#so. like. i'm not practicing the religion.

[aphrofaerie]

does anyone else talk to the deities they worship casually, like a friend or mentor 😭 I'm autistic so it's already very awkward with them, I feel like it'd just feel fake and forced if I tried to talk all fancy rather than opening up and expressing myself to them in the most genuine way possible for me

I also think I do a lot of things weird/wrong, when I pray I "tune into their presence" and will often sit in front of their altars rather than holding my hands up (cough cough pots I pass out when I reach up) and I still give offerings when I'm struggling with hygiene because of being disabled, which I know may make me "dirty" . . .

I've always viewed the gods as patient and understanding of my struggles, and my practices are unique to me (I mean . . . even the way I believe in them is very unconventional) but even so, sometimes I wonder if all of these "mistakes" and "excuses" I do are disrespectful, does anyone know? I don't want to come off that way, I just get very intimidated by religion so I try not to push myself too much, but I'm wondering if I'm doing this whole thing wrong . . . sometimes I'll even forget to pray or give offerings for months . . . I really don't want to come off the wrong way. Does anyone know if I'm being rude by taking things too easy ? :(

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: the rat king (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, cults and religion mentioned, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: hi!! just wanted to say thank you all so much for the love on the last chapter and sticking with me!! i know i hadn't posted in forever with being busy with uni and all so it really made me happy that people still remembered this fic. this chapter (once again) was supposed to cover a lot more but i got carried away lol, so instead i'm posting this half and then the next half soon once i have it properly written up. anyway!! please enjoy!! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love

main masterlist | series masterlist

Gertrude Crowley was a nervous woman.

It was the first thing you noticed about her; her movements were hesitant, as though she feared drawing too much attention. In the dim light, you noticed her face—worn, yes, but not aged beyond her years. Lines of worry etched her brow and framed her mouth. Her greying hair, streaked with darker remnants of its original chestnut hue, was hastily pinned beneath a weathered black scarf, frazzled tufts poking through the holes strewn throughout the fabric.

“Tea, Ms. Crowley?” You asked the woman. Despite your soft tone, the woman jumped in her seat, hand raising to her bosom as she took in a sharp breath.

“I suppose, Dear.” She squeaked in reply

You gave the older woman a reassuring smile, hoping to calm her fears. Her pale blue eyes darted away quickly, revealing a haunted expression. They glanced at you briefly, then withdrew as if frightened by what they might find. She fidgeted with her hands, the frayed edges of her gloves exposing trembling fingers.

“Tea is good for the soul, don’t you think?” You hummed to her softly, your upper half bent over your kitchen table, and you poured the steaming liquid into two cups. You hoped the woman wouldn’t comment on how the ceramic was chipped; the painted flowers faded from years of use. “Always so cold in The Warrens, it warms you up from the inside.”

Ms Crowley nodded stiffly, teacup rattling against its matching plate as she held it in trembling hands. You took a brief moment to observe her, eyes searching her appearance. Her clothing was plain but serviceable—a dark woollen cloak that hung unevenly over her frame, its hem damp and muddied from the streets. Beneath it, a simple grey dress fitted her modestly, cinched at the waist with a cracked but sturdy belt. A brass locket hung around her neck, glinting faintly when she shifted. Though practical and well-worn, her boots carried scuffs deep enough that you questioned if the dark fabric was her socks beneath.

She took a hesitant sip from her cup and looked up at you with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Thank you, dear.”

You settled into your seat, dragging your cup across the table's woodgrain. “How can I be of assistance?”

Ms Crowley hesitated, her lips thinning into a line as she contemplated a response. You wisely decided to allow her some space, and the steaming liquid cupped in your palm suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the world. 

The older woman stumbled over her words, once, twice, thrice before finally settling on a simple, “I..I have never met a witch before.”

You smiled down into your cup, elbows resting on the table as you slowly looked up at her through a strand of loose hair that had fallen across your forehead. “I think you will find witches are alike most people you would meet—just like any stranger you would pass on the street.”

She peered across the table—as if testing your own words against you. Her tired, pale blue eyes squinting as she examined you from head to toe. “I suppose… I suppose you’re right. And I suppose I should trust you. I ‘ave been told most witches are trustworthy.”

“We are.” You state simply, only pausing to take a sip from your cup. The warm liquid fills your belly, a soft hum escaping your throat as you tilt you head in thought. “We’re salesmen, in a way, sellin’ our wares. There will always be scam artists, a few among the many, but most of us are just makin’ ends meet.”

The older woman contemplates your words. She takes a sip, a long one, then nods in affirmation. “You’re right. I should have some faith.”

“Now, Ms. Crowley, how can I help you?” You query once again.

“Well… I don’t know how this all works…”

“Just tell me what troubles you. From the start, if possible.”

Before she could speak, the door creaked open behind you, breaking the fragile quiet that had settled over the room. The sound was faint, yet it resonated through the stillness like the tolling of a distant church bell. Your breath hitched, fingers tightening around the chipped teacup as a wave of unease swept through you. The air seemed heavier, colder—an unspoken warning curling down your spine.

“Spirit-raiser.”

That voice. Gravelly, familiar. Unwelcome. You sucked in a sharp breath, though it felt as though your ribcage had suddenly shrunk two sizes too small for your organs. The bruises still present across your abdomen ached as every muscle in your body tensed, a tangled knot of shock electrifying your nerves. But beyond that, beyond the anger and disbelief, there was a feeling far more treacherous: relief.

He returned.

Your head whipped around, posture immediately straightening as though your spine was a pole made of steel. There he was—Bucky Barnes, leaning in the doorway like he owned the place, his sharp, stormy eyes swept over you, then flicked briefly to Ms. Crowley, whose face drained of colour. The woman looked ready to bolt, her hands clutching the table's edge as if it might anchor her in place. You couldn’t blame her. A woman already so anxious over the idea of magic she had positively turned green the moment she entered your flat. Now she was face to face with the dreaded Bucky Barnes, the fucking menace of the Sootstone? Many in The Warrens likely hadn’t seen the man in person, maybe at a distance, or knew him through whispered tales. You certainly hadn’t encountered the man until he came crashing into your life, smog and all. 

“Bucky,” you said, his name slipping out before you could catch it. A string of curses nearly left your tongue along with it. How bittersweet could it be that despite all the hurt you felt, you still called him by a name so familiar? Too familiar. The taste of it burned on your tongue. Your heart slammed into a furious rhythm as what could only be described as a smirk graced his lips. How could he act like he hadn’t vanished from your life without so much as a goodbye? 

How could he turn up here and act like all was well and normal?

