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alatismeni-theitsa · 3 years ago

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(1/2) I know this is some controversial topic and that you sometimes cover US politics, but what do you think the american left needs to improve to reach to more people and be taken more seriously?; It's unbelievable that in the very 2021, apolitical folk are still fallin into the whole "the leftist are a bunch of crazies" narrative, we may do some pushback the last three years against conservative politics.

(2/2) But it's still not enough; on your personal opinion, what fundamental core value needs to be changed to engage to these apolitical people and that leftist want politics to improve the quality of life of the population without being labeled as a "petulant, whiney children" There's some greek-flavored advice that we can apply to our discourse? Thanks in advance :)

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Ooooo… Great question! And by “great” I mean “Do you want me to go down in flames and get cut a thousand times with pitchforks??” xD But it’s very interesting so I will answer it! And you will be subjected to an essay of 3.200 words 😘💅 (I want to be meticulous, don’t come at me)

Please assume the tone is light and conversational. I am not in a very serious or dramatic mood, and I don’t want to estrange any group by assuming the role of an all knowing tutor or someone who always has the high moral ground. This is just 1am blabbering.

I am not against leftists. On the contrary, I know their side so well that I think I have a solid opinion on its flaws. (I have friends who are left- okay I’ll stop xD) Needless to say, the right side also has flaws and the two sides often share flaws. But right now, we are only talking about the leftists. And of course, #notallleftists xD I recognize that leftists are ordinary and diverse people with empathy and capability of critical thinking and problem-solving (Did I mention I have friends who ar--) Jokes aside, I think my following is quite left leaning and I am not bashing them here. I am criticizing the movement as a whole and trying to see where it can be improved.

***** Anyways, I will generalize the bad traits for the sake of everyone’s time, it’s what I am saying! So, when I say “they” I will probably mean “some” or “the bad apples” etc. *****

To begin, US leftists don’t want to, but they are accidentally imperialist xD Unfortunately, they don't know much about other countries, and they don’t usually have knowledge of countries they are talking about if they don’t have an immediate connection to them. Not knowing things is fine, but when people on this site are like “ugh Americans” this points to an ignorance and a sort of entitlement that doesn’t occur this often in other countries. My internet cycle is overwhelmingly leftist and yet I continue seeing willingness for ignorance all around - and when I check it’s not by conservatives.

Leftists think their (social and not) politics apply to every country and culture, that people in different countries classify themselves as they do in the US. And when people from those countries talk about their problems, there is always an American that wants to give input based on American politics, and without knowing the situation in this other country they want to talk about. Ironically, the last one is a behavior of conservative politicians. Conservative politicians and citizens sometimes think it’s fine to intervene in other countries for “the greater good”. Well, leftists do the same but on the internet. It stalls conversation and makes it messy and force foreigners to apply to American standards.

Because leftists don't understand social differences between countries, they project their own politics, and that can make them seem obsessed with skin color and blind to cultural diversity. They act like only Americans or certain countries have every lived through colonialism and suffered slaughter and slavery. (Because they don’t feel the need to study and learn further.) To an American that might not be the case, but when Americans converse with foreigners about foreign issues, they seem to have a blind spot.

They act as if only white, cis, straight people can be perpetrators of imperialism. Booyyy I have news xD Yes, of course white, cis, straight people can be perpetrators of imperialism, but the attitude that they are the first to blame, always, it’s faulted. I have many experiences, but let’s start with a very simple one, of an Indian American young woman who thought only a lota can clean you with water in the toilet, and that Europeans haven’t heard of bidets or any other means of cleanliness (or that they have the bathtub RIGHT THERE xD) One of the highlights was a Black woman insisting “Medusa was Black because my grandma told me” despite what Greeks were telling her.

Another thing that stuck with me was the case of a Greek who wanted to write about the people who happen to be a minority in the US (you would call them poc I guess). Many people from those countries were enthusiastic about the project and aided the writer as much as they could, sharing culture and realizing how many things in common they had. But it was from same populations in the US that the writer found people who blamed them for daring to write something outside of their culture. (To explain, most US Americans were fine, but only in the US were some who were hostile). Or, I have seen Chinese Americans being offended by a certain thing (I think it was something about fashion) saying “this is an offense to Chinese culture” meanwhile Chinese people from everywhere else in the world (99% of Chinese, I’d say) said “I don’t understand… this is fine!”

Many US American poc categorize all light skinned Caucasians of the world as White Americans and the rest are the “cultured” Black or Brown people. US Americans are now learning that Slavic cultures exist and it’s… something else to watch leftists realizing light skinned people can have great embroidery and they are not actually stealing Mexican traditional clothing xD (reference to an obscure “calling out” comment on tik tok).

I don’t specifically target US poc here, I am just mentioning that everyone conveniently forgets them as if they are untouchable and never said anything ignorant, while they are as active on social media causes as other Americans. In fact, if most poc are aligned to a side, that would be the Left. They are a very big part of the progressive movement – and that’s why I am giving so much space here for them – but then it seems they can’t have a share of the “bad” things of the leftist movement, only the good. Which is humanly impossible, to be always correct.

That’s one of the problems of leftism, that in a way pardons certain minorities and by doing that it not only lets the problematic bubbles grow but also infantilizes those minorities because it passes the message that “they can never do anything wrong”. While background matters when having an opinion, I see that skin-color goes ridiculously above opinion on these matters, which is not very egalitarian. When I argue with a person, the last thing I see is the person’s skin color. When someone says “ancient Greeks were actually a Black nation ad then they became White” I don’t care how this person looks like. No matter your skin color, you must take responsibility for the misinformation you are spreading. I won’t assume that because someone is a poc that they can’t study and learn more about the matter of discussion.

So… the “issue” doesn’t come from being white, cis, straight etc but from being raised as a US American. I don’t imply by any means that being a US American is bad. The last thing I want to do here is enforce guilt. (If you are feeling guilty already I must be mistaken in my wording so I am sorry for that). I am talking about certain beliefs that come with raised as a US American. Similarly, many beliefs a Greek can have are because of their environment. Everyone is affected by their background in one way or another.

American leftists believe that even the piss poor British farmers benefited from colonialism – and still benefit perhaps on a systemic scale. So, with the same logic, even the lowest layers of the US American society benefit from imperialism and war crimes overseas. (Truth is the quality of living in the US is great and extremely progressive compared to most of the world, because of the US’ politics. I had analyzed this in a previous post). But American leftists never mention that when it comes to THEIR case, because it doesn’t give them an advantage.

To tie it up with how American leftists see the world, there is youtuber I like, who is a US American woc and one time she said “My country is bombing Brown people” in an annoyed tone and it just sounded so offensive I closed the video. It’s obvious the youtuber doesn’t support the bombing, but it was just the phrasing which left a bitter taste in my mouth the whole day. It was the fact that 1) she could make a statement in an annoyed/joking tone 2) people in those countries don’t identify as “Brown” outside the US (and you are talking about them now) 3) your country is indeed bombing them so maybe at least categorize them as they wish?? They have a certain ethnicity, so mention that and stop categorizing them like dog breeds! They already have the bombs, do you want them to hear Americans categorize them like that?

Moreover, many US leftists think they care about other countries while, in actuality, they don’t. They just want to make other countries have the exact progressive US politics - because that’s the only “correct” political system they know. That shows even in kind of superficial matters. In a movie about Greek mythology, they will make sure there is an American Arab, an American Black person, an American East Asian person etc (which would be a cast that would reflect American diversity, not Mediterranean) and are hesitant to cast Greeks or ask Greeks how the portrayal of the story and figures could be better and respecting.

Another thing, they take everything too personally. They think success and failure of a movement is highly dependent on them as an individual. It’s difficult for them to approach a harsh past or present situation in a levelheaded manner because they don’t realize this situation has been universal. So, they feel a special kind of guilt and that makes them over apologetic but also overzealous (like a righteous self-flogging zealot) and that is what drives people away. They combine that behavior with ignorance about the rest of the world, and you can see why a non-US American might want to keep their distance.

I had some Americans apologizing to me because their ancestors did something to Greeks and just… don’t. I know you have the best intentions, but it makes everyone – even me – feel bad. There is no need for apologizing because 1) you and your family did nothing wrong 2) it was centuries ago 3) this bad shit happens/happened literally everywhere. You might as well apologize for your people knowing how to cook. It’s FINE, really, it’s FINE. For instance, do you think I have a grudge on YOUR people running a slave trade six centuries ago while there was dozen active slavetrades in the area, and while Greeks of the Byzantine empire probably bought slaves some decades before they were sold to slavery themselves? Do you see what a mess this is? Not only it doesn’t fix anything, but you also put unnecessary weight on yourself, as an individual. It’s fine to be aware and trying to fix past mistakes - if it’s possible - but there is a certain delicate process that must be followed. Not… whatever this is.

To continue on the extreme individualism, leftists think it's the end of the world if they have done or said something controversial (and that's also because they have cultivated a culture where any small transgression is a potential danger to the whole society :p aka "the left eats itself"). Around them people feel they must tread on eggshells just in case they phrase a thing wrong or post something that could be linked to a person the Left doesn't like.

The left is also on the extremes, so I have to put 1000 disclaimers every time I say something. (I guarantee that the example with the Chinese people will be translated by some Americans like “Theitsa promotes Asian hate!!”) Do you know who doesn't annoy me if I don't put 1000 disclaimers? Certainly not Conservatives. I had more harassment from leftists than I had from actual nazis, even though my blog is not conservative or (god forbid!!) supportive of nazism or any type of supremacy. Even nazis completely understand my beliefs before they send hate. (It might be odd but I never had one not understanding my point xD) But the leftists who sent hate misinterpret stuff, or they don’t bother reading actual posts. The funny thing is that I usually agree with these progressives in 99% of issues but they don’t care asking or learning, they just decide our morals are opposite. I mean they don’t have to like me, but many leftists don’t even read the basics.

On top of that, leftists rarely want to have a conversation with a conservative. I don't say go and AGREE with a conservative, I say just talk. (see? I feel the need to clarify here because many leftists might say “Theitsa wants us to go and AGREE with conservatives! Does Theitsa want us to become nazis and homophobes???”) How does one feel they have to be sooo righteous and then cauterize every member of society who disagrees with them? Why do leftists rarely want to have a conversation? Some people were ready to attack me for referencing a meme which referenced Steven Crowder, as if that shows I am his supporter 😩 (Guilty by association is strong on the leftist side and it’s very reminiscent of authoritarian tactics, another thing that needs to be improved, to my opinion.)

I don’t support Crowder (I know Crowder has done awful stuff) but I shouldn’t be scared to admit I like the “change my mind” episodes. (Flash news, leftists, you might like a part from a person’s work and not 100% support that person!) I like the episodes because both sides are heard, the conversation is civil (for the most part xD) and I can see the thought process of the two speakers as they explain their worries and what solutions are out there.

Most of all, in those episodes I see how BOTH sides CARE about the SAME problems, it’s just the perspectives that differ. And those conversations highlight the issues the left hasn’t studied very well, so it helps the leftists understand what they need to learn in order to better society. But where the “immaturity“ of the leftist side can show is in the unwillingness to approach the “opponent“ as a human just like them.

(They might instead prefer to call Mexicans white supremacists and claim that “whiteness” has no color because quite a few poc voted Republican, as some leftist news sources have stated)

What is more, is it just my idea or conservatives understand leftists better than leftists understand conservatives? Of course both sides jokes about the other one but I am talking about the serious talks. Leftists just describe conservatives as horrible people who want all minorities to perish and we must not talk to them while, surprisingly, the conservatives are the ones who stereotype less the opposite side. (I am talking about the normal, moderate people). From what I have seen, most simple people who are conservatives DON’T want the US’ ethnic and sexual minorities to perish. They are worried about problems they don’t have a good understanding about. And the only way to make them understand it’s to… talk to them, show them what good the left to offer.

Some leftists think conversation is “emotional labor” but 1) that applies to actual labor as in… jobs, so stop invalidating doctors, nurses, teachers etc, 2) yeah, sorry, sometimes things get difficult and you have to explain your side. (As non US-Americans endlessly have to do for US-Americans). That was, is and will be life until the sun swallows us all. You can’t be THAT militant on social media with 100 posts per day and remembering 50 different campaigns about social issues but the moment someone genuinely asks you for directions on your side you shut them off with “why do you demand labor from me? Do your own research” (hint: most likely they have done their research, but they are stuck, and you don’t help them like this).

If you are very tired and don’t want to explain (as it is your right) you can be polite about it and not blame the individual about their circumstances when they are trying to learn. If you DO want to explain but you get tired, be more organized. Have posts and F.A.Q.s ready, or send them to someone else (a friend, a blog, a youtube channel, an article, whatever). Instead of leftists arguing their positions, sometimes they are like “Do more research and realize I am right.” Yyyeah the other person is not gonna do that – especially because you haven’t pointed them anywhere or supported your position with arguments. Moreover, leftists can have the attitude of “I stand for PROGRESS, how can I ever be wrong??” Weeell things are not black and white and me, you, everyone has the potential to not have a not that beneficial to society position at some issues no matter where we stand on the political compass.

For the “petty whiny children” thing, I believe a lot of people might think that because the youth is usually making noise about progressive issues on social media. It’s true that oftentimes in social media discussions their emotions get the best of them (it’s happened to everyone) but combined with the lack of life experience they may have about the world, the argument sounds silly. (I heard one leftist university student say that the US shouldn’t have borders because borders are bad but then they realized they don’t want people to come and go as they please in the US, so she said there should be SNIPERS in the borders to shot everyone who tries to get in…….)

And, as I mentioned, the leftists are very quick to cancel and attack for the slightest transgression so people prefer to deal with the conservatives who can, at least, take a slight misstep, than meddling with people who are going to cancel them for doing or not doing a small, insignificant, but not ‘woke enough’ thing. Leftists are constantly checking each other to see if they are doing better and better (even in silly issues) and that can be intimidating to someone who is new to politics.

Some leftists get REALLY turned on by righteousness (Frollo villain style) and instead of trying to unite the society, they aim to divide it further. They don’t want to create bridges but burn them and find themselves on the “right side“ of morals.

And, last but not least, they don’t realize leftist propaganda is a thing. Malicious people are EVERYWHERE and they don’t just magically avoid the left. Leftists are not automatically super virtuous people. There are some manipulators and bullies around, so one has to be cautious even with leftist sources. (Cross-examine stuff, always. You might have the best intentions but accidentally share something nonfactual because you trusted a source).

Ok that was all, I think. To anyone who comments, PLEASE keep the tones down, have a conversation, take it slow, remember it doesn’t help us being hateful towards each other. (And causing serious friction wasn’t the purpose of this post). Oh, and if you need a clarification on something I said, before gossiping with your friends about how awful I am, do me the courtesy of first asking me what I meant xD

#answered #leftism #leftist #us politics #progressivism #progressive #long post

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kvtyes · 4 years ago

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↪ brief introduction to katye jakobson.

