she stuck to him, leaving Arabella alone, she pressed the accelerator and drove away from them “Very good, Bella!”.

She quickly passed Bottas. Her eyes fell on the other Mercedes not far from her Ferrari. Her right corner rose and she tilted her chin down decisively.

And Arabella passes Valtteri, thus remaining in P4. Will she get through to Hamilton?

She suddenly began to lose control of her car making her panic “I'm losing control!”

She felt how the car spun around on itself “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

She turned the wheel trying to get the car back on track, praying that neither Verstappen nor Sainz would approach her and take her in front of her.

She wasn't ready to die.

She's losing control! Verstappen approaches her with Grosjean close, that could end very badly.

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and, swerving, managed to turn around and get the vehicle back on track. She sighed, her eyes so wide it seemed like they were going to pop out of it's sockets.

"Arabella, are you okay?!" She heard several voices coming from the radio, she distinguished Alexander's and Mattias's, she also thought she heard Nick in the distance.

"I'm fine," she confirmed and the sea of red polo shirts sighed with relief in the Ferrari garage. "I'm going to overtake Magnussen."

"Copy"

While she was losing control of the car, Hamilton had managed to pass the Haas driver and was now trying to pass the other Ferrari in the lead.

She approached the black and gold car applying a tactic similar to the one the Dutchman had applied with her, approaching from his left on the curve trying to intimidate him.

"Press as much as you can" she heard commotion from Alexander's side and frowned.

"What's happening?."

"It's Charles." Her heart skipped a beat and she immediately thought the worst. Worry filled her body.

"What happened to him? Is he okay?"

"He had a problem and he had to box, he will be out in a second. It's okay, don't worry, you keep going like this and we'll see if we can get you up to p2" he tried to distract her from the topic of her teammate.

"He doesn't get tired," she warned and the man nodded, watching her car from her screen.

"Keep pushing, you're going to pass through the pit exit in no time. Take advantage of the fact that Charles is going out and pass him."

"Okay"

She followed the instructions given to her and continued alongside the Haas car until they passed the pit exit. She calmed down when she saw the other Ferrari approaching to enter the track again.

Between the two red cars they caged the danish and Arabella took the opportunity to overtake. With her right hand she greeted her teammate, earning a return greeting before losing sight of him.

They quickly left the black car behind and were left alone, looking for Lewis.

And the two Ferraris are going wheel to wheel after Leclerc's problem! They are fighting for p2, what a show Ferrari is giving us today! .

She smiled competitively and accelerated trying to overtake her teammate but he also overtook although he couldn't overtake too much because apparently the problem he had had before had taken its toll on the car and it was difficult for him to do the overtake.

"P2 Arabella, you're up on the podium!" She heard the British man's shout and laughed in disbelief. Had the race already finished?.

"Good job, guys," she congratulated those who were listening to her from the garage with a smile on her face. She parked the car in the second space and took a deep breath before getting out.

She heard the screams of the fans in the stands and soon saw a sea of red polo shirts approaching her with screams. She was turned around and she was enveloped in a hug, she immediately knew it was Charles as she felt another hoof rest against hers.

"You've done it!" She heard him say, "I'm very proud of you, ma belle."

She smiled under the helmet before feeling multiple hands touch her back, arms, and helmet.

She raised her visor and saw her staff. Someone helped her take off her hans and she quickly took off her helmet and balaclava. Her hair flew loose, freeing herself from the hair band that fell to the floor when she tore off her balaclava.

The shouts of the tifosi among the stands increased when she saw her face revealed and she once again felt like a king on top of the world.

Her ear-to-ear smile shivered as she watched the winner approach her. She looked at him suspiciously as she raised her hand in front of her body. Lewis gave him a small smile. “Congratulations, you did good.”

She raised an eyebrow, looking down at her hand and accepting it in hers.

[the-californicationist]

The Devil's Summer

Konig/Reader TW: Rape, sexual assault, corpses, murder, violence

I am not being playful when I say that if you find any of these tags disturbing that you should skip this fic. Reading this story is not worth making yourself feel uncomfortable or causing yourself pain. Please take care of yourself first and foremost.

MDNI/18+ NO EXCEPTIONS

AO3 Link

A tall, foreign stranger comes to town with his masked crew of bandits. They rob the train station and the bank, but the big one… he has his sights set on a different sort of prize: you.