It had hurt when he had left; yes, that was to be expected. But these past few days, he had avoided you. At least, it felt like avoidance. You hadn’t heard a word from the Smog Boys since your beating at the hand of the Iron Rats, not even a whisper on the sharp winds that rolled in from the dock. Natasha would have told him. In what world would she not have told Bucky that his pet witch had missed the summons because she was trembling, bloodied and bruised on her own floor? 

You had convinced yourself that maybe it was for the better, an escape from Becca’s wrath and escape from the Smog Boys…

“I’m busy.” The words escaped you before you could think.

He raised his brows in disbelief. Your toes curled in their boots, cringing at your own blunt tone. But then again, had he just expected everything to return to normal?

“I need’a favour.” He stepped further into the room, his boots thudding against the floorboards as he surveyed the space with casual indifference. His gait was smooth, gaze unbothered. A morbid part of you wished you could inspect his back and see the damage you caused. It didn’t seem to bother him or impede his movements.

Ms. Crowley made a small, frightened noise, her trembling hands going to her locket as though it might ward off his presence. “I—perhaps I should come back later…”

“What’re you doin’ here?” you demanded, the words sharper than you intended, cutting over Ms. Crowley’s muttering. 

“As I said, I need’a favour.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you fought to keep your composure. 

“A favour?” you repeated, the words dripping with scepticism. “After everythin’, you show up here and ask for a favour?”

Ms. Crowley flinched at the tone of your voice, but you couldn’t stop now. Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest crack in his facade of nonchalance.

“Watch it,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t want to push me.”

“And you don’t want to push me neither, Barnes,” You shot back, planting your hands on the table. “You don’t get to leave without so much as a ‘thank you’ and then show up here, actin’ like I owe you somethin’?”

“You say that, spirit-raiser, but…” He sucked on his teeth, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he looked down at you, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets as he sighed through his nose. “I just spent the last four days cleanin’ up your mess.”

Your brows drew inward, confusion slipping through. The entire time you had spent in misery, licking your wounds and nursing your broken heart, he had been out there defending you? 

A devilish expression crossed his face. “You really thought you could, what? Walk on over to Grimrow unnoticed while under my protection? Do you realise how long it has taken me to talk the Rat King down from marching over the Sootline and wagin’ war ‘cause of you?”

“They crossed the Sootline. They pursued me.” You rebutted, though even your voice wavered, unsure.

“Yeah.” His head tilted, eyes squinting. “You better be praisin’ whatever fuckin’ witch god you follow, 'cause that little fuck up on their end is the only reason why you’re still here playin’ good little spirit-raiser.”

You swallowed. Hard. 

“They hurt me.” You confessed, voice steadying.

“Yeah, I know. Nat told me. Good thing your pretty little face has all healed up. That’s your only fuckin’ worth to me right now after all the trouble you’ve caused.” His words stung; maybe you would’ve believed them true. But you got the sense he was being harsh for the sake of venting frustrations. He wouldn’t even catch your eye as the insults rolled off his tongue. 

For a moment, silence filled the room, thick with tension. You could feel Ms. Crowley’s gaze on you. Bucky’s jaw tightened, his posture stiffening as his eyes finally lifted and bore into yours. His expression was unreadable, a carefully laid mask to cover whatever real emotion raged behind his stormy blue eyes.

Then, to your surprise, Ms. Crowley’s feeble voice cut through the silence. 

“I-I-I should go now���”

You whirled around.

“No,” you snapped, cutting her off before she could rise. Ms. Crowley froze, wide-eyed and trembling, her teacup rattling slightly in her unsteady hands. For a brief moment, you thought Bucky might let her stay, that he’d simply loom in the corner, his presence a warning but nothing more.

But then Bucky huffed a sharp breath, irritation flashing across his face as he shrugged out of his jacket. 

“Get the fuck out,” he said bluntly, his tone leaving no room for argument, his eyes sliding to meet the older woman's as you made a noise close to a whimper. “And keep your fuckin’ mouth shut about all this.”

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, her gaze darting between the two of you. With a frightened nod, she scrambled to her feet, clutching her bag and locket close to her chest.

“Apologies. I ain’t sayin’ a thing. Not a word. I swear.” she stammered, her voice a whisper as she made a beeline for the door.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you turned to Bucky, a glare sharp enough to cut steel fixed on your face.

“You didn’t have to scare her off like that!” you snapped, grabbing the teacups and stalking toward the sink.

“A waste of fuckin’ time is what she was,” Bucky replied casually, his voice dripping with indifference.

“She was a client,” you shot back, setting the cups into the sink with more force than necessary. “A payin’ client. I need clients, Barnes.”

Bucky leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you. “You’re actin’ like I don’t pay you triple what they’re offerin’.”

You dipped your hands further into the soapy water, pressing your palms flat against the metal bottom as you sighed, momentarily closing your eyes in exasperation. “You don’t get to decide who’s worth my time. This is my place. My work. You can’t just—”

“I thought Nat was exaggeratin’,” Bucky cut over you, his voice low but carrying an edge that made your stomach churn.

You stiffened, your grip on the cup tightening. “Exaggeratin’ about what?”

“About this.”

Your eyes flew open as his hand caught your chin, tilting your face toward him with an infuriating gentleness. His thumb brushed over your jaw, skimming the faint bruise that lingered there, and his eyes narrowed as they traced the fading split in your lip. A shiver raced down your spine, and you jerked your head away, pulling free of his grasp.

“It’s nothin’,” you muttered, returning to the sink.

“Don’t look like nothin’,” he countered, his tone sharp. “Let me see the rest.”

You froze, your hands hovering over the sink. “No.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” he snapped, moving closer. His voice dropped, carrying a dangerous edge. “I need to see what they did to you.”

You shook your head, your pulse roaring in your ears. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

Bucky let out a low growl of frustration, and before you could react, his hand was on your shoulder, spinning you around to face him. His other hand went to your waist, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Bucky, stop,” you protested, grabbing at his wrists. The soapy water made your hands slick, his skin slipping from your grasp. “This isn’t—”

“Quit fightin’ me,” he said sharply, his eyes flashing with something raw and unyielding. “I need to know.”

His words silenced you, leaving you to stare up at him in stunned disbelief. The fight drained out of you, replaced by a reluctant acceptance as you lifted your hands, a trail of water rolling down to your elbows. Your head dipped, staring down at his shoes as droplets dripped onto his boots. With a defeated sigh, you rested your palms on his chest, pressing the wet skin into his buttoned shirt until you could feel the warmth of his body. With a grunt, he tugged your blouse from where it was tucked into your shirt, ripping the fabric upward until it exposed your belly.