BASICS

full name: katye terhi jakobson. nickname(s): kat, kit-kat ( used largely by her brother to irritate her ). age: thirty-three. date of birth: 19 february 1988. zodiac sign: pisces. place of birth: tallinn, estonia. ethnicity: white. nationality: estonian. gender: cis female. sexual orientation: pansexual. romantic orientation: panromantic. religion: she was raised orthodox catholic— she had a confirmation and all but in her adulthood she’s never practiced all that much; the most she does is go to confession on occasion but even then her brother more or less has to put her in a choke hold to get her to do it. occupation: when she’s not being bogged down by royal duties she’s an architect -- her usual projects tend to be renovations to the palace in talinn or their country homes outside of the city. language(s) spoken: estonian, finnish, english; greek & turkish ( both of which she’s started learning on her own now that she’s been told she’ll be marrying selene if all goes to plan -- she’s not fluent by any means but she learns things quickly ). accent: she has a fairly thick estonian accent that can and has been mistaken as german or other slavic & finnic based accents which kat tends to roll her eyes at. she tries to enunciate fairly carefully when she’s speaking but when she’s excited or rambling about something in particular her accent can make it a bit difficult to understand her.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

face claim: evan rachel wood. hair color: blonde ( naturally ); she’s dyed it several colors over the years and at the moment it’s more red than anything. eye color: blue. height: 5′7″ ; 173 cm. weight: 120 lbs. build: slim. tattoos: kat’s debated getting tattoos several times over the years but has yet to follow through with anything -- her main consideration at the moment is a tattoo of a grey wolf, the national animal of estonia. piercings: she has traditional piercings in her lobes, an industrial piercing in her left ear and a helix piercing in her right ear. distinguishing characteristics: her accent, the way she carries herself, the fact that she’s almost always got a cigarette tucked behind her ear.

PERSONALITY

label: the black sheep. positive traits: capable, clever, compassionate, considerate, creative, curious, daring, dedicated, earnest, empathetic, generous, independent, loyal, observant, passionate, protective, reliable, selfless, warm. negative traits: competitive, irreverent, sarcastic, self-conscious. aloof, anxious, crude, haughty, hedonistic, impulsive, timid. goals/desires: to find a way to be happy, to carve out some freedom for herself even within the confines of royal life, to be the sort of person her fiancée can be proud of. fears: autophobia ( fear of being alone ), losing her brother. hobbies: teasing her brother, sketching new designs for buildings she’d like to work on, studying architecture, traveling, drinking, going out when she’s in the mood for it, spending time with people she enjoys, flirting with cute people, making a mess of most political situations she’s in, annoying her parents, learning new things, playing chess, reading, building her collection of obscure mythology books. quirks: she remembers people’s names and faces after meeting them even if she only interacted with them for a few seconds, she gives the contacts in her phone their names in estonian, she’s constantly doodling thoughts on new designs she’d like to bring to life in a small notebook that’s always with her, she tends to talk shit about people in any language other than english -- usually estonian because that comes the easiest but she’ll happily switch between any language she knows if she knows the other person won’t understand. likes: whiskey, cute girls, cute boys, sci-fi films, historical dramas, most foreign films, trivia shows, horror movies, compliments from cute people, her brother, the anonymity of living in big cities, jazz, classical piano pieces, being recognized for her talent rather than her title, sex, good booze, good food, spending time with people who appreciate her as a person, . dislikes: being taken seriously only because of her title rather than how hard she’s worked to earn respect in certain areas, dealing with most public relations things, long winded speeches, having to attend political functions in general, being talked down to, arguing with her brother.

FAMILY

father: artur kalev jakobson ; king artur II, colloquially known as the ‘bear of estonia’. mother: sofia agnesia jakobson née kask. sibling(s): kalev taevas jakobson ( fraternal twin ). pet(s): she has a european burmese cat named antoni after antoni gaudi, the architect. financial status: too rich for her own good.

HEADCANONS

katye is thirty-three & the older twin between herself and her fraternal twin brother kalev — who has, as far as she’s concerned, always been the more palatable person between the two of them. in comparison to her brother katye is, to put it lightly, something of a disaster -- she has an endlessly short temper and none of the grace her brother possesses when it comes to political engagements and discussions and has absolutely no problem expressing her general annoyance with all of the politicking that comes along with being royalty. she’s aware that she needs to “grow up” -- so to speak -- and a part of her has continued to wonder whether her marriage arrangement is her parents’ way of forcing her to settle down into a version of herself that might be slightly less ornery and difficult for the general public in estonia to grasp and perhaps, though she finds this more difficult to believe, allow her to realize that in spite of her future as queen -- she can still carve out some form of freedom and individuality within her position.

it’s always suited her to be the more negatively perceived of the two of them between herself and her brother and a part of her -- though katye’s reluctant to admit it -- is relieved that earning as much attention as she does allows her brother -- who is far more gentle and far more shy than she is, to stay out of the spotlight as he chooses. away from cameras and the press in general katye’s not spectacularly difficult to get along with -- she’s witty and charismatic and is likely the first person to toss out a self-deprecating joke or quip to relieve any tension in her day-to-day interactions. the generally surly and cantankerous impression she gives the media as a whole is more of an act than anything else and with a bit of patience and occasional, careful prodding -- it isn’t difficult to see that katye is more or less a deeply flawed but deeply loving and ultimately well-meaning woman.

she has a genius level IQ. It’s not something she discusses often ( for the most part only her family knows, because she’s already treated a certain way due to her status as a princess and honestly abhors the thought of being treated even more differently due to that ). she studied to become an architect when she was in school and was quietly on her way to working with a firm properly by the time she was being relocated. she tends to use her fairly active mind to manipulate her way in and out of situations ( she’s very, very good at talking herself out of trouble and takes full advantage of it when she can ).

she’s a fairly outgoing person underneath the sheen of frustration and general surliness she’s working with right now; she’s an incredibly loyal and kind person at her core, and though it can be difficult for people to stick around long enough to sort out those parts of her she does have a few very close friends who seem to have had no trouble digging down to the heart of her.

she has absolutely no qualms about sleeping with anyone she finds even remotely attractive. she doesn’t quite know how to have a relationship with anyone ( as she’s not sure how to broach the subject of someone actually having to deal with what a train-wreck she is for an extended period of time ) but she craves attention and affection and sex is a decent enough way for her to get that. it’s something she’s trying to avoid entirely now that she’s in the same place as her future wife and as nervous as she is about being found lacking in her fiancée’s eyes she does want to make a positive impression and build a positive, meaningful relationship.

#( intro )#hshqintro

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jasonspetertodds · 4 years ago

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the skeleton with a scythe

warnings: swearing, mentions of character death

Jason glanced around the basement that they were in, trying not to suffocate at the sheer amount of velvet that was covering the walls. There were fuchsia colored scones on the walls that illuminated the large neon purple light on the back wall. He squinted, not being able to make out the name, but he didn't supposed that mattered. He rolled his eyes at Steph who was merely grinning up at him, her hair had been pulled back into two small ponytails at the crown of her head with the rest being down. It gave her the illusion of having even more volume then she normally did with her curly blonde hair.

She was dressed in her trademark color, but this time it was a soft lavender instead of the royal purple of her uniform. She had talked to him endlessly on the way there about how she had found her shoes, which were vintage white leather platforms, at the thrift store Jason had recommended. Trying to distract him from the fact that she was leading him to seedy basement in the heart of the Alley. A basement that housed a self proclaimed 'psychic'. Jason knew realistically that soothsayers, at least in some part, existed. He did exist in a world full of aliens and magic.

But Jason knew this was a scam and so did Steph. He hadn't been able to taste the tell tale nectar sweetness of magic when he stepped foot into the parlor. She had sourced the fact that it was just a fun thing to do at least once in his life and Jason had begrudgingly found himself staring into the depths of the weird vintage poster on the back wall. The pink neon light flickered in the corner behind him. He was, for the most part, down to try something at least once. And he didn't really see the harm in indulging Steph, especially when she was trying so hard to make him feel comfortable.

And Jason was only going to admit this in the privacy of his own mind, but it was actually kind of sweet.

And Jason wanted to maintain the best relationship he had in the family to the best of his ability, especially because it offered the unlimited possibility of tag teaming his siblings but also Bruce.

"So?" Steph asked, gently prodding his side with her elbow, pulling him away from being entranced by what looked to be a rat skull with a peacock feather coming out from the eye socket. It also had a top hat on and a little bow tie. Jason looked at her flatly and then shrugged. He was interested to see where the night went, with what story this psychic was going to spit back out to him. It was at the very least going to be entertaining.

"I don't know," He finally, eyes shifting around the room, "It should be fun, I guess."

He saw her roll her eyes and cross her arms over her chest. He shrugged again, unbothered. His eyes settled on a stack of crystals sitting on a bookshelf next to a book. Jason squinted, not wanting to step any closer to the center table with a deck of cards spread out over it, trying to read it. It looked like a copy of Daemonologie by King James of all fucking people. Jason almost huffed out a laugh. Almost.

"Can you at least pretend to be excited about the prospect of spending time with your favorite honorary sibling?" She grumbled, exasperated. Jason gave her an amused smile, but before he could respond he heard footsteps outside of the parlor.

There was the small ringing of the bell behind him and Jason immediately regretted his former words. He could taste the stinging sweetness in the lower part of his jaw, pooling just under his molars as he heard the soft approach of footsteps. Steph must've seen him stiffen, but he was so thankful that she didn't say anything about it, just threw him a questioning look.

Why was it that he always attracted magic users?

He sighed internally, steeling himself before he turned and saw a rather young looking witch smiling back at his companion. Steph had mentioned offhandedly that she had also dragged Cass and Tim to the same psychic a while ago with interesting results. She had bright lavender dyed hair that was piled up into two buns just behind the crown of her head and a blinding smile. She was also wearing a full length velvet dress, which seemed like an oddly formal attire choice, but maybe Jason was just being judgemental.

She gave Jason a strange look when she slide past him, heeled boots muffled on the strange astral Persian rugs beneath their feet and the skirt of her dress swishing gently as she wandered back behind her table. Had Jason forgotten to greet her?

"Hi," He said, hesitantly, trying to keep the uncertainty out of his voice as he watched her. He didn't know why he was on edge. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up and like he wanted to claw his skin off. Maybe he should talk to Zantana or Constantine about how magic was affecting him in his second life, because the woman sitting in front of him didn't seem like a threat. If she was, Jason already would've taken her down. Besides, maybe she wasn't a psychic in the way that she was able to tell that he was a dangerous, murderous vigilante. Maybe she was just a witch who misread his discomfort for skepticism. Was that too much to hope for? For Jason, it probably was.

He was wary, to say the least when he finally followed suit and sat down at the table to the right of Steph. She still was looking at him weird, but he figured he could explain himself later. He forced himself to relax, trying not to flex his jaw as it tingled like it did when he ate sour candies, covered with acetic acid. Piercing through the muscle and down to the bone. At least he didn't feel like throwing up... yet. He straightened his posture, trying to keep as close to a neutral expression on his face as he possibly good, trying to ignore the way his eyes glowed in the mirror of to the side of him.

Steph tapped him gently on the forearm, feather light, a question. Jason's face softened and he nodded, trying his best to convey that he was alright. He was fine. This was okay. He could deal with the unease worming around in his soul for the forty five minutes it took for this to happen. He watched out of the corner of his eyes as the blond relaxed, nodding once and offering a slight smile to the woman with the cards.

The woman before him offered him an unsure smile, before motioning to the deck in front of her before she began cheerily, "Welcome!"

Jason offed a nod of acknowledgement and Steph's smile morphed into a brilliant one, mischief alight in her eyes at the night's events. He was focused more on keeping his face as politely blank as he possibly could without it being mistaken for rudeness. He watched as she reached forward, ring clad fingers curling around the majority of the deck of tarot cards. At first he thought she was going to start shuffling them, but instead she knocked three times on the top of the stack. Maybe to cleanse it? Jason glanced back up at her face, uncertainty writhing around in the pit of his stomach.

"My name is Iris and I'm hoping to do a reading for you tonight...?" She trailed off, waiting for Jason to answer. Her voice was cheery but Jason was still hung up on the name. Iris... like the Greek goddess of rainbows and a messenger of the Gods? Because something was tugging at the back of his mind, like the Pit often did and Jason didn't believe in coincidences.

"Jason." He responded, watching as Steph relaxed further into her chair, shoulders slumping as she leaned further back, completely at ease. The witch nodded, handing the cards over to Jason. He looked at her confused for a second before he started to shuffle. Iris smiled, "It's better for you to shuffle, so the cards can have a better sense of your character."

Jason raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything. She continued, "I'm going to have you pull three cards first, since this is a general reading and then we can go from there, okay?"

He nodded, feeling how worn the corners of the cards were in his hands and how soft the glossy backing was, almost like the backing of a well loved paperback. He furrowed his brow, methodically sliding them around in his hands, trying to keep them from getting caught on each other before he finally decided that was enough. Three cards. He placed the deck on the edge of the table with great care and with a splayed palm he spread them out to the best of his ability. He sat back, suddenly noticing how sweaty his palms were before he took a deep breath, readying himself. The fact that a stupid throw away magic trick was having this much of an effect on him was ridiculous.

He eyeballed it, before tugging free a card in what he thought was the middle of the pile. He pulled it in front of Iris before he took two from each of the ends of the pile. He waited, licking his lips in anticipation when his mouth was suddenly dry, watching as she turned over his cards.

She painstakingly overturned the first card that he had pulled and he nearly choked back a laugh which turned into a choke when Steph elbowed him harshly in the ribs, glaring. There, looking tauntingly back up at him, was a skeleton draped in a black cloak upon a horse, holding a scythe with the neat little letters spelling out Death underneath the scene.

And oh god, was that fucking funny.

Iris seemed a little confused, as she tapped one purple talon against the card, before speaking, "Don't freak out about that card. Everyone always freaks out over him."

She flipped over the next two cards; One of a man looking over a cliff, a stick in hand with two others driven in the ground next to him. It read Three of Wands and one showing three swords piercing a bleeding heart. From Jason’s position the last one was upside down. Three seemed to be a big number for him tonight.

Jason remembered very suddenly three motifs in literature, when he was in high school slaving endlessly over research papers and book analyses, more often then not it was a Holy number. But it is the repetition of the cycle: birth, life, death. Of the passage of time, past; present; future. Jason again had to keep himself from snorting.

Omne trium perfectum.

Iris leaned over the cards, humming to herself as she flattened them, eyes glowing faintly under the scrutiny of the lights around her parlor. Steph looked curiously at her, “So? What does it mean?”

“Well,” She started, talon back to rapping gently against the glossy front of Death, drawing Jason’s attention, “Death is the first card you pulled. It means that you’re going to undergo change— growth if you will, but it’s specifically change followed by a period of renewal to yourself and your strength. That change leads to closure, an end to a chapter of your life.”

Jason was smirking now and he could see some of the humor return to Steph’s face at the acknowledgement. It was more than a little on the nose. He watched as Iris moved to the next two cards, flipping the wand cards around in her hand as she was thinking, "Three of wands points to foresight and a journey..." She trailed off, glancing at his other two cards, biting her lip in concentration and Jason felt his eyebrows raise further up to his hairline, "But in the context of your other two cards I think it's going to be more of a spiritual journey instead of a physical one. It also is going to lead to monumental growth. Whatever you decide, you'll have an immense amount of confidence in your plan."

"And the three of swords reversed also points to growth and recovery. You recently went through a rough time? Maybe some animosity between those in your family?"

Jason nodded. He wasn't going to offer up any more information that absolutely vital and he may have had one particularly bad fight with Dick in his little kitchenette the week before. It was interesting that the cards did seem to represent past, present, and future as he had originally suspected. He frowned, though. Death wasn't in his past. Based on the way the cards were set up, Death was his future. It was the first card he had pulled, with the three of wands being in the middle, as his present, while the three of swords being his past.

"It points to reconciliation, even though it was on the past, I think you're journey currently is learning to forgive your family--" God, Jason was trying so hard not to laugh. He heard Steph snicker beside him. "All signs point to reconciliation on both sides. Once that happens you can finally put to rest this chapter in your life and start your renewal as Death wants."

