#spring tempus | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

astralnymphh · 10 months ago

Text

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette.

And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet.

April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde.

Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

“Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper. You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

“Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..”

Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..”

Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right?

One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

“Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood.

Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence.

“Say cheese!”

America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you.

Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’.

Un–fucking–believable.

Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed.

“C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels.

Not so good for the respiratory system though.

Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—”

Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

“Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?”

A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

“This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.”

Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

“Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

“Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

“Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama.

And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

“You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

“Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

“Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

“For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

“Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

“Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

“Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy, “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

“That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”

Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting.

“Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

“If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?”

“Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.”

“Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles.

“Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

“I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.”

Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

“Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.”

You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant.

There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

“Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

“No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

“Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together.

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco.

Stygian tones.

“Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

“Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

“Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more.

Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting.

“Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.”

They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.”

“My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

“Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

“Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

“Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

“Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

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randomfoggytiger · 2 months ago

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The Scully Family In-Depth (Part XXI): Faith, Fear, and Scully Symbiosis, Part I

The concluding scene between Scully and her mother is enlightening: not only of their past, present, and future dynamics, but also of the heretical hierarchy she unconsciously erects with her loved ones. There are "other fathers"; but there are also interceding mothers, blind believers, and advocating consciences.

ALL HOPE IS LOST

Scully is lying in bed, wrestling for composure-- swallowing, raising her signature eyebrow-- as the camera pans in, narrowing further and further in on her lost, hopeless, terrified expression. Here, she is aware that the chip has “failed”; and finally believes that death is approaching.

When the door opens and Maggie whispers, “Dana?”, Scully turns abruptly away from the wall, a tear spilling from the corner of one eye.

“Dr. Zuckerman called. He, uh…” her mother rambles, worried and anxious. Catching herself, she affects unaffectedness, approaching with a spring in her step and false smile on her face-- “He said that you wanted to see me?”-- which drops, quickly, when her daughter sits up without a word, visibly troubled. “What is it?”

Scully lunges towards her mother, clinging in shaking horror.

“I’m so sorry,” she wobbles, voice stained with repentance and guilt as she struggles against her fear. “I fight… and I fight and I fight, but I’ve been so stupid." Grieved and shaken, she sniffles back tears clogging her throat.

Lost but relieved at her daughter’s openness, Maggie asks, “What is it?” with a maternal lilt to her voice. (One she might have used to unscramble a weepy confession over some minor infraction, or to unwind the logic behind a particularly challenging math problem.)

Scully pulls back, haunted. “I’ve come so far in my life on simple faith. And now when I need it the most, I just push it away.”

While her admittance explicitly refers to her Catholic beliefs, it also explicitly applies to her partnership and her cancer journey. Scully, despite vowing she would find the answers “for her own reasons” has clung to the hope that, against all the universal laws of science, she would survive terminal brain cancer. Her journey since Memento Mori has been to embrace the fight, to refuse to give up, to insist that she can save herself with her science; or, if push comes to shove, with Mulder’s truth. She likely gave up chemo after Scanlon-- there were no chemo treatments that would cure her, as stated-- and tried immunotherapy treatments instead so she could continue to work, to find answers; and pretended nothing was wrong because everything would be made right, soon. In Elegy, her report came up clean; but she still saw Harold Spuller, which shook her conviction that science was stalling the cancer (post here.) In Gethsemane, she was given a death sentence but refused to accept it; and still did not want her brothers (or Father McCue) to be told-- because deep down, despite her grand stances and "last wishes", she didn't believe she would die (post here.) In Redux I, she escaped a sense of helplessness by working, by trying to prove Mulder right while he plundered the DOJ: she believed he, if anyone, could save her. In Redux II, she panicked when her partner asked if conventional treatment needed to be halted (post here); and was shaken when her doctor admitted the only hope she had left would have to be “unconventional.”

Mulder became her faith: while she was languishing in Scanlon’s facility, she clung to his conviction, drawing upon it to record her defeated thoughts. She used it to rise from Betsy’s deathbed, to move forward with strength, to believe, deep down, that his truth and her faith would cure her. Mulder had doubts in his abilities-- gifting her a keychain in Tempus Fugit, pointing a gun at his head (at his failures) in Demons-- but Scully never did… until Elegy, until he ripped that conviction out from under both their feet. (“The doctor said I’m fine,” she’d said, clinging to shaky ground. “I hope that’s the truth,” he’d replied, showing her there was no ground to cling to.) Scully thought she gave up in Gethsemane, but Bill exposed her to herself (post here)-- “What are you doing at work, getting knocked down? What are you trying to prove? …To this guy, Mulder?” She was trying to prove something: that she hadn’t failed, that she’d done her best. And she felt those efforts had been rewarded by his last-ditch effort to get her a cure… and it had failed. She had failed.

Here, Scully can no longer dodge, run from, or escape the reality of her death: it is before her, again, after being banished in Memento Mori; and it has defeated her (and her partner’s, and her family’s) last hope. With this in mind, she called Maggie first to admit defeat so her mother relay to Mulder, a reversal of Memento Mori’s order of operations. She would rather disappoint her mother than her partner, not after everything they'd been through that year.

Maggie listens, sympathetically and without comment, assuming her daughter will close up if she misplaces a word.

Scully continues, becoming more fervent in her ravaging self-doubt while ripping out the cross from under her hospital gown. “I mean, why… why do I wear this?”

Her mother doesn’t respond, face softly grimacing at the brandished necklace-- possibly over its Ascension connections. At her daughter’s repeated, “Why do I wear this, Mom?”, she wisely keeps silent: the answer that contents her-- a strong belief in God-- wouldn’t, and hasn't, helped her daughter. It’s best to let emotion ride its course, and help Dana settle down afterwards.