The air seemed to leave the room as his gaze fell on the mottled bruises that painted your abdomen, the angry purples and blues. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as his hand hovered over the worst of the damage, his fingers brushing against your side with an uncharacteristic hesitance.

You heard him swallow audibly, adam’s apple bobbing. A shiver ran down your spine as his thumb carefully ran up to your sternum, then across the band of your brassiere. 

“How many ribs did you break?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

You sucked in a sharp breath as the hair across your body rose on end. Tingles blossomed across your skull as his hand swept down to the waistband of your skirt, tugging it down to inspect the damage still hidden. 

“Three.”

His grunt of acknowledgement was quiet, but the tension dominating his frame was unmistakable. He stepped back abruptly, running a hand through his hair, tongue running over his bottom lip.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” The question gave you near vertigo. 

“I did.” You lie through your teeth

The gangster shook his head, hands resting on his hips as he looked down at you. 

“Bullshit. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. I’ve felt it, doll.” Your gut clenched as he half motioned towards his back. “If you wanted to fight back, they would’ve been dead long before they touched you.”

You pause. He was right. He was entirely right. You hadn’t fought back because you were what? Dejected and defeated? Too swept up in your own pity? Living in your mother's shadow? Or was it just the shadow you had created for yourself?

“You’re punishin’ yourself, aren’t ya? Hm?”

“I’m not lyin’ Barnes—” You begin to speak, voice raising as hysteria begins to bubble within you. Why was he asking you these things? Why was he pretending to care?

“Why?” He cuts over you, 

You turned away, refusing to respond. “I think you should leave now.”

He was silent for a beat. Then you heard the shuffle of clothing as he picked up his coat and swept it over his muscled shoulders. “I still need that favour.”

You sigh, an exaggerated noise as you spin to face him with a scowl. “What now? Can’t it wait?”

“You’re expected. At a meetin’.” 

“Meetin’?” You echoed.

“About what happened. With the Iron Rats.” 

“I thought you said you dealt with it—” You bite back, irritation flaring. 

“Would you just shut your fuckin’ mouth for a second and listen?” Bucky cut over you, voice raised. You clamp your mouth shut in surprise.

“It’s the Rat King.” Bucky meets your gaze. “He wants to meet you.”

—

You would have never described Bucky Barnes as nervous, but the walk to the Sootline almost had you questioning that assumption. Bucky kept his pace steady, though you noticed the subtle clench of his jaw and the occasional twitch of his hand at his side. It wasn’t the demeanour of a nervous man—no, Bucky Barnes didn’t do nervous—but something unexplainable was simmering beneath the surface.

The streets of the Warrens were quieter than usual, the normal hum of life dampened. The sun had grown low in the sky, the usual grey fog warming to a diffused orange and pink glow. The cobblestones were slick beneath your boots, liquids you wouldn’t dare identify, leaving a sheen across the ground that reflected the faint glow of lanterns. You adjusted your coat, tucking it closer against the chill, and cast a sidelong glance at Bucky. 

"Barnes, you alright?" you asked cautiously, breaking the silence. You weren’t one to pry, but the energy engulfing the gangster was strange.

“We’re late,” he muttered, his voice clipped.

You frowned, the sharpness of his tone needling at you. “Well, if you’d told me sooner than five minutes ago that I was needed—”

“And you would have come?.” His words were abrupt, cutting through your protest like a blade. “You do ‘ave a habit of ignorin’ my summons.”

Your jaw clamped shut, a heavy silence falling over the both of you. Further down the twisting, wonky street, you could see streetgoers dashing into nearby stores and homes. Above in the stacked homes that towered above the streets, faces cautiously peeked out, watching as Bucky and you marched past. You observed a group of three children ushered away by their mother, her tightly shutting the rickety window with a grim expression.

“It would be best if you kept your mouth shut during this. Only speak when spoken to. Just agree unless I say otherwise.” Bucky finally spoke, voice gruff.

“Why?” You pry, voice unsure.

“‘Cause I can’t help you if you say somethin’ stupid ‘n end up gettin’ yourself in more trouble.”

Your steps faltered, confusion flashing across your face. “Why do you suddenly care?”

His lip twitched, but he continued with his persistent gait. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“You’re scarin’ me—”

“I have a reputation to uphold, spirit-raiser. Can’t have these rats thinkin’ I’ve gone weak ’cause of some bird.”

The words landed heavily, and you bit back the sting of their dismissal. “What does your reputation got to do with me?”

His stride didn’t falter, but his gaze flicked toward you, brittle and intense. “If I can’t protect you, then what’s to say I can protect the whole of The Warrens, huh? What’s to stop them from marchin’ over the Sootline?”

“So, what’s this, then? You strikin’ a deal, handin’ me over to them, actin’ like you don’t care so they don’t think you’re weak ‘cause of some bird?”

“If I wanted you dead, you’d have been dead a long time ago.” He huffed out in an empty laugh. He stopped abruptly, turning to face you. The weight of his stare rooted you in place. “No, doll, those rats… they fucked up.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as he continued, his voice low and deliberate, every word laced with venom. “I’m gonna get them to bend the fuckin’ knee. Show them whose the real fuckin’ King around here.”

—

The Sootline River separated the two territories like a jagged scar, its sluggish current carrying the city’s filth toward the sea. On either bank, the Smog Boys and Iron Rats assembled in tense lines, a mix of swagger and unease flickering across their faces. The lanterns they carried swayed, casting fragmented shadows on the water as the sun finally slipped beyond the horizon, coating the land in creeping darkness, its coffin-like suffocation only exaggerated by the smoke and ash from the Smokestacks.

Bucky stood at the river’s edge, his posture deceptively relaxed, his hands buried in his coat pockets. His gaze locked onto the figure across the river: Varlan Crey—The Rat King. Varlan was everything Bucky wasn’t—brash, loud, and lumbering, his bulk swathed in a tattered black coat with yellow stitching. His grin was wide, but his teeth were uneven, lending him the air of a predator more accustomed to snapping than scheming. His gang flanked him, a pack of diseased rats, restless and waiting for a signal.

“Barnes,” Varlan called, his voice carrying easily across the water, gravelly and full of mock cheer. “Shame we ain’t meetin’ unda different circumstances.”

“Varlan,” Bucky replied, his tone steady, almost clipped. He didn’t move a muscle, his stance radiating a nearly unbearable calm.

Varlan cocked his head, his smirk widening. “I’m guessin’ this is the bird in question?” He nodded towards you.

You froze under his scrutiny, your skin prickling under the weight of his gaze. The air seemed colder now, and your chest tightened as though the river’s chill had seeped into your bones. 

Bucky gave a single, deliberate nod. “Yes.”