She tapped the three of wands again, "And you're on that journey, though I can't say when you'll achieve the final outcome."

Jason nodded, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he absolutely was not going to process his feelings about this reading until he was home, safe and sound, alone in his apartment. His head was already swimming. Sure, he had reconciled with Steph, but he hadn't really done anything to wrong her in the first place. He had tried to kill her ex a couple of times while they were together, but she seemed to have forgiven him. And they just clicked. Shared background and feelings of being the failed Robins. And Alfred. Alfred hadn't been the one to excommunicate him. He knew the butler could never do that. He saw Jason as a man who had simply lost his way in the whirlwind of his life, but he had never once doubted Jason's character...

And nope, Jason was going to back out of that emotionally charged alleyway before it overtook him in public.

"It's interesting," Iris said, breaking him out of his thoughts as she started collecting the cards and shuffling them back into the deck, "You also seem to have a very strong connection with the color green. You have a lot of rebirth symbols surrounding yourself, Jason."

"His birth cards are the chariot and the tower." Steph admitted, a cheeky grin on her face. Birth cards? Jason shot her a bewildered look before she rolled her eyes, "You add up the date of your birthday and you get pair of twelve sets of tarot cards. I did it before we came."

"Why?"

She shrugged, unbothered by his harsh tone, "I was curious."

"The chariot and the tower are a powerful combination. You'll be able to overcome anything thrown at you in your life. Though, you'll be in a constant state of change because of the Tower. Ripping yourself down to the foundation again and again to rebuild a stronger and better foundation for you to stand on while the Chariot brings stabilizing energy and the will for you to be able to complete your tasks, overcoming every obstacle every inconvenience on its way to deliver you to fate. It's often the card of warriors. They're painful cards, but eventually pain will stop being the driving force behind your transformation. You'll be the driving force behind the change you inflict both on yourself and the world."

Jason titled his head with a look of disbelief painted on his features, a small uncertain frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. Even if he did believe in this particular brand of magic, which he hadn't fully decided on at that exact moment, this wasn't exactly a positive reading. It wasn't like he was a stranger to any pain, his entire life had been seeped in the worst kinds of emotional and physical trauma most people could conjure up themselves. But what she had just said rang very similarly to what Ducra had said to him. Something about how glorious it will be when his heart shined brighter than his fury.*

And, something something, he needed to recover. Which he did it's just kind of hard working through his complex emotions featuring his adoptive father, all of his siblings, the clown that killed him, his own self worth and his ethics when there was an almost world ending event biweekly. And he did think he was being significantly more successful in terms of his recovery. He had at least started paying attention to shit that triggered him and was trying to take care of himself more than he ever had in his entire life. And that was something, right?

He still had a shattered mirror in his bathroom that held all the memories of him hunched over his basin, blood sometimes dried but always sticky on his hands as he tried to make sense of who he was. He was a mosaic of every person he had ever come in contact with, of a dead kid, a murdered robin, a current outlaw, of his father, all of his mentors and all of his siblings. He was full of jagged edges and unholy rage, but it was hard not to get lost in all the different patterns and colors he possessed. His breathing would be ragged and his eyes unfocused, he was the combination sum of everything that happened to him. Both good and bad and sometimes the bad one out the night, but more frequently it was the good. He was Jason. In ever manner that he acted. He was a vigilante. A fighter. A protector. He protected the people of Crime Alley to the best of his ability, he was a protector of children, of sex workers, of anyone who needed it. And he was trying to be better. For himself and the people he was so admit on protecting.

"Jay?"

He hummed a response, pulled from his thoughts at Steph's voice. She gave him a questioning look and he was very suddenly hit with the crisp cool air of the night. They were outside, walking through the Alley in the direction of her apartment. His hands were jammed in his pockets, feeling the sharp edge of something as he rubbed his thumb along the edge. He furrowed his eyebrows, "You good? You seem pretty spaced out."

"Yeah, sorry. I didn't really expect for that to go the way it did," He offered, still tracing the thing in his pocket, "I don't really know why it effected me this much."

She tugged her jacket closer around herself, nodding, "Yeah. The first time I went all of my cards seemed to be linked back to my, uh, death. Do you want to talk about it? I know I didn't actually die, but it might help?"

Jason flinched at her mention of her death and the casual admission that she didn't actually die. As if that made it any less traumatic. Immediately he shook head, "No. No, I'll be okay I think. It was largely positive. It's just..."

He felt his entire face screw up as he tried to think of what he was trying to express, he finally settled on, "Weird."

Steph nodded, both falling into a comfortable silence. He palmed the card, slipping it out of his pocket to look at it and was torn between an exasperated sigh and a smirk of amusement. Death seemed to be rather attached to him.

#this has nothing to do with anything #i just wanted to have some practice writing steph #did my wattpad writer come out when describing steph's outfit? maybe #jason todd #red hood #jason todd fanfic #red hood fanfic #my writing #stephanie brown #spoiler #*jason absolutely remembers the exact quote that Ducra said to him he's just in a weird place with his emotions #i'm not super happy with this one :/#just because i don't think i have enough developed dialogue between steph and jay #ill take a crack at steph again soon #becuase i love her as a character i just have to flesh her out a bit more #i'm sorry! i'm trying

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anothermcytblog · 4 years ago

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Of Hades, Of Achilles (Of Apollo)

Style: One Shot Word Count: 1202 CW: Ranboo hallucinates Dream again!

Summary: You look at the door you watched Techno walk out of and you wonder how many of the stories are true, and how many are made up from fear. // ... Picturing Dream in his armor and shield, the river Styx flowing behind him. // Apollo, who walks next to you in a green hoodie and white mask, humming the anthem of a home he destroyed.

The snow stung as you work on building your little shack. Dream (No, no not Dream. Just your imagination again, you’re safe you’re safe youresafeyou resafeyoursafe) sits on one of the ledges, feet dangling off the edge. In the back of your mind, you wonder when you started seeing him with a halo made of sunlight with a crown made of black and white feathers on his head. You place another spruce plank on the roof, careful to make it secure but easily removable just in case. (“Just in case of what? You get kicked out?” Dream asks you, resting his chin on the palm of his hand as he leans down to watch you work, “Betray them like you betrayed Theseus and Echo, like you betrayed-” You tune him out quickly, hands tightening around the pieces of the wood as you try and remember how to breathe.)

The army of dogs bark in the background as you tie the planks down with some rope, “Cerberus…es,” You mutter to yourself, making a tight knot as you think of flames amidst the snow.

“For me?” You quietly ask, gently taking the old book Techno holds out to you. He doesn’t verbally respond- looking a bit bashful- rather he just nods and once you have the book, he heads out on one of his journeys. Looking at the book, you run your fingers over the cover. ‘Myths of Old for beginners’ is written in golden cursive against a darker red. Quietly, you sit next to Edward with your back against the chests, giving a small chitter as a greeting to him before you open the book up to read what you land on- Hades.

“Being given the Underworld after his father, Cronus was defeated, Hades is the God of the dead. While he does supervise the trial and punishment of the dead, he normally isn’t one of the judges nor did he personally torture the guilty. More often than not, his personality is stern and aloof, unmoved by prayer or sacrifice.

Spotting Persephone in a garden, Hades had fallen in love. In some stories, Zeus gave consent to Hades abducting Persephone- even lying as to where Hades had taken Persephone, saying it was either Sicily or Asia. More commonly, however, is Hades just kidnapping and bringing Persephone down to the Underworld.

Demeter, Persephones mother, and goddess of the harvest, began to search the Overworld for her. Eventually, Demeter arrived in Eleusis and disguised herself as an old woman, and began taking care of Demophon, the prince of Eleusis. In exchange for the kindness the family had given her, she began making Demophon immortal by placing him in fire each night. When Metaneira, his mother, saw this, she raised alarm. This is when Demeter revealed her true identity and demanded the kingdom make a temple be built in her honor. When it was completed, Demeter left the Overworld to live in the temple, bringing a great drought to the land to force the other gods to make Hades release Persephone.

As the drought claimed more victims, Zeus had no choice but to send Hermes to try and persuade Hades to release Persephone. It gets murky here, however, regardless of how it happened, Persephone had eaten at least a single pomegranate seed which trapped her in the underworld. A compromise was made, however, that for half a year Persephone would spend in the overworld- the other half in the underworld.

In some myths, Persephone and Hades genuinely loved one another, in others, it was one sided. Myths and stories get muddled when people speak them.”

You blink, fingers tracing over the letters of the page. Hm… You look at the image of Hades on the last page, Cerberus behind him. Tall, dark, brooding- terrifying with a crown on his head- but you look at his myth and you wonder what part you’re supposed to be scared of. Hades is the god of the dead, he isn’t the god of death. You wonder if there is more to his story you’ll never learn, his title and appearance leading people to presume things that are untrue.

You look at the door you watched Techno walk out of and you wonder how many of the stories are true, and how many are made up from fear.

“I’m surprised you chose Hades,” Apollo- No, Dream - tells you, floating next to you as you finish up the shack, “People tend to point out that Hades is the God of The Dead, not The God of death .”

“Shut up,” You mumble, shaking your head to try and get him to leave (He’s not real, but… it’s less lonely with him here at least) “Hades is often mistaken as the god of death and people tend to assume things about him and- You’re not even real! Why am I arguing this?!”

He laughs for a moment, it sounds more human than anyone you heard in L’manberg, but then he’s suddenly next to you and you are vividly aware of how fake he is, “So, Hades Techno. What about me, hm?”

You hesitate, “Dream is Achilles,” You tell him, trying to make that separation more visible in your brain, “Appearing invincible, though very mortal- unless you believe the myths were he is immortal everywhere except his heel- with very powerful armor and a powerful shield, Achilles is a powerhouse in the Greek army. Achilles is petty, believing in taking two eyes for every one eye you take. Of course, he has his reasons for it but he didn’t need to humiliate Hector even in death. He does relent, however it takes a while. The original Iliad ends there, however, in later stories Paris, Hectors' brother, kills Achilles with an arrow guided by Apollo right to his heel- his one weakness.”

You pause for a moment, trying to collect your thoughts as you jump off the roof of the shack, wincing a little when you land, “Dream is powerful, appearing invincible but… but I want to believe he has a weakness. Sisyphus reminds us that no one can escape death.”

You walk in the snow quietly on your way back to Techno and Phils cottage to get the rest of your things, picturing Dream in his armor and shield, the river Styx flowing behind him.

You walk quietly in the snow next to Halo Dream, thinking of Apollo. Apollo isn’t a perfect fit for Dream, not like Achilles, but you can’t help but think of Apollo interfering with mortals in so many myths. Apollo, being the one to guide the arrow that kills Achilles. Apollo, who speaks of prophecies that lead to people's end (Is Apollo any better than you? Who are you trying to prove yourself to?). Apollo, who can’t let people have happy endings. Apollo, blessing Cassandra at first but cursing her as soon as he couldn't get what he wanted from her.

Apollo, who walks next to you in a green hoodie and white mask, humming the anthem of a home he destroyed.

#Ranboo #Dream #Dream SMP #oneshot #Cassandraboo #(Just for tagging- though ive decided that is offically what this is called)

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morganaseren · 4 years ago

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Human/Goddess AU

I swear, I’ll think of a better title later, but guess who thought of a new AU about Leliana and her female Cousland?! I ended up writing like 24 pages this time around because I have absolutely no self-control over my creativity anymore. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Things to know:

The premise was originally based off this short comic.

No Darkspawn or Blight threat.

Maker and Chantry don’t exist due to polytheistic God/Goddess system (with some inspiration taken from both Greek and Irish mythology). It’s broken down further into a multi-tiered structure of major and minor deities—a ranking determined by power essentially—but all the human and elf deities tend to get along fairly well with one another. Dwarves don’t have deities as they still worship The Stone, which they don’t consider a god, and Qunari don’t have them either since the Qun is more of a philosophy than a religion that follows any god.

The Evanuris don’t exist as we know of them canonically in-game, so Egghead never tore the Veil apart, and none of the Exalted Marches ever happened. Elves are still long-lived and have complete access to the Dales, which is essentially their kingdom of sorts.

No huge racial divides exist, but the dwarves (outside of surface dwarves) and qunari (outside of Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth) still tend to be rather reclusive.

Class stratification, however, still exists between the rich and the poor of Thedas.

Gods play a fairly active role on Thedas for those pious enough to worship them, but their work—stemming anywhere from simply helping crops to grow or even helping to turn the tides of a war—is often unseen. Very few among the faithful rarely ever get to see a deity in person.

Relationships with mortals and gods do occur—and children are born through such unions—but it isn’t considered official unless a courtship ritual is completed, where the mortal partner would be granted the same divine protection of the god and allowed access into the immortal world. That becomes relevant much later in the story.

In this AU, Leliana’s human (she’s 15 when she first meets Niamh, but nothing intimate between them happens until she’s well above age) while Niamh’s a goddess.

Like all my other AUs, this isn’t finished yet. There is a small intimate scene way down beneath the cut, but it’s nothing explicit. Still, if you’re interested so far, check out the additional content below!

Leliana had always been blessed, others had said, but it was not by simple chance.

She was born to a widowed mother—Oisine—who worked to provide for her child’s happiness so that she might one day have a better life than her. For such love and care, however, Leliana wanted to be able to return it one day. Perhaps beyond their quaint cottage by the sea, she could someday buy her mother the riches and luxury she so clearly deserved.

It was also—were she to admit it to herself—a wish of her own desires, for she had always yearned for more than just a simple life.

One day, Leliana wandered into the nearby forest out of simple boredom. She had played amongst its trees for as long as she could remember, and she knew the winding paths of it like the back of her hand. By chance, however, she came across a pair of black-furred wolves who stood upon a trail she had never seen before. The animals didn’t seem at all skittish, and as they turned to travel further into the woods, they looked over as if to beckon her into following. Leliana did, and she eventually found herself before an old, cliffside altar overlooking the sea.

It was remarkably humble in its appearance, Leliana admitted. Strangely enough, she felt more of a… presence to it than any of the ostentatious buildings of worship she had seen in the nearby city. The altar before her barely stood at chest-level, and beneath the light of the full moon, she realized the stone of its structure had been worn smooth by time and the elements.

She frowned when she saw the multitude of dead leaves and dirt gathered around the altar, however, and she wondered when the caretaker of such a monument had last seen to it. Leliana looked over at her two wayward companions, but one was already lazing about on its back in a nap while the other simply sat on its rump, revealing a maw full of pearl-white fangs as it yawned at her in boredom.

“Well, you two will clearly be of no help,” she murmured to herself before proceeding to clean up the various bits of debris around the altar. She began scrubbing at the top slab with a cloth to clean the dirt stain upon it, but she heard something akin to the sound of wind shifting followed by a person’s shadow falling across the stone surface.

Leliana looked up abruptly to see a dark-haired woman standing opposite of her and stumbled back in shock, especially given the path beyond the altar led to nothing but a sheer drop into the sea. There was no possible way someone else could have walked past her without her notice, so how had she gotten there?

Nothing in the woman’s posture indicated she meant her any harm. If anything, she seemed largely curious as she gazed upon the now clean altar while slowly walking around it to meet her.

Leliana saw that she wore an impressive silvery-white pelt over the shoulders of her cloak—a shade so dark that she couldn’t see any of the individual folds in the fabric. It seemed to simply absorb any light that dared shed itself upon it. To her continued amazement, the woman’s eyes were also gently aglow, and for a moment, she wondered if she had trespassed upon a ghostly specter with that pale grey gaze quietly regarding her.

For even with all the tales she’s heard and even told herself, the utter truth of the matter seemed far too outlandish even to her.

“It’s been quite some time since someone last visited my altar.”