The summer had been like an open mouth, unbreathing, unmoving, but warm and wet and still in its bearing. The bayou lay like a lolling tongue over the swampland, and the sweetness of the azaleas could not make up for the stench of its lazy, murky flow. Bald cypress trees lined the river like rotten teeth, their graying, dull bark holding evidence of the cavities of selfish men, black bullet holes from selfish gunfire. The rope burn on the tall, gnarled bows left scars as if they were old wounds, and they were. Your brother’s innocent body had been the cause for one, and you were glad he wasn’t here to witness them today.  

The Devil didn’t know how hot it could get, but you did. You could barely move in the high noon of the day, and as the cicadas screamed, so you wanted to as well. The air lay on you like an awful hand, pressing you flat with its damp, punishing palm. It kept you from sleep, and it threatened you with steady, unrelenting torment. Your skin grew pink and tight from the ruby-colored sun, gleaming and immutable as it sagged in the cloudless firmament. Like the tangle of Spanish moss that hung in the trees outside, swaying back and forth like strange fruit, your hair clung to your neck, vampiric. 

Your father was dead, much good may it do him, as were most of the other people in your town. Since the early hours of the morning, you’d sat on your aching knees in the wet bank of Bayou Têche, providing sustenance for the mosquitos who feasted on your unguarded flesh. Your hands were bound with wire twine, and it cut into your wrists hard enough for them to bleed. The flies swarmed you, and you’d long since given up trying to fight them off. The man who had come to deliver this day to you and the other few inhabitants of your town was watching your future unfurl before you, as patient as the summer sun. 

He hadn’t shown his face, but you knew he was a white man. Those pale, ice-blue eyes couldn’t have been borne from Creole blood. If you were honest with yourself, something in your chest told you that those eyes weren’t even human. They were situated behind a black, heavy hangman’s hood that covered him from head to neck, and it was stained with blood and all manner of other liquids. The humidity made it cling to his nose and jaw, and you saw the aquiline shape disturb the smoothness of the fabric. 

The hangman wore a large-brimmed cowboy hat on his head constructed of fine, black felt. It was very much out-of-season, meant for a cool dry winter. Despite your suffering, you could imagine and empathize that his head and neck must be near boiling. 

His body was immense. He looked like he was seven feet high, and he was as broad as a door. His heavy musculature moved slowly, teasingly, but you had watched him strike like a water moccasin, deadly accurate and blindingly fast. Atop his demonic draft horse, he looked like he was one of the Hessians that Sister Campbell had described to you in school, when you’d been allowed to go.

The Hessian was a fine shot. He’d killed most of the men in town by his own hand, picking them off like he was elbow-deep in a blackberry bush, choosing the biggest ones first to stain his hands in their sweet juices. Your father had been near the end, no longer a threat in his old age. The white hair of his beard was painted with red stripes, coughed up in those final moments of futility, and the dark skin of his cheek made the colors that much more vibrant. You wished his eyes were closed. You didn’t want him to see what may happen to you now. 

He’d been staring at you for quite some time. Although he hadn’t been the one to tie you up, it was what he wanted. The will of his men and of your small town folded under his brutal control, and now that everyone was dead, he dominated the silence with comfortable ease. 

You watched him swing a long, thick leg over the saddle, lowering himself to the wet ground with a thud. His boots were worn and filthy, not intended for walking through the black bayou waters and shores, and his spurs were sharpened into curled spikes. Each step was a promise. The gun in his hand would be your reward, you were certain of it. 

Imagining all of your hopes and dreams seemed disgusting to you now. The shine of the gun was nothing like the glittering gold ring you’d wanted to wear to your wedding, if you had one. You’d wanted children, a whole litter of them, and you wanted to cook jambalaya for them and dress them in matching flour sacks, all lined up in a row. You wanted to braid their hair in the way your mother had braided yours, secreting away little prayers between each bite, locking them in place with an extra twist. 

You would have none of that. The only thing for you now was this demon. Whatever he wanted had replaced your own desires. You waited for his wanting to find its end. 

The dirty barrel of the gun pressed under your chin, its soot gritty and black against your skin, and your jaw turned up to the blinding sky to look into the coolness of his gaze. He looked like he was smiling at you, which was worse than his fury, and you held back the bile rising in your throat, burning you as hot as a brand. 

“Fils putain,” you snarled without raising your voice, spitting on the gloved hand that had the gun to your neck. 