Varlan snorted softly. “A bird from The Warrens, crossing inta my territories ‘n causing a ruckus amongst my boys… you undastand how this looks bad, Barnes?”

Bucky didn’t flinch. His smooth and unhurried tone carried across the water like a blade. “I can. But it weren’t her that was causing the ruckus now, was it? I’m guessin’ these lies you’re tellin’ yourself are why you so recklessly declared war before examinin’ the facts.”

Varlan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise. “Facts,” he repeated, shaking his head as though the word itself amused him. “You’re soundin’ more and more like them fancy wankers up in The Flower Districts, Barnes. Especially in those fine tailored suits a yours.”

A chorus of low laughter rumbled from the Iron Rats side of the bridge, the lines of men with their yellow handkerchiefs grinning amongst themselves. 

“Oh, I can recommend you a tailor, Crey,” Bucky said lightly, his voice laced with faint amusement. “I know one who gives discounts for friends.” 

It was now time for the Smog Boys to stir behind Bucky, muffled chuckles rippling through the crowd. A flicker of a smile ghosted across Bucky’s lips, though his gaze remained fixed on Varlan. With the subtle jab landed, Varlan bristled. His shoulders stiffened, and his smirk turned brittle. He barked a short laugh, more bark than humour.

“Well,” he said, his voice sharper now. “Let’s get to the heart of the matter, shall we?”

“Go ahead,” Bucky replied.

You glanced at him, searching for some clue about his thinking, but his expression gave away nothing. Beside you, the Smog Boys settled, hands tucked into their pockets and chests puffed out as they eyed the Iron Rats across the river. Their stillness wasn’t as practised as Bucky's. He held the type of quiet that preceded violence, the kind that made your stomach churn. As you scanned their faces, you noted how young some men were, barely out of boyhood. It might have been a cause for concern, but you knew many sought out Bucky’s leadership out of desperation. Their energy was much better placed under the guidance of someone like Bucky instead of them turning to the streets where their violence and frustration would run rampant. Regardless of their age or status, you had noticed one common theme among the Smog Boys—none were left unfed, and their clothes were always without holes. The same could not be said for other less fortunate souls who braved The Warrens alone. 

“I admit,” Varlan began, dragging out the word with a performative sigh. “That I may ‘ave been… hasty. But ya can’t blame me, not with the information I was told.”

“I guess so,” Bucky replied simply. 

Bucky’s lack of reaction agitated the larger man, a cross expression forming on his greasy face. Then his smirk returned, sly and serpentine. “Well, I am impressed by ya…little investigation. Touched a nerve, did it?”

A ripple of unease passed through you as Varlan Crey lifted his brows, head tilted to match his devious, wide-eyed expression. A subtle dig at Bucky’s involvement—or worse, his attachment to you? You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of both their gazes shift momentarily to you. 

By some miracle, Bucky didn’t react to the provocation. Instead, his voice came low and steady. “I take it you spoke with the witch?”

You felt your face react before you could steel yourself, face scrunching in confusion. Witch? What witch was Bucky referring to? He certainly wasn’t referring to you—you had never met the Rat King before, let alone spoke with him about your misdeeds of crossing into his territories. In retrospect, with the gravity of the situation weighing upon you, it was a foolish assumption to make thinking you could walk into Grimrow unimpeded or unidentified. In recent months, it seemed everyone and anyone knew who you were before you knew them. It was as if you walked your life with a ginormous red hot brand across your forehead that simply said: Bucky Barnes!

“Spoke? Yes,” Varlan said, his voice emerging in a drawl. “Come ‘ere, girl.” 

He turned slightly, and a figure emerged from the Iron Rats’ crowd.

Wanda.

Wanda.

Your chest tightened, bruising squeezing painfully. She walked forward with her usual unnerving grace, her head high, her eyes sweeping the scene before her. Her auburn locks bounced across her white dress, sheepskin draped over her shoulders to protect her from the chill. Coven garb. She was calm. Too calm. The shock of seeing her in the Church of Light clothing almost made you physically recoil. You had never seen the attire in the flesh, but you remembered how your mother had described it—white to symbolise the light and the chosen babe, the Light-bringer. Diviner. 

The voices of the past echoed those names in your mind.

Light-bringer…

Your mother had always been short in her tales, too afflicted by the trauma and illness that had ruled most of her life away from the Coven. She had only spoken of the cruelty and sickness in those temple walls. The white was purity, the end of times, the rapture… but also a symbol of their devotion. The crimson blood of their self-inflicted or sometimes forced punishments showed up best on a fresh canvas. 

How had Wanda inserted herself in your life so quickly? How long had Leofric and his coven of fucking madness been tailing you? And how had Bucky known to bring her? You glanced at him, desperate for a flicker of understanding, but his face remained devoid of emotion.

“It seems my friend, Barnes ‘ere, is obsessed with facts.” The Rat King spoke, pulling you from your confused daze. He wheezed out a laugh, a phlegm-filled cough quickly following as he spat the glob into the filthy churning Sootline.

“Go on then, girl. State the facts.” Varlan instructed with a bark.

Wanda folded her hands in front of her, her voice level and composed. “I invited her to Grimrow.”

A surprised murmur swept over the crowd.

“The Church of Light has been expanding its temple across the Sootline. I was honoured to become the Head Priestess for our new build—”

“Yeah, yeah, cut to the facts, girl.” Varlan cut over Wanda. 

The auburn woman's eyes sparked with something that could only be described as irritation, but it was only a flicker as she expertly composed herself. “I invited her over to celebrate with me, as we have been friends since childhood.”

The word friends felt like a slap. Or even better, a well-placed stab to the abdomen. Your throat tightened as you stared at her, horrified by her ease in lying. How could she say it so smoothly? So convincingly? You tried to form words, but they caught in your throat, leaving you in silence.

“You agree,” Varlan pressed, his voice breaking through your haze, “that you were invited?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came, head spinning. Finally, you forced yourself to speak. “Yes.”

Varlan’s sly eyes narrowed, assessing you. “You say you are both friends but… the bartender and my men witnessed a fight between ya both,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “Why?”

Wanda quickly stepped in, her voice carrying a faint trace of sorrow. “I had expressed my concern. I wished she would stop workin’ for the Smog Boys out of fear for her safety.”

Varlan’s amusement flickered across his face, but you caught the subtle way his eyes darted toward Bucky. It was a jab meant to provoke. Bucky didn’t bite. He remained as unmoving as stone.

“And what do you say?” Varlan asked, turning his attention back to you.