The accent was one that Leliana couldn’t readily place. It certainly wasn’t Orlesian, Neverran, or Antivan. The woman’s tongue didn’t linger on the vowels and consonants in quite the same way, but the intonation wasn’t quite Free Marcher in origin either. Still, there was a calm, soft-spoken nature to it—calling forth the mental image of a downy feather drifting along the sea breeze—that she found soothing.

“This altar…” Leliana swallowed hard to gather the courage to speak her thoughts. “It is yours then? I-I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude—”

But the woman gently waved off her apology.

“Had my familiars found you unworthy, you would not have been able to find the path here at all.”

At the title, both wolves behind Leliana immediately jumped up at the woman—no, the goddess—and proceeded to nuzzle at her face. They whined insistently for her attention, which only caused her to laugh. On their hind legs, the beasts simply towered over her apparently immortal guest, but she held their combined weight easily against her as she ran her hands through thick fur.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you. I didn’t see a name upon the altar when I was cleaning it,” Leliana admitted.

“Hm?” Luminous silver eyes returned to her before glancing briefly at the stone monument. “Ah. Time tends to pass rather differently in your world. As such, I shouldn’t be surprised to see the text long eroded. If it pleases you to call me something, however, then you may call me Niamh.”

Leliana’s brows furrowed as she tried to place the name from the multitude of deities she had learned about over the years. “You’re the goddess of storms and the night sky, yes?”

Niamh seemed pleased at her knowledge, emphasized by the smile she gifted her. “Indeed I am. In any case, as you were kind enough to clean my altar, you are welcome to ask a favor of me.”

“Can it be anything?”

The goddess’ smile turned a tad more enigmatic then. “So long as the request is of equal value, then yes.”

‘Equal value?’ Ah.

Her mother had once told her to be wary of asking gods for favors, as they would always ask for something in return. It was their Law of Equivalent Exchange. If one didn’t word their wish carefully, a person could end up losing more than they gained, especially if the deity in question felt a mortal’s request wasn’t worth what was offered.

Leliana bit her lip. It would have been far too easy to ask for the riches to bestow upon her mother, but she couldn’t deny that she was curious about the woman before her. She’d likely never get a chance like this again, so she asked for something more manageable. Something that wouldn’t leave her with regret.

“Then, can I ask about you? About where you come from, and what all your powers are?” she asked, excitement soon superseding any apprehension she might have felt. “Are you the only goddess in the area right now, o-or are there more like you?” When those glowing, wintry-grey eyes simply blinked at her, she couldn’t help but blush, wondering if perhaps her usual curiosity and enthusiasm was too much for such an ageless being.

A dark head canted itself. “Just so I’m not mistaken, you desire nothing material for the task of cleaning my altar? You merely wish for my company so that you might ask your questions?” When Leliana nodded earnestly in response, Niamh released a small huff of laughter. “Well, this is certainly a first for me. As you wish then.” She briefly looked over her own shoulder, focusing on a point beyond the horizon, where it seemed impossible to determine where the night sky ended and the starlit sea began. “You have until the sun rises to sate your curiosity. Mind you, I might not be able to answer every question you have.”

Leliana nodded, understanding there might be secrets that needed to be kept.

Niamh then gently pushed one of her familiars away from her. The wolf—a male from what she could readily determine—had been resting his front paws on her shoulder to better lave his tongue over the woman’s cheek in continual affection. At being deterred, however, he uttered a low huff of disapproval before grumpily brushing his side against Niamh’s leg. He circled once around her form after she gave him a few solid pats before he slowly trotted back to Leliana’s side.

At such a close distance, she was better able to tell the difference between him and his female counterpart. While they both predominantly had black fur all over their bodies, the underside of his chin held silver coloring that trailed down to his chest whereas the other wolf’s grey patterning extended from chest to belly. Both seemed remarkably intelligent as they regarded her with aurulent eyes.

Niamh motioned for her to sit, and she did so without question. Leliana gasped softly when the wolf near her immediately laid himself down so that he could curl himself around her body, likely as a way to keep her warm from the cold sea breeze. His counterpart did the same for Niamh, who then began answering a few of the questions she asked earlier.

Apparently, some of the tales Leliana had been told as a child were true.

Niamh was one of three children sired by a mortal warrior that her mother Eleanor—one of the most renowned sea goddesses—had fallen in love with. Her brother Fergus was the eldest and was a god of protection, and her older sister Saoirse was a goddess of victory. Niamh then went on to explain it was entirely possible for there to be multiple deities with the same responsibilities in a given area.

“Even for us, it is impossible to be in two places at once,” she further explained with laughter in her voice—the sound of it as ethereal as moonlight shimmering across the sea. “If one mortal has need of us somewhere, then it’s simply more efficient for there to have other colleagues of similar gifts nearby on the off chance a similar request is made.”

“And there’s never been an issue with sharing an area like that?”

“It happens on occasion. A stronger god might be able to force others out to establish a claim over territory, but it’s generally considered… uncouth to do so, especially if it was done without provocation.”

Leliana frowned. “Then why risk doing so?”

“To gain more worshippers essentially. I’m sure you’ve realized that it’s rare for any one of us to be seen these days, yes? Our ability to linger within this world stagnates the longer we go without worship. If there is no one to remember or believe in us, then we lack… presence here for lack of a better word. Eventually, it means the end of our time here on your world. Some of us might choose to stay here for whatever time we are allotted and simply fade into the ether, or we return home from whence we came.”

“Does this have to do with your Law of Equivalent Exchange?”

Niamh tipped her head, impressed. “You’re well-learned. Yes. As powerful as we are, for us to be here, we need you just as much as the opposite might be true.”

Leliana hummed thoughtfully. “There are still people who pray to gods of the sea and sky for a safe voyage through turbulent seas. I can’t imagine you’d be in danger of being forgotten anytime soon.”

“For the time being. That might fade eventually. While the requests I receive aren’t fleeting, they are made with hollowed hearts. The sailors I help guide may yet one day feel they have no need of me—that my name is merely superstition.”

“Surely not!” She felt indignation rise within her on the woman’s behalf, but Niamh merely chuckled.

“Your world changes at so rapid a pace that it even takes us by surprise.”

“Does it? Is it so different on yours?”

“It… is something I cannot reveal to you unfortunately.”

Leliana had expected as much, but she found another subject to latch on to easily enough. “Well, you also mentioned there were stronger gods before, yes? Is that a common matter?”

“Not entirely. We have a tiered system to judge our respective power, and it’s largely determined by how much we can affect the world around us. Imagine Thedas as a leaf resting atop a pond, and then consider the water’s surface area to be the power of a Sixth Tier god. By that same principle, a Fifth Tier god would be synonymous to a lake while a Fourth Tier would be more akin to a sea, and a Third Tier would be an entire ocean.”

“Then the first two tiers…?”

Niamh briefly pressed a tongue against her cheek in thought. “Hm. It gets a tad more complicated after that. Essentially, a Second Tier would be any combination of seas and oceans, but a First Tier would encompass every body of water mentioned. Again, this is all an extremely simplified explanation of our system.”

“And which tier are you then?”

Surprisingly, the goddess seemed reluctant to state her rank. “Let’s just say I… can’t readily determine the difference in power between a Fourth, Fifth, or Sixth Tier deity.”

Leliana’s eyes widened. “Truly?”

Niamh shrugged with a sheepish smile. “Yes. The power discrepancy between them all is too subtle for me to notice.”

Leliana was stunned at such a revelation, for save for the glowing eyes and a presence that exuded gentle, soothing power, Niamh seemed like any other woman. She was calm, self-assured, and—she waited until Niamh turned her attention down to her wolf companion and began petting it before finishing her thought—wonderfully attractive.

But Leliana chided herself for admitting the latter fact.

What goddess would be interested in a mere slip of a girl after all? Leliana had only lived a fraction of Niamh’s entire life. Surely someone of Niamh’s status would have her pick of any suitor—mortal or otherwise—over such a long lifespan. She was thankful Niamh was kind enough to indulge her with her questions, and she did have many of them.

As expected of her title, Leliana got to experience how the goddess could manage to change the weather around them to her whims. With a simple wave of a hand, Niamh effortlessly wreathed them all in warmth when a stronger gust of wind blew in from the sea, never once pausing in her explanation regarding her other abilities. She could switch between them with nary a thought, allowing ice to gather at her fingertips like icy talons before a simple flex caused them to shatter, allowing lightning to dance between them instead—a living cat’s cradle.

“They also call you the goddess of the night sky, don’t they? Are you only capable of appearing during the evening then?”

“It’s more personal preference. I like the quiet the night affords me; there is a different beauty to be found under the cover of it. When mortals originally saw me in the past, it was always in the evenings, so I suppose the assumption remained, but nothing prevents me from appearing during the day should I wish it. Ah.” Niamh turned to look back out to the sea. “And it appears our exchange has run its course.”

Leliana turned her attention to the horizon as well, and was surprised to see daybreak just barely beginning to crest it. She had been enjoying Niamh’s attention so much that she hadn’t realized so much time had passed.

“I’ll have Eimear—” The female wolf rose to her feet just as Niamh did. “—and Cillian escort you home, young one.” (Note: Eimear is pronounced “ee-mur” and Cillian is pronounced “kill-ee-an”)

“Leliana.”

“Hm?”

“My name.” She smiled as she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. “It’s Leliana.”

“Ah.” Niamh nodded in acknowledgement. “Take care then, Leliana. I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation this long with a mortal. It was a new but enjoyable experience.” From her smile, Leliana could see that she was sincere in her words, and she felt wonderfully dazed at the fact.

“Likewise, my lady.” She had the sense to curtsy gracefully before the goddess. “Will… Will I be able to find you here again?”

Niamh blinked. “Perhaps,” she replied, raising a brow at her curiously. “You would have to give something in return again however.”

“Would you be opposed to exchanging stories then?”

“Stories?”

“Yes, you mentioned how much Thedas changes each time you return. I could tell you stories of things that might have occurred while you’ve been away, and perhaps you might tell me stories of your own—the ones that might have been lost through the ages.”

Her request seemed to interest Niamh, for her lips turned up into a smile. “A sensible exchange. Very well. Should you wish to see me again, travel upon the path to this altar and press your hand atop its stone. I will know to meet you here.”

And once a week, Leliana returns to the cliff and that altar—always escorted by the guardian wolf pair—to meet the goddess who has very much become her friend.

As promised, they exchange stories and even songs—much to Leliana’s endless delight—but sometimes their evenings together are simply spent having meals together.

Niamh had confessed that foods of the mortal world provided no real sustenance for her, but she could still taste them all the same. As such, Leliana makes it a point to find new things for her to try, and she discovers the woman liked sweets the best. She can always tell by the way those luminous eyes widen by the barest fraction each time she samples something of interest.

The exchanges rarely last as long as that first night they met, but Leliana doesn’t mind. She enjoys Niamh’s company, and—from those little smiles that always send her heart aflutter—she thinks the reverse might also be true.

A year later, Leliana turned 16, and she went to Niamh one night in excitement. Her mother’s employer was taking them to Val Royeaux for a soiree!

“Can you believe it? Oh, it will be my first one ever!” Utterly filled with glee, she did a little twirl in place, and Niamh was the epitome of patience as Leliana explained how fortuitous an opportunity this was. “Val Royeaux is the crown jewel of Orlais, and there will no doubt be so many people there! Mother says there are always patrons milling about, looking for new talent. Perhaps I might be lucky enough to meet one, and I’d be able to sing for them and tell them tales, but…Oh. ” Her excitement then dimmed somewhat as her voice trailed off, something that Niamh noticed immediately.

“But what?” she asked, beckoning her to continue.

“But there must already be some aspiring minstrels there, those who have lived there their whole lives! How could I ever possibly hope to make myself noticed among them?” she asked plaintively, and she momentarily began pouting when Niamh laughed in gentle amusement.

“Leliana, your songs and your stories are wonderful. I have no doubt a true patron of the arts would appreciate your talents,” she reassured, but when Leliana tried to protest, the woman merely arched a brow. “A false sincerity—no matter how honeyed—is still a lie, and I would never be so crass as to do such a thing to you. However, if you feel that you truly need to give others further incentive to listen to you…”

Niamh paused as she reached into her cloak, and Leliana could faintly hear the jingling of metal before the woman pulled out a brooch so beautiful that it took her very breath way.

Multiple pearls of varying size were inlaid into a sharply-curved bed of obsidian, which emphasized the opalescence of the gems arranged artistically into the shape of a crescent moon. Tiny diamonds decorated the scalloped edge as they hugged each pearl, and bisecting the widest part of the brooch’s arch was a simple silver pin. When the goddess proceeded to hold the piece of jewelry out for her to take, Leliana was taken aback.

“But I can’t possibly take this!”

Niamh merely smiled. “I can always make another like it. When you wear this, simply run a finger across each of the pearls, and its magic will take effect. As you perform, those within hearing distance of you will have no choice but to have their eyes drawn upon you. I have blessed this brooch sparingly, however, so while it may help to draw an audience, it is up to your own skill to further keep them there, Little Bird. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but I didn’t even offer anything in exchange,” she said worriedly.

“When you return from this soiree of yours, tell me of it, and I will consider that payment enough.” The cold winds shifted then, and Leliana found that Niamh’s brows had knitted together in consternation. When she turned to her again, those glowing grey eyes were apologetic. “I am beckoned elsewhere, but I have faith that you’ll be able to be able to succeed in your endeavors. Farewell for now, Leliana.”

When Leliana returned to Niamh’s altar several weeks later, she was fresh-faced and beaming with delight, dancing in a gown of absolute finery. It was a gift from her patron Marjolaine—a wealthy, widowed woman, who had taken quite a fancy to her talents.

“Isn’t it beautiful? Oh, Lady Marjolaine is so generous! She’s been all over Thedas, and she knows so many things! She’s even teaching me how to use a bow!”

“‘A bow,’ you say?” Niamh frowned. “Any particular reason why?”

“For bard training.” When that only drew a further look of confusion, she hastened to explain. “It’s like… being both a minstrel and a bodyguard to your patron. Still, the world can be a dangerous place at times, no? Marjolaine wanted me to also learn how to defend myself.”

“I see.” If Niamh had any concerns, she didn’t voice them. “I imagine such training would take place away from here.”

“Yes,” she admitted, and an ache filled her then, causing her to slowly wring her hands together. “It is a wonderful opportunity. It is probably more than I could have ever hoped for, but it will also mean that I may not return here again for quite some time.”

“As expected.”

“You’re not... upset?”

“You are a young woman of incredible talent and determination, Leliana. I doubt there is much that even I could say that might deter you even had I wished to. Perhaps it was well past time you spread your wings from here and find what awaits you beyond the horizon. I will not keep you from it. Still…” She turned her gaze upon her altar. “I feel I must at least offer you a parting gift.”

The goddess flexed a hand, and Leliana was shocked to see that a broken corner of the altar’s foundation flew directly into Niamh’s palm. As pale fingers closed around it, energies of black and silver—the night and the stars made tangible—twined around the woman’s fist before disappearing moments later into the ether as she revealed her handiwork.

The stone had been reduced to the size of a coin, and upon its face was the image of a wolf’s head—noble and proud—set against the background of a raging storm. It was an icon often associated with Niamh, who wore two silver medallions of the same imagery on her cloak, which were connected by layered chains, fastening the fabric around her securely.

“Keep this upon your person, and should you find yourself in immediate danger, simply think of me, and you shall be protected,” Niamh said, presenting the gift to her.

“And…” She looked to her curiously. “What would you want for this in return?”

