#salt flats tribe

[baiduweb]

famine

[petermorwood]

Hey, since cloning technology is good enough for them to create mammoth meatballs but not the entire mammoth yet, which prehistoric animal do you feel like taking a bite of?

Given where I was born, and where @dduane and I currently live, I think some Giant Irish Elk venison would be about right.

Enough for the entire clan with plenty of leftovers and a Handy Thing To Hang Stuff From.

*****

Which leads via Memory Lane to a funny by John M. Ford, who used to post such things - along with witticisms, wise observations and poetry - on Making Light.

He produced these in the same way a bonfire produces sparks: random, unexpected, brilliant and without apparent effort - though like the graceful swan on the river, I bet there was a lot of work going on out of sight. Or maybe not. Mike was that good.

For instance, he wrote THIS just to comment on another post...

I saved everything I could find offline because You Can Never Tell about online stuff, and also because there was, for a time, doubt - happily, It Got Better - that ANY of his writing would ever be seen again.

(Dammit, just like Terry Pratchett I HATE having to refer to Mike in past tense...)

And now, the funny (original archived Here). I've been assured that This Recipe Will Work, though the assurance also came with a strong suggestion about reducing the ingredient quantities More Than Somewhat.

*****

Hot Gingered Pygmy Mammoth & Jumbo Shrimp Salad

Feeds your whole tribe.

1 pygmy mammoth, boned and cubed (about 1 ton) 1 ton jumbo shrimp, peeled and deveined (many many ordinary shrimps, or one Ebirah claw) 10 buckets sesame seeds 60 pounds bean thread noodles if you are an Eastern tribe, whatever your tribe uses for noodles otherwise. If you have not yet invented the noodle, this might be a good time to do so. 1 bucket vegetable oil 1 bucket sesame oil Salt 10 buckets minced fresh ginger 6 buckets minced garlic 15 buckets dry Sherry 15 buckets rice wine vinegar 60 pounds sugar 60 buckets diced fresh mangoes 15 buckets chopped green onions Big Snorgul's helmet full of red pepper flakes 10 buckets chopped fresh cilantro, plus 5 Big Snorgul's helmets fresh cilantro, garnish 1000 large heads lettuce, cored and leaves separated (a raid on the People Who Grow Stuff may be necessary) 30 buckets thinly sliced, peeled, seeded, drained cucumbers, or just chop up the damn cucumbers and say "Fie to thee!" a lot All the chives you got

Preheat a giant turtle shell over a fumarole. A big giant turtle. Put some oil in there. Make sure no other giant turtles are around to see you do this.

On a flat rock, stirring with your Stick of the Dining God, dry cook the sesame seeds over medium heat until they are brown and smell good. Remove from the heat. Add the noodles to the turtle shell and fry fast until puffy and the color of sunrise. Remove from the oil and drain on non-itchy leaves. Throw salt. Set aside.

Sear the mammoth meat on the flat rock. Salt but don't overdo it, you remember what happened to the Chest-Clutching Tribe of the Plains. Drain.

Get a less giant turtle shell. Okay, think of this as a celebration dish for a good turtle hunt and shrimp catch. Make the vegetable oil and most of the sesame oil dance. Add the shrimp, mammoth, ginger, and garlic, and cook fast, stirring, until the shrimp are just pink and firm. Doom of Ten Thousand Wretched Canapés awaits those who overcook shrimp. Remove from the shell with pole weapons. Add the sherry and vinegar, and sing the Song of Deglazing over medium heat. Add the sugar and stir until it is one with the sauce. Cook until half the fluid is gone. Feed anybody who thinks this is waste to the giant turtles. Add the rest of the sesame oil, mangoes, green onions, and pepper flakes, and stir to warm through and wilt. No, this wilt is good. Tell the people it is the wilt of the Wilt God. You need all the mojo you can get. Remove from the heat and add the shrimp and ginger, and the cilantro. Stir to warm through and do the Highly Dramatic Ritual of Adjusting the Seasoning to Taste.

Now your tribal status is on the thin edge of the cleaver. Have everybody bring what they eat off of. You know your tribe. Put lettuce on whatever they hold out and spread the hot stuff on it. Those who have no eating platters should be used to the drill by now. Arrange cucumber slices on top in whatever symbolic pattern seems propitious to you and sprinkle with the toasted sesame seeds. If you have a really tough tribe, yell "Bam!" until they get a groove going. Add fried noodles, cilantro sprigs, and chives, and watch for any signs of people keeling over that can't be blamed on strong drink.

[tasavvur-e-jaana]

Blessings Beneath the Stars

//

After a long time, and because I am a liar who lied about not coming back, I wrote for RRR. it is not what you think. it is quiet and gentle, but not romantic. whatever it is, hopefully, it is not total trash.

MY boy (Lacchu) is back. And oh, not beta read. all mistakes are my own.

Companion piece to 'Will you be my Valentine'.

//

“I’ve been thinking. If I die tonight, would it really make a difference in the world? Who'd mourn me?” Lacchu mumbled after a drag of a joint held lazily between his forefinger and thumb. It seemed as if he was only thinking out loud. “More importantly,” he continued, “Why would anyone?”

His companion for the evening was a bit shocked at the confession. He really was not built for that sort of thing. Sympathy. Kindness. Saying the right words. “Bheem would. Jenny would. Malli. Loki.” I would. He stopped himself from adding that. Lacchu would definitely think of that as pity. Even if Ram’s sentiments would be honest. Ram was actually growing to be fond of Lacchu. The guy had will. And he was funny. With Bheem being busy with either the fight or when free, with Jenny, Ram had started to feel lonely. He was, and always had been in dire need of friends. No one else in the tribe seemed to understand him or be honest with him as much as Lacchu had. At least, that is what Ram felt. 

“Yeah, sure.” Lacchu acquiesced. And Ram, Ram felt relieved as if he’d dodged a bullet. When he had gone with Lacchu to get the supplies, he had not thought the night before returning to the tribe would turn this desolate as the younger man opened a packet of marijuana with a twinkle in his eye and carefully rolled a joint. They had begun to form an acquaintance. Well, acquaintance would still be too far-fetched. Lacchu had not forgiven him. Was likely not going to ever. Ram was okay with that. It was definitely not friendship. Fraternizing? God, he hoped not. Whatever the confines or definitions would be, the crux of the matter was Lacchu was tolerating him gradually, in small quantities, for when they either had to work together, albeit reluctantly, judging by the amount of complaining Lacchu would do, or in the rare events of Lacchu wanting someone to share his joint with. “But they'll get over it. I'm not important enough. Not useful enough.”

“You are useful.”

“Yeah, not like you! It’s like-,” Lacchu mused for a second, “like salt in gulab jamuns.”

Ram could not help but huff out a tiny laugh. “Well, at least you’re funnier than I am.” “Ah, a clown then.” Lacchu glanced sideways at Ram.

“Please don't. Being morose and melancholic is my jam.” 

“Well yeah, glad to piss on your parade!” He offered the lit joint to Ram who declined with a wave of his hand. Lacchu shrugged.

“Please tell me this is your stupid idea of a joke. Because I am not going to lug all this-” Ram gestured vaguely to the supplies, “back alone.” The attempt for the humour absolutely fell flat but Lacchu smirked nonetheless, his dark eyes emanating waves of sadness in the pinkish evening light. “You're not serious, are you?” Ram was actually worried now.

“Maybe. ‘M not suicidal if that's what you're worried about. Just you know, indifferent.” The younger man took another lazy drag.

“To death?” Ram squealed - which he would absolutely deny later. 

“Why not?” he retorted. Ram had no answer. Fortunately, Lacchu did not notice the dumbfounded look on Ram’s face, going on his own trajectory. “I mean, I am just a microscopic cog in a catastrophic war. Unimportant. Replaceable. I have no purpose. If I die, someone else will take my place and the revolt will go on. It’s not like I am Bheem. Or you.” He added as an afterthought. 

“Do you genuinely think if Bheem or I die, the revolt will suffer?” Lacchu nodded his head. “Well, let me tell you. That is not true. I think the inquilaab has gained enough momentum that no one man will be able to take it ahead or stop. We will be free. I feel it in my bones.” There was a twinkle of hope in Ram’s eyes that made Lacchu bite back his comeback. If he were bothered to look closely, Ram would find a glint of appreciation for him in the dark eyes of the other man. 

“Maybe. But your village, this tribe, a small part of it will be devastated.” Before Ram could assure him that they would be saddened by his demise too, Lacchu continued. “I used to think that we, as humans, do not serve a glorious purpose. We too are meant to exist in harmony with nature. Birth, do your thing, and death. Soil to soil. Ashes to ashes. That sort of thing. You know, most of us, who live in the forest think so. I was very much at peace then.” Lacchu contemplated out loud, taking another puff. At this point, it was more like he was babbling, not for Ram. for the surroundings. For the very forest on whose precipice they were sitting. As if the Universe or Nature would have an answer in the form of the rustle of the dark leaves, a quiver of the branches, an occasional hoot of an owl, or the rapidly rising chirp of the cicadas. 