Wanda’s eyes burned into your own, her chin lifting. You could’ve sworn you saw the ghost of a smirk across her lips as she watched you squirm. You couldn’t claim she was lying, or this elaborate fabrication would fall apart. You couldn’t gauge her motive. Was it to make you feel you owed her and the Church of Light? Was it to protect you? Plant seeds of doubt within Bucky, and make it seem like you had hidden parts of your life from him?

“She’s tellin’ the truth,” you surrender, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue.

“And do you have evidence? Of this letter sent to you to invite you?”

Your stomach dropped further, quickly scrambling to come up with a believable lie. “No… No, I burn all my old mail. I use it as kindlin’.”

“Convenient,” Varlan spat out with a slow shake of his head. “Very convenient.”

“I have evidence,” Wanda interjected smoothly, producing a rolled parchment from somewhere on her person. “It is the reply she sent me, confirmin’ the date.”

Bucky’s shoulders subtly relaxed beside you. Had he known about the lie, or was he being strung along by her games, too? Had the two spoken as well? What lies had she told him? Worst of all was the flare of jealousy in your gut—the thought of him talking with that woman, the idea of him trusting her over you—the weight of betrayal was suffocating. Wanda had gone to unimaginable lengths, forging a note in your handwriting to solidify this ruse.

“You wrote this reply?” Varlan asked, holding the parchment aloft.

“Yes.” Your tongue felt thick in your mouth.

Varlan examined the note for a long moment before nodding. “Well, seems you’re right, Barnes. My men were in the wrong. “

“So, we have an understanding now, Crey?” Bucky asked, his voice steady.

“Believe we do, Barnes,” Varlan replied. “Your woman can walk free.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his hand flexing at his side. For a moment, he didn’t respond; his cold blue eyes locked on Varlan like a wolf sizing up its prey.

“That’s it?” Bucky asked, his voice low, dangerously calm. “She walks free, and we’re supposed to call it even?”

Varlan spread his hands in a gesture of mock generosity. “What more do you want, Barnes? She crossed into my territory. I’ve agreed to let her go, no harm done. This should be the end of it.”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He glanced down at you briefly, his expression unreadable, before looking back at Varlan. “No harm done? Is that what ya think?”

“She’s standin’ here, ain’t she?” Varlan said, his tone oily, his confidence growing in the face of no immediate retaliation. “No blood spilt, no lastin’ damage. Consider this a…generous gesture from me.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. Without another word, he stalked toward the bridge.

The movement drew startled murmurs from both sides.

“What’s he doin’?” one of the Iron Rats hissed, his hand twitching toward his weapon.

“Hold!” Varlan snapped. “Let him come if he wants.” There was a cool confidence to his tone, a confidence that was likely misplaced. 

“Barnes,” Varlan said, his voice rising as Bucky drew closer with deliberate, measured steps. “There ain’t no need for this. I’ve said the matter is settled.”

Bucky said nothing as he reached the other side. His hand slid into his coat, and when it emerged, he held a knife. The blade gleamed in the lantern light, its sharp edge catching the flickering flames.

The Iron Rats stiffened as if momentarily stunned and unable to make a move.

“Let’s be clear,” Bucky said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension like the edge of his blade. “You think you can cross me, threaten a woman under my protection, and walk away with a few pretty words? Is that what ya think, Crey?”

Varlan stepped back instinctively, his misplaced confidence crumbling as Bucky loomed over him. “Barnes, this is unnecessary—”

Bucky moved faster than anyone expected. His boot struck Varlan’s chest in a brutal kick, sending the Rat King sprawling onto his back. Gasps erupted from the Iron Rats, a few finally thawing out enough to jerk forward, but were quickly off-put their heroism by the crowd of Smog Boys inching across the bridge, blades drawn and faces like jackals.

At some point in the chaos, you had lost sight of Wanda, the witch disappearing into the shadows and fog like a ghost in the night.

Varlan scrambled backwards, his hands raised in a panicked gesture of surrender. “Wait! Barnes, wait!”

Bucky crouched over him, the knife hovering dangerously close to Varlan’s throat. “Ya think this is a game, Crey? Well, let’s fuckin’ play then, huh?” he spat. 

“I—I didn’t mean for any of this!” Varlan stammered, his voice high with panic. “I swear, Barnes. Please!”

“Beg,” Bucky said, his voice cold and unrelenting.

Varlan’s face twisted with humiliation, but the knife at his throat left no room for pride. Slowly, he rose to his knees, his hands still outstretched in surrender but his entire form trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I was wrong. Please.”

“Louder,” Bucky demanded.

“I’m sorry!” Varlan cried, his voice cracking. “You can ‘ave the men, do what ya want with ‘em. Is that what you want? Please… just—”

Bucky gripped his balding head with a firm grip, directing Varlan’s watery, terrified eyes to look across the Sootline at you. You had a sudden epiphany, an understanding that Bucky had never been nervous. No. That strange energy, that twitchiness… it had been pure, unfiltered rage.

“Now, say sorry to her.” Bucky instructed, his voice near seething.

“I am sorry! I’m sorry for me actions. And my mens.” The Rat King cried out. Your gaze lifted to meet Bucky’s as he stared back across the Sootline at you. His grip on the man’s head tightened. “Please!”

“Bucky.” You finally spoke up, your voice soft as the breeze as it carried across the river.

As if your brief speech had broken a spell cast across the gangster, Bucky immediately straightened, his expression calm as he sheathed the knife. He reached out and patted Varlan’s head mockingly.

“Good little rat,” he murmured. “You know, I’m hostin’ a party soon. Maybe I’ll invite you, and you can dance and entertain me like the fuckin’ jester you are.”

Varlan’s humiliation was evident, his men exchanging uneasy glances. Bucky grinned wide, showing all his teeth.

“As for the men,” He said, his tone sharp as he turned to face the crowd of Iron Rats head-on. “The ones who crossed the border. Hand them over.”

Varlan hesitated for a moment, his pride still clinging stubbornly. But the weight of Bucky’s gaze, the threat of what he might do, was too much to bear. He nodded quickly, motioning to his men.

As if not wanting to anger the gangster further, the Iron Rats were quick to locate the three culprits and push them ahead, their expressions ashen with terror. Smog Boys emerged from the mist like spectres, grasping the men and dragging them across the bridge before they could escape and bolt back into the depths of Grimrow.

“Take them,” Varlan said hoarsely, his body sunken in defeat. “They’re yours.”

Bucky didn’t even look at them. He turned and crossed the bridge, hand grasping your forearm as he tugged you along. You frantically looked back, watching through the filthy haze as Varlan Crey stumbled back to his feet, cheeks burning, forehead slick with sweat. His men around him looked dejected, their beady eyes following you as you disappeared into the smog.

“Come,” Bucky uttered to you. “We have business to attend to.”