The corners of her lips turned up. “Clever girl… I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone ask me that outright before. Well. Would you be opposed to offering me a memory of yours?”

“‘A memory?’”

“Yes. I suspect you’ll make many more away from here, so I merely ask for one of your most cherished moments thus far. Would you find that acceptable?”

“Yes. What would I have to do?”

“Nothing on your end. Simply hold still…” Niamh reached out to press two fingertips gently against Leliana’s forehead, and she felt the warmth of a summer’s kiss gathered there for a brief moment before the woman then pulled away, blinking consecutively several times.

“Did you get it?” she asked.

“Yes,” Niamh said, looking at her with seeming consideration.

“Oh.” She didn’t feel like anything was amiss. “Which memory was it?”

Those lips parted briefly in an attempt to form an answer, but she soon shook her head, an enigmatic smile burnishing her features—one warm enough to ward Leliana against the cold of the winter sea. “It is irrelevant. Here.” She pressed the stone coin into her palm. “I thank you for the memory, and I wish you well on your journey.”

“I…” Leliana wet her lips as she clasped a hand against her chest. “I will miss you.”

“Likewise. Safe travels to you always, Little Bird.”

The woman turned on her heel and walked toward the edge of the cliff, and as she made to step off of it, her form simply dispersed like stardust scattering across the night breeze before simply fading before Leliana’s eyes.

Leliana learned and experienced much under her patron’s tutelage over the years, traveling from one corner of Thedas to the other, ever a faithful shadow. Beneath Marjolaine’s eye, her skills as a bard grew, honed well upon the battlefield and also in the depths of more private chambers.

Although she travels far at times, Leliana cannot keep her mind from the woman who is the night sky and storms made flesh. She dreams of eyes like moonlight—calm and ancient—watching her with warmth and then a smoldering fire of passion she wishes were true.

It’s a yearning that lingers in the back of her mind, and she finds that even with her growing infamy and riches, they bring her little joy. She begins to re-evaluate her life and proceeds to slowly distance herself from the Game—a fact that Marjolaine is too keenly aware of.

And from there, she learns of her lover’s final lesson: betrayal.

She returned to the stone altar by the sea a decade after she saw it last. Niamh appeared as promptly as always whenever she pressed a hand upon its stone, and Leliana saw those dark brows raised minutely in surprise upon seeing her, and she can’t help but smile.

Leliana was indeed much older than when they last saw one another although she feared she hadn’t grown quite as wise as she had hoped. Had that been the case, surely she would have learned of Marjolaine’s treachery much sooner. She explained as much to Niamh, who listened with quiet concern, as she detailed how everything went so terribly wrong.

“It was your coin that saved me,” Leliana revealed gratefully. “Without it, I would have been imprisoned and framed for treason by Marjolaine. If she is capable of committing such misdeeds against me—someone who she once saw as an ally—then she is capable to doing so to others. I cannot allow it to happen again. She will be brought to justice for her crimes.”

Niamh nodded in understanding. “And you came to me for help. Very well. Hold out your hands.”

Leliana did as instructed, and she saw Niamh’s dual-toned energy of black and silver forming before her, weighing down her palms. She kept them steady, and when the magic finally vanished, she found she was holding a new quiver full of arrows and a bow.

The latter was a thing of beauty, carved from ironbark so that it was lightweight but strong as steel. The grip of it appeared to have been made of white halla leather to contrast against the dark color of the weapon’s frame, and upon the widest part of the bow’s upper limb was Niamh’s personal icon engraved in silverite.

“Whisper my name upon the wind, and there shall be no manner of armor that your arrows cannot penetrate.”

“And in exchange?”

“A song sung under the night sky—one for every time you use the bow’s secondary ability.”

Leliana blinked. “Just songs then?”

“Yes.” Niamh smiled then. “I’ve found that I have missed them in all the time you’ve been away. Good hunting to you, Leliana.”

Leliana returns to Denerim to confront Marjolaine once more, and—with the blessings of a goddess on her side—she emerges victorious.

She takes a ship back to Orlais that very evening. While Marjolaine stews in fury below decks, Leliana is alone at the prow, quietly singing over a dozen songs up to the night sky. As the wind stirs to tousle her hair, she smiles, feeling like Niamh is there with her, listening in approval for the promise kept.

When she drags Marjolaine to the Orlesian embassy, Leliana informs them all of her former lover’s treason with evidence to back her claims. Marjolaine is consequently imprisoned—all titles and lands stripped from her name—and Leliana is hailed as a heroine. Empress Celene raises her name to nobility and grants her the title of Nightingale of the Imperial Court as her lead reconnaissance expert.

With the act, it becomes abundantly clear to the nobles of Orlais that while Marjolaine had once proven herself a consummate player of the Great Game, Leliana had bested her utterly. Some fear her skill while others hope to ride on the coat tails of her success, but whatever the case, Leliana is simply happy that everything is right with the world for once.

With her new title and riches, Leliana buys a new villa by the Waking Sea—closer to Niamh’s altar—and ensures her mother never has to work another day in her life ever again. Although her new profession involves a bit of underhandedness here and there, she does what she can to help and donate to various charities.

Even with such a busy schedule, she always finds time to visit Niamh, and they reconnect, establishing an old friendship between stories, songs, and meals.

Five years after revealing Marjolaine’s treachery, Leliana’s mother falls terribly ill. A combination of wasting sickness and cholera, the healers say. While Leliana assures them that money is no issue for any treatment they suggest, they regretfully inform her that with Oisine’s advancing age, there is little they can do other than to try and keep her comfortable over the next few weeks.

Distraught, Leliana turns to the one person she knows can help.

“And you understand the type of exchange this requires?” Niamh asked once more.

“Yes.”

Leliana had just neglected to inform the goddess she didn’t see herself finding another mortal to complete such a task. While she regretted her soon-to-be proposition hadn’t been made under better circumstances, she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about something similar over the years. Even after a decade and a half after they first met, Leliana still found Niamh to be as enchanting as ever. She was intelligent, gifted in more than magical ability, and was remarkably sweet and kind.

Surely, with such coveted traits, she wouldn’t object to siring the firstborn the Law of Equivalent Exchange required?

“Very well,” Niamh said, unaware of Leliana’s thoughts. “When you return home tonight, your mother will be in pristine health once more. It will be like she never fell ill at all, and even the memory of her suffering will fade along with the memories of those who had interacted with her since then.”

Leliana sighed in relief. “Thank you so much. She means everything to me.”

“I’m aware.” The woman’s glowing eyes turned apologetic then. “I only hope you won’t find the price of this all too steep, but I suppose only time will tell. Again, you needn’t begin this process right away. As the matter regarding your mother was quite serious, you’re welcome to see for yourself over the next few days that I spoke true in keeping my end of the bargain.”

“I know you wouldn’t betray me,” Leliana reassured, smiling, before mischief filled her. “So when do we begin?”

Luminous grey eyes blinked. “Pardon?”

“You said you wanted my firstborn, no?”

“Yes, and you agreed, did you not?”

“I did,” she reiterated, her smile still present. “As I’ve said, when do we begin?”

Leliana watched—amusement suffusing her—as realization then dawned over the goddess, causing those pale eyes to widen comically.

“Oh,” she uttered, baffled. “I—This was not…I don’t think…!”

Leliana had to bite her lip to keep her laughter from spilling out. In all the years they had known one another, this was perhaps the first time she had seen the otherwise unflappable goddess at such a loss for words. “Is there a problem?”

“Not necessarily…” Niamh grimaced, trying to regain her composure. “This is admittedly quite the first for me. As such, I need some time to prepare. I’ve every intention of keeping my word, but I want to be absolutely certain I won’t somehow hurt you in the process. Would you be willing to meet me in the forest tomorrow evening?”

“Of course.” This was an odd situation for them both after all. If Niamh needed time to assuage her own concerns, who was she to stop her?

“Thank you. Eimear and Cillian will escort you to my desired location for this once you enter the forest. I will see you then.”

Niamh’s siblings found out about her latest plight the moment she returned home.

“Can you believe it, Fergus? Why, I never thought I’d see the day!” Saoirse crowed smugly while her little sister glared balefully between her and their brother.

“Indeed!” Fergus reached out to tousle Niamh’s hair playfully. “A human woman managed to outsmart our usually quick-witted sister! And here I thought the mortals figuring out how to cultivate seedless grapes would be the last thing to surprise me.”

Niamh rolled her eyes when both her siblings guffawed heavily at that, and she ducked between them both to speak with Morrigan—the only person she had actually given permission to be in her quarters with her regarding this.

“You’re certain this is safe then? I won’t somehow manage to hurt her with my powers?”

“Yes, yes. ‘Tis a simple enough matter,” she drawled for the third time. “I fail to see your concern regarding this. You have exceptional control over your abilities after all.”

“I’ve never laid with a mortal before, Morrigan,” she deadpanned. “Pardon my concern over potentially breaching the terms of an exchange by accidentally killing the other party involved.”

“So long as you remember mortals do not have the same amount of endurance as we do, and you allow her to catch a breath every few interludes during the act, I cannot foresee any issue that might occur.” She sniffed dismissively, continuing to sift through the many tomes Niamh kept in her private collection. “Truly, given how fondly you speak of this Leliana, I doubt you would be able to do wrong by her.”

Niamh immediately winced at Morrigan’s statement, knowing the reaction it would have drawn from her siblings, and she was rarely ever proven wrong when it came to them.

“Wait, wait! It’s that human then? The very one she’s been talking about for the past five years?” Saoirse grinned, turning to her older brother. “Fergus, did you hear that?!”

Niamh sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with irritation as another round of teasing ensued. It was during such moments that she wondered—as she often did—why their mother couldn’t have just made her an only child.

The following night, Leliana’s wolf companions led her to a clearing deep within the woods, where Niamh was already waiting for her. Eimear and Cillian made themselves scarce once she had been delivered safely, but Leliana barely paid them any mind.

It seemed that Niamh had her comfort in mind, for in the middle of the clearing was a simple bedding of luxurious furs to lay upon, surrounded by gentle firelight. Bowls of fruits and other simple snacks laid off to the side along with bottles of various drinks to be sampled before or after the act. As she eyed the goddess standing in the midst of it all, Leliana was determined it would indeed be after as she took the hand offered to her.

Beneath the moonlight, they patiently explored one another upon disrobing together before proceeding to lay upon the furs and establish the beginning of their exchange.

Leliana was no the longer the bumbling, inexperienced child when they had first met. She had laid with others before in the type of hedonism that could only be experienced in a place like Val Royeaux, but as Niamh hovered over her, gently rolling her hips into hers, eyes aglow with such reverence like the full moon overhead, it was like she was experiencing such intimacy for the first time again. This time, however, it was with the woman—the goddess—she had always desired, who willingly worshipped her with caresses and kisses to flushed skin so sweet that it made her heart ache.

Her back arched as Niamh slipped inside her in gentle exploration. Like a musician, she expertly tuned herself to Leliana, testing rhythms and speeds to determine her preference, and when she discovered the perfect tempo, it was almost too much pleasure to bear.

She came undone beneath her, and Niamh swallowed her cries beneath tender kisses. As she was coaxed back down from her climax, all Leliana could wonder was, “How in the world am I ever supposed to let you go once the exchange is completed?”

Niamh proved quite the attentive lover.

Every few rounds, the goddess made certain Leliana kept herself hydrated and had a few bites to eat before continuing on. It was a long night of pleasure, however, and Leliana soon couldn’t discern whether the sweetness on her tongue was from food, drink, or more intimate flesh. For all of Leliana’s experience in intimacy, however, she couldn’t hope to match the immortal stamina of a goddess, but Niamh didn’t fault her need to rest. She merely encouraged her to curl against her side, which she did without complaint, resting her head on a slim shoulder. As she played with the pale collarbone beneath her fingertips, she sighed contentedly as lips pressed themselves against the crown of her head before one of the furs of their bedding was drawn up around them to ward off against the cold.

It had been a memorable night, and she had been sated, so she allowed Niamh’s warmth and the gentle crackling of the fire around them to lull her to sleep.

The light of morning washed over her, and as a warm beam of it crossed her face, her nose wrinkled with displeasure. She reached out beside her, but it isn’t fur, grass, or even another warm body that she felt.

No, it was cold sheets.

Leliana’s eyes snapped open, and she sat up abruptly to find that she was at home and in bed.

Alone.

Something within her proceeded to slowly break in painful increments, confused and bereft by such knowledge. Had last night been nothing more than an elaborate dream? She hissed gently as she shifted atop the sheets, attempting to rise from bed, and the sweet aching of her loins told her the prior evening had been no mere fantasy.

But then why had she been left?

For as much as she had heard about Niamh’s parents over the years, her mother Eleanor had elected to stay on Thedas for a time to raise her children with the man she loved. Was that not the standard among the gods at all then? Or did the exchange require a different perspective of what was to be expected of her?

“Lady Leliana?” a voice called from behind the door. One of her servants. “Will you not be joining Lady Oisine for breakfast this morning?”

She swallowed the lump down in her throat and wet her lips before attempting to speak, carefully making certain her voice didn’t shake. “No, I’m fine, Lydia. I’ve reports to finish. Please give my mother my apologies and have a plate brought to me later this afternoon.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Leliana heard the footsteps retreating, and she immediately wanted to bury herself in the sheets, but before she could begin to wallow in despair, she heard a caw at the window. She almost dismissed the sound. Ravens weren’t uncommon around the villa after all, but when she turned to shoo it away after another pointed cry, she paused immediately upon seeing the silver eyes on the bird.

It crooked its head, looking at her curiously. Whatever the raven was searching for, she didn’t know. It simply blinked once at her before turning toward the door, and—seemingly satisfied they wouldn’t be disturbed—it flapped its wings and proceeded to fly slowly toward her. As it did, Leliana watched in amazement as the bird shifted—the image of multiple animals flashing across her vision—before coalescing into the form of the goddess she knew.

Intimately now in fact.

Who was looking down at her in concern.

“Are you alright?” Niamh asked.

“You’re…” Leliana’s lips parted. “You’re still here.”

“Of course.” Dark brows furrowed, but she hardly seemed offended. Merely confused. “I wouldn’t have left you alone to carry our child for the next nine months without aid.”

“When I woke up, and you weren’t here with in bed with me after last night, I assumed…” she trailed off, remembering the dread she felt in her heart mere moments ago, wondering if she had perhaps been abandoned to carry the burden alone.

“Ah.” Niamh rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. “I returned you to your villa just before the sun rose, and then I simply sat at your desk afterward, waiting for you to wake.”

“My desk?” she asked, voice raising incredulously.

“Yes.” Niamh seemed uncertain as she continued speaking. “When we made the deal for the exchange, it was agreed we would lay together to consummate the agreement. Nothing within our verbal contract stated that I would be allowed to lay in your bed, and I didn’t wish to seem rude by presuming otherwise, so I elected to just sit and read until you awoke. When I heard one of the other mortals come up the stairs toward your door, however, I made myself scarce so as to not be found.”

Leliana said nothing at first, her mind still trying to wipe the cobwebs of sleep from it amidst the rush of earlier fear, but Niamh seemed to take her silence as disapproval.

“I’m sorry,” Niamh said. “After so many Ages, it’s simply an ingrained instinct at this point. I normally don’t interact with mortals this close to their homestead, so I immediately just thought to hide myself.”

With belated shock, Leliana realized the other woman’s eyes weren’t glowing anymore in the daylight, but they were still such an amazingly pale shade of grey, which were filled with utmost sincerity. Leliana didn’t move when the woman reached out to cup her face, and when a thumb went to sweep itself across her cheek, she was surprised to see it come away wet.