“I put something that I don’t even know,” Scully asserts, “or understand under the skin of my neck. I will subject myself to these crazy treatments-- and I keep telling myself that I am doing everything I can. But it’s a lie!” She stops, eyes down, sitting in torment-- a grotesque mask's mockery of happiness-- waiting for her mother to say something, anything.

Maggie doesn’t doubt her daughter: “You have not lost your faith, Dana.”

And Scully hasn’t; but her self doubt is overwhelming her, is providing proof of her inadequacies with each new medical report-- with the final medical report-- and laughing her to scorn.

“I have,” Scully insists, before correcting herself, “in a way. When you, when you asked Father McCue to dinner to minister to my faith, I just closed off to him.”

I’ve discussed before that Melissa Scully acted as the voice of Scully’s conscience (posts here, here, here), and literally as her voice in One Breath. However, this scene in Redux II illustrates the importance of her dynamic with Maggie Scully: her mother acts as Scully’s confessor, just as her father acted as her god. Although Scully took the life of a snake as a little girl, it was Maggie who recalled the story-- in detail so specific that she only could have gotten it directly from Scully. It was Maggie who helped absolve her guilt in The Blessing Way and Wetwired. And most importantly, it was Maggie who patched together Captain Scully and their daughter's relationship; and Maggie who Scully turned to for guidance and reassurance at his funeral (Beyond the Sea) and on her deathbed (Redux II.)

But why? Bill Scully and Melissa didn’t have that relationship with Maggie; and we can assume Charlie falls in the same lines. Yet for Scully, the sun seems to rise and fall on the opinion of her parents. Maggie herself is constantly trying to point Dana to her own path, aware she has no answers that would truly satisfy her daughter: “he was your father” and “you haven’t lost your faith” are truths that she believes are the key to these complicated questions; but knows are not enough, yet.

We see this near deification stems back to Scully’s relationship with her father and extends outward to “other fathers.” But that’s not the whole truth: for every god there is an intermediary; for every Captain there is a wife who gives him “the look” after their daughter’s Christmas dinner (post here.) And for every god and intermediary there is a true believer. And even further, for every true believer there is a conscience that puts into words the deep mysteries of the heart.

And while Scully pedestalized her loved ones-- asking for their opinion on her FBI recruitment, asking for their forgiveness-- then duplicated these structures into other areas of her life-- be it as a disciple of Daniel Waterston's or as an intermediary confessor to (and true believer in) her partner-- her own pedestalized idols pushed back against or regretted their daises. Her father was a man who loved but forgot to translate that love into words, her mother is a woman reliant on her daughter’s strength, her sister was a woman who loved loudly and often overstepped, and her partner is a man who believes deeply in everyone but himself. These people are aware of their faults and voice them constantly to Scully; but she can’t-- or won’t-- see them because she is too afraid to accept their humanity and strike out completely on her own… not until all things, that is.

(Another interesting note: Redux II will later subtly hammer home the “other fathers” connection to Mulder via this convoluted dynamic Scully keeps perpetuating.)

Maggie tightens her mouth, battling relief and bittersweet hope at this confession. Faith in God has lent her strength, and she believes it will give her daughter strength, too. Further, she believes her daughter has been suppressing and choking on denial since the cancer diagnosis; and, while happy Dana is sharing this burden, that joy is marred by the circumstances.

To soothe her own emotions, she begins to put her daughter 'back together'-- a habit Scully seems to have adopted, in adulthood, with her partner. Maggie schools her emotions as best she can while patting her daughter’s hair, delicately combing loose strands back into shape, and smoothing out imaginary wrinkles on her shoulder. “What’s important now,” she mothers, gently but firmly, “is that you save your energy.”

Scully’s face loses its frenetic spark, sinking into hopeless depression. Her mouth is slick with saliva, and her eyes are filling with unshed tears.

This is the real reason she called her mother: “I’m not getting any better, Mom.”

Instantly, the true nature of Maggie’s feelings bubble to the surface: “You don’t know that yet,” she pleads, trying to bargain away her daughter’s finality with a smile and exaggerated head tilt-- a gesture she used, perhaps, when little Dana was distraught or hopeless. Still, her smile fades as Scully's tears continue to well up.

“The PET scan showed no improvement,” Scully confirms, looking up and down to hide from her own and her mother’s pain.

Maggie is crushed, her mouth beginning to warble uncontrollably-- so uncontrollably that Scully's own chin begins to pebble.

Seeing her daughter's distress, Maggie surges forward to hug them together, knowing her child well enough to intuit that emotions are better relieved in privacy.

CONCLUSION

More Scully symbiosis thoughts to come.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

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transgenderer · 1 year ago

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winter (n.)

Old English winter (plural wintru), "the fourth and coldest season of the year, winter," from Proto-Germanic *wintruz "winter" (source also of Old Frisian, Dutch winter, Old Saxon, Old High German wintar, German winter, Danish and Swedish vinter, Gothic wintrus, Old Norse vetr "winter"), probably literally "the wet season," from PIE *wend-, nasalized form of root *wed- (1) "water; wet"). On another old guess, cognate with Gaulish vindo-, Old Irish find "white." The usual PIE word is *gheim-.

Proto-Indo-European root meaning "winter."

It forms all or part of: chimera; chiono-; hiemal; hibernacle; hibernal; hibernate; hibernation; Himalaya.

fabulous monster of Greek mythology, slain by Bellerophon, late 14c., from Old French chimere or directly from Medieval Latin chimera, from Latin Chimaera, from Greek khimaira, name of a mythical fire-breathing creature (slain by Bellerophon) with a lion's head, a goat's body, and a dragon's tail, a word that also meant "year-old she-goat" (masc. khimaros), from kheima "winter season," from PIE root *gheim- "winter."