You watched the spit bubble white across the black leather, his thumb as wide as a root, and you heard it drip into the mud at your knees when it ran in thick rivulets across his knuckles.

He smiled again with his eyes, removed the gun from you to lift his hand to his face. As he did so, he lifted the hood so that you could watch his mouth as he licked your spit from the glove, tasting the sour sting of your bile and vitriol. You saw his pale, ghostly lips, scarred and maligned, peel away from sharp incisors as he laved his tongue across the back of his hand, clad in shining silver like two daggers. The rest of his teeth were bright and straight and ready.

The pain you felt from the butt of his gun was sudden and shattering. The crack of your cheekbone exploded in your face like a collapsing star, white hot and dying. You felt like you were dying. You landed, face down in the mud, vomiting and coughing and crying. There was nothing more meaningful than your sobbing, and your body prioritized it over everything else. 

Your assailant knelt in the muddy bank of the bayou with you, letting his boots dip into the shallow waters where minnows hoped to feed on the larvae that lay sprinkled across the surface like salt in a stock. He had removed his gloves and was cupping your face, gently soothing the wound that he had caused. That pale, bloodless mouth was kissing you, leaving a trail of little, soft contacts over the ruined skin on your face, and the blood from his cut was staining him crimson. He replaced the hood and picked you up off of the ground. 

At first, you couldn’t walk, and all the blood that had been pressed out of your lower extremities was now flooding back in, making your bones ache from the inside out. You stumbled next to him, and he carried you like you were as light as his sidearm. One of his men approached you and spoke to your tall devil in his language, foreign and loud. 

They’d robbed the small train station, killing Mr. Fusilier, and they blew up the track, stopping the sheriff from being able to send for help. Sheriff Guidry was dead, laying in the small graveyard next to the church, and you found it odd that he’d died laid over a headstone. You were sure there was poetry there, but you weren’t smart enough to know what kind. 

Your captor handed you off to one of his men, a thin, wiry man with a large mustache. He smelled like sulfur and tobacco. His grip was weaker than the hangman’s, and there was a coldness to his touch that made you uncomfortable. 

He was taking you back up to your house. You didn’t know whether or not it was worth it to fight him off. He was smaller than the other one, but your cheek still throbbed, fresh and mean. He sat you down at your own kitchen table like it wasn’t yours, like you hadn’t cleaned its worn oak slats every morning since you were old enough to hold a rag. 

Yanking out a chair beside you, he sat, rolling a long cigarette, and leaving the twisted matchstick on the tabletop, marring the grain. You wanted to rail against him, to wail and scream that he was ruining it, that your mother had set all of her meals down in that very spot — crawfish etouffee, filé gumbo, rice and beans — and that you missed her laugh and the way she smelled like white pepper and rosemary oil. 

The cheek that had been hit couldn’t have throbbed any harder, and something twisted within you wished that the large man was still there, wiping away the hurt. 

The one with the mustache spoke in a slow, Texan drawl,

“What’s your name?”

You rolled your eyes up to meet his, hoping that the hate you felt was loaded in them like the bullets in his gun, 

“Eve.”

“Like the Bible?”

You didn’t reply. He grabbed you around your knee and pulled you towards him, your chair screeching across the floor,

“Bitch, I’m talkin’ to you. You think you’re too good for me, huh? Fuckin’ whore.”

You were on the table then, spread out and plated like a red fish, all meat and bones and sauce. He was going to eat you alive, and what could you do about it? Your bound hands bit into each other like the fangs of a snake. You kicked out, hard, but he caught you. 

Then, you felt his hands ripping away the fabric of your cotton dress. There wasn’t much left of it to ruin. You wondered if the button you mended last week on the collar was still intact. You were never as good as buttons as your mother was. 

Dirty fingers dug around between your legs, finding what they wanted to, shoving aside your bloomers and wetting themselves one by one, dipping into you brutally, soaking the pads over and over like a candle was dipped in wax, like a pen into a font of ink, and you hoped it stained him. 

You screamed until he stopped you, planting a smelly hand across your mouth. You bit it, taking his bitter flesh with you. 

“Ah, fuck! Son of a bitch!”

Clutching his wound, he backed away from you. Then, when he raised his eyes, he looked behind you at a horror you could not see. Then, he died on your kitchen floor. The bullet sliced through his dark brown eye and splattered his brain and face all over your kitchen counter. There were two big, flaky biscuits left over from your breakfast that morning, and they looked like someone had slathered them in a rich, fruity compote. 