“Hmm… A glorious purpose is bad for mental peace.” Ram chuckled softly. He liked this Lacchu. Free. Open. And just the right side of insane. 

“But then YOU.” He jabbed the finger of his free hand in Ram’s chest. “OW!” Ram was surprised by the sudden force. “You had to capture me. You had to torture me. You had to torture my- Bheem.” Ram gaped at him openmouthed. Eerily similar to a goldfish in the tank. “Actually, you know what? It goes further than that. Before you. THEY had to capture Malli. And then Delhi. I was so ignorant. Naive. Stupid. But happy. I sure was happy.” He sounded too nostalgic for Ram’s liking. “How do you do it, Ram?” 

“Honesty? I have no idea anymore. It is like I am on autopilot. I had no choice. I have no choice. Sometimes I wish I could- I just-” The next part was confessed, so tender, so soft, that Lacchu barely could hear it. There is something about nature and nights that make you vulnerable to an unnerving degree, and Ram, Ram was no exception. “want to run away.” He laughed just as he said it out loud. And laughed harder still. “Look at this! The great Alluri Sita Rama Raju wanting to run away like a coward!”

“Well, you could. At least I’d get back my best friend.” 

“Lacchu I-”

“Please don’t.” 

“Right.” Ram cleared his throat which sounded like an apology in disguise. "You never told him, did you?"

“Told him what?” 

Ram pointed his eyes at the hand lying in Lacchu’s lap, the middle finger slightly bent, not having healed properly from Ram’s assault. Lacchu reflexively coiled his hand into a fist as if that would hide the injuries Ram was intimately aware of being the one who put him there. “There’s no point,” he said dismissively. But of course, because he was just a little bit of a bastard, he added, “The question here is, why didn’t you?”

Now, Lacchu was not by any means a petty man. Then again, he was also not the very embodiment of sweetness and benevolence as Bheem. Ram visibly jerked as if he had felt a literal whiplash to his face. And that reaction brought a minuscule satisfaction, a soothing effect of a salve to his otherwise aching heart. 

“I don’t know.” Well, Ram exactly knew why. There was no point in hiding anymore. “I didn’t,” he corrected, “I don’t want him to hate me. Not any more than he does, if he doesn’t already. I know it is incredibly selfish of me but-”

“He doesn’t hate you. If he did, you’d know. He hates just as he loves, with a dangerous fury. It can be scathing when directly aimed at you. Like the Sun.”

“Huh. perhaps that is true. Like the Sun. Too near and you burn, too far and you freeze to death.”

“Hmm. It is a double-edged sword. Finding the perfect distance. For what it’s worth, I am a little relieved you didn’t tell him. Bheem- he,” Lacchu paused to collect his words forming at a speed in his mind which his tongue could not keep up with. “He does not do well with hate. He was not made for it.”

“Isn’t that an irony?” Ram smiled sadly. “I was made exactly for that.”

“Right. I guess it goes something like - opposites attract?” Lacchu raised an eyebrow, and Ram could not help but add a hint of authenticity to his smile, widening by a mere millimetre. Lacchu wanted to say something, his mouth opening to form a wide yawn instead but he didn’t bother to cover it with his hand.

"Lacchu," Ram called out softly to the man who was already teetering on the edge of dozing off. "Get some sleep. I'll take the first watch." It usually meant Ram would end up being awake for the whole night anyway. Not waking lacchu up. They never spoke about it. Lacchu never offered or chastised. 

Lacchu just hummed in response, stretching more on the makeshift bed, and turning onto his stomach. Ram stole a glance at him, he looked innocent. And younger than he was. The past few months had made him grow up sooner than he should have. Those early years of youth, stolen. Passing him by. Just like Ram and his childhood. However, here, Ram was one of the major culprits. 

For now, all he could do was to protect him from physical harm that may befall him. And hope that he would learn his worth someday. By himself. An opportunity that was robbed of Ram. He had not worked that out you see, his worth had always been thrust upon him. More so after Baba's demise. Ram tried not to think about that gruesome episode. Although, lonely nights were the perfect catalysts for such thoughts. However, tonight, Ram refused to draw into the familiar feeling of despair - his constant companion whom he’d learned to be more than comfortable with. 

So, in the dark, almost silent, very much serene backdrop of the late hour, Ram pulled out the packet from his companion’s backpack and rolled himself a new companion. It was a little out of shape, pressed a bit too hard on one side, but it would do. He lit it, the first drag blowing into the breeze, mingling with the damp air… and the smoker began to count his blessings beneath the stars.

//

let me know if it was good, bad, or downright ugly. comments are welcome as always :))

@ronaldofandom - you are going to love me for this.

@carminavulcana @vijayasena @yehsahihai @ladydarkey @taylorklaine @fathomlessbabbling idk who else to tag. Lmk!

[magicaguajiro]

I have a question? Let’s say if a Cuban spiritualist was from Pinar del Rio and they have indigenous ancestry however sources say the Ciboney Taino inhabited Pinar del Rio and other sources say the Guanahatabey inhabited Pinar del Rio and other sources say both inhabited land, then which source should that person trust? And do we have information on the Guanahatabey spirituality?

Hey! This will be a long answer about Indigenous Caribbean Identity so check below the cut for more!🌺🌴🐠🦜🌀🦩🥭🍋‍🟩🥥

This is a complex question. I would say the biggest thing to remember is that the term “Taíno” is an umbrella term to reference many different ethnicities of Arawak-Speaking Indigenous Caribbeans. There were many types of Taíno people, including Timucua and Tequesta in Florida, Lucayo in the Bahamas, Ciguayo in Kiskeya and Igneri in Boriken.

As for the term Ciboney, some say it was a separate tribe but the general consensus is that they were a Taíno ethnicity with a separate but mutually intelligible language. They were connected culturally to groups from Jamaica, Florida, Bahamas and modern day Haiti, where as Taínos of the eastern Caribbean were closer in culture. They also had language connections to the Macorix and Guanahatabeys being Waroid languages, aka where we get the term Guajiro. So the Ciboney are a Taino-Arawak group that had ancestrally mixed with the Waroid Guanahatabeys but still maintained moslty Taíno culture.

There were also many other groups who weren’t Taíno. The most well known is the Kalinago, but the Guanahatabey is one from Cuba that is also known to actually have been in Cuba BEFORE the Taínos got there. They had a culture very similar to the Calusa of Southwest Florida. And this is all pre-Colonization, so these groups were already interacting and moving around for thousands of years.

Then with colonization, many Native groups were transported to other places, and in Cuba specifically we have Taíno migrations from the East to the West very early on. We also have Natives from Florida and Mayans from Mexico, and more natives being brought in to cuba and intermarrying with other ethnic groups. These migrations all affected indigenous communities and led to alot of cultural exchange and mixture, as well as loss.

As for Indigenous Cuban Identity, I claim Taíno or Ciboney Taíno because after colonization any remaining Guanahatabeys were assimilated to Taíno Cimarron (maroon/runaway) groups. I consider Guanahatabeys part of my ancestors but I choose to identify as Taíno or simply Indigenous Caribbean. My family all identify as Guajiros, as do I, which is more a lifestyle but definitely has ties to the Classic Taino, Ciboney and Guanahatabey traditions passed down.

As for trusting sources, I would say read EVERYTHING with a grain of salt. Academics often lack cultural nuance and understanding, which can mean alot of their inferences are flat out wrong so try to stick with confirmed info. It is confirmed the Tainos and Guanahatabeys and Ciboneys all moved around and lived in the same parts of the Island at the same time and separately. As for non-academic sources, just be aware that much of what is passed off as Taino or Indigenous Caribbean culture is actually just Pan-Indigenous or straight up a different culture.

Trust yourself, use your intuition and discernment and always be committed to improving and striving for a culturally authentic, fulfilling and respectful practice that is well rounded in both Spirituality and Community! Whether that is with a yukayeke, with the Indigenous tribes you live near locally or with your own indigenous family and friends! So many Yukayekes in the Modern Taíno community try to claim superiority or that they have all the secrets knowledge and the only correct beliefs. You should be weary of anyone trying to restrict you when their own elders often are reconnecting or were just scholars before becoming pop-up Caciques.

If you go to the Cuban version of Wikipedia, when it is active, you can find better information on the Guanahatabey and Ciboney than on American wiki. Try researching the terms ‘Guayabo Blanco’ and ‘Cayo Redondo’ for information on Ciboney culture and beliefs, and how even within this sub-group there were MORE sub-groups. As the Guanahatabeys were not a ceramic culture, we have very little info on them academically. Try researching Calusa beliefs as they had similar environments and were connected through trade routes.

If you have any more questions I would love to answer them but you should ask them on insta or in chat so I can link easier and answer in more depth!!

My asks are always open still tho :)

Luz y progreso

[pesbianlanic]

july 2023 reading

books in bold are especially recommended!