As an adjective in Old English. The Anglo-Saxons counted years in "winters," as in Old English ænetre "one-year-old;" and wintercearig, which might mean either "winter-sad" or "sad with years." Old Norse Vetrardag, first day of winter, was the Saturday that fell between Oct. 10 and 16.

spring (n.)

"season following winter, first of the four seasons of the year; the season in which plants begin to rise," by 1540s, a shortening of spring of the year (1520s), which is from a special sense of an otherwise now-archaic spring (n.) "act or time of springing or appearing; the first appearance; the beginning, birth, rise, or origin" of anything (see spring v., and compare spring (n.2), spring (n.3)).

The earliest form seems to have been springing time (early 14c.). The notion is of the "spring of the year," when plants begin to rise and trees to bud (as in spring of the leaf, 1520s).

The Middle English noun also was used of sunrise, the waxing of the moon, rising tides, sprouting of the beard or pubic hair, etc.; compare 14c. spring of dai "sunrise," spring of mone "moonrise." Late Old English spring meant "carbuncle, pustule."

As the word for the vernal season it replaced Old English lencten (see Lent). Other Germanic languages take words for "fore" or "early" as their roots for the season name (Danish voraar, Dutch voorjaar, literally "fore-year;" German Frühling, from Middle High German vrueje "early").

In 15c. English, the season also was prime-temps, after Old French prin tans, tamps prim (Modern French printemps, which replaced primevère 16c. as the common word for spring), from Latin tempus primum, literally "first time, first season."

summer (n.)

"hot season of the year," Old English sumor "summer," from Proto-Germanic *sumra- (source also of Old Saxon, Old Norse, Old High German sumar, Old Frisian sumur, Middle Dutch somer, Dutch zomer, German Sommer), from PIE root *sm- "summer" (source also of Sanskrit sama "season, half-year," Avestan hama "in summer," Armenian amarn "summer," Old Irish sam, Old Welsh ham, Welsh haf "summer").

autumn (n.)

season after summer and before winter, late 14c., autumpne (modern form from 16c.), from Old French autumpne, automne (13c.), from Latin autumnus (also auctumnus, perhaps influenced by auctus "increase"), which is of unknown origin.

Perhaps it is from Etruscan, but Tucker suggests a meaning "drying-up season" and a root in *auq- (which would suggest the form in -c- was the original) and compares archaic English sere-month "August." De Vaan writes, "Although 'summer', 'winter' and 'spring' are inherited IE words in Latin, a foreign origin of autumnus is conceivable, since we cannot reconstruct a PIE word for 'autumn'".

Harvest (n.) was the English name for the season until autumn began to displace it 16c. Astronomically, from the descending equinox to the winter solstice; in Britain, the season is popularly August through October; in U.S., September through November. Compare Italian autunno, Spanish otoño, Portuguese outono, all from the Latin word.

As de Vaan notes, autumn's names across the Indo-European languages leave no evidence that there ever was a common word for it. Many "autumn" words mean "end, end of summer," or "harvest." Compare Greek phthinoporon "waning of summer;" Lithuanian ruduo "autumn," from rudas "reddish," in reference to leaves; Old Irish fogamar, literally "under-winter."

summer and winter both with PIE roots, but autumn and spring both without!

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y-rhywbeth2 · 1 year ago

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Lore: Priesthoods and Temples

Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

Religion | Priests & Temples | Deities Shar | Selûne | Bhaal #1 | Bhaal #2 | Mystra | Jergal | Bane | Bane #2 | Bane #3 | Myrkul | Lathander | Kelemvor | Tyr | Helm | Ilmater | Mielikki | Oghma | Tempus | Silvanus | Talos | Corellon | Moradin | Yondalla | Garl Glittergold | Eilistraee | Lolth | Laduguer | Gruumsh | Bahamut | Tiamat | Amodeus | --- WIP

An overview of temples and priesthoods in Faerûn as a whole.

Becoming a priest.

Different classes amongst the clergy: The four divine spellcaster classes, and sorcerers continue to annoy the people around them. No, you don't need to be a cleric to join the church.

Temples and Shrines: The various generic (mostly) universal functions of temples; homeless shelter, school, hospital, post office, bank, landlord...

Evil gods and why 99% of them are legal to worship.

And some other stuff.

While almost everybody in Faerûn has a patron deity they revere above all others, very few people chose a henotheistic approach to religion, these exceptions being fanatics and followers of more megalomanic gods like Cyric, Shar and Bane (and, strangely, followers of these gods tend to be fanatics...). And, of course, the clergies, who devote their lives to the service of their patron deity. Priests don't necessarily hold other deities in low esteem, but they generally do not actively worship them - following the full doctrine of one faith is a full time job. Trying to fit anymore in would run you into the ground.

Sometimes an individual serves more than one deity, which usually indicates that the two gods are allied and involves specific religions that are structured to support worship of multiple gods (for example the Three of Rashemen - Mystra, Mielikki and Chauntea worshipped as a trinity). Even then one may expect some "tug-of-war" to crop up between the gods involved.

Excommunicated clergy will often find themselves unable to join another faith, as other churches don't trust that their faith won't waver again. (This isn't a firm rule though, nor necessarily reflective of what the gods think, and many deities actively try and poach followers from their enemies (Selûne and Shar spring to mind))

Deities are aware of mortals who are compatible with their portfolio and will try to sway them into worshipping them, sending minor miracles and dream visions. Some who respond to these omens in ways that particularly click with the deity will continue to receive them, and the most devout will follow the road towards priesthood.