She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying mere moments ago.

“I am new to relationships such as this,” Niamh continued, “but my need to prevent unwanted questions shouldn’t have superseded your comfort. I apologize. I won’t hurt you like this again. I cannot promise I’ll be perfect in every aspect of this, but I will do my utmost to do right by you.”

So—as expected—Leliana became pregnant after their night together, and Niamh inevitably gets pulled into Orlesian society while trying to keep the mother of her child safe. Every day seems to offer its own lesson as the goddess seeks to adapt to society without giving away what she is.

Thankfully, everyone tends to assume she is a woman of foreign nobility given how she dresses and carries herself, and Leliana doesn’t do much to dissuade such rumors. That those very rumors also pair the other woman with her in more romantic a fashion is much its own bittersweet pain, but if Niamh had ever been aware of them, she doesn’t voice them to her.

For beyond that first night, they hadn’t been to bed together. Niamh would hold her when she slept after discussing their respective days together, yes, and she’d still be there the morning after, but nothing intimate ever occurred between those moments. It’s... a comfortable enough routine, but Leliana always longs for more.

Before her pregnancy begins to show, she requests some needed vacation time from Empress Celene, who approves it without question, citing that while she appreciated her dedication to the empire, she worked far too much at times.

Leliana returns back to her villa by the Waking Sea before long, intending that to be where she eventually gives birth. Niamh, of course, is ever present at her side. Unfortunately, while the Imperial Court remained oblivious to the woman’s actual identity, her mother is not so keen to let the matter go…

“That woman…” Oisine began, looking at her daughter over the rim of her tea cup, “She isn’t what she appears to be, is she?”

Leliana’s first instinct was to lie, but her mother was always clever. Leliana had inherited the same brilliance after all. Still, she sighed.

“Her name is Niamh; that much is true. She is technically nobility—just not in the same way you and I would think of it.”

“What are you saying?”

“She’s the goddess of storms and the night sky, Mother, and she’s quite powerful even among her kind. She’s here to look over me since I made a deal with her.”

Oisine’s features immediately paled. “What? Leliana, I told you the dangers of entering into such things with them!”

“I didn’t have the choice!”

“Did she force you into this?”

“Mother, no!” Niamh was far too considerate a person—too tender a lover—to ever consider something so underhanded, but she could see that her mother couldn’t be readily convinced without more of an explanation. “I did it because you were dying, and there was no other option to save your life!”

“What?”

When she saw that she was only succeeding in confusing her mother, Leliana sighed, and did her best to explain the circumstances surrounding the relationship between her and Niamh, such as how long they actually knew one another, how the goddess had helped her over the years, and why she helped her again when she found her mother likely wouldn’t recover from her illness.

All factors that led to the culmination of her bearing the child of a deity.

“You’re with child,” Oisine breathed in shock.

“Yes.”

“And Lady Niamh…?”

“Is the other parent, yes.”

“Oh, Leliana…” Guilt filled the other woman’s eyes, but Leliana didn’t want it. She would have gladly made the offer again in a heartbeat to save her. “You could have lain with anyone else to have a child, and the exchange would have still been fulfilled. Why do it in such a way?”

“Because it has always been her, Mother. I wanted to know her in such a way even if it was only once, but I’m still mortal. No matter what else I am, no matter my accomplishments, she wouldn’t be able to stay with me forever. I’m under no illusions that when the baby is born, she may very well just leave with them once the promise has been seen through.”

Disapproval was evident on Oisine’s features. “Surely you don’t believe that. Mind you, I may have been curious as to her actual identity, but have you not seen how that woman dotes upon you? How her eyes search for you as soon as you enter a room? She would give you anything you desire if you’d but ask her to stay.”

Leliana turned her head away. “Mother, please!”

She couldn’t afford to hope for this.

It would hurt too much if it didn’t come true.

Of course, as Leliana and Niamh adapt to the idea of being parents together, they realize their feelings for one another may not be as one-sided as they both initially believed.

They catch feelings is what I’m saying here, y’all.

Their relationship, however, isn’t considered official until a proper courtship ritual is done. Niamh’s not allowed to say what that all entails due to some old laws on her world, but Leliana figures it out anyway due to some old story she dug up thanks to her spy network and because she’s simply brilliant.

There’s also some political intrigue back in the world of the gods who want to close off their world from Thedas entirely, which makes Niamh super unhappy. She’ll have to do something regarding that obviously. Who are they to keep her from her beloved Leliana after all?

Then, some other issues might also occur when some individuals in the Imperial Court learn that Leliana’s pregnant. Players in the Great Game can be merciless.

So there’s action, but there’s also plenty of romantic fluff to round it out. The important thing is that Niamh and Leliana work through it together, and they have a healthy baby, and they all get to live happily ever after for a very long time!

So that’s basically it.

Again, like my other AUs, this isn’t as polished as I would like it to be, but your thoughts regarding it are always appreciated! Like it? Hate it? Think I can improve upon it? Is this something you’d like to see me write along with all my other AUs eventually? Let me know!

Seriously, just leave a like, a comment, drop a message in my inbox or the Tumblr messenger, or simply just let me know in an AO3 review. Until next time, guys!

#dragon age #leliana #female cousland/leliana #lee's AU ideas #OTP: What If We Rewrite the Stars?#My writing #fanfic

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secretsfromwholecloth · 4 years ago

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Tagged by: @neurosismancer

Name: If you know it, you know it. If not, you’ve probably got no shortage of things to call me anyway.

Gender: *siiiiiigh* Goddammit, I’m tired. Potted version: Two of us in here, one woman, one agender using he/him pronouns, and the whole combined entity uses they/them and goes “enh, I guess” to the idea of “demi-woman” as a gender.

Star sign: Sagittarius. Or Ophiuchus, if we’re doing the sidereal thing, which I have a certain affection for because of who it pisses off.

Height: 5'4″/163 cm

Time: 10:41 PM US Eastern Daylight Time as I type this.

Birthdays: ...do people other than my mom have more than one? Anyway, it was a few months ago.

Favorite band(s): Are we doing this again? Anyway, I’ve recently looked back in on Triakel, Garmarna, and Hedningarna, who’ve been quite active while I was gone.

Favorite solo artist(s): Similarly with Kepa Junkera, who seems to average releasing/guesting on three albums a year. The last I’d checked in on him was in 2008 when Etxea dropped, and it took me about four days to listen to everything he’s put out since then. That’s a lot of accordion. (My dad rather liked him, even if he did have a habit of ‘humorously’ mispronouncing his name as “Creepy Junkie”, and I couldn’t help but think he would’ve liked some of the new material—one of the few occasions where I’ve felt anything other than relief that he’s gone.)

Song stuck in my head: Bok-Espok by Kepa Junkera, which he seems to reprise every other album. Which means I’ve heard it many, many times this week.

Last movie I watched: None recently, no.

Last show I watched Last game I played: I don’t watch TV, so let me hijack this question like I usually do. I’m currently partway through the When Twilight Strikes demo, and while I’m thiiiiiis close to offering my services as a local consultant for the NYC stuff and found the “exotic beauty” kind of tone to Blane’s initial description somewhat uncomfortable, it’s otherwise been great fun, and I’m looking forward to future updates.

When did I create this blog: 2013. April, if I’m not mistaken.

When I post: Post post? Not often, it’s just about wall-to-wall reblogs around here.

Last thing googled: "shaped like a friend”, because I was curious about how long ago that phrase was coined. The Internet was unhelpful on the matter.

Other blogs: Nope! I’ve been Team Let It All Hang Out since day 1.

Do I get asks: Sometimes, usually when I’ve posted an ask meme.

Why I chose my URL: Paul Celan, “Die hellen/Steine” (The bright/Stones) Celan’s good, you ought to read him. Depressing, mind.

Followers: 324, which IIRC is more than double what I had a year ago. Dragon Age fandom is probably responsible for quite a lot of the increase. I can only imagine what the people who followed me for my DA diaries think of me now!

Average hours of sleep: 6-7. A bit more when I’m not waking up early for work, but not by much.

Lucky number: 7, I’m boring.

Instruments: Not anymore. Somewhere among the infinite possibilities of the multiverse is a timeline where I’m not cursed with cloth ears, tiny fingers, and bullshit lung capacity and was able to get reasonably good at something. Maybe an instrument, maybe singing. I liked singing.

What I’m wearing: My black pajama pants again, this time with a galaxy-print T-shirt in ace flag colors. (I needed some purple shirts to go with the purple skirts in my summer wardrobe, and I was like, “I know what’s purple!”)

Dream trip: No. I’m done.

Favorite food: All of them, leave me alone. OK, not all of them, I’m actually kind of picky and a lot of fruits and vegetables that I used to like now make me violently sick, but you get the idea. I do make a point of ordering mofongo on special occasions (and Election Day), though. Good stuff.

Nationality: American. Mom thinks I might be eligible for a Greek passport, but I’m not so sure, especially since she was naturalized here years before I was born.

Favorite song: You know I’m not going to give this an actual answer, but here, have a song: Stina by Triakel, which I haven’t found an English translation of but is definitely catchy as hell.

Last book I read: Currently about halfway through Arkady Martine’s A Desolation Called Peace. What an incredible book, she’s somehow gotten even better at writing since the first one. In particular, I’m going to be shoving it in the face of anyone writing about a child being raised for rulership, like a crown prince in a monarchy—the characterization of Imperial Associate Eight Antidote (bright, socially and politically aware, and eleven goddamn years old someone please hug this child what are you doing to him) is one of the highlights of the whole thing so far.

Top 3 fictional universes i’d like to live in: Oof. Teixcalaan might not be so terrible, if I were Teixcalaanli of reasonably comfortable socioeconomic status. (Oh, stop, no way in hell was I the only one idly wondering what I might use as a Teixcalaanli name by halfway through the first book—how’s Fourteen Reflection sound?) I’m starting to feel like the Star Wars universe would be a lateral move, and if I can petition to specifically be plopped into an Alexander Freed novel, at least my self-destructive tendencies will be beautifully rendered in graceful prose. And in the universe of AJ Hackwith’s The Library of the Unwritten, I’d be curious to see what my hypothetical creations would look like (though creators aren’t supposed to see them, at least not while alive).

Favorite color: Burgundy? Purple? Silver? White? Black? I’ve got a few. Basically, if it’s not green or orange, I’m probably OK with it.

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thenightling · 5 years ago

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Preemptive Strike: Yes! We know Morpheus (The Sandman) is problematic. Thank you for noticing!

I knew I would have to write this one day and that day has finally come. Now that Sandman is getting a Netflix series adaptation a new flock of curious readers will venture into the source material or watch the new series and they will be surprised by one little thing...

The protagonist was a colossal asshole...

Yes, friends. The protagonist of Sandman is “problematic.” We know this. We acknowledge this. Neil Gaiman knows this. It is very much deliberate and not meant to be excused by anyone.

“I’m just worried the author might think this sort of problematic behavior is okay.” - I’ve seen this statement before in regard to literature. No. Just no. We all know he’s problematic and no one justifies it.

Morpheus, in Sandman, has a backstory that is arguably villainous. He’s done many, many terrible things. So why do we like him?

Well, there’s a lot more to him than that. Also the little Fuck-up knows he’s a Fuck-up. Seventy-two-years trapped in a giant glass bubble in a magical binding circle, (the very first issue of Sandman) gives one time to think, time to reflect. And he’s still kind of a jerk when he gets out but that’s okay, he’s still learning. Most of Sandman is watching Morpheus grow from asshole to more sympathetic and more human.

To prepare you (in case you can’t handle or forgive his actions) I have a few of his most terrible actions here in this post. So be warned, there are spoilers from this point on.

1. Morpheus was in love with a black woman named Nada, a young queen. I only mention her race because it might be an issue for some people on Tumblr who might think Morpheus’ actions are racist. No, Morpheus has no real race. What he does to her is awful but it wasn’t about her race.

This was ten-thousand-years-ago. When she rejected Morpheus he grew enraged and condemned her soul to Hell. Later in Sandman: Season of Mists (the fourth graphic novel in the Sandman series) a conversation with Death (Morpheus’ sister) makes Morpheus realize he was wrong to have done this. (He’s a BIT thick...)

He resolves to go to Hell to rescue Nada even though he’s afraid of confronting Lucifer. When he arrives in Hell he finds out Lucifer is closing down Hell (basis for the Lucifer TV series).

Eventually Morpheus does rescue Nada from a demon. He gives her a half-assed apology of “Perhaps” he was wrong and “Maybe” he was mistaken for what he did.

Note for context: Though Morpheus is usually portrayed as having flesh that is pretty much bone-white he is actually devoid of race and often will appear as the race (or dream based deity) of whoever is looking upon him.

Morpheus’ half-assed apology earned him a well deserved slap in the face from Nada.

And finally he gives her the real apology she deserves.

A detail that may not sit right with some modern audiences is she DOES accept his apology for leaving her in Hell for ten-thousand-years. She still loves him despite what he had done. I know some people on Tumblr will not be happy with her doing that but it is the character’s choice and Morpheus did not seem to think he would be forgiven, which (to me) made the scene kind of sweet. Sometimes it’s okay to forgive a really awful wrong. It doesn’t make you weak or less of a woman. Sometimes forgiveness is the best way to heal.

2. Morpheus badly mistreated his own son, Orpheus. If you know the Greek Myth of Orpheus you know what happened to him. Orpheus went to The Underworld to retrieve his dead bride. Hades told him he could have her back if he did not look back while leaving The Underworld. Distrusting Hades, Orpheus started to fear he was deceived and just before he could leave The Underworld he looked back at his love and she was pulled away from him and back to the Elysium Fields (Greek Heaven part of The Underworld).

Orpheus was condemned to immortality but angry Bacchanalia tore his body asunder. His still-living severed head was tossed and ended up on a beach. Morpheus (still very much an asshole back then) abandoned his son because when Orpheus was still grieving his wife, Orpheus had cursed and denounced his father for not helping him get his wife back.

Morpheus was kind enough to send dreams to some Pagan priests to look after his son through the ages in a secret shrine but that was the extent of his mercy. For centuries Orpheus wanted to die to be reunited with his wife...

During Sandman: Brief Lives, Morpheus reconciles with his son (who is just a living-head being tended to by Pagan Greek priests) and Morpheus gives his son what he has wanted for a long, long, time. He puts his poor son out of his misery and sends him to The Elysium Fields where he is again whole. How Morpheus had treated his son is one sin Morpheus, himself, will not forgive himself for and yearns to be punished for.

3. During Morpheus’ initial falling out with his son, Orpheus, Morpheus also badly mistreated Calliope (the muse) who was Morpheus’ wife at the time. Morpheus shut her out and essentially unceremoniously divorced her for scolding him about how he treated Orpheus (this was long, long, before Morpheus and Orpheus’ reconcile). In present day, after his considerable character growth, Morpheus finds out Calliope has fallen into the hands of cruel mortals who are holding her prisoner, raping and exploiting her for her powers. He rescues her and severely punishes her captor.

4. At the very start of the first issue of Sandman Morpheus was captured by mortal occultists who kept him prisoner. The main one of this was Roderick Burgess.

Roderick passed away and left his prisoner to his son, Alexander. Alex loathed keeping Morpheus but he was afraid to let him go for fear Morpheus would seek revenge on him. Alex could have said as much but he tried to get the immortality, power, and promise that he would not seek revenge and when Morpheus refused to answer him he flung insults and threats at him, just like his father.

When Morpheus finally escapes he shows no mercy to Alex (though he spared Alex’s husband, Paul). Morpheus traps Alex in a torment called “Eternal waking” which is a nightmare that just ends with him waking in another nightmare and that one ending into yet another nightmare and on and on for all time. Alex eventually does get released and forgiven but it takes years.