The Sundial by Shirley Jackson - 3.5/5. jackson's stuff is always so creepy because of the blanks left unfilled. suspenseful and mysterious.

Woman, Eating by Claire Kohda - 5/5. a BEAUTIFUL little novel about a young vampire navigating desire, hunger, and self.

Sarahland by Sam Cohen - 5/5. this collection of short stories is incredible. i will be thinking about it and rereading it for the rest of my life, i think. my absolute favorite stories were “The First Sarah” and “Becoming Trees.”

This Is Salvaged by Vauhini Vara - 3.5/5. each of these short stories were beautifully written. i think they just weren't for me. my favorites were "The Irates" and "You Are Not Alone."

The Mountain in the Sea by Ray Nayler - 5/5. gorgeous and thought-provoking book about personhood, consciousness, environment, and communication. this is one of those books that i will be thinking about for a very long time.

Life Ceremony by Sayaka Murata - 4/5. Murata is skilled at exploring the strange and grotesque in a way that makes it believable and sensible. some of these short stories fell flat for me, but the one's that didn't were incredible.

Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. reread because my best friend and i have the twilight brainrot right now. i'm now a bella/alice shipper. support the Quileute tribe.

New Moon by Stephenie Meyer. this reread is only solidifying my bella/alice ship.

Eclipse by Stephenie Meyer. more rereading. the melodrama is strong in this one

salt slow by Julia Armfield - 5/5. a delightfully strange collection of short stories! my favorites were "The Great Awake," and "Formerly Feral," and "Cassandra After."

Camp Damascus by Chuck Tingle - 5/5. mr. tingle's foray into religious horror strikes a perfect balance of terror, realism, and hope!

[ladyanaconda]

Expecting

Cassiora had been acting strangely for a while now. It wasn’t just about her mood swings or fainting spells anymore. Recently, she’d started eating a lot. That wouldn’t be strange if said food weren’t his ‘overly salted’ dishes, which she previously hated to the point she never let him cook.

No, something was going on… And he had the feeling she wasn’t being completely honest about it.

“Cass, we need to talk.”

Cassiora swallowed the salty piece of diredeer leg. “Is something wrong?”

“Have you been feeling alright? You’ve been acting… strange lately.”

“Other than my recent liking of salt and morning sickness? Yeah, I’m fine.”

Besteel dropped his wooden cup, spilling water all over the floor. 

Morning sickness? Cravings? Bigger appetite?

“Are you pregnant?”

Cassiora choked on the next piece of meat and coughed it out. 

“What?!”

“Think about it, Cass. You’ve been eating my food when you couldn’t even smell it before. You’ve been more… temperamental, and now the morning sickness?”

“But that’s… When was even the last time we did it?”

“…About five weeks ago, if I remember correctly.”

Cassiora thought for a while. That’s around the time when the morning sickness and cravings began.

Her grasp on the diredeer leg faltered, and it fell to the ground.

“I-I could have eaten something bad! It’s happened before.”

“Except you’re exhibiting other symptoms unrelated to eating something bad.”

“When did you become a doctor?”

Besteel rolled his eyes. “I don’t have to be a doctor to see the signs, Cassiora. You’re pregnant, whether you want to admit it or not.”

Cassiora sighed in defeat, face hidden in her hands.

“Goddamn it, no wonder I started liking your salty food out of the blue!”

She was surprised when her husband lifted her by the waist and twirled her around, laughing heartily.

“Don’t be like that, Cass! We should be celebrating! We’re having a litter!”

Cassiora blushed, and a small laugh escaped her. “I know, I know! This changes a lot of things.”

Besteel gently placed his wife down on the living room’s cushions. “And we shall face them together, love.”

“…What if I’m not a good mother?”

“Don’t say that, Cass. I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful mother.”

“I wish I had your confidence…” Cassiora sighed. “It’s just… Well, I didn’t exactly have a good role model, you know.”

Besteel lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “What your mother did does not define you, Cassiora. You’re strong, nurturing, and stubborn as hell. ” He hugged his wife, nuzzling the side of her head. “You’re not alone. We’ll figure it out.”

Cassiora touched his cheeks with her upper hands. “Thank you, Besty.”

Besteel closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, placing his right hand over hers to keep it in place. 

The two stayed like that for a while, their snouts touching.

“How do you feel about becoming a father?”

“I won’t deny it, I’m nervous. It is a big responsibility.” Besteel’s hand tenderly stroked his wife’s still-flat abdomen. “But… At the same time, I’m excited. I mean, we’re creating life together.”

“I’m sure you’ll be a great daddy. How do you think the tribe will take the news, though? Some of the other females were still hoping you and I wouldn’t work out.” Cassiora joked. 

“I don’t care what they think. I already found the love of my life.”

“How do you think your… father will react?”

Besteel sighed in dismay. “Knowing him, he’ll be over the clouds. He’s been pestering Redimus and me for grandkids.”

—*O*—

Aww, someone is going to be a daddy!

[latin-american-diversity]

The Wayuu and the Salt of Manaure

“At the northernmost tip of Colombia and South America, the Guajira peninsula juts into the Caribbean Sea like a finger. This hot cactus-studded desert, which sees very little rain, is populated by a tough but easygoing people—the Waiuu Indians. The Spanish conquistadors who reached Colombia’s Guajira peninsula in the sixteenth century reported that those Indians traded the salt they extracted from the sea for the gold produced by tribes of the land’s interior. Knowing the conquistadors’ obsession with the precious metal, they probably ended that trade brutally upon discovering it. However, at Manaure, a dusty village, the Waiuu today are still producing salt. And as everywhere in the developing world where I have watched salt manually produced, it’s hard work here too, though much less so than in the Sahara and Ethiopia. It also brings the Waiuu little money. For a few generations the salt flats have also been exploited industrially by a government company, which buys the Waiuu salt. Manaure fills 65% of Colombia’s salt needs. Thanks to a scorching sun, a dry and windy climate, and natural lagoons, Manaure was always a perfect place for that activity. Though some miners work there all year, most of them do so only during the more productive three summer months. The rest of the time the Waiuu fish or herd goats. They live in mud houses as well as in flattened cactus huts. And they sleep in hammocks, many of them beautifully woven by women and wide enough to accommodate couples. As in many other parts of the developing world, the Waiuu spend much time getting water from distant wells as well as firewood. At least they did so between 1974 and 1987, when I visited them three times. Much has changed there now.” - Victor Englebert

[blackwood23]

Room 13: Flooded grotto. A shoddy wooden bridge connects the dry passages. Two dead Argonian men and one woman, all wearing sliced-open robes of a monk of Kynareth, float in the water.

Room 14: Four Split Hand tribe goblins are carving a large statue of Akatosh out of a tree trunk using Iron axes and shortswords. They have a pile of several spare axes at hand and will throw them at evasive foes. The weapons are bloodstained and covered in a gritty purple mineral residue. A "pot" made of five roughly flat stones in the southwest corner contains 300 septims and a pewter cup full of mashed tomatoes.

Room 15: The floor of the western passage into this room is coated in a thick layer of animal glue, except for a small bare patch which the Split Hand use to hopscotch between the chambers. Five goblins in this chamber test each others' mettle with a bed of hot coals. Two have Iron shortbows and one has a Hide shield. They move at half speed (burnt feet).

Room 16: Above the passage to 19 is a boulder with a skeleton embedded in it; it resembles a very large dog with a lizard-like head. A pile of bloodstained amulets of Akatosh sits next to the rock. The Split Hand shaman, Pohgo, performs rites in honor of Kadosh (the skeleton) most of the day. 6+2d6 goblins are 50% likely to attend a rite in progress, along with the tribe's warchief Guzbl. A battered, bloodstained wooden chest is tucked behind the rock, containing 540 septims, a silver talisman bearing the crest of Leyawiin (120 gp), and a large cut topaz (80 gp).

Pohgo: Devout, dogmatic, no concept of personal space. 3 HD, can cast Magic Missile 1/day, wields an Ironwood staff of Lesser Polymorph (1d6 turn duration); desiccated goblin head on staff shouts Goblin battlecries when used.

Guzbl: Controlling, bullheaded, laughs at the end of every sentence. Can speak Cyrodiilic but can't read or write. 4 HD, piecemeal Rattan armor with a Steel mace, Rattan shield, and two vials of Atrophy poison.

Room 17: Warchief's chambers. His mistreated but ambitious manservants, Dzerk and Yilgib, sleep here when not polishing the chief's weapons. Guzbl sleeps on a linen canopy bed (20 gp) in the northwest corner; under the bed is a bottle of Argonian Bloodwine (30 gp) and Guzbl's trained pet boa constrictor (3 HD). Its name is Crunch and it likes salted meats. There are two weapon racks and crude target dummies in the southeast corner.