Deities cannot force a mortal into service and generally won't try; and a mortal of weak faith will find the deity as useless to them as they are to the god.

Those who feel called will generally reach out to a temple or local preacher. Some will undertake pilgrimages and vigils at holy sites for further guidance, and receive vivid visions or even have their deity manifest before them (a minor manifestation is much, much more likely than a full avatar). When joining a church, each one has its own way of testing, training and confirming their supplicants.

Some priests are singled out further, and are called by their deity to serve them directly as what is known (mechanically) as "specialty priests." Sometimes becoming one is simply a matter of the head of the temple taking notice of a prospective priest and putting them through the training, although it's up to the god to accept them or not. Every specialty priest receives blessings and powers unique to their deity, and their rank is known by a name unique to their faith (Corellon's specialty priests are the Feywardens, Selûne's are known as Silverstars, Bhaal's are the Deathstalkers, etc). (These are not the same as Chosen, though it's a similar thing.)

While clerics are the first form of clergy that springs to mind; paladins, druids and rangers are also "priest classes". On Toril all four classes must receive their spells from a patron deity, and paladins and rangers serve their gods as their secondary function.

Being a divine spellcaster is not a requirement to join the clergy - any class may be found in the ranks of a temple, although clerics and druids often hold the power due to their strong connection to the divine. Only those two classes can lead in ceremonies and rituals, due to the divine power they wield.

Divine spellcasters receive their spells by praying to their deity, and they pray for their spells at specific times of day, as decided by their religion and usually relevant to a time connected to that deity (Sharrans pray at night, for example). The spells are given to them, not chosen; whether a priest receives healing spells or a more warlike repertoire depends on what use the deity plans to put them to.

Sorcerers of the divine soul subclass (formerly known as a separate class known as the Favoured Soul) often pose some difficulty for the established hierarchy. They are holy, directly blessed by and possibly related to their deity, but due to the fact that their divine magic is innate rather than earned through study and service, such holy figures often question established dogma and hierarchy based on their own intuition - they are chosen ones after all, don't they know their god better than you who only knows them through interpretation of man made texts and vague omens?

All clergy are to do their best to be exemplars of their deity's teachings and values in their daily life (and reflects well upon that god to outsiders of the faith), and to serve that deity's goals to the best of their abilities. They are also charged with expanding their faith. Whenever an opportunity presents itself the priest must explain their faith and its teachings to the uninitiated, placing an emphasis on the benefits and rewards of following their god. Adventuring priests are usually on missionary work.

All priests must support their churches by tithing (typically 10%) of their earnings to its upkeep and goals.

Divine spellcasters must meet every requirement of their faith, or else they will cease receiving spells until they've made reparations. If they piss their deity off sufficiently they will be stripped of the power their god bestowed upon them and cease to be of their class - fallen paladins being the prime example of that (many of whom may turn to darker sources of power and become blackguards/oathbreakers). Evil deities, and some neutral ones, tend to kill their apostates.

While gods will accept worshippers of any race, non-humans and their pantheons frown upon their own people joining the clergy of human gods. The nonhuman clergies respond to their gods' disapproval, and demihuman priests of the Faerûnian pantheon may enjoy a negative reception ranging from cool disdain to full-on hostility amongst their own people. (There are exceptions where human gods have syncretised with other pantheons: Gond is known to the gnomes as Nebelun the Meddler, and halflings consider Tymora to be the human disguise of a halfling goddess called Shalamora; both are worshipped by them as gnome/halfling deities, but they are both comfortable enough amongst humans to worship them in their human aspects. Mielikki is known to the elves as the half-elven goddess Khalreshaar, and Sharess is known by her original elven aspect of Zandilar the dancer.)

Not every city will have a temple for each god with a full staff of clergy. Those temples that are available also serve as the permanent residence of the priests that serve there. More often the gods will be venerated in public locals shrines, as well as private household ones. Wealthier families may have their own private chapels.

Temples in the Realms usually hold services at least once very two days, if not daily. Sermons are the usual faire - news and gossip, carefully slanted to paint their deity in a good light (or their enemies in a bad one) and the importance of the creeds of the faith and its aims. At the end of the sermon the priests will generally bless the laypeople, while trying to motivate them to do things in service of the deity.

In rural areas temples provide charity to their community - offering food and shelter to the disabled, the desperate, the poor and the homeless. Those seeking sanctuary are to repay the church as they are able by assisting with chores around the temple. Temples also provide basic education to the local children, and are the typical source of schooling.

Temples operate under something of a Hippocratic oath, and should never refuse to treat the injured and sick brought to them. Still, priests may be reluctant if the patient brought to them is considered a monster (say, an illithid, orc or drow). They also tend to be hesitant to tend to clergy of other gods, and if possible will move them to the care of one of their own temples as soon as they can.

While every faith has its own niche it makes money off of, temple income tends to come from a variety of sources.

For a small fee and an offering to their god, one can receive a pardoning for their sins from a priest (although it seems that they will hear confession for free). Asking for healings, resurrections and blessings carries a fee. Having a church bless a wedding, journey, new business, burial, funeral or birth or whatever also costs money. Some shrines and temples do a side business in selling minor holy relics and good luck charms.

Some faiths basically run protection rackets: keep up with your regular offerings and our god won't ruin your life and/or kill you horribly and/or destroy everything you hold dear.