[vulpinesaint]

excatholic will always be a better descriptor for me than agnostic or atheist cause it's not like i don't believe in god. that's not really a choice for me. my foundational perception of the world is built around a belief in god. so all that core stuff is still there. religious leaning of 'excatholic' meaning that to me the foundational facts of the catholic tradition are true, that god is real to me and so are sins and saints, but that i am consciously choosing to be contrary to all the practices of the religion because i think they are bad 👍 'excatholic' cause i think it's all real! i have just chosen to go to hell about it 🫡

[flowery-moth-angel]

Oh boy I got answers.

1: Reconnecting with Yahweh. I grew up christian and became very traumatized and felt abandoned. I suffered a lot and religion played a part too. I rejected God fairly early on. Because on of the energies I felt was distant and uncaring, that I had to just trust him for no reason. But over time, listening to other religions and people that genuinely have a relationship of some kind with him, started to heal. And I also just always talked to him. But when I talked to him, he felt so different to the God I felt before. Like they were so vastly different. And recently I decided to just start learning about Yahweh. I learned a lot already. About him having a wife, how he was worshipped long ago, the way Christianity and Catholicism came to be. And how much was also lost due to them trying to erase Asharah as well. And the energy I feel lines up with the more neutral/calm energy I felt from God.

It makes me proud because it is bettering me and the energy I feel from him now is what I always wished it was to be. I don't believe the other energy I felt was God. I have felt intense or heavy energy of some deities that are more serious or even distant. But that other energy was just awful. Yet it was what was "God" in my childhood and with my parents. One theory some have is it's an egregore that evangelicals really believe in which is pretty much I believe. Cause it is so vastly different from the God I am closer to now. It just makes me happy seeing a heavy spot that was so traumatic to me is becoming better and that I'm learning a lot about what he is really like and a lot of history too. Religions and beliefs and faiths and practices are a special interest too outside my practice so I also just like learning about it.

2: Reconnecting to my roots. Since I was young, any time I asked my parents about our ancestry or lineage, I got told we were just American or that we don't know and it doesn't matter. I hated feeling so culturally separated. It's clear our family has been in America for a good while now and let a lot of our cultures go from the past. And it's been something I've never liked since I was a kid. While I don't know everything that I have and want to do a DNA test, I already try to learn about a lot of my roots. I'm mostly focusing on Celtic/Irish now and had German a bit ago. But there's also English, French, and Scottish. I want to really reconnect to those old roots that were left forgotten or colonized and left behind. That old magic and ancestral importance that was forsaken for how it is today. I'm just starting with Celtic/Irish since I feel the largest draw, but I'll get there one day too. A lot was lost through colonization and all since even before they colonized many other nations, white nations very much did colonize themselves first. And so I want to learn about that history and ancestry and come to have it as a part of me. It's gonna be a lot of work, but like. It's important to me. Whatever lineage I have that dates back before many many many eras, I wish to honor it the best I can. So much culture has been lost due to colonization and christianity/catholicism so I feel it's important. It's a shame really. But still. It's especially not going to be easy for like English history either because just a quick look into it and yeah. A lot of it was very much lost to time and to the roman influence and anglo-saxons as well. And it is a shame seeing how much history, culture, and beliefs are lost due to so many influences throughout time. Again, I've only really focused on Celtic/Irish for now so that's the one I'm most well versed in currently. But I know it's going to be a journey with how far back it'll need to go and how much truly was lost. But even if it's not much, I'll do what I can to give it some form of life in today and through me. So little is known about our family and it really shows how much we conformed and paints an ugly history too. We don't know much beyond great grandparents and great great grandparents and I know even less about my dad's side of the family. I barely know anything about his grandparents or his life. So with that and having always wanted to understand my culture and my ancestry, I really want to focus on it with studying and learning what I can and incorporating parts of it into my practice if I can. It's been a strong draw since I was young. This strong pull and desire to know where we come from. Even if I'm the only one in my family, it makes me proud to know I'm gonna do it. And I've already begun to do so.

3: Coming into my own. Lately been feeling Marquis Andras a lot. And he has been helping me for sure. But I feel more renewed strength and learning to trust myself and communicate. Even if his lessons are very intense and painful since, ya know, he's a demon associated with sowing discord. He's not the easiest teacher, but I appreciate that. But even at the start of my journey years ago, it helped so much with my trauma and delusions and hallucinations then. I'm prone to paranoia and I'm schizospec and psychotic so like. I have issues. But since becoming a witch and feeling protected and understanding more of what I feel, it's been better. A lot of the trauma I dealt with back then has eased a bit to where I'm not always angry or scared. And I'm far less frightened at night or in the dark. I feel less powerless. And right now, I'm working on better communication and trusting my gut. I usually downplay my abilities when telling signs or feelings the presence of deities and stuff like that. So. I'm learning to trust it. And to go with my gut more. Cause I am often right. But I'm pretty insecure and have low self esteem and low confidence when doing things myself. And it's been better. Marquis Andras is one of the focuses right now, but all of the deities that have helped me and will help me even if I do not know them yet or can identify them or feel them yet makes me very happy. They have shown me more love than I have ever received. They're important to me. So just. Really becoming more confident and self assured, figuring out what works for me as a really disabled and traumatized person that is financially dependent and not well off, what I'm drawn to, learning to trust myself, and so on. It feels like I really am growing. That every single time, I become a better version of myself. And that makes me proud.

Pagans and polytheists, what are you most proud of in your practice? Lessons you've learned, new methods of worship you've implemented, offerings you've given - that sort of thing. 🧡

[planefood]

This is just a thing I see on my internet romps every now and then but it drives me crazy for no reason, bare with me. Why do people draw lines in the sand about different kinds of therians lol? Who cares if someone woke up and decided that they're wolf therian or something when you decided unconsciously you were a wolf therian instead. Why do people fight about whether or not someone can choose to be therian, its the most silly gatekeeping I see. And don't come at me saying "well theres this label for chosen therians because they're not actual therians like me" you guys... made these terms up in the first place it literally doesn't matter. There is absolutely zero difference between a chosen therian and a not chosen therian and you can't convince me otherwise. How would a self proclaimed "real" therian know that they didn't just choose to be therian one day, there's absolutely no way you can know that for sure.

Every time I become curious about a subculture there's always some ridiculous gatekeeping, even objectums seem to fight over silly bullshit.

[aroacepagans]

Questions for religious aros:

Does your aromantic identity impact how you conceptualize agape/ holy and divine love?

Has the idea of divine love driven you away from certain spiritual practices?

Do you find the idea of divine love comforting when considering what it means to be loved/experience love as an aro person?