Room 18: Goblin barracks. They sleep on 15' tall terraces along the northern and southern walls with a narrow path in between. 1d4 are present during the day and 27 at night. Dragons are drawn on the walls in chalk; one at the top of the southern terrace conceals a cache containing a pair of black silk gloves (15 gp), a pair of gold onyx earrings (80 gp), and a Potion of Diminution. The goblins don't know it's there.

Room 19: Two stick cages flank the path between the northeast passage and the stairs down; the northwest cage contains a gaunt, disheveled Bosmer woman wearing a robe made of thin, scaly hide. Her name is Quilawen, but she won't talk unless freed. The southeast cage appears to be empty but contains a starved Ahuimusu. A pressure plate concealed under some mud will open the latter cage if pressed, and the creature will attack with a 5-in-6 chance to surprise. Pohgo and Guzbl know about the pressure plate; other goblins are under orders not to approach the cages.

Ahuimusu: 3 HD, 7 AC, Move 12. Attacks: bite+claw, or tail (save or be paralyzed for 1d4 turns). Can blend into surroundings- 5-in-6 chance to surprise when aware of threats. XP 60.

Quilawen: Unruly, unworldly, unhealthy love of rat meat. Is able to speak with and exert influence on Ahuimusu and other reptiles. Level 4 Thief.

Room 20: Shaman's quarters. Giant goblin head made of rocks and mud against north wall. Cauldron of rat stew boils through the night in the center. Pohgo sleeps on the head's lolling tongue. A crude emblem of a partially split goblin hand is carved in the forehead. A limeware plater caked in congealed grease and dirt (30 gp, or 650 if cleaned) with a human skull on it sits on the ground next to the cauldron. The pattern of the grease stains on the face of the platter, if examined, strikingly resembles a snapshot of the warchief's chambers (17). Indeed, the platter is enchanted: three skullfulls of boiled rat grease poured onto it will take the shape of a specific place named aloud before pouring.

Room 21: Crusaders' wall. Fire breathing dragon statue. Five armored goblins. A crudely but sturdily built wooden palisade, 10' tall, from east to west blocks a passage down to the Rootbound Crypt. The wall is manned by five goblins with piecemeal Steel armor, shields, and weapons. Each has a shortbow, 15 arrows, and a melee weapon. A cob statue of a dragon stands at the edge of the wall; oil or liquid grease (the goblins keep two jars handy) poured down the statue's horn while the wick in its mouth is lit will cause the statue to "breathe fire" (save or 1d6 damage plus ignition) on anything in a 10' area in front of the wall. There is a 12' ladder to let through goblins returning from an excursion into the crypt, but the defenders are otherwise ordered to attack anyone and anything that emerges from it.

[bouncehousedemons]

Blood & Thunder

Rating: T Pairing: Hvitserk x OFC Warnings: Slight angst, mild mentions of blood and violence. Word count: ~1400

Summary: Since arriving in the Golden Land, Hvitserk has felt he is missing his purpose in life. That is until his meets a young woman from the Mi’kmaq tribe who reignites his sense of adventure.

Author's note: Happy birthday @captainkilly // @underragingwaves! This is my gift to you. I hope you enjoy it. This is part of my wider Salt of the Earth and Sea series, but can be read as a standalone. A while ago someone commented saying it would be nice if Hvitserk was given his own love interest in the Golden Land. Knowing how lazy I am when it comes to writing fics off my own steam, I set myself the deadline of Killy's birthday to write this, so I could gift it to her.

It has been three months since Hvitserk was reunited with his elder brother, Ubbe. Three months of becoming accustomed to life in a new land. Three months of settling into an uneventful life of farmsteading. It is peaceful and it is quiet. Why is it always so quiet?

Hvitserk longs for adventure, but most of all he longs for someone to share it with. He looks upon Ubbe and his flame-haired lover, Casja and covets what they have. He has not been with anyone since losing Thora, but now he longs for companionship.

Hvitserk finds himself drawn to the neighbouring Skraeling tribe, soon learning that they refer to themselves as Mi’kmaq. They hunt with spears and arrows, use every part of their kill and roam for miles on horseback. While there are plenty of similarities between his people and theirs, it is their differences that intrigue him most. It slakes a thirst for the unknown that is part of the very fabric of Hvitserk’s soul.

One young woman in particular captures his attention; Avaldidida. Hvitserk has never heard a name so beautiful. Her umber eyes turn to the colour of honey in the sunlight, her long dark hair falls loose around the bronzed skin of her shoulders, with intricate braids adorned with beads and feathers. She must surely be a goddess, Hvitserk thinks.

Upon their first meeting Avaldidida comments on the fact that Hvitserk’s eyes aren’t blue like the others’. Blue eyes mean danger. Completely misreading her comment, Hvitserk leans in to kiss her and laughs in shock when she forces him backwards, the flat of her palm to his forehead.

Despite this, Avaldidida and Hvitserk become firm friends. Seeing her quickly becomes the highlight of every day for him. They hunt together on horseback, skin the pelts from their kills and spear fish on days when the weather allows it. She chuckles at how bad his aim is with a bow and arrow while riding and when he is able to smile along with her, Hvitserk knows his heart is no longer his own.

When Avaldidida does not show up that day for the ride they had planned, Hvitserk feels that something must be wrong. He travels on horseback to the nearby Mi’kmaq settlement to seek Avaldidida out and is immediately concerned by the scene that greets him.

A woman wails in anguish over the prone form of a young man. A bloody wound oozes in his chest, red and grisly. The settlement is a clamour of activity, as people rush to grab weapons and mount horses.

“You have to go!” Avaldidida says urgently to Hvitserk as she rushes over to him.

“What has happened?” Hvitserk asks, dismounting and placing a gentle hand on Avaldidida’s shoulder.

“There are people…like you.” She replies hesitantly. “They attacked a group that were fishing. They have killed Peminuit. We must defend ourselves. You cannot be here.”

“I’m helping you.” Hvitserk says without hesitation.

Avaldidida’s eyes go wide. She studies Hvitserk’s face to see if he is being serious.

"You would help us, Hvitserk?" Avaldidida asks, a hint of disbelief to her tone. "You'd be risking your life."

"And I'd do it gladly for you, Ava." He responds with a proud smile.

Avaldidida averts her eyes, a small smile playing upon her lips. Ava. She likes that.

“Do you have a weapon?” She asks.

Hvitserk unclips the axe from his belt, holding it out for her to inspect.

“That will not be enough.” Avaldidida states.

“Oh, trust me.” Hvitserk grins. “It will be.”

Hvitserk falls back into the throes of battle like it is the arms of an old lover. His heart hammers in his chest, he revels in the thrill of it all. Howling like a wolf, he hacks and slashes through men who, once upon a time, he would have fought alongside, not against. 

He wears the blood on his face as proudly as the wolfish grin that never falters. It matters not that he is attacking and killing what are potentially fellow Northmen. He has a new purpose to fight for now; her.

When the last of their opponents have fled, their numbers cut back to too few to stand a chance, Hvtiserk screams triumphantly. His eyes search for Avaldidida and finds her sheathing the last of her arrows.

He strides over to her, pulling her into a tight hug, a wide smile still plastered to his face.

“We did it, Ava!”

His smile finally fades when she pushes him roughly backwards. He stumbles a little, confusion taking hold of him.

Avaldidida’s body language is rigid and tense, her facial expression is cold. Hvitserk feels he can see a look of slight disappointment in her eyes. It’s only when he looks around he notices the rest of the Mi’kmaq tribe are mirroring her body language, regarding him cautiously.

“Thank you for your help.” She says flatly, before turning to walk away.

“Wait!” He rushes to block her path. Hvitserk looks at her, his brow furrowed, his eyes filled with sadness. "I don't understand what I did wrong."

Avaldidida sighs, bowing her head for a moment before looking up at him, a frown distorting her delicate facial features. “You take pleasure in killing, Hvitserk. There is no honour in taking another person’s life. We do it only to protect ourselves, not for enjoyment.”

Hvitserk stares at her, his mouth agape, too dumbfounded to say anything.

“Go back to your brother, Hvitserk.”, Avaldidida says, a tinge of sorrow in her voice. “You are too dangerous to be around my people.”

Hvitserk feels as though his world has imploded. No one has ever turned their back on him because of his prowess in battle before. He does not sleep that night, his heart aches over Avaldidida’s rejection of him.

He turns her words around in his mind; “you take pleasure in killing”. He used to. However, today he’d taken pride in defending the woman he loves and helping to defend her people. Perhaps it didn’t help that he’d never actually told her he was in love with her. But he was certainly no danger to her and he’d make her see that.

At dawn’s first light, Hvitserk is up and back on his horse. He will not wait around for Avaldidida to forgive him. He will earn it. He has never shied away from a challenge and this is one he is more than prepared to take.

Word quickly spreads throughout the Mi’kmaq as they spot Hvitserk’s approach. Avaldidida is already waiting for him when he arrives - an arrow strung in her bow and pointed directly at him.

“Leave or I will kill you.” She orders.