Information networks consisting of children who are paid to report back to the priests with what they see and hear are also common (although they wouldn't admit it, simply making some vague statement of their god's mysterious all-knowing ways.)

But the major sources of income for churches is the postal service, banks and land ownership.

Temples run courier services; if you take a message or package to a temple and give them the address the temple will pass it to the nearest temple in a chain, until it reaches the shrine or temple closest to the destination, where a priest will deliver it to the recipient. Priests are under divine oath to protect the parcel and the privacy of the people involved, and violating that promise will result in their deity withdrawing their favour and immediate excommunication.

Temples provide banking and money lending services, and will also keep objects safely in storage for a fee.

Clergy are also encouraged to invest their income into buying land and properties, bringing in money from the tenants. They are not allowed to discriminate against potential tenants based on faith - a Loviatan who owns a house cannot refuse to lend it to a woman on the basis that she's Ilmatari, and she cannot forbid that woman from carrying out her religious practices or using the house for religious purposes. Sometimes the temples come into possession of land when devout people leave it to them in their wills. Temples in general tend to own vast amounts of real estate within cities.

Churches often squabble amongst themselves for wealth and power (or to depose the faiths of enemy deities). Lay worshipers, for their part, mostly just watch from the side-lines and keep up their offerings for both - giving a better portion of their worship to whoever's doing best and switching sides when need be.

The phrase "necessary evil" applies quite firmly in Faerûnian religion - the gods are here to stay, they are powerful and prideful and there is nothing anybody can do. Rather than devolve the world into constant chaos trying to fight a war of good vs evil that will never end, governments tend to work out peace treaties.

...Besides, they can be quite useful friends to have, when you have to play politics! Like that time in Cormyr where nobles hired Malarites to "accidentally" unleash monsters onto a rival family's estate, and now the priests aren't allowed to unleash beasts without supervision and permission from the authorities. (Not to mention that many of them are followers of the darker gods.)

The average denizen of Toril is just resigned to this as a fact of life. Many of them sensationalise these religions, and gossip abounds about whatever must be going on behind those temple doors.

There are rules that many churches must follow:

They can't disrupt public peace or oppose the ruling class - temples are generally hidden from sight (usually underground) and shrines must also be out of public view. Worship cannot be done in public, and there may be laws forbidding the faithful from publicly declaring their religion. -

They must not oppose the government in any way. -

Activities such as human sacrifice are to be kept as silent and out of the public eye as humanly possible, and performed under agreed upon limitations - generally that they must not harm "innocents, citizens, or government representatives." If you want to target criminals, adventurers or anybody nobody is particularly going to miss, however, knock yourself out. -

The church must also make itself useful to the local government and the realm as negotiated. -

Some governments may chose to monitor the activities of the clergies. -

They cannot force their faith on the unwilling - nobody is to be harmed in rituals or forced to convert (for example, as a Loviatan you may beat a man bloody in your goddess' honour as long as he has consented to it; should it turn out that you coerced him into it, through whatever methods, expect a backlash.) "No evil clergy anywhere in a well-ruled land or city would dare to use drugs, blackmail, or other coercion to gain converts or subjects for rituals."

People are wary of offending the gods, and nobody will insult even the most hated deity - but that doesn't mean that their holy status will keep the common priest from being executed under the law if caught doing something illegal. Many rival churches - especially those of good-aligned gods - will jump at the opportunity to put a careless priest in the spotlight. A priest who makes themselves unpopular within their own temple may find their own siblings in the faith directing law enforcement to their home. The most common result of getting caught rocking the boat is either for the church to excommunicate the priest, or else for that priest to suddenly, silently be removed from their post and reassigned by the church somewhere else outside of the jurisdiction of the realm with the promise that they will be disciplined. The latter happens "more often than the general public would be pleased to know".

Of course that's the common priest - the highest ranks in a church are powerful and well connected enough that they can generally get away with whatever the hell they like. Murder? Torture? Slavery? Go nuts.

By necessity, religions that operate based on fun rituals like theft and human sacrifice have to court the good will of the government to survive (usually while scheming to infiltrate the halls of power and change the laws in their own favour). They study the ways of their society, and learn to manipulate them to their ends.

"In public, the clergy of evil deities are models of good behavior. As such, although average citizens respect or fear and avoid said clergy, they will almost always not attack, deride, or dispute with them. Everyone in the Realms believes in all the gods, and so understands and accepts the purpose and major aims of every faith. This doesn’t mean everyone necessarily agrees with or supports every religion, but that they tolerate and understand the place in society each faith occupies."

Some faiths follow gods that actively promote the overthrow of established governments, which makes it difficult for them to function under such agreements (examples include Shar, Talos, Cyric and Tiamat). While they can establish themselves in areas of political unrest, they rarely become worthy of note in stable regions and are usually outlawed, mostly existing as underground cults preying on the desperate. They do tend to seek out people in positions of power to seduce and corrupt, however, and may wield some influence that way.

"Even priests of the most violently evil faiths are seldom foolish enough to draw daggers and seek to carve up soldiers or Crown agents in the streets. A dead foe is just that: dead, and soon to be replaced by another. An influenced foe, on the other hand, is well on the way to becoming an ally, increasing the sway of the deity."