You wanted to see who had saved you, but you knew already. His huge boots made the table rattle beneath your burning wrists, and you could hear his enraged breathing, dampened by the mask. It was your Hessian.

He stood over you for a moment, looking disturbed by your appearance. You had disappointed him somehow. You were crying, but you didn’t stop for his benefit. It wouldn’t matter anyway, you figured. Might as well give in to the feeling. 

Your body was being lifted, carefully, and carried to your father’s bedroom. It was the nearest to the kitchen, just off of the first hallway. A cross-stitch goose you’d made when you were twelve hung neatly on the wall below the lantern. You remembered the way the threads used to sound when they ran to and fro through the linen. The goose wore a little blue bow, and her beak was the most beautiful goldenrod yellow. 

The giant man lay you on your bed, the blood from your wrists surely ruining your duvet. Was it still your duvet? Did you actually own anything anymore?

The mattress sagged under your weight, and it groaned deeper as it sagged under his. 

He unbound your wrists and took a careful look at them. Then, he peeled away the ripped edge of your dress, shaking his head sadly,

“I am sorry, Liebling. My men should know better than to touch what is mine.”

You let tears and snot run freely down your face. 

“What is your name?”

The same question. And why did it matter? Who gave a shit what your goddamn name was? It wasn’t going to help you. 

“...E-Eve…”

“Eve...” He dragged out the vowels like he had dragged you into the house, slowly and against your will.

“I have been called many names,” he leaned down to your neck to smell your skin, whispering into it, “But, you may call me Kӧnig.” 

When his hands ran up under your dress, they did not fumble, they were not brutal, and yet the pain of them hurt you anyway. He didn’t force you to open, but your body yielded to him nonetheless, wilting for him like a flower in the sun. You became pliant, and your sobs went from desperate to something laden with strife. You had not consented to his touch, and yet your body welcomed him in with open arms, eager to host the traitor at the gate.

He knelt. As he began to lick you between your legs, he smelled your scent, lifting his hood and letting it pool along your belly, cold as his hot mouth made wet contact with your skin. The way he suckled from you reminded you of the calves in the spring, pumping their mouths onto their mothers’ teats and filling their throats with her warm cream, selfish and relentless. His nose tickled the dark curls above your folds, and you wondered if he was being teased by them, if his nostrils could smell your fear and if they misunderstood it as desire. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, pleased, “You are so sweet, my little Eve. So eager for me, hm?”

A growling sob escaped from your throat, and all at once you felt like you would vomit again. He caught your face in his hands before you did, lowering you to the floor and holding your jaw up to face him. Knocking off his hat, he pulled the hood from his face and you saw the gruesomeness there. It wasn’t as bad as you’d feared. Your mother had always told you that the promises of the darkness never amounted to much in the light. You wondered how true that was now. 

“I will show you how eager you make me, Liebling.”

He pulled off the button fly of his cotton britches, and his heavy cock tumbled out of them, rolling into the center of his body, pounding with blood and want. He placed the tip at your lips, and although he could have ignored your volition, he begged you instead, providing you with the illusion of choice. 

“Kiss it for me, Eve. Be a good girl for your Kӧnig, ja?”

You did not comply. You were your mother’s daughter after all. 

He shoved your face onto his length with a calm sort of precision. You didn’t bother to make it easy on him, letting your teeth drag against the velveteen slip of skin, nor did you bite down. You were already dead, and you had decided to act like it. 

“Are you not pleased, Liebe? I will give you what you want then,” he laughed quietly to himself, the curl of his smile broken into shards by his scarring, “Silly me. Playing my little games. I am such a tease.”

He pushed you to the ground, shoving your face into the floorboards, letting you look under your own bed. You saw small piles of dirt and a glittering ornament, lost from the last Christmas you’d had. You felt him preparing you from behind. Although you had not married him, you and an old beau had gotten this far. But, this was something else. The way he stretched you was like an intrusion. Your hip bones ached under his drooling rod, and you could feel the sharp tear of your thin skin. 

“Oh, Scheiße! So tight for me. I want to come in you already, my darling.”

You let him fill you, and you tried to ignore the electric pleasure that he crafted in you, spinning a spell over you and forcing your orgasms with his cock and hand, one after the other, making you tremble beneath him, laughing all the time,

“So pretty. Coming for me just like a dream. Such a good girl, Eve.”

You were out of tears. 