“If you wanted to kill me you would have by now.” Hvitserk says with a gentle smile, as he jumps down from his horse. “I’ve seen you hunt with that, you could have gotten me when I was a mile back, but you didn’t.”

She sighs, lowering her bow, holding the arrow as she releases the tension on the string. “Why are you here?”

“To give you this.” Hvitserk unclips his axe and lays it at her feet.

She says nothing, quirking an eyebrow at him questioningly.

“You are right, Ava.” He confesses with a slight shrug. “I did enjoy the battle yesterday, but only because I was fighting for you. My axe is yours, as is my heart. I don’t care if you never want to see me again after this, that is your choice, such as it is mine to fight for you.”

Her expression is unreadable as Hvitserk looks at her, although her body language seems slightly less guarded. Hvitserk takes a few steps back, having said all he wanted to say, he intends to leave.

He freezes in shock when she pushes forward, pressing her lips against his. When he doesn’t respond she pulls away, embarrassment radiating from her. 

Hvitserk is quick to regain his composure, realising his mistake. He pulls her to him and kisses her hungrily, something he has yearned to do since the day he first laid eyes upon her. 

She smiles as their lips finally part, their foreheads resting together. “At least you are a better kisser than you are an archer.”

[aetheltrythh]

On the Origin of Dream's Raven Kink

I've finished a new fic, you can read it also on AO3. Thanks to @tryan-a-bex for beta reading :-).

Summary

Dream of the Endless has not always had a raven. Not until he got the raven kink from a cave woman named Lusyjen.

Notes:

With a story like this, every word is a potential trap for some sort of historical inaccuracy, so, kindly suspend your disbelief and let's go!

Prologue

"Dream of the Endless always has a raven," Lucienne says, tilting her head, brimming with concern, as I am about to leave for the Waking again, standing on the pier at the sea of dreams and nightmares.

No, not always. You forget. It has been long.

You were the first one and after you, I could not do without a raven.

Only now, I must. It is a fair story that you are trying to tell me, but  "Jessamy was the last."

I could not protect her. It is as if a part of me died. Yet another part. If the pain of it will ever pass, I do not know, although I am aware that all memories dull with time, even mine. The bond was... strong. I spent much time looking at the world through her eyes. I know what she would tell me if she was here now and discarded her usual diplomacy. That I should get out more. Use my own eyes. That I do not really need her. But I do. Company is a rare thing. I think you are here for something else, I can still hear Hob's voice in my mind. I am loath to admit it but I do yearn for something, someone. Perhaps I should put more trust in Lucienne, if not in anyone else. Though I am not sure whether I know how. Whether I ever have. She told me she did not feel abandoned when the Dreaming started to crumble and the library was lost to her. But she must have felt... lonely. And yet she remained, even if she could have crossed to the Waking.

I must find a way to make it up to her. Alleviate her burden. Otherwise, there may come a day when everything is too much, even for her.

She does not see my hands tremble as I face away from her and the sea parts before me.

Lucienne

45,000 years ago in what is today mainland Greece (and remember folks, this is the Ice Age).

The nights grow longer; another season of cold and snow is nigh. I know that I will not...would not...last through it. My tribe knows that too. Nobody has said anything, but when we arrive in a deep valley wherein lies a cave that I hold most sacred - and therefore, they do too - we stop. Shelters are built among the trees in front of the cave. We... they...will be here for days after....

I am not afraid. Or am I?

When the preparations are done, four of the men carry me inside, where a fire burns already. I can no longer smell the salt and fish in the air from the sea - the great water that one cannot drink - as I could outside. It is not far. Shadows would lengthen for maybe one ell before one would arrive at its shore. I am fond of the sea though it is also dreadful. They lay me down on a flat stone covered by several layers of fur. Many years ago, my mother and I put paintings on these walls. Ravens and wolves. Facing my father's and brother's red deer and horses painted in red ochre. They are still there, but now I can barely see them. My eyes have weakened to the point of not being able to find herbs in woods and meadows, making me rely on my nose. My remaining teeth are worn out. I can only eat, with difficulty, the most tender meat and berries and mushrooms. My joints are painful and swollen when walking from sunrise to sunset. Hunting is a thing of the past. I have lost half of my hair and I know that there is some foulness in my blood. I have lived much longer than most. Perhaps it is a thing that happens when one has seen too many winters. The cold consumes the soul's strength coursing in one's veins. I am the wise woman of my tribe, a wosa, and yet there is so much I do not know.

I thumb the cave lion teeth hanging from a flax string around my neck. They have as many notches in them as all fingers and toes of two healthy people together. For as long as I can remember, I have been making a notch for every time that the snow melted and birches and oaks sprouted new leaves, heralding the spring and the coming abundance of food. My finger stops on the second notch of the oldest tooth, yellowed by time; that was when I first encountered ravens. Magnificent black birds, their feathers shiny like water flowing over rocks. None of us has seen such as them in the land from which we journeyed, in need of more space and more game. Others of my tribe thought them croaking, but to me, they spoke. Not in words, precisely, but in visions and feelings. Two ravens have been following me ever since. The elders did not believe me. I was too young for such things, they said.  A few years later, when I crafted a lightweight spear with an antler tip as I saw it in a vision of other people making it - I observed them as if I was perched on a tree right above them - the elders shook their heads. A child's toy, they said. A spear must be thick and have a stone tip, they said. When I returned to our settlement with a deer so large I could barely carry it, they began paying attention.

A pair of ravens now wait silently outside the cave for my last flight. As usual, they have been given the best meat from this morning's kill in sacrifice. And eyes. They need them for their farsight. I can feel their contentment. They will mourn me but they know that all things must end. As did their predecessors; they are not the first ones. It is only natural and proper. My niece and nephew begin to play their flutes made of mute swan bone. Another notch on the first tooth calls me to touch it. That was the year I first saw the strange man-shaped spirit in my dreams. I have seen him many times after but he never spoke and I never told anyone about him. He would not have approved of that, I felt. But I know that it is he who has been helping me to guide shards of people's souls back to their bodies. It is an easy thing for a soul-part to wander off into the unseen realms after a terror or loss. Not so easy to lead it back where it belongs. I have also been reconciling the malevolent spirits that cause pains and ailments. But that too, has its bounds. I can no longer lure them away from myself.

I open my eyes. The man-shaped spirit stands two steps from the foot of my stone bed as if called by my thoughts. Even though he has never appeared to me outside of the dreamworld, even here, I am the only one who sees him. The others but avoid the space where he is standing. He is nothing like men of the waking world; his face is smooth like a young woman's, skin without a fault, as light as the palest seashell. No one has that, not my kin, not any people I have heard of in the countless trading circles I took part in. And then there are his eyes... I grew accustomed to them and they are kind but the colour is all wrong. Blue as the sea in sunlight. And yet, they are beautiful. He looks sorrowful, more than usual, but even so, the corners of his lips move slightly upwards when he looks at me and nods. I shut my eyes again. 

The men of my tribe approach me one by one, touching my arms and shoulders, then fanning out towards the light coming from the cave entrance. The women do the same, only, they take positions in the opposite direction, heading further into the darkness and its heart; there is a passage there, leading down to a cavern with a lake where rocks hang from the roof like the limbs of the sea creatures that have so many of them. The women are to guide my soul into the shadows before it can enter another world, if the Great Mother wills it so. I would perhaps welcome it. 

A vision that I have had for a long time bothers me as I have never been able to truly grasp it. Perhaps I will when I join my ancestors. I have been making signs, not only on my lion teeth, but on countless bones, on cave walls, on wood, and in the dirt. To mark the passage of the moon and the sun, to imitate what animal footprints and herb leaves look like and thus capture their essence to persist long after I am dead. But what if there was more than that? A way to keep our songs and the stories that we tell when sitting at the evening fire. The earliest ones I have heard are long gone from my memory. I wish they weren't.

I breathe slowly. I am ready. Almost no one dies like this, without much pain. I am lucky. My chest is heavy and I fall into the warm embrace of sleep.

***

When I wake, I know that I have left my body, irrevocably. Sitting up, I look around myself. Still in a cave, but it is different. This one has an even higher ceiling and a large opening through which a myriad of stars are shining. At the sides, several fires are burning, each of a different colour. I touch my feet slowly to the ground. Sand. I look to the far end of the cave.

"Welcome in my realm and in my abode, Lusyjen." The pale spirit hasn't opened his mouth, but I can hear his words all the same. His first words to me. "Come closer." He sits in a stone seat, several steps above the floor, black fur with long hair from an animal unknown to me wrapped around his bare shoulders, legs covered with a sort of black-hide leggings, the reason for which I cannot understand as his dwelling is summer-warm. No matter, the ways of otherworldly beings are incomprehensible. They have their own reasons for everything and their moods are volatile. Behind him, gemstone crystals are protruding from the wall, larger and clearer than all the stones that traders have ever brought before me.

I come to stand still at the foot of the steps. What he is, I do not know even now. Not a spirit of forests or rivers. Not of the mountains or the sea. Something larger than that still. Perhaps the Moon himself. The pale guardian of night and sleep, clothed in the colour of raven feathers.