#lore stuff

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sciatu · 5 months ago

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Idda Idda stiddi e pallida luna idda focu du suli etennu idda luci, ventu, futtuna idda paradisu, idda ‘nfennu idda sognu e fimmina vera idda u to ciatu, u to sangu idda estati e primavera idda acqua, terra, fangu idda ciauru, cielu, ciuri idda suggenti, idda u mari idda du jonnu ogni culuri idda da notti u sugnari idda cantu, vessu, puisia idda bidizza di ogni arti idda d’ogni notti mavaria d’ogni vita a megghiu parti Idda peddi, mani, capiddi idda cosci, minni, sessu i so occhi chini i stiddi a bucca unni sugnu pessu idda silenziu, idda canzuni idda parola, idda pinseru, idda ciareddu, idda liuni idda malizia, cori sinceru idda munti, idda vadduni, idda acqua, gebbia, vita giallu ranu, niru cabbuni idda a sula, a preferita idda nu jonnu piffettu idda ricchizza da campagna idda cosi giusti, rispettu idda soru, idda cumpagna idda ricoddi, idda dumani idda lacrimi, cori ruttu idda da vita u tempu, u pani idda di tuttu, sempri u tuttu

Lei, stelle e pallida luna, lei fuoco del sole eterno, lei luce, vento, fortuna, lei paradiso, lei inferno, lei sogno e vera donna, lei, il tuo respiro. Lei il tuo sangue, lei estate e primavera, lei acqua, terra, fango. Lei profumo, cielo, fiori, lei sorgente e lei mare, lei del giorno ogni colore, lei della notte il sognare. Lei canto, verso, poesia, lei bellezza di ogni arte, lei, di ogni notte magia, di ogni vita, la meglio parte. Lei pelle, mani capelli, lei cosce, seno, sesso, i suoi occhi pieni di stelle, la sua bocca dove sono perso. Lei silenzio, lei canzoni, lei parola, lei pensiero, lei agnello, lei leone, lei malizia, cuore sincero. Lei monti, lei vallata, lei acqua, cisterna, vita, giallo grano, nero carbone, lei la sola, la preferita. Lei giorno perfetto, lei ricchezza della campagna, lei giustizia, rispetto, lei sorella, lei compagna, lei ricordi, lei domani. Lei lacrime, cuore rotto, lei della vita tempo e pane, lei di tutto, sempre il tutto.

She, stars and pale moon, she fire of the eternal sun, she light, wind, fortune, she paradise, she hell, she dream, and true woman, she, your breath. She, your blood, she summer and spring, she water, earth, mud. She perfume, sky, flowers, she spring and she sea, she every color of the day, she dreaming of the night. She song, verse, poetry, she beauty of every art, she, of every night magic, of every life, the best part. She skin, hands, hair, she thighs, breasts, sex, her eyes full of stars, her mouth where I am lost. She silence, she songs, she word, she thought, she lamb, she lion, she malice, sincere heart. She mountains, she valley, she water, cistern, life, yellow wheat, black coal, she the only one, the favorite. She perfect day, she richness of the countryside, she justice, respect, she sister, she companion, she memories, she tomorrow. She tears, broken heart, she of life time and bread, she of everything, always everything.

#sciatu #poesia #poesia siciliano #sicilian poetry

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lightkrets312 · 8 months ago

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and this one is for Aunn: 👁️⚠️🌨️💙☕🧠🧁💔💭🌍✨🌊⚡🐺🔅💛🍁🐰🦷

(/joking)

Anyways-

👁️ How do other people perceive this oc? How close do their first assumptions come to the truth? At this point, she'd likely be seen as a blunt, no-nonsense no-tolerance brick wall. Given that's the front she puts on for others, it's not inaccurate.

⚠️ If this oc came with a warning sign, what would it be?

🌨️ If this oc had a day free from all their responsibilities, how would they spend it? ...Training, honestly? One day is a mere drop in the bucket of time.

🧠 What is their stress response: fight, flight, freeze, or fawn? Fight first, hardcore. After that, flight or fawn depending on what triggered the response.

💙 Describe their bedroom! Is it personalized, unchanged? Messy, neat? Even their bedroom at home is surprisingly sparse, compared to other people. But they do have little things, precious things they keep somewhere they can find them.

☕ What is their preferred beverage(s)? ...Black coffee, apparently.

🧁 When is their birthday? How do they celebrate it, if at all? December 29th, I suppose! And they... don't celebrate it. Other people would, and they go along with the ride, but they don't do anything themself. If they even remember when it is.

💭 How is their mental health? Do they struggle with guilt or shame? You can't deal with what you don't face! (it's in shambles. they are gonna have a long recovery, and they will hate it.)

💔 Does forgiveness come easily or with difficulty to this oc? Can they forgive others? What about themselves? They absolutely cannot. For anyone. Forgiveness is not natural in any form, and they hate it. why give what you never receive?

🌍 What are this oc’s religious views? Ironically, their views aren't informed by their religion - Tempus is a means to an end, and was just the first good fit she found. But they do believe in the fair fight, in the art and rules of warfare, and she heavily believes in justice. One good turn should deserve another, after all. And she remembers her debts.

✨ Tell something that makes this oc feel happy! ...Happy? Uh.... (her brother being happy makes her happy. praise would make her cry. but her guilty, true pleasure is the rush she gets in a fight.)

🌊 Does this oc have a secret or repressed desire? (if she was acknowledge and explicitly allowed to just exist as herself, flawed and imperfect as she is, she'd die happy. she'll settle for just dying in the meantime.)

⚡ Does this oc have any unusual or “irrational” fears? Baseline? No. A healthy fear of death, perhaps, but nothing unusual. (her replacements, however? do. it depends on how the last one died, as does the severity of the phobia. Cherrie, for instance? Mild fear of spiders.)