How does being a loveless aro impact your understanding of divine love?

How does being a lovequeer aro impact your understanding of divine love?

[utilitycaster]

all clear! I have stuff to do so I won't get to cooldown/reblogs/writing meta etc until later today but I will be opening the inbox, and most crucially my first thought is "lol Vox Machina, the only party with zero ties to any dunamancy, is going to have to rescue the luxon beacon"

[wagonlitcommunitytheatregroup]

I'm glad you mentioned not-ape animals as well. A cat bringing you a dead mouse is an example of gift giving! And countless Non (and pre)-Christian traditions practice gift giving. I feel like atheists are often so obsessed with talking physics with religious people we neglect to discuss anthropology and history as proof the religions aren't as unique as they think. Or at least not in the ways they think they are.

I hate to say it but I do fear we need to take Christmas away from non-Christians.

‘Secular Christmas’ babes that’s just capitalism…

[outlying-hyppocrate]

i have officially returned. ask me anything.

[leroibobo]

the paradesi synagogue in kochi, kerala, india. the first synagogue on the site, built by the city's longstanding malabari jewish community, was destroyed by portugese who'd colonized the area in their persecution of locals. it was rebuilt in 1568 by spanish and portugese jews who fled persecution and later expulsion, hence the name "paradesi" ("foreign" in malayalam).

these sephardic jews and a community of jews of mixed african and european descent who were formerly enslaved ("meshuchrarim", "freedmen" in hebrew) joined the malabari jewish community of kochi and somewhat integrated. they were later joined by some iraqi, persian, yemenite, afghan, and dutch sephardic jews. the middle eastern and european jews were considered "white jews" and permitted malabari jews and meshuchrarim to worship in the synagogue. however, in what seems like a combination of local caste dynamics and racism, malabari jews were not allowed full membership. meshuchrarim weren't allowed in at all, but were instead made to sit outside during services and not allowed their own place of worship or other communal rights.

as the "white jews" tended to be rather wealthy from trade, this synagogue contains multiple antiquities. they include belgian glass chandeliers on its walls, hand-painted porcelain tiles from china on its floors, and an oriental rug that was gifted by ethiopian emperor haile selassie.

[rhaenys-queenofkhyrulzz]

*faceplants*

I have a crush. I'm doomed.

[wordsmithic]

Thank you @just-1-scorpio for taking one for the team and reviewing one of the Greek myth retellings out there that make us Greeks cringe! Great comments! I am a nitpicker myself (because imo, no cultural elements are "too small" to comment on) If I may, I'd like to add a few things because oooooh boy, do I have some comments! 😂

For "pater", my opinion as a writer is that she could've just called him "father". "Pater" is not a terminology or a special word that only the Greek language has. (Unlike "chiton" which refers to a specific type of garment) On top of that, nobody calls their father "pater", it's too archaic and cringe. They may only call their parents "pateras" and "mitera" when they speak about them to other people. So for me, this is a negative.

In Greece, Botsaris is a surname, not a name. Unless they state it's his surname and that this is what they use to call him. Sometimes we use a person's surname instead of their name if it's what distinguishes them in the public eye.

The story takes place in a futuristic Greece and yet, I can bet my right arm that it has no actual Greek culture in it. (Besides, perhaps, one poor mention of feta or baklava) I don't understand why bother with a foreign culture and location when every place and interaction reads they are in New York 2.0 . Are there any historical dates that they commemorate? Any customs that they do? etc I don't think so, but let me know if you stumble upon them!

Ok, so one of the old gods came back to save the nation. But this leaves many practical questions that Alessa Thorn hasn't considered because she consider us Greeks like a fantasy race that lives only in legends and fairytales. First of all, how and why did ALL Greeks switch their religion AGAIN after 2.000 years? Was our ethnoreligion, Christianity, not good enough anymore because....? Because one old god appeared and that was it? 2.000 years of tradition and theology ditched? Or are we not a real people, so practical things about our ethnic religion are not worth thinking about...?

"Also we also learn that in this Minos's surname is Karros. I don't know why he was given a surname." Why would it be weird for him to be given a surname? Looks perfectly fine to me. Is there a detail I don't know? Also, perhaps Karros is a Greek surname but I've never heard of it or could find it on Google. It's just an ancient word meaning "heavy sleep, drowsiness".

Now I'm curious, what is this language only Ariadne and her sister knew?

A group calling themselves the Pithos AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA wtff .... So, the group is called Pithos, but the writer uses and English word for "Spindle"? Why not "Atraktos"?? Man, that's a bad inconsistency.

"Sing, of when Greece's economy collapsed and the land was on fire with the turmoil man's governance had brought" is a VERY CLUNKY sentence. Let me try and fix it: "Sing of our nation's financial ruin and scorched land caused by man's wretched rule".

"Greece's economy collapsed and the land was on fire" I'm kinda taking the piss here but, baby, this is an average year for Greece. That alone is not going to destroy our country 😂😂😂 Also that's not enough to destroy a country in general. There are many financial mechanisms to save our banks and the economy in the long run, and we have been already in a loooong recovery plan (which Schäuble applied in the most shitty and incorrect way but whatever). So I really cannot suspend my disbelief here 😂 I promise I can suspend my disbelief when needed, but this just was too funny for me so it's a personal comment only!

It's also not clear to me if by "the ancient city of Corinth" Corinth as it exists today, oooor the archaeological site. Perhaps she means the Corinth that exists today because technically Corinth never stopped existing, and it is a place people have been living since antiquity. It's still the same place but you obviously cannot continue building in the same space for a hundred generations due to a variety of reasons (social, warfare, climate reasons etc).

I don't know why the book presents the old Corinth (let's say as of 2024) as a "major city" before its collapse but currently, Corinth is, what the USAmericans call "a town". Not negligible, but not one of the strongest ones. I know that the writer doesn't give a specific date for Corinth's greatness, however, I comment on it since I feel she only made it a "major city" because it was considered to be this 2.500 years ago and our antiquity is the only historical era she's heard of. Whatever, a little bit nitpicky... But it tells me she probably didn't look the modern version of Corinth up.

Medusa makes some sense being next to Hades because the Gorgons were considered Chthonic creatures.

"Serpentine Industries" would sound so stupid in Greek 😂😂 Also the name brought to my mind the "serpantina"/"serpentina" which we also use to describe defecation because of how shit comes out sometimes 😂 ("τον πήγε σερμπαντίνα")

"Hellas district".... baby your country is already called Hellas! 😂 Perhaps there is a road or square (not a district, that's weird) SOMEWHERE in Greece called "Greece" but I haven't seen it. We only have one area "Ellinikon" which means "Greek (business center)" but that makes sense. Districts with national names would only make sense if there were different ethnicities in the city. Aka, the Greek district, the Jewish district, the Slavic district, like we used to have in many towns around Greece during the era of Ottoman conquest.