I bow my head as he descends to me. Not knowing how to address him properly, now that he has decided to use words, in my mind, I conjure a vision of wolves honouring the night and the moon with their howls, of the silent wings of night owls, and of children fast asleep in their mothers' arms.

He gently lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. "You may wonder why you are here. It is within my power to offer you residence in the Dreaming and my protection, as you died in your sleep." The Dreaming...that's what he calls this other world then. The whole of it is...his? Observing me with curiosity, he sits upright, hands planted firmly on the sides of his seat. Then he leans slightly leans forward. "In turn, I would ask you to be my messenger and my eyes and ears in the waking world."

"Yrshaya," I say; a word for someone of great esteem and status. "It would be my honour."

One does not refuse a call to serve a being such as him.

"Very well." He smiles in a small, secretive way. Something stirs in my chest... I have never had children but I would offer my protection to him too, however insignificant it may be, as I would protect and care for a young one. He is so thin. Like we sometimes are after a season of poor hunting. "You may choose any form that you like. A woman. A man. An animal. Anything in between. You are no longer bound to mortal flesh."

For a little while, I think about it, but I have no real doubt.

"A raven."

And then, I am much smaller and I have wings. Extending them, I look at my new feathers and try to flap them. They lift me into the air and I land on the nearest thing - the spirit's shoulder - which is also a very good place to be. He angles his head towards me and strokes my back lightly.

This gives me the boldness to ask, "Do you have a name, yrshaya? I should like to know, if I am to serve you."

His voice rumbles at the back of my head and when it does, there is no space for anything else. "Not a name like yours. But. I am known. As. Dream of the Endless. The Prince of Stories. And the Shaper of Forms."

Dream.

What Endless might be, I cannot grasp. All things must end, and begin, again and again. But I know now that I have always been his creature. It is right. I am skilled at moving in the dreamworld and bringing back stories to tell men and women to heal them. I know the Waking and the seen and unseen paths of people and animals, even though I yearn to learn more.

I cannot resist carding through his hair with my beak and brushing my head softly against his cheek. Sitting down on the steps with a sigh, he lets me.

Notes

I have done quite a lot of research for such a short fic, but still, there is probably a lot of bullshit. A good things is that no one who has lived in that time is going to read it, so hopefully, no one will be personally offended :D. Unless we have a paleolithic Hob Gadling among us.

The climate was much colder in the Ice Age than it is today, even in the Mediterranean. Hence the concern with winter.

I do not know where the word wosa came from According to ChatGPT, it's not from any known language, so I hope I haven't stolen it from some work of fiction. If so, please tell me.

I set the story at the beginning of the upper paleolithic transition, which is supposed to be the beginning of 'modern' humanity. It looks like we have started to think in new ways and do lots of new shenanigans. See for example this video by John Vervaeke from cca 00:26:00

The common notion is that women in hunter-gatherer societies did not hunt, just gather, but it’s not that clear anymore. They actually may have.

Regarding blue eyes, that would be shocking at the time. Literally no one had that, the trait started to develop from around 10,000 years ago. Regarding light skin colour, it is my understanding that even in people who migrated to northern regions such as Europe and Asia, at this point, it wouldn't have had time to develop. Dream is supposed to look like to the person who sees him, but I did this to emphasize that Lucienne can see his otherworldliness.

I am horrible, I just had to dress Dream in pre-historic leather pants and some spectacular fur over bare chest and shoulders :-).

The question is, when does Lucienne become the librarian? If it's with the invention of cuneiform, she'll have to wait for quite a bit before her vision comes true...

[the-everqueen]

Hello! I’m interested in any book recs you have 💕

this is going to be some of my favorites, but if you want specific recs, let me know what things you've enjoyed/are looking for and i can tailor a shortlist (open offer):

fiction

mongrels, stephen graham jones - a coming of age story about an Indigenous teen descended from werewolves. jones is mostly known for the only good indians, which is also very good, but this book touched my monster-loving heart.

the sparrow, mary doria russel - a jesuit missionary is the only survivor of the first crew to travel to an alien planet. i read this book for the first time last year and i haven't stopped thinking about it. the sequel children of god made me even crazier (affectionate).

kindred, octavia butler - a black woman gets pulled back in time where she has to repeatedly save her white ancestor in antebellum maryland. time loops! the past as an actor on our present! what are you willing to do in order to survive! i think if you only read one octavia butler book, it should probably be either this one or dawn.

dead astronauts, jeff vandermeer - a trio from the future is traveling through loopholes in spacetime in an attempt to save the universe from latest-possible-stage capitalism. it's weird and experimental and more like a spoken word poem than a novel.

far sector, nk jemisin - this is a graphic novel about a black femme green lantern trying to prevent social collapse on another planet. gerard way wrote the preface. the art is excellent.

nonfiction

queer times, black futures, kara keeling - each chapter looks at an afrofuturist artist/art work to discuss black queer liberation. i read a lot of academic texts, so take this with a grain of salt, but i think keeling is very readable and if you're unfamiliar with the afrofuturist movement, this book provides a great starting point for artists to look into.

scenes of subjection: terror, slavery, and self-making in nineteenth century america, saidiya hartman - i'm not gonna lie to you, this book is dense. but hartman articulates how slavery in america shaped discourse around subjectivity and this discourse lives on. who gets to be recognized as a person, and under what conditions?

go ahead in the rain: notes to a tribe called quest, hanif abdurraqib - this is the Most Readable book in this section. it's part memoir, part music criticism, part archive. short but poetic. hanif is such a generous writer, and you feel his love for the subject. i'm so excited for his book on basketball that comes out next year and i have never seen a basketball game in my life.

poetry

postcolonial love poem, natalie diaz - this book aches like a bruise.

time is a mother, ocean vuong - like critical race theory but as poems. time is a flat circle and a spiral and a loop and a trap. (i actually like night sky with exit wounds better, but this one fits whatever theme i have going on here)

soft science, franny choi - robots are people, too. if you liked janelle monae's album dirty computer, you will like this book.

[wiredaughter]

♡∇♡∇♡

@tropetember #7: historical au

palaeolithic ish ☆ platonic relationship ☆ abe sapien & ofc ☆ making friends w the fish man ☆ hyena pet ☆ 825 words ☆ ao3

blue

Blue. So blue I thought he was dying of cold and water when I first saw him, floating along the coastline. I'd readied my blade to spare him the suffering - and maybe make an easy meal after leaving my last tribe two nights ago, when he lashed at me, faster than most dying men could. Most living too. Teeth like a beast's, claws short but rather sharp looking. Oh, how bare I felt then, with my brittle nails and my agreeable teeth.

But I'm still the best lancer I know, and so we tumbled through the wet sand, trying our damnest to kill each other for a good while before I remembered I wasn't necessarily trying to hurt him in the first place. Figured he wouldn't believe or understand me unless I gave him a good reason to. Like putting him down with my weight on his chest knife to his throat, but my knees slid off his skin like wet seaweed, and then it was him holding me down unarmed. I wasn't necessarily trying to hurt him, but called for Hyena. After weeks trying to learn to cohabit with the tribe, she was dubious to hunt like she naturally does, but tackled him off alright. Then I looked down at my legs to see what I'd slipped on, and I understood.

Azure. The liquid was viscose, not water at all. His blood. Not blood, like any I'd seen, but I thought he'd die without it all the same. I called Hyena off, and she put her tail off at me, but obeyed all the same. She's a crossbreed and that's probably the only reason she hasn't killed me. But I'm a crossbreed too, my mother said, so I guess that's why I don't kill her. The idea that he might be a one as well gave me just enough bravado to approach him, letting my spear and axe down, hands raised. He tried to raise on his elbows, before giving up and falling flat on his back. I tried wrapping him on my cloak, thinking I could go for a swim anyway, but he gripped my wrist, asking me to take him to the water. I looked at Hyena, wondering what she made of all this. She looked at me with her dark intelligent eyes, then turn around and digged into the warm sand for a cosy nap spot.

But I lead him to the water. He relaxed at that. The tribe I travelled with four full months ago told stories of animalhumans. Maybe he's a fishman. I took the chance to look for molluscs. Hyena dislikes the fruit which constitutes our remaining food, and I knew I'd have to bribe her to carry this man back to our cave. We both held our ends: at first confused by the shells, she seemed to like them enough once I broke them open.

The fishman was pale and exhausted by the time we made it back, which only made his disappearance by next morning more worrying. Even more unexplainably, he was back when Hyena and I returned from our hunt, cleaning a fish bigger than I'd ever seen. I started a fire, which seemed to amaze him even though he ate his own with bones and all, just like Hyena the deer we took down earlier that day. I offered the fox I'd shot, but he rejected it abjectly. Alright, fishman. After our meal I skinned and salted the fox, carefully taking out the teeth which I fashioned into pendants to thank him for the fish. He was touched, he didn't wear any before, and seeing him wear mine felt like drizzle on a sunny day.