After he was finished with you, he carried you to his horse and put you in the saddle, climbing up behind you and taking the reins. You felt his come and your blood dripping out of you and onto the black leather, wetting you between your thighs, making you slide across the seat, back and forth. 

The hot wind blew in your face as he rode you out of town, and you saw the smoke from all of the burning buildings floating high, high into heaven. And you wondered if God could smell the mesquite bark as it smoldered.

[miquelzeoli]

[crepesuzette2023]

“To the best of our ability Paul!”: The Paperback Writer session [and fashion show]

By Johnny Dean. From: The Beatles Book Monthly, Issue 35. June 1966.

As we walked down the corridor towards E.M.I.’s No. 2 studio (where else would one go when sitting-in on a Beatles recording session), the commissionaire pointed out to us that the boys were in No. 3 instead. So we made our way back to the front of the building and as we approached the studio door, the red light went on—which meant that they were recording. So we waited for them to finish. Three minutes later we walked in.

On entering the studio, we found John and Paul surrounded by a mass of equipment—most significant of all, were their new massive amplifiers. Paul was clad in his distinctive casual recording gear of black trousers, black moccasin-type shoes, white shirt with fawn stripes, a black sleeveless pullover and to top it all orange—tinted specs. John sported green velvet trousers, a blue buttoned up wool vest and black suede boots.

The basic track of "Paperback Writer" had been recorded the previous day, and now John and Paul were working out a detailed backing. Paul was perched on a stool thumbing away at a red and white Rickenbacker guitar, (moving with the music as he does on stage) whilst the Iyrics boomed through the studio speakers—so we were very honoured at being the first to hear their new single besides George Martin and of course, the Beatles.

We then spotted Ringo's head behind the screen in the far corner—he was playing chess with Neil. So we walked over. "Who's winning?", I asked. "Neil's the expert”, Ringo replied, and went back to the chess board to concentrate on how to get his king out of danger from an attack by Neil's bishop and castle.

The music stopped. George Martin came into the studio from the control room to have a tete-a-tete with Paul as to what they could do to improve the backing.

"What are you trying to do with this one?", I asked Paul. "Have you heard the lyrics?", came the reply. "Yes, I think it's very unusual”. "The trouble is", said Paul,"That we've done everything we can with four people, so it's always a problem to ring the changes and make it sound different. That's why we have got all these guitars and equipment here." That must have been the understatement of the year, because the studio was littered with pianos, grand pianos, amplifiers, guitars, percussion instruments, and other odd bits and pieces which were strewn over the studio floor.

The studio was sectioned-off with brown canvas screens and what seemed like thousands of black cables running from the amps and other electrical equipment to the control room over the heavily marked wooden floor. To stop the echo, E.M.I. have covered some of the floor with old carpets.

The big heavy sound-proof door which stops any of the noise of the outside world seeping into the studio, burst open, and in strolled George looking very elegant in his Mongolian lamb fur coat with black cap and oblong metal specs.

He was obviously on top of the world and bubbling over with enthusiasm, ready to record a dozen numbers. He threw his coat along side Paul's fur jacket and got down to work out the backing with John and Paul.

John, George and George Martin huddled round Paul, who was seated at the piano trying to work out a bass bit, before asking George Martin to play it. John leaned on the piano while he listened to Paul's ideas for a while. Then he picked up his orange Gretsch guitar and proceeded to pick away at it. At the same time Paul transferred to a Vox organ.

Although John and Paul were both working on the song together, it was originally Paul's idea. He asked the engineer to play it back at half speed so that John and George could do some vocal bits.

They were now all set to go. George Martin gave the O.K. The recording light went on and the basic sound track was played back through the "cans" they each had clamped over their heads. They did several takes. John and George hit some very high notes, but their voices kept cracking. "I don't think I can make it" said George, "unless I have a cup of tea. Where’s Mal?”

Right on cue at the end of the fourth take Mal emerged into the studio laden with tea, biscuits and something very special—toast and strawberry jam. Everything was immediately dropped and a sudden swoop was made on the toast and jam. Ringo, who was still in the corner trying to work out his next move, only got one piece of toast, so Mal offered to make another batch as it had proved so popular.

Meanwhile Beatles Book photographer Leslie Bryce was clicking away.

After the toast and jam had been devoured it was back to work. Paul suddenly got an inspiration he dived across to the piano and started playing bits of "Free Jacques" he was highly delighted at the thought of having it in the new single.