5. During Season of Mists Morpheus is given a faery servant named Nuala. Let’s call a spade a spade here. She’s a slave girl. Morpheus does not want to accept her. He actually does not condone slavery. But if he does not accept her being given as a gift the faeries will use that as an excuse to declare war on him. (This was during the time Morpheus had the key to Hell and many supernatural entities wanted it.) Morpheus allows her to stay, knowing if he rejects the gift or makes her leave the faeries will deliberately take it as an insult and therefor an excuse to declare war to take the key to Hell. But Morpheus never gives her any orders. The one thing he does that others might take offense to is he does force her to remove her glamour spell (A spell hiding her true form). Later this is beneficial as it teaches Nuala that her true form is not ugly and that she should accept herself despite what the faery society imposes on her.

All faeries hide under a glamour and it’s a metaphor for conforming to what society expects and wants of you instead of being true to yourself. Morpheus wanted her to truly be herself. But the way he goes about it may be questionable as it might be viewed as not respecting her agency.

Later when faeries come back to reclaim her in a different storyline, Morpheus rewards her service with a promise of a boon as a means to play her as he is not comfortable with the idea of slavery. Ultimately Nuala chooses to leave the realm of Faerie rather then go back to hiding her true self under a glamour just to appease others.

6. Another contemporary misbehavior is Morpheus kind of implies he wants / plans to take Lyta’s baby son, Daniel. It comes off as creepy and Rumpelstiltskin-esque and this becomes a problem later. It’s deliberately out of context and perhaps suicidal that he does this, considering what happens.

Morpheus should write a book. “How to frame yourself for kidnapping in three easy steps.”

7. One of Morpheus’ greatest flaws is his pride. He does not like to ask for help. He does not accept criticism well. He had probably never apologized in his life until he apologized to Nada (and then other apologies come easier). And he had trouble forgiving.

Morpheus’ past is dark. He has done some incredibly awful things (that is kind of the point) and while he is growing as a character he still occasionally does awful things. But he learns. He grows. And he tries to make amends and that is the point.

So yes, Tumblr, Yes, I present to you a new Trash Can Child. We know he is problematic. He knows he’s problematic. Neil Gaiman knows he’s problematic. I’m pretty sure Morpheus has shrubbery that knows he’s problematic. He is a mess. And we love him for it.

So before you get angry about his behavior just understand, it’s supposed to be dark, it’s supposed to be awful. That’s what makes his change more powerful. Morpheus kind of embodies that song lyric from Beauty and the Beast. (“Bittersweet and strange, finding you can change. Learning you were wrong...”)

So if you notice he’s a problematic trainwreck of a supernatural creature, good for you! You observed the obvious! Well done! We know. Everyone knows. No one will deny it. But he’s our repentant former-asshole.

He is our idiot dumpster-fire baby but we’re willing to share.

#Neil Gaiman's The Sandman #Morpheus #Dream of The Endless

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mixedfeelingsproject · 4 years ago

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Anonymous

Where are you from? Australia

How would you describe your race/ethnicity? Sri Lankan/English Australian

Do you identify with one particular aspect of your ethnicity more than another? Have you ever felt pressure to choose between parts of your identity? It's tricky, because I identify more with my Sri Lankan side given that I have closer family connections on that side, more cultural background, and was raised primarily by my parent on that side. However, some people see me as fairly white-passing so there's a pressure there from those people (and even from some members of my extended family on the Sri Lankan side) to identify as white.

Did your parents encounter any difficulties from being in an interracial relationship? Yes - my white parent's parents were not supportive at first, and there was definitely some conflict there. They also had to deal with people giving my white parent weird looks when he was walking around with 2 brown-looking children, and with people asking my brown parent if they were our nanny.

How has your mixed background impacted your sense of identity and belonging? I've always felt that I'm both Sri Lankan and white, and belong to both of those groups fully and equally. However, most monoracial people don't tend to see it that way. I've found that most people in each of those groups see me as an outsider, as not belonging to their group - which kind of leaves me feeling like I don't belong anywhere. Also, I have a complicated relationship with my identity in terms of colonialism, as one side of my family (Sri Lankan) is from a colonised country and have been HEAVILY impacted by colonialism in ways that still impact our lives today, but the other side of my family (English) were the colonisers and continue to benefit from colonialism today. So it's very hard to understand and come to terms with where I fit in.

Have you been asked questions like "What are you?" or "Where are you from?" by strangers? If so, how do you typically respond? Yes. So many times, and it's awful. Sometimes it's from acquaintances or service workers trying to make small-talk, sometimes it's from friends. In high school someone in my grade once walked up to me and just bluntly (and loudly) asked 'So what are you?' But the worst thing for me is how often I am asked by doctors/medical workers what my 'country of origin' is. My gut instinct is always to just say 'here' (Australia), because that's the truth. But they're not actually asking what my country of origin is - they're asking about my ethnicity/genetic background. It just really hurts me when people assume because I don't look white, I must be from another country. And it hurts when I answer with my ethnicity (Sri Lankan/English) and they only latch onto one of those components and ignore the other.

Have you experienced people making comments about you based on your appearance? Yes. A lot of people make comments about my appearance - mostly I think in attempt to compliment me, but it often comes off really weird and slightly racist. Eg. a white relative once went on a long spiel about how beautiful my natural skin colour was (like it wasn't too pale, and wasn't too dark), and how I didn't have to tan or anything. I've also had so many comments from white people about my hair. I don't brush it every day, and I don't brush it all the way from root to tip because when I do it becomes uncontrollable and incredibly puffy and difficult to manage. So normally I just brush the top so it's neat, and leave my natural curls. I get lots of comments about having 'messy' hair, and I often get told to brush my hair or tie my hair up to look presentable.

Have you ever been mistaken for another ethnicity? So many times, and for so many ethnicities as well. No one's ever actually guessed correctly. I've been called Greek, Persian, Middle-Eastern, just plain white, Indian... the list goes on. It's interesting because to some people I'm white-passing, but others don't see any white in me at all (based on appearance). That's why I think being white-passing is a lot more complicated/nuanced than either simply being white-passing or not.

Have you ever felt the need to change your behavior due to how you believe others will perceive you? In what way? Yes. I tend to refrain using Sinhalese/Tamil words and Sri Lankan slang around other Sri Lankan people (extended family and friends) because so often when I do I get strange looks and get made fun of for my accent. But at the same time, I feel like I have to overcompensate when I'm around other Sri Lankan people to 'prove' I'm one of them? Like proving that I can handle spice, proving that I like certain curries etc., proving that I know what different slang terms mean.

What positive benefits have you experienced by being mixed? It's nice to be a part of 2 different cultures and to have values and practices from both of them. I feel like I have broader cultural knowledge than most people for that reason. It's kind of hard to think of positive benefits, to be honest.

Have you changed the way you identify yourself over the years? Yes. I used to call myself a 'halfie' when I was a kid, and self-identified as half-Sri Lankan and half-English. Now, I don't like to refer to myself as 'half' anything. I'm a whole person and I am fully Sri Lankan, fully English, and fully Australian. So now I just call myself 'mixed' or Sri Lankan/English Australian.

Are you proud to be mixed? Yes

Do you have any other stories you would like to share from your own experiences? I have this example of an awful experience that I think a lot of 'white-passing' people can probably relate to. I was lining up to use a public bathroom, and there was a long queue. Then, a dark-skinned woman with a little kid walked past the line straight towards the bathrooms. The white woman in front of me roughly grabbed this woman by the arm and told her she had to stand in the line. The woman with the kid couldn't understand what she was saying, and was speaking another language. But, the white woman aggressively insisted she go back in the line. I was too shocked to react, and to this day I regret that I didn't say anything or tell the white woman to back off. But the thing that really gets to me is that when the woman with the kid left (I think she took them into the disabled stall), the white woman turned to me, smiled, scoffed, and shook her head. As if this were some kind of inside joke for white people. As if she expected me to respond in kind (ah, damn those silly brown people!). I just glared at her and turned my back. That happened almost 2 years ago and yet I haven't been able to forget it. Being white-passing to some, I definitely have white privilege. But it also means I have to put up with shit like this - with white people making racist comments and jokes and doing racist things around me because they think I'm 'safe' to be racist around. I've since learned to call that stuff out immediately.

#mixed #srilankan #australian #english #white #identity

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accuratehistory · 5 years ago

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Margaret Lawrence, 105, Dies; Pioneering Black Female Psychoanalyst

She overcame many hurdles, including rejection by Cornell’s medical school, which told her a black man before her “didn’t work out.” (He had died.)

As a senior at Cornell in the 1930s, Margaret Lawrence had a nearly perfect academic record and expected to attend the university’s medical school. But Ms. Lawrence (she was Margaret Morgan at the time), the only black student in her class, was denied admission.

“Twenty-five years ago there was a Negro man admitted,” the dean of the medical school told her, “and it didn’t work out.” That man had come down with tuberculosis and died, thus failing to graduate. It was excuse enough to reject her.

She absorbed the shock, then applied to Columbia University’s College of Physicians and Surgeons. She was accepted, on the condition that she would not protest if white patients refused to be seen by her. (None did.) She agreed, and became the only black student in her class of 104, graduating in 1940.

She would still face discrimination, often being mistaken for a cleaning lady. But she went on to be a renowned pediatrician and child psychiatrist and the first African-American woman to become a psychoanalyst in the United States, according to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital, where her career began.

When she died on Dec. 4 at an assisted living facility in Boston, she was 105. Her daughter Sara Lawrence-Lightfoot confirmed the death.

A student of Dr. Benjamin Spock’s, Dr. Lawrence was a pioneering therapist who treated young families in Harlem and in Rockland County, just northwest of New York City. There, in 1949, she and her husband helped establish a progressive, racially integrated cooperative community called Skyview Acres, where she lived for almost 70 years before moving to Boston to be near her daughter.

“She was an innovative, iconoclastic, unusual child psychiatrist,” said Ms. Lawrence-Lightfoot, a Harvard sociologist, who detailed her mother’s life in a book, “Balm in Gilead: Journey of a Healer” (1988).

“She understood that not just the interior life of a person but their context in the life of the family as well as forces in the community — particularly forces that are discriminatory — can leave people oppressed and marginalized,” Ms. Lawrence-Lightfoot said.

Dr. Lawrence became known for her empathy toward children. She saw her task as helping them develop what she called their “ego-strength,” their sense of self-worth.

“Strength abounds in Harlem,” Dr. Lawrence once said. “Three hundred years of oppression, and it survives.”

Margaret Cornelia Morgan was born in Harlem on Aug. 19, 1914. Her parents, the Rev. Sandy Alonzo Morgan, an Episcopal priest, and Mary Elizabeth (Smith) Morgan, a schoolteacher, were a middle-class couple living in Virginia at the time but had gone to Harlem for the birth because they had relatives there and believed that they would get better care there than in the Jim Crow South.

They moved back to Virginia after the birth, then eventually settled in Vicksburg, Miss., where Mr. Morgan had been assigned to a church. Margaret was raised there.

Margaret knew from an early age that she wanted to be a doctor. Her parents’ first child, a boy, had died in infancy two years before Margaret was born; she resolved to become a doctor to save babies.

She graduated from Vicksburg’s all-black high school at 14 but knew her education was inadequate. She went to live with her grandmother and aunts in Harlem, where she attended the selective Wadleigh High School for Girls. Two years later, she graduated with prizes in Greek and Latin. With a scholarship in hand, she headed to Cornell in 1932 as a pre-med student.

#Margaret Lawrence #Black women in History #US history #history #women's history #Black women #psychoanalysis #psychoanalyst #Rest in Power #Black people #Black history #psychiary #psychology #Columbia University #African Americans #American history #African American history

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han-jumins · 7 years ago

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RFA Greek Demigod AU Part 1

I’m back after quite a hiatus! jeez, school + writer’s block is horrible. Anyways this is part 1 of this series, i need votes on who the other rfa member’s godly parents should be and i might get some ideas ooooo

Set in Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson Series but not quite a crossover

ZEN:

He was the son of Apollo and the shining sun cabin counselor

Was often mistaken for Aphrodite’s son because of his incredible handsomeness and is swarmed by girls constantly

He is an expert archer, one of the best among his siblings but he specializes in singing and healing

His position and contribution to the camp is being one of the best healers and girls use this as an excuse to meet him, often faking an injury

New campers arrived and and one of them was MC, a daughter of Ares

Despite being a child of a war god, she had a lithe body and a face worth being claimed by Aphrodite

Zen’s heart sped up a bit when he saw her, admiring her looks and her shy demeanor, totally unlike her brute siblings

Everyday he would watch her train from a distance, it was no mistake who her godly parent was now, she possessed the skills yet had an elegant aura to her

“You’re totally gawking at her man” One of Zen’s brothers waved a hand over his slightly pink face

“I’m not, I was only judging her archery. I mean that posture was kind of slack” He spouted an excuse and continued to read, now completely distracted

“Is your eyesight alright? She had perfect stance!”

“She did not”

“Yeah she did”

“Did not”

“Well if you’re so superior with your bow and arrow why don’t you teach her right now”

“Well then I would!” Zen stormed out of where he came from and was slightly stomping towards her

Now realizing the situation he was in, with his brother smirking in the distance, his steps slowed and his breathing became ragged at the sight of her training, her hair being tossed in the wind and her demeanor changing into that of a war goddess

He gulped and stopped just beside her

“Your arm is a little off” He squeaked, the confident aura completely disintegrating

“Oh thank the gods a son of apollo! I was getting frustrated with this thing, can you help me out Zen?”

“You know me?” He asked

“Well I mean yeah, who doesn’t?” She slightly giggled and Zen’s heart warmed at the sight

Finding his confidence again he started showing her the proper way of holding the bow, telling her about projectile and the wind factors

Engrossed in his passion for explaining the sport he didn’t realize that he had his hand over her waist and his other around her shoulders guiding her

His face completely burned but he tried to stay calm and speak without stuttering

Once they were over and MC was getting bullseye by bullseye they had to part

And Zen was quick to come back to his cabin to greet his brother with a punch

“You’re horrible” His face burning a fiery red

“I’ve never seen you so embarassed before it was quite entertaining”

“Shut up”

The following weeks they were as close as ever, often training archery and him showing her around the campus whilst telling stories

One time she asked him so sing for her and he was shocked

“I mean, you have to be great at singing right? You probably are” She scratched the back of her neck in embarassement and Zen was completely smitten

He was so inlove

One day, a group of people holding an unconcious girl came up to the infirmary

But he was more alarmed to see that it was MC they were holding and prompted them to lay her down

They said she hit her head in a game of capture the flag and Zen started working immediately

His hands trembling as he sang his sweet tune of healing

Making her drink nectar, he clasped her hand in his, kissing it over and over again and whispering words like “You’re going to be okay” “Please be okay”

When she finally opened her eyes, she found him sleeping with his hand on hers

She stroked his white hair and his head immediately shot up

Overwhelmed with relief he tackled her in a hug

“How are you feeling? Do you need more nectar?”