He's travelled with us since, after he retrieved his possessions from a cave I tried to reach with him but couldn't, least I died of water and air. He's got a woven basket with dirt where he says we'll have berries soon, a few blades as long as my thigh, and a pot that shimmers in the moonlight. I have my spear, axe and slingshot and a flute shaped like a snake tongue. At night I play it sometimes and he sings in a voice like I've never heard before. Sometimes he just fills his pot with water and we watch the shapes move inside.

We stay on the ground, close enough to the water. He runs and climbs and swims just like us. Eats, more like Hyena than me, but it's close enough. Last sunset I scored him a moa egg, and he was so delighted he weaved me a hand cover of sorts. He was right about his basket, sort of. There's a blade of grass growing on it, and I don't know it'll give us berries, but Hyena is leading us towards a warmer land, and I'm a good shot and he showed me how to find better molluscs, so I think we'll be fine anyway.

[thyngland]

The Great Expansion

The smell of sawdust and sea brine filled the air under Amphelitsi's clouded skies, as its docks bustled with life under a new directive - Hundreds of vessels, large and small, being under construction, maintanance, or anchored down from weary journeys ashore.

A giant, square-rigged flat-hulled ship relying only on wind and wheel rested adjacent to the Theatre-Palace in an appropriately sized drydock - the ship of Admiral Venka Skatakis. Venka is the younger sibling of the Amphorean royal family, descending from the same Medouian blood as the rest of them. They chose life on the seas, wishing to conquer riches and suitable Qalos alike, hunting pirates and other lawless wrongdoers.

In the past years, Amphorea has leveraged Thyngland's political instability and regency to diverge its resources into fitting a large fleet of caravels, merchant ships and warships and preparing resources for long journeys and rapid, efficient construction. The region's Archon, Glyko Skatakis, has committed to expanding Thyngland's borders and treasury through forming external colonies seperate from the privilages of the Despotate, composed of prisoners, those driven by ambition to pioneer these new lands and minor nobles seeking power and riches.

Before the war, major reforms swept across the settlements in Amphorea, increasing taxes on oils, salts and iron and tightening laws surrounding land security and areas riddled with theft. This procured many of the goods needed for Thyngland's expansion, satisfied minor nobles and prosecuted the Smethyng populace - many of which were imprisoned in penal districts for minor offenses through necessity or manipulation.

With this influx of profit, the navigators, astrologers, merchants and cartographers were hired to find new routes across the Gnathonean and Thanatai seas to east and west, as well as survey the scarred lands of Exochias - once home to ancient, often mythologised Qalos colonies fallen many centuries ago to the many threats and wars within.

Some of these colonies seem to have been resettled by migrant tribes and remnants or distant cousins of the Qalos. A policy of trade has been introduced to investigate and measure the land's worth, as diplomats and elite retinues are selected to prepare for an eventual landing.

[yzeltia]

The Lost Year

Chapter 5: Caught

Characters: Y'zel Tia, Hien Rijin

Rating: T

Notes: Heavy borrowing from the story of Orpheus and Lot's Wife. [Sort of like the title's titular song~]

Hien wiped his brow as he gazed out onto the steppe from atop one of the higher rocky outcrops that boarded the territory. The quest to find the Ura had taken him and Y'zel into the mountains. He wasn't too versed on the tribe's customs, so he decided to make camp outside their caves in hopes that one of their tradespeople would emerge and stumble upon them. 

The expanse of the Steppe was spread out before him, an endless grassland spreading far into the horizon where it kissed the blue sky above. If this were to remain his forever home, then he felt blessed by the Kami, though it was not enough to alleviate the longing for his homeland. 

“Shun…?”

            Hien smiled softly as he heard his childhood name then paused.

“Shun,” the voice sounded again, 

now breathily against his ear.

          The man's face burned red as he quickly stepped away and covered the breathed on part of his face, finding Y'zel standing on a rock beside him.

         "Where did you hear that name," the prince hissed.

        Y'zel tilted his head, ears wiggling before answering, "Is that not an affectionate name for you? I've heard a few times."

 Hien furrowed his brow then turned his attention back toward the steppe. "A long time ago when I was a boy. I'm a man now."

The Miqo'te hopped from his rock, moving to stare out at the landscape himself. "I don't believe you're much older than I, and yet you insist on calling me 'little cat' when I am neither."

"Relatively speaking, you are little compared to anyone here in Yanxia. I don't believe I need to explain 'cat'."

Y'zel brushed his hand through his hair, letting his tail be pushed around by the untamed wind. "Many Miqo'te would be insulted by that comparison."

"If I've offended you, I apologize. Though, you've had ample time to correct me."

"If it were another, I might have objected," Y'zel mumbled before turning back toward camp.

Hien raised a brow at the other's words, finding the Miqo'te avoiding his gaze. There was a blossoming to Y'zel that had been happening since they'd left the Qalli. A more frequent smile. Joy in their victories. Frustration in failure. And now a coyness he was unsure what to do with. 

"Can I eat now," the samurai asked, following Y'zel.

The Miqo'te flicked his tail as he squatted down beside a large rock. He had placed long strips of Dzo meat across a flat rock and salted it heavily until it dried up. Hien moved to grab up a few pieces, only to have his hand struck by Y'zel's tail. Huffing, he wrapped it around his wrist and gave a tug, causing the Miqo'te to yelp.

"You'll find it unwise to bar me from a meal, little cat," he growled.

"I've no desire to climb up and down these cliffs every day for game. I prepared meat to be preserved. Besides, it'll be extremely chewy. You'll be full up and fatigued after one strip," Y'zel said sternly while trying to free himself.

"There is little else to do other than wait. What would you propose we do instead," Hein asked, taking a single piece of jerky and tearing at it with his teeth as he let go of the Miqo'te.

Y'zel let out a help as he fell onto the ground. Dusting himself off, he turned and looked up to the man, ears flattened.

"Is there something wrong with just enjoying the view and resting? I just lost you for half a bell to pensive gazing at the horizon. I have a book somewhere in my pack. I could maybe read a storytale from Eorzea aloud? Or you could tell me more of Doma?"

Hien chewed for a moment. It indeed took effort to crunch the seasoned bite of meat. Hunting kept his skills sharp when he couldn't test them against the various Xalea he came across who wished to spar with him. But he looked into Y'zel's tired, wide eyes and felt for the first time in a long time that he could take a break.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to take a bit to unwind. As soon as we make contact with the Ura though, we're on our way."

Y'zel smiled, ears fluttering atop of his head. Hien brought his hand over his face, feeling an unnatural warmth to his cheeks. He'd no reason to be embarrassed by the gesture, and yet he felt his stomach twist.

"Is something wrong, Shun?"

That made it worse.

"The meat is just a bit too salty. Just tell me your take," he answered, taking a bite of the jerky to avoid being questioned further as he settled down on their rug.

Pleased, Y'zel joined him, rummaging through his belongings until fishing out the tome in question. Hien put his hand behind his head, working on the light meal as Y'zel started to read.

"Upon an Era long ago, a Tia and greatest bard of the Mole tribe, O'rpheus, fell in love with a beautiful Elezen woman who was said to be the daughter of Nophica herself."

Hien swallowed then looked up to Y'zel, shifting to lay his head in his lap. "That's your goddess of bounty?"

The Miqo'te looked over the book, surprised at the prince's knowledge. 

"Yes, she's the Matron. Goddess of soil and harvest. How did you know?"

"I grew up under Garlean occupation. They taught us a few things they'd picked up from lands they'd invaded. Granted not always painted in the best light."

"I see…," Y'zel mused, swishing his tail about, "Anyroad, the young woman was named Ermidance. Though he never professed his love, anyone with eyes could see that he held a flame for her. Yet so did the Keeper of the Dead, Thal.”

“Isn’t it Nald’thal? The Trader,” Hien interjected while gently grasping the other’s tail with his free hand.

“The traders. Give me a moment and the story will say as such,” the Miqo’te cooed, sitting up right as he felt the electricity of the touch run through him as the man thumbed the tip of his appendage.

"Noting the love O’rpheus had for Ermidance, the God of Life, he made a deal: Should they leave their realm and not look back, then Thal would none be the wiser of their escape; however, if one should look back into the realm of fire, his twin would take back her soul in anger. O’rpheus agreed and awayed with Ermidance, back the way he came. As he stepped through the realms though, he chanced to look upon his love, excited that they’d made it. Yet this was done in haste, for he might have passed through, but she had been a step behind. His love was lost, pulled back into the realm of fire.”

“Thal wanting her beauty for himself, he gave an acolyte a vision to capture her and bring her to Eastern Thanalan where they could perform a ritual to take her to his realm. When this became known, all feared the wrath of the god should they try to stop his plan. And so they turned to O’rpheus, believing that his song and love might be able to soothe the god and have him return her.