"O.K. let's try it", said George Martin. So John and George gathered round the mike and off they went. But it was a false start. Paul's head appeared over the top of the piano and he queried "Did you come in at the right place?". "We can't hear it properly" , said John, "anyway I thought that was the end of it.” George promptly told him it was the beginning!

After they had finished taping these bits, the tracks were played back into the studio while everyone listened in silence. George Martin was the first to speak-"I think that the best thing we've added are the 'Frere Jacques’ bits. Ringo who had finally beaten Neil at a game of chess by check-mating him in several brilliant moves involving a queen, a bishop and a castle, said that he thought John and Paul sounded as though they were singing through water! Highly uncomplimentary, so Paul then made for the organ once again and started to work out a sound which resembled that of Scottish bag pipes.

John then came swooping across the studio and shouted out—“You've got it. You've got it". Paul then started dum-dee-dumming away at everyone else—it was just like a scene from "My Fair Lady”!

George Martin appeared over John's shoulder and said "I see what you mean”. Paul announced that someone else should play it—meaning George Martin. John and George then went back to their mikes and added the vocals over the top.

After the first track Paul looked over the top of the piano and asked John and George if they were singing it right.

George turned round, lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose and looked down at Paul in a typical school-masterish fashion and said "To the best of our ability Paul!" And so the boys went on getting the sound that you will hear on "Paperback Writer”.

It was a long session. It took something like ten hours to record because the Beatles insisted on sticking at it until they were completely satisfied that they can do no more.

When you listen to "Paperback Writer" bear in mind what went on beforehand to achieve this really great sound, and I'm sure you'll appreciate it all the more.

"The very first shot of Paul we took when we arrived in the studio." (Photo by Leslie Bryce)

"Paul's hit on something. Waving his 'ciggie' he dee-dums his way through the bit he's just thought up while George sings with him." (Photo by Leslie Bryce)

Ringo's chess pieces and John's green velvet trousers. (Photos by Leslie Bryce)

[apilgrimpassingby]

Coronation Dress

So, you may know that for a while now I've been designing the Kingdom of Anchorage and Kodiak, a kingdom in southwest Alaska run by a Native American Orthodox dynasty. As part of that, I'm sharing the coronation dress* of its founder figure, Queen Abigail, and looking for opinions from my female followers and other women and girls here.

The base layer is a chemise, and above that are tie-on pockets, a corset (not tightlaced) and the frame for a hoop skirt, covered with a petticoat and a sleeveless smock. All of these cloth layers are made of white silk. For footwear, there are a pair of cream buckskin moccasins covered with blue and turquoise beadwork and with white fur around the tops.

The skirt is layered; the bottom layer is light blue and fringed with beadwork in the shapes of forget-me-nots and northern bluebells, the middle layer is medium blue and fringed with beadwork in the same patterns, while the top layer is dark blue and fringed with beadwork in the shapes of ravens and orcas (respectively very important to the Koyukon people Abigail comes from and the national symbol of Alaska), and alternating raven, snow goose and golden eagle feathers projecting out from the waist, which also has a cloth-of-gold sash tied around it. This layer is also made of silk

The bodice (made of dark blue silk) is decorated with beadwork patterns in the shape of a raven on the right and an orca on the left. It is fastened with buttons at the front, with buttons made of mammoth ivory and carved in the shape of various animals; descending from the top, a raven with spread wings, a leaping orca, a reindeer seen from the side, a standing bear, a moose seen from the side, a leaping salmon and an eagle with spread wings. The shoulders are large and puffed and use sleeve supports, and the arms are wholly covered between them and a pair of bicep-length white gloves made of the leather of young Dall sheep, fastened with mammoth ivory buttons.

The hair is tied back into a bun with a hairnet, and covered with a veil of dark blue silk fringed with gold, worn in the style of a mantilla. A string of pearls are wrapped tightly around the neck, and there is a shell necklace spread over the chest of the same make as this one.

There is also a long dark blue cloak which drapes along the ground, with the monarch's seal sewn into it with gold thread, fastened with silver clasps in the shape of ravens.

Instead of a crown, there is a diadem made of navy fabric, fringed with gold thread; in the centre is the national coat of arms, with the monarch’s seal (both described below) on either side. The diadem is fastened at the back with gold clasps in the shape of bears, with dark blue silken tappets embroidered with the names of family saints in gold thread. From the back and side are strings of circular beads made out of amethyst (directly against the back of the neck), fluorite (on either side of the amethyst beads) and obsidian (against the side of the head).