“I’m fine thanks to you” She placed her hand on his cheek and he leaned against it, feeling on the moon being with the woman he loves

“Tell me if you want me to stop, I just- I want to do something”

Leaning in to her face he placed a chaste kiss on her lips

She smiled and grabbed the front of his shirt meeting his lips again as her hands toyed with his hair

YOOSUNG:

Yoosung is like the baby in the Demeter’s cabin

Though he is the cabin counselor, his siblings are wary of his mood because of the blessing his mom has given to him

Demeter being the goddess of seasons bestowed upon him a gift of altering it though in a miniscule scale

Depending on what he’s feeling would determine the temperature of the area he was in

When he was feeling happy, his cabin radiated a sunny flowery aura rivaling that of spring

And when he’s feeling gloomy, the temperature drops and they all suffer what it would feel like to have winter

So his siblings feel the need to always satiate him and keep him happy for the sake of everyone

He is an expert gardener like the rest of Demeter’s children and possesses the natural ability to cook well so he is often seen at the cafeteria giving people food with a smile

“Delicious as always Yoosung!” A girl smiled at him and his face reddened

He really really likes MC

She’s a really bubbly girl who seemed to always brighten Yoosung’s day

His siblings take note of this thus play a little matchmaking to keep him happy which worked all the time

They were best friends and would often train together and cook together

He loves her so but was failing to find the courage to confess to her

“What on olympus am I going to do?” He sighed and continued watering some plants

Then an idea hit him whilst looking at the lilies, her favorite flower

He had picked and gathered the loveliest ones he’d grown and was currently coming over to MC to profess his love

okay calm down deep breaths you can do this yoosung

When he got there, his face dropped at the sight

MC was smiling, holding another boquet of flowers that certainly did not come from him

“Yoosung! Look at this, someone got me these beautiful flowers”

“Really and who’s it from?” He spat bitterly

MC didn’t quite get the tone of his voice as she continued

“I really don’t know, it came with a little card saying that it came from my secret admirer, how sweet!”

“Yeah how sweet” He looked down and the flowers he got and was hiding behind his back wilted, turning dry and darkened

“Look MC, I gotta go”

“Are you okay?” She looked up at him with concerned eyes but that just made his heart ache even more

“Yeah”

“You don’t look fine to me”

“Just mind your own business”

“And when did you ever tell me to mind my own business! Yoosung this isn’t like you what happened” She stood up and they were meeting eye to eye with hard gazes at each other

“Well maybe you never knew me at all!

“Maybe I haven’t! All I ever done was care for you and now you’re treating me like this?”

Yoosung’s eyes pricked with tears knowing what he said but he didn’t stand down

“You know what forget it”

He left feeling crestfallen as he threw the flowers away near the forest and stomped on it

When he arrived at the cabin, all the members were in a panic, the weather turning awful with constant blizzards and the accumulations of ice

They had to stay out that night but Yoosung sulked, indulging in the cool temperature

“Yoosung what has gotten into you?” They all asked once morning came, he didn’t really get much sleep so he had dark beneath his eyes

“I don’t really want to talk about it so you can all go enjoy your day”

“Not when the cabin freezes in the evening, gods!”

They dragged him out and attempted to have him enjoy his daily activities such as cooking and gardening but all were in vain when they still felt the temperature drop when they were around him

“Can’t you guys see? He’s obviously been dumped by the love of his life” An Aphrodite kid tells them when she too sensed what was going on

Both MC and Yoosung didn’t speak with each other for a week and for a week Demeter’s children either had to wear coats to bed or sleep in other cabins

They finally snapped when they noticed the plants surrounding the cabin beginning to wilt and practically banished Yoosung to stay in the forest to think

MC noticed how everything was wilting and was hurt at the sight

She frantically looked around for Yoosung to apologize and found him

“Yoosung!” She called out as she crashed into his body, hugging him tight despite the cold around them

It took him a couple of minutes before he raised a hand to stroke her hair

“I’m so sorry Yoosung, I shouldn’t have snapped at you this is all my fault” she sobbed on his chest

“I’m sorry” He took a breath as if he was only beginning to fully take in air as he wrapped is arms around MC and hugged her as tight

“I’m such an idiot I’m so so sorry”

“I don’t like seeing you this way, I care about you truly” She lifted her head up to wipe the tears from his eyes

“Gods MC I love you so much”

Feeling her tense under him, he was about to take back his words when her lips slammed against his in a passionate kiss

Yoosung returned it with the same fervor, a fire igniting in the pit of his stomach and his former glow returning, the warmth finally being felt

“I love you too Yoosung” She smiled at him

(a/n btw before y’all roast me for his personality, it’s easy for him to get carried away by his emotions because his gift is too great and his body sometimes cant handle it)

My other work in here: MASTERLIST

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newiliadrp · 7 years ago

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Welcome to Camp, Elle Choi, daughter of Aphrodite! Be sure to look at the checklist and make sure you have everything, we hope you enjoy your stay.

Have you seen [ ELLE ] around camp? Wait, you don’t know [ ELLE CHOI ]? She is a [ claimed Greek ]demigod, from Cabin [ 10 ]. You know, the [ APHRODITE ] Cabin? She is [ 20 ], and arrived at camp [ 5 ] years ago, and get mistaken for [ KIM JUNGEUN/KIM LIP ] most of the time. She is usually pretty [ INTELLIGENT AND CONFIDENT ], but can be [ BITTER AND PRETENTIOUS ].

BIO Elle is the daughter of a rich Koreon diplomat, because of this she grew up traveling the world with her father and her nanny/tutor. Before she came to camp, she had no actual place to call home. The only two constants in her life were her father and her nanny, but even her father was unreliable. Elle was a footnote in his life. Aphrodite had been the peak of his love life, and after her he’d searched for her in every women he had an affair with, which were a lot. He didn’t spend much time with his daugher, Eventually even Elle’s nanny, the only parental figure in her life, and probably the only person she was actually attached to, who she dared to love because she trusted the woman wouldn’t leave. That changed of course when her relationship with Elle’s father went south and so at 15, Elle lost the only real constant in her life.

All of this made her loose trust in people. They always leave in the end right? The evening her nanny left, he decided to do the same. Elle’s father travelled a lot between Asia and America, but this particular time he’d been sent to Europe. Italy to be precise. Monsters are even more of a hazard here than anywhere else of course, so she couldn’t have ran away in a worse place. All these years she’d been protected by always being surrounded by tons of people and changing locations so often. She’d never go out on her own, always having her nanny with her. Now she sneaked out of her hotel, venturing into the winding streets of Rome, only to be met with a trio of Empousai. She narrowly escaped, unlocking her Charmspeak due to her fear and distress. She did end up with a scar, now a long white line running from her hip to just above her knee.

She had to go to the hospital of course, to the annoyance of her father. He’d never known her mother’s true identity, only that he’d never met a women like her, he’d ironically always described her as god-like or a godess. Elle also had trouble reconciling what had happened with the reality she knew, so the story as she told it was that she was attacked by some homeless girls, some sort of robbery gone wrong. However, a satyr who was disguised as a nurse picked up on the weird stuff in the story that just didn’t make sense, or simply sounded off. Elle was convinced to come to camp, even if she was very sceptical at first. She mostly agreed because she didn’t want to stay with her dad anymore, blaming him for her nanny leaving. They’d told him it was some kind of boarding school and rehabilitation centre, and he agreed to let her go because well, he wouldn’t have to hire a new tutor or nanny.

She got claimed by Aphrodite pretty much the moment she stepped into camp. This only further made her believe true love is a sham. If there are love gods managing every move, plotting people’s lives? Then love surely just isn’t real. This belief has also made her dislike most of her siblings, as she thinks they are naive and corny.

Wassup it’s iris again bc i have no self control, 20, gmt +2 n all that

#accepted #book rp #oc rp #active rp

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bobvsuniverse · 5 years ago

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We’ve Got a Problem Here, Jose’

(a rumination about race)

Something happened to me a week or two ago that has made a lasting impact.

I have a hard time knowing how to think about it and a harder time attempting to explain it and my reaction to it.

Maybe someone out there has some thoughts that will ad productively to the thinking I’ve been doing since it happened, so I thought I would attempt to write a description of it and my response to it. But that has turned out even more complicated and hard won than I had imagined.

I think this story, and my quandaries around it, are best dealt with in a conversational, Socratic, if you will, format, but I also think it is something worth putting down on paper. So I’ll try.

Susan and I were parked in a lot in the woods near one of the Fall beauty spots not far from where we live. It was midweek and busier with leaf peepers (as we call them) than we had expected. The rest of the year there are rarely more than a half dozen cars parked in this lot… and even that’s more than usual. It can be blissfully empty… empty enough that you can sometimes hear the springs that come out from around the roots of the cedars at the bottom of the hills.

When we came back to the car after hanging out at the view spot for a while the people who had parked next to us, on my driver's side, were also in the process of leaving. I had to go to the passenger side of the car to help the dog into the car and to take up the time they needed to get into their car. A big white Lincoln SUV.

Even here I have trouble with how I should describe their car… or them. Will that impact telling the story in an unfair way? Will it inculcate a kind of bias that actually does harm to my telling of the story? Will it contribute to a defeat of my purpose? What is my purpose anyway? What I mean is: I find Lincoln SUVs ridiculously designed. That automatically causes me to assume that there is something ridiculous in the people that buy them. It was white. Like a refrigerator.

And I want to be fair.

Anyway: the woman crossed for a second time from the back of the cars to her now open passenger side door. The cars were parked closely.

Suddenly she said: “Looks like we got a problem here, Jose”

What?

I don’t think I’ve ever been called Jose and am not familiar with it being used as a typical, common, way to refer to strangers. And her manner was notably outside the usual social protocol with which strangers initiate conversation. She was more directive, kind of like she was a teacher in my school unfamiliar to me, but who “knows” me… does that make sense? As if some assumption of prior knowledge gave her the right, even responsibility, to reprimand me about something.

No matter. I remember feeling matter-of-fact about it at the same time I was puzzled.

I crossed to the back of the car. For one thing I was on my way around the back of the car to the driver’s door anyway, once I was done with the dog. So when the woman called me “Jose’” I may have moved more quickly than I normally would have. I also wanted to see what it was that she identified as a problem.

I had left my gas cap off and it was still stuck in the clip on the little open door where I feed my car gasoline. We had filled the car in a little town about 20 miles away. The co-op there sells gas, often at 10 to 15 cents a gallon cheaper.

I was lucky I hadn’t lost my gas cap.

Something kept me from being immediately grateful for her calling attention to it the way she did. And I may have been mistaken in that spontaneous gut response. I don’t know. It wasn’t a purposeful withholding of gratitude, though I was still puzzled by being called Jose. And her manner, which I never really came to terms with over the course of the events, outside of finding it out-of-sorts with my expectation in most other situations of the same kind. After I thought about it for a while as we drove away, in retrospect, I think I grew to understand it more, but even understanding it actually muddles the entire situation. The question of my own bias interferes with a clearer, more definitive explanation. Sort of. In a way.

I just couldn’t figure out why she called me Jose.

So the first thing that popped out my mouth was “Did you just call me Jose? Why would you call me that?”

And she shot back rather icily: “ well, I didn’t know your name.” She may have repeated “we’ve got a problem here”…. she said it in that same overly instructive tone.

Then I tried to thank her, after I said “well.. that sure isn’t it”, but it was a clumsy nearly incoherent attempt and I got into my car and waited for them to back their white Lincoln SUV out.

Then it occurred to me. I bet she called me Jose because she assumed I was not a bonafide white person! Like her and her hubby!

Was that it? I mean, could it be that she just has an idiosyncratic way of interacting with strangers? Shit. I struggled with this for a while and it still stays in the mix of how I ruminate about the circumstance.

And her tone. I’m not familiar with any pattern in which overtly, even unconsciously, racist people call an unfamiliar but assumedly Hispanic man Jose’.

Even here, I have to say, I am less than sure whether or not this is the most appropriate word for the group of people she may have thought I belonged to… but then, if it was in fact a racial slur, what group of people does she, can she, even imagine that to be?

It is a puzzle.

Something else too: her tone, her condescension. It was really there. As if only someone unlike her could make such a dumb mistake as forgetting to replace their gas cap after filling the car..

Susan and I talked this over on the way out of the small lot and down the narrow dirt road that was deeply shaded by yellow-leaved trees. We decided that it was a racial slur, though a plausibly deniable one (“ I didn’t know your name”). We talked about how that is how racism works anyway. And how, often, usually, people who practice even outwardly racist talk and behaviors do not believe they have done it out of racism.

No matter. This stuff might keep spinning around in my head as long and persistently as it spins in the culture at large. It keeps spinning largely because the delusional assumptions about race it is based on are in the end nonsensical, utterly absurd.

Still… my next question, to myself, was and is just as riddled with a bizarre complexity.

It’s not as if someone’s assumption of my being other than “WHITE” has never come up before. Especially snce I moved north from the city. We are, my family, a dark and swarthy people, especially the men as they age… at least in terms of some bizarre spectrum of skin tone that people seem to have locked in their head in spite of any evidence that skin tone is purely a matter of how much sun you and your forbears were required to live under.

There have even been times when I have relished the idea that I am part of a lost tribe of some browner-skinned people and can relinquish my whiteness, at least in part.

But even that kind of thinking is so “white”… isn’t it?

It did/does happen often enough that I decided to take one of those spit tests. You know, the genome score you can get by sending your saliva to the Mormons? I also thought that it was entirely disingenuous of me to entertain a notion of being related to the magnificent non-“white” tribes of the planet, dishonest without some even paltry degree of “proof”. As if there is proof of such an individuated adherence to the completely scientifically unverifiable existence as the commonly accepted idea of Race.

And I had for a time entertained the idea that I was up to one-eighth Native American, based on some pretty circumstantial and flimsy evidence about how one of my great-grandmothers looked in the old family pictures that circulate. I knew that. And though I also understood the failings of genetic testing of the sort that I eventually participated in, I wanted to clear the matter up for myself as much as I could.

It did. Though now I am sorry, a little ashamed, I took my fantasy of being partly “non-white” as far as I did. Even if my ruminations on the subject were largely private ones, those kind of co-optations are among the worst. And it is something White people… whatever they are, whatever that means… are kind of sickeningly and persistently guilty of, if only from the standpoint of being descendent of groups of people responsible for unspeakable acts against the very groups they now seem to want to be a part of in very intimate ways… through their blood and gene pools!

Someone explain THAT, please…

In the end, how do I complain about that? About my being browner than many “white” people and sometimes being mistaken for a non-white person? How do I report it?

One hardly benefits from doing it from the standpoint of declaring definitively that I AM A WHITE PERSON every time someone makes some side crack or passively cruel remark that passes judgment on me or out of nowhere mentions my skin color because I am not as … what?… WHITE?.. as they are.

Lord.

But first: can someone clear this up for me? Is it a thing to call a brown-skinned person, assumed to be from the Americas south of the United States’ border, Jose’? Has that been a practice of secret or not-so-secret white supremacists? It seems to me it is… and it seems to me I’ve heard it before, but I’m not sure. I’m getting old and all this grossly putrid evidence of racism gets lost in its loo of obstreperousness. In that mix of inherited cultural information bullshit one constantly has to sort out. I grow old. I grow old.

It’s weird to try to talk about this, because one could easily come to the conclusion that this IS a declaration of white ness. And after all, I can hardly escape my whiteness, my automatic inclusion in the exceptionalism that white people expect and are enculturated with.

Even when I was under the false impression that there might be something other than northern European and Irish with a smattering of Spanish and Greek (and Finnish for those epicanthic folds) in the history of my blood, I was always working out the thought, the fact, that regardless: I was raised as a white boy in white culture… or at least in a white supremacist culture. Denying that would be crazy.

So how do I talk about this? How do I think about it? It’s kind of like the phantom of some crazy 18th century race inventor man has come to the door again to insist that I fit into one of a series of boxes that he can’t really, and has never ever, figured out. Because they are not there, not really.

My name isn’t Jose’. That is all.

Some days I wish it were.

-- Bob Vance

#race

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