“Of course he agreed, valiantly setting off in pursuit. What fiends could not be pacified by his voice, were felled by his arrows. Through the desert and through to the depths of the hell of fire he went until he found his beloved. Hoping to distract Thal with a tune, he played and revealed himself. Love true, the melody roused Nald within the great being. 

“In despair, O’rpheus wandered Thanalan until he found a large rock to rest upon. There he spent day after day in misery, sprawled out under the sun. When the star reached its highest point, he’d rouse, playing a paean to the Warden, in hopes she’d find his beloved in the shared realm and look over her. His song of joy and praise amid his great despair touched Azyema above. O’rpheus’s body did not last long under the harsh environment of the desert. His soul free for the taking, the sun goddess claimed his honest heart and reunited them in the Heaven of Fire to never be separated again.”

Y’zel paused as he finished the story while Hein continued to fiddle with the Miqo’te’s tail. The samurai thought for a moment, eyes closed until feeling the other’s atop his breastplate, rubbing softly. With an involuntary, relishing, groan, he tilted his head back, looking up to the other.

"There is a similar story here on the Steppe. Two lovers from rival tribes wanted to be together; however, found it near impossible to do so without great strife between their families. The Dusk mother, of whom embodies love and war, sent them both a vision to travel into the mountains together. To prove their love, she ordered them to not look back until they reached their destination. 

“And so they ran into the mountains, both leaving their loved ones letters as to why they’d run off. Neither took the news well, and as the couple ascended the mountain, the tribes started to war with one another, bringing both to near ruin. Hearing the battle in the distance, one of the two looked back against the Dusk mother’s orders just as their lover made it to the summit.  For their defiance, she turned them to salt, leaving the other to turn to watch them crumble into nothing.

“They wept and wept, tears flooding the mountain and pulling the salt into the earth. In that they had done as they were told, the Dusk Mother gave them another vision, to confront the remnants of their tribes and unite them. And so they returned and told them what happened. He struck down those who opposed, and took the rest back to the mountains where his love had fallen to find it rich with salt and other minerals coveted by the rest of the Steppe. There they took the name of the lost love as their namesake and abandoned a life of hunting in favour of mining.”

Hien inhaled deeply as he finished, flexing his chest under Y’zel’s touch. The Miqo’te looked back to the mountains, lost in thought until finally saying, “So then, the Ura tribe here?”

“Coincidentally, yes. That’s why I am reluctant to move toward their caves. I think it would be unwise to intrude upon such a sacred space.”

“I suppose, though, do you have a Doman tale for me? That was from the Steppe.”

“That’s the story I had to tell.”

Y’zel lifted his hand then cupped Hien's face, thumb lightly rubbing on the hairs of his chin. The prince’s attention returned to the Miqo’te’s face, finding him drawing down toward his own. Lips a breath away from his own, Y’zel lingered then pulled away while slipping his tail free from the shocked prince’s hand.

“I think I might go sit alone for a moment, if it’s all the same,” the Miqo’te mumbled, slipping out from under the prince.

Hien sat up then reached out to take Y’zel’s wrist. He stared a moment at the delicate pale wrist, then up to its owner who looked down at him somewhere between fear and tears. His hand faltered, letting the Miqo’te slip away with the warm winds. The prince was left yelling for the other, doing his best to gather their things as they started to scatter.

[allaantica]

365 Days of Alla Antica, Day #2

(Note, the above map is still largely a Work in Progress!)

“The Oshaym is a curiosity for those who dwell on its myriad coastlines — that is, a curiosity much like the Sun, the Eye of Aryohl, or any other casual phenomenon. It is at once a place of bounty, bringing up from its depths fish and whale oil, as well as lost treasures from ancient empires, whilst also being a vast sea of stinging salt that harbours countless dangers in the forms of the Uhdinnim and the dreaded Zroh. The Oshaym at once provides and imperils, protects and undermines, defines and defies.”

The Oshaym — meaning "Bone Sea" in the primary trade language, Dabru, spoken across the Nepshe Confederacy — is a vast sea connecting to the outside ocean only via a small channel running through the Gap of Inkyss at its western-most edge. It is named the Bone Sea for the spectral salt-encrusted white towers that occasionally thrust up from its depths, and can be seen in its shallower reaches, the last evidence of a once enormous ancient empire that spanned the salt flats of the Oshaym before it was flooded. Since the explosion of Hror Inkyss millenia ago, those same salt flats have played host to the high-salinity sea, allowing new nations to form along its banks.

The Oshaym is largely under the control of the Protectorate of Kaisor, the chief state of the Nepshe Confederacy, though their rivals in the Protectorate of Azriqor control some of the south-west coast, whilst the Zholik Timocracy and the scattered tribes of the Jugvod-Lumbad control portions of the eastern stretch known as the Mayym. The only free archipelago within the Oshaym, outside of these larger polities, is the Aħ-Ħsari Syndicate, who hold out from their home of Meħbe-set Dujru.

The Oshaym is, quite clearly, the Pyrric take on the Mediterranean Sea, with lots of inspiration drawn from its folkloric elements, especially those taken from my own culture of Ammi Maltese. Tales of Atlantis inspire the Uhdinnim Empire, the Zanclean flood inspired its downfall, and the scattering of the Late Bronze Age Collapse inspired the different peoples around the rim. The entirety of Alla Antica began because I wanted to imagine what the real world would be like if Carthage won the Punic Wars, rather than Rome, and whilst it has gone VERY far from that original inspiration, the first foundations of that were laid in the Oshaym which still exist in the setting today...

[marysittingathisfeet]

Don't Be A Half Baked Loaf

“Ephraim mixes with the nations; Ephraim is a flat loaf not turned over. Hosea 7:8

Ephraim symbolizes the Northern Kingdoms.

Pita or Naan are flatbreads that use yeast. Flat bread is usually made with flour, salt, water, liquid such as milk or yogurt and then rolled into flattened dough. Bread was baked in small domed clay ovens, or tabun. Ancient ovens were usually made by encircling clay coils or re-used pottery jars. The oven was heated on the interior using dung for fuel. The cook would build a fire inside, let it burn and get to temp, then sweep the ashes and coals aside. The bread would be placed in the warm oven to bake. The front would be closed with a wooden door to keep the heat in. Flat breads were baked against the interior side walls so naturally it would have to be turned or one side would burn and the other side would be doughy and soft.

So what did God mean when he said that Ephraim was an unturned flat loaf? Cake and bread symbolize sustenance, fellowship and life in the bible. The Northern tribes followed their kings into idolatry. Why does God hate idolatry because it leads many to sin. Hosea speaks of the sins of the people.

I have seen a horrible thing in Israel: There Ephraim is given to prostitution, Israel is defiled. Hosea 6:10.

When the people bring their sin offerings, the priests get fed. So the priests are glad when the people sin!-Hosea 4:8 NLV

God accuses the people of Drunkenness- (Wine has robbed my people of their understanding- Hosea 4:11), lying, murder, theft, adultery- (You make vows and break them; you kill and steal and commit adultery- Hosea 4:2) and idolatry- (They ask a piece of wood for advice! (wood carved idol) They think a stick can tell them the future! Longing after idols has made them foolish. They have played the prostitute, serving other gods and deserting their God. Hosea 4:12).

Like poorly cooked bread they have the appearance of serving the Lord. This is the soft doughy side. They are circumcised, honor festival days, and offer sin offerings, but their hearts are far from God.

God cries out- O Israel and Judah, what should I do with you?" asks the Lord. For your love vanishes like the morning mist and disappears like dew in the sunlight. (Hosea 6:7)

The burnt side represents their lust for sin. Hosea 7:4 states They are all adulterers, always aflame with lust, They are like an oven that is kept hot while the baker is kneading the dough. (If the oven is too hot the bread will be burnt on the outside, but uncooked on the inside. Inside represents the heart. ...Their hearts are like an oven blazing with intrigue. their plot smolders through the night, and in the morning it breaks out like a raging fire. Hosea 7:6.

Their lust has consumed them. Their hearts are hardened toward God. Like burnt bread they will be cast aside. Sound the alarm! The enemy descends like an eagle on the people of the Lord, for they have broken my covenant and revolted against my law. -Hosea 8:1. Like an eagle the attack will be swift, brutal. and from above. There will be no escape.

So what does this mean for us today? God wants sincere fellowship and worship. He doesn't want lip service. He doesn't want praise on Sunday but sinful living the rest of the week otherwise He will let your sin consume you. God lets the consequences of our choices, be our reward.

Proverbs 13: 13 Whoever scorns instruction will pay for it, but whoever respects a command is rewarded. 14 The teaching of the wise is a fountain of life, turning a person from the snares of death. 15 Good judgment wins favor, but the way of the unfaithful leads to their destruction.

So don't be a half baked bread. As my father often says - Poop or get off the pot. Crude but he has a point. Pick a team. Don't be wishy washy. You can't have one foot in one world and another foot in the other. Eventually you will be pushed into one or the other and usually it is not the way you want to be pushed.