The coat of arms contains an orca on a Norman-style shield with a dark blue field, with a gold band above and one beneath the orca, and gold around it. Crossed behind it is a harpoon leaning left and a Russian cross leaning right, topped by a raven with spread wings with the Orthodox Christogram above it. The supporters are bears, and the dark green ground beneath it contains forget-me-nots and crowberries.

The monarch's seal consists of a Greek cross, with the corners containing (clockwise from top left) MP ΘΟΥ (the standard Orthodox abbreviation of "Mother of God"), IC XC (the standard Orthodox abbreviation of "Jesus Christ"), a ligature of βδλ (the consonants of basileia, "kingdom") above AK (Anchorage and Kodiak) and AL LD (Abigail's initials; her surname is Littlefield).

Tagging @femme-et-traditionnelle, @miss-rogers-all-american, @melisssg99, @luvchristxx and @roses-red-and-pink for your opinions! Particularly if anyone has the time, skill and inclination to draw it, please do so!

*While made for the coronation, she still wears it at other extremely formal events, namely Pascha and the final dinner of potlaches.

[littlefeather-wolf]

In the rugged plains of South Dakota, where the wind carried tales of old and the earth held the memories of ancestors, there lived a girl named Wa-Ka-Cha-Sha. Her name meant Red Rose, a testament to her Lakota heritage passed down from her mother, who herself was a daughter of the plains.

Wa-Ka-Cha-Sha's story began at a crossroads of cultures. Her father, a white man of European descent, had come to the territory seeking adventure and fortune. It was during his travels that he met her mother, a woman of grace and resilience, who captured his heart with her wisdom and deep connection to the land ...

From a young age, Wa-Ka-Cha-Sha embraced both sides of her lineage. Her father taught her the ways of the settlers: reading from books, navigating the world of letters and numbers, and sharing stories of distant lands beyond the horizon. Her mother, on the other hand, instilled in her the traditions of the Lakota people: the art of storytelling, the reverence for nature, and the songs that echoed through the ages ...

As Wa-Ka-Cha-Sha grew, so did her curiosity about her dual heritage. She loved to roam the plains, feeling the pulse of the earth beneath her moccasins, and listening to the whispers of the wind that carried the spirits of her ancestors. Her mother taught her the language of the Lakota, and together they would gather herbs and berries, weaving them into baskets adorned with intricate patterns that told stories of abundance and gratitude.

One fateful day, a scout from Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show stumbled upon their camp. Intrigued by Wa-Ka-Cha-Sha's striking features and her natural grace, he invited her to join the spectacle that toured the country, showcasing the life and culture of the frontier. Despite initial hesitation, her mother saw an opportunity for her daughter to bridge the gap between worlds, to share the beauty and resilience of their people with those who knew little of their ways.

Wa-Ka-Cha-Sha's debut was met with awe and admiration. Dressed in traditional regalia adorned with beads and feathers, she danced with the spirit of her ancestors, her movements telling stories of hunting buffalo on the plains, of celebrating victories and mourning losses. Her voice carried melodies that spoke of love and longing, of hope and resilience.

As she traveled with the Wild West Show, Wa-Ka-Cha-Sha became a symbol of cultural pride and unity. Audiences marveled at her performances, not just for their entertainment value but for the deeper understanding they imparted about the Lakota way of life. Through her, they saw the strength and dignity of a people who had endured adversity and continued to thrive.

Yet, amid the applause and admiration, Wa-Ka-Cha-Sha remained grounded in her roots. She wrote letters to her mother in their native tongue, sharing stories of the places they visited and the people they met. She spoke of the challenges of being caught between two worlds, of the longing to belong fully to both yet realizing the beauty in her unique identity.

Years passed, and Wa-Ka-Cha-Sha's fame spread far and wide. She became an ambassador of peace and understanding, using her platform to advocate for the rights of Native peoples and to bridge the gap between cultures. Her performances continued to inspire generations, reminding them of the importance of respecting and preserving diverse traditions.

Wa-Ka-Cha-Sha, Red Rose of the plains, lived a life that bloomed with courage and compassion. Her legacy, like the petals of a red rose unfurling in the morning sun, continues to touch hearts and minds, reminding us of the power of embracing our differences and celebrating our shared humanity.

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