What's worse, THOUSANDS of people have read this EKTROMA (abomination), and its rating is 4.07 stars....

I was a bit happy to see a published book consider the existence of Greece as a country but then Alessa Thorn turned this into a shitshow 😭😭😭😭😭

"Diogenes" is not too bad a name for that street but you are right, they could've found a much more fitting name! Sometimes we call the commerce streets Ermou (Hermes').

@just-1-scorpio I would be very interested if we could discuss/diss the next chapters together and do a joined review! If you are interested, send me a personal message 💜💜💜

Reading Asterion by Alessa Thron, so you don't have to. Prologue, and chapter one.

So let's start with the positives.

-I liked how the prologue had "Sing O' Muse" in it.

-The world building has some nice ideas, but I have a lot of questions.

-I like how Minos was called "pater" (father in Greek) by Ariadne.

-I like how there are some words such "chiton", and "pithos", alongside with "pater". apeard.

Wow so many positives. Now let's get to everything else.

So Ariadne is a assasin, who just killed someone. A bisnise man called Botsaris. And her sister is also mentiond.

And her sisters's name is Lia. Okey. I gues. But why did she made up a sister? Ariadne had sisters in mythology. Xenodice for exemple, but there is veary little source about her, and there are two other figures who have the same name in Greek mythology. Acacallis, there are not much writen of her, but the defrent sources agree that Minos is her father, and eather had a romance with Hermes, or Apollo. There is also her most well known sister Phaedra, who I think needs no introduction. So I don't get why she had to make one up?

And I don't know why, but for some reason this screan rubs me the wrong way. I don't know why. And I'm the only one who doas not really like this writing style?

Anyway. So after this Ariadne goas back to her apartmant, and goas to sleep. Then the next moring she goas to Minos, who is her boss, not her father. Who lives in a mension, that is also a temple, and a school for assasins, all of who work for him. By the way so far we don't know which god's temple it is. All the assasins have code names. Minos and Ariadne here a conversetion, about the last kill. Ariadne clearly hates him. Here is a part of the conversetion.

So one question. Why would people take it as evidenc that that was the reason why he was killed? Was it a public knowlige? Or I'm just stupid?

Also we also learn that in this Minos's surname is Karros. I don't know why he was given a surname.

So anyway. Ariadne recives her sister's ashes from Minos, then she goas home, and meets with her landlady, and recives a packige. She goas up to her apartmant, then this happands.

I looked up, and pithos is a type of jar. By the way.

And then there is the world building.

So aperently it eather takes place in an alternative timeline, or in the future. Or both.

This is from the prologue.

Agein, when doas this take place? Antient Corinth is already ruins. So agein when doas this take place? There are trains, cars, mobile phones, internet, and skyscrapers. I looked up, and found two Corinths. One is the ancient one, and the another one is the city's sucsesor. So did the writer mean the second one, or? Also why is it named Styx?

Also hy is Medusa working for him? Why?

Also also Hellas District? Isn't Hellas literally mean Greece?

And the rich district is named after Diogenes. I know that naming things like streets is a thing. After all here in Hungary we have streets named after Petőfi Sándor (one of our most well known poets). But naming the rich eria after Diogenes, that is full of banks, luxury shops, ect? Didn't he lived in the market place in a wine jar? I know that Alexander the Great was a big fan of him, but I'm the only one who thinks, that this naming doas not make sense. Wouldn't switching the names of the two eria make more sense? Or I'm just nickpicking, or something?

I'm to harsh?

Edit: I was wrong. "pater" is not Latin, but Greek word.

[presidentofthelipglossclub]

ok i know i just posted a self indulgent tfrb au but i can't hold this one in any longer

it's pretty simple honestly but basically all the rescue bots are reincarnations of the thirteen primes and that's why they're so fucking overpowered.

btw by reincarnation i mean the traditional bhuddist reincarnation (i'm not v religious but i align w bhuddism/hinduism bc desi), which basically means the original thirteen still exist but their reincarnations are like avatars/forms that can exist at the same time.

one of the big examples of this reincarnation is vishnu and krishna. krishna is a reincarnation of vishnu, but vishnu was still alive when krishna was created. this is because krishna is a manifestation of vishnu's power/spirit. it's possible to be a reincarnation of vishnu and not be a reincarnation of krishna btw.

anyways that was a quick lil religious explanation but that's how i think of it for the rescue bots, and optimus too. (i think the thirteenth prime is still alive or whatever like the other thirteen, optimus is just an avatar of his.)

so the thirteen can watch their reincarnations and they talk about the rescue bots like they are them (the thirteen), because they sorta are. but then the rescue bots aren't exactly like them, because they're more like representations of the souls of the thirteen.

[quietwingsinthesky]

(For the game) I think the doctor should have more diverse companions. Give them more non human alien companions! Give them a companion is who fundamentally bad, who they have realize they can’t fix

strongly agree | agree | neutral | disagree | strongly disagree

yeah!!!!! oh and can i add to that! one thing i'd love to see? just like. a companion who is religious. in a way that is taken account into in the narrative and that is like. discussed? you know, how does going on time travel universe hopping adventures effect one's religious ideas. that would be fascinating to me. i think we've gotten like blanket statement things about future humans adjusting their religious beliefs or whatever but that's not what im interested in exactly. i want like. what does it do, to a modern human with modern religious ideas, to have to adjust that to aliens and shit. and how does their way of incorporating this life with the doctor reflect their character!

i think that'd be fascinating!!! and someone definitely smarter than me out there could probably write an incredible buddhist companion for the doctor and draw on the obvious cultural influences borrowed about cycles of reincarnation in constructing the doctor's whole regeneration thing to discuss shit. maybe one day. i'd love to see it.

[timetravellingkitty]

I could elaborate on said negative feelings but that would require not having a runny nose

[blackvahana]

i am really never going to understand why people post "shifting antis dni" in the astral projection tag. "here practice that constantly gets appropriated by us and used as a weird justification for a new set of beliefs that aren't really based in the same reality you work with, and that also gets completely misunderstood by our community because we don't care to understand what you do and just pretend we know it's what we do like christians saying other religions worship the christian god, have a post! Also dni if you don't like our practice that has nothing to do with the one whose tag we just shoved this into"

if you're not astral projecting don't put shit in the ap tag. if you don't even know the difference between AP and RS I dont think your opinion holds enough weight to counter the pushback against flooding a separate practice's tag with "if you dont like the practice I'm talking about in your tags dni"