🔅 How does this oc deal with physical pain? Pain comes with the job. We push through. Ñ̷̫o̵̝̦͑̃ ̷̲̲̔m̵̱̈a̷͕͉͊͠t̴͔̒ẗ̷̻́e̷̠̟̽r̸̠̅̎͜ ̴̛̯̱͘w̵̗͇͘h̸͔̳̃͠a̶̞͔̾t̷̤̗͌.̶̥̭̀

🐺 How does this oc deal with solitude? She's quite used to it, so she handles it well. She works... okay in a group, though. Well enough.

💛 Are they ‘good with children’, or more awkward? Awkward. But she's better with kids than adults, so she manages.

🍁 What is this oc’s favorite season? ...Spring, actually.

🐰 How huggable is this oc? If you're family? Very. If you're a friend? Awkwardly. If you're not? Only as far as the situation calls for it, possibly not at all.

🦷 Would this oc ever bite someone? If she's in combat and down a free arm or two, then the gods gave them teeth for a reason.

#my post #qs and as #aunn #ask meme #oc emoji ask meme

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xandraspalace · 2 years ago

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Sweet Night Undisturbed

----- Sweet Night Undisturbed || Noir Vesper [HOLOSTARS EN] x GN! Reader - Birthday Fiction

Summary : Nothing can make you so much more happier than being able to rest on your birthday. For him who had worked so hard for so many people, this was the perfect time for him to take a break and enjoy some undisturbed night only for you and himself.

WC : 2569 words.

Warning : Grammar errors, teeth-rotting fluff (possible cringes), hints of TEMPUS lore, mentioning reader being older than Altare, etc.

Featured Characters : Regis Altare, Magni Dezmond, Banzoin Hakka.

Disclaimer : Everything written here is FICTITIOUS. This story is written in second-person point of view and the reader is female. The personas written here are based on the avatar of the characters as vtubers, not the person behind it. Enjoy.

A/N : I need to rewrite this because I accidently delated the old version of this fic, hell on earth. And I finally post the fiction on time! Anw, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OJI! I WISH ALL THE GOOD THINGS FOR YOU THIS YEAR!! WE LOVE YOU!!

Other Platforms : [TWITTER] [MEDIUM]

ADVENTURER’S Guild TEMPUS Hall never sleeps, day or night. Even when the cold winter slowly turned into a warm spring, not a single guild member was not working. You will find everyone doing their job while throwing each other jokes occasionally.

Including yourself. You were sitting at one of the guild hall tables, facing the leader. As an archivist, you have to get lots of approvals from many people to touch some related archives you need, one of which is from Regis Altare, the Leader of the Guild TEMPUS.

The light from the holographic screen illuminated his face. Skillfully, his hands carved signatures for several documents that required his attention. He seemed very focus. His eyes went around quickly reading the contents of the document before he actually signed it, making sure he didn't sign something that would lead him or his members to doom.

If you need to be honest, all these many documents weren’t for you, but for your lover, Noir Vesper, the Academic Advisor of the Guild TEMPUS. He needed a lot of archives to carry out his studies and research. Before you can provide the archives your boyfriend needs, he had to get Altare’s permission first.

And here you are, helping your lover with the complicated formal process. Naturally, getting official and valid archives in Elysium is very difficult. You'll have to deal with the elites of Elysium for just even a few copies. Plus, they'll watch your every move, making sure that you don’t use the archives to harm or go against Elysium.

"Was that all?" Altare asked after he finished signing the last document.

You smiled awkwardly. You just sent him like almost a ream of documents, but Altare still managed to smile lightly without complaining about being tired and whatnot. "Yes, that’s all. I'll let you know if there’s any document that require your attention again. Thank you, Leader."

"Don't mention it." Altare made sure all documents were sent back to you. He turned the hologram device in front of him off and breathed a sigh of relief. The scent of warm tea calmed the atmosphere around you both. “How is Vesper?” Altare suddenly asked before carefully sipping his tea.

"Hell on earth, Magni Dezmond, didn't I tell you to stop stealing my academic journals?!"

Just as you were about to answer, the sound of Vesper’s yells from the other side of the guild hall was heard. You turned around, trying to find your lover’s figure. And sure enough, you saw him almost running down the stairs and dashing towards Dezmond's place. "Still busy?" you answered in doubt.

Meanwhile, Altare could only chuckle. "I can see that."

Looking at Altare who seemed to be amused by his members’ antics, you couldn't help but smile. Altare shouted a little warning so that the two older men would not cause any accident at work. “My, my, those two,” the leader chuckled. "How about you, [Y/N]?"

“Me?!’ That took you off guard. You didn't expect his sudden question to you after witnessing the your lover and his friend’s antics. However, you were silent for a moment, thinking about what kind of answer would be appropriate to your leader's question.

You feel like you haven't done much to help the guild. To you, you are just an archivist, nothing less and nothing more. Your main task is to store and maintain all the old and new documents that the guild has entrusted to you, be it related to Tempus, to Elysium, or to other matters. And for the most of it, you mostly help Vesper in doing his academic research.

"I'm just an archivist and aide to your academic advisor. I think the credit mostly goes to Vesper,” you stated.

The leader lightly chuckled once again, “Don't be like that. You've helped us a lot, especially when it comes to the elites of Elysium. You and Vesper are the ones doing most of the works here if I should mention it.”

Silence suddenly enveloped. Both you and Altare actually didn't mind the silence. It was comfortable.

On the other hand, Altare deliberately did not dismiss you and let you sit with him. As he previously said, you and Vesper might be the overworked ones in the guild. Therefore, making you stop working for a bit and let you take a little break is a very wise choice from a leader for his members.

“You know that sometimes you have to pamper yourself too, right? I'm sure Vesper would agree with that too.” Again, Altare suddenly asked, taking you off guard. His questions never stop surprising you. As expected from Regis Altare.

“Pampering myself?” Confusion was visible on your face.

“Yup,” the leader sipped his tea before he continued. "Isn't there anything you really want?"

Once again you were silent. Altare's question this time is worth thinking about. Is there something you want? What do you really want? Have you ever wanted anything? You didn’t know. However, there was one more question crossed your mind.

When was the last time you and Vesper spent some quality time together?

You and Vesper have quite important positions in the guild, a position that not just anyone can do. You are busy as an archivist, making sure the old and new archives are preserved nicely. Not to mention that dealing with the elites when it comes to the archive that related to Elysium is really a pain in a rear. On the other hand, Vesper has to do his research to perfect the academic needs of the guild and even Elysium itself.

Exhausting? Indeed. You and Vesper don't even know why the two of you cound end up together and still have made it this far amidst your busy schedules and works. Maybe that’s how destiny works. There will always be miracles that keep you and Vesper together.

In the end, you ended up thinking about Vesper again when it's clear that the question was directed at you and about you only.

"If I ask for something, will you grant it, Leader?" you asked, working up the courage to say what you want.

Altare nodded. "Of course. As long as it's within my power, I'll try my best to work on it.”

After you were sure of what you wanted to ask for, you stared at Altare earnestly, hoping your voice wouldn't crack. “Tonight is Vesper’s birthday eve,” you started. "I want a day and a night off just for me and Vesper, so we spend some time together and rest."

Altare's pair of emerald eyes were widened. Surprise was evident on his face. The leader thought he understood all of his members well. He thought you will ask for something materialistic.

Seeing Altare's expression, you started to doubt your decision to speak up. "I mean, I know the boys have already made plans and prepared a surprise party for Vesper, so I'm worried."

Hearing that, Altare burst out laughing. "Was that what you're worried about?" he asked, still laughing.

"Did I make a strange request?" You were starting to worry.

“No, no, no, you’re not. I just thought that you would ask for something materialistic or something that would be hard to get in Elysium.”

“There's no way—”

"Of course." Altare interrupted your protests, knowing you would try to defend yourself and say that you couldn't ask the impossible. "I know you well enough, [Y/N]. But, will that be enough, though?”

You sat back down quietly. "Yeah, that's enough for me. I'm sure Vesper will appreciate it too.”

“Alright, then. Your days off start from today’s sunset until the day after tomorrow’s sunrise,” Altare declared his decision.

A worried expression suddenly appeared on your face. “Oh, no. Leader, that's too much.”

But before you could protest any further, Altare interrupted you again. "No, it's not. Take your well-deserved rest with him,” the leader looked at you gently with respect. "Also, you don't have to worry about the boys. I'll be postponing Vesper's birthday party to the following night."

Altare is a considered leader. He is younger than you, but he has all your respect. His wise knows no bounds. You can never ask for a better leader than him because he is the best. “Thank you, Leader,” you smiled, thanking him very sincerely.

He answered, "Anything for my members."

The sun had long since set and the moon was already hanging over its highest peak. The holographic clock that you put on the desk has already told you that night has turned to day.

You pushed open Vesper's study door with your shoulder since a tray with birthday cake on it were filling your hands. Vesper who was sitting at his desk didn't even pay attention and was still focused on the pile of books and documents he was studying.

Vesper knew it was you who entered his study. Not just anyone can enter his room and the only person who can just walk in his room like that is you—and Dezmond when he needs something urgent or just because he's basically being shameless.

"Didn't the leader told you that we have days off until tomorrow night?" you asked, approaching his desk.

The moment he shifted his focus from the book to you, Vesper's eyes widened in surprise. "What is this?" he asked when he saw you holding a tray of birthday cake, candle already lit in the middle.

“See, you even forgot your birthday.” You could only chuckles.

Knowing that he must fully give his attention to you, Vesper put down his pen and took off his glasses. He tried to relax his muscles which he didn't realize were already tense due to him working for too long without a break. "I'm not sure if I can rest now, seeing the state of Records Corruption lately."

You could only sigh, understanding his feelings. He's worried, you knew that. He once wanted to give up, saying that whatever he did, it would be useless if it couldn't save humanity at all. However, the child inside kept pushing him forward.

Ever since he and Altare made a deal, Vesper had risked his life for all of this. You couldn’t stop him, pure joy always shows in his smile whenever he achieves something that can help Elysium.

"It can wait, love," you uttered, putting the cake in front of him. Vesper held out his hand to you and let you hold it, helping you to walk through the piles of books he was studying and sitting you beside him. "Rest with me ... pretty please?" you asked, your dazzling eyes lowkey begging him.

How could he say no to that expression? Vesper sighed, feeling that he had no other choice. “Alright, then. Only for you.”

“Make a wish!” you pushed the cake to him.

"Won't you sing?"

You were taken aback. “Me? Singing?”

Vesper rested his chin on his palm, smirking at you. “Yeah, do me a favor, will you? Today is my birthday.”

You were silent for a moment. Never once in your relationship with Vesper did you think that he would ask you to sing. Here you think you know your own lover very well, but end up getting an unexpected request from him instead.

"But I'm not good at singing!" you protested. "What if Records Corruption finds the signal that I’m singing?"

"No, they won't. Come on, I can't judge before you actually sing."

Pinkish dust tinted your cheeks. “Fine,” you agreed. "But don't blame me if you get a hearing problem after this."

Vesper could only hum.

You took a deep breath before you sing. “Happy birthday to you~ Happy birthday to you~ Happy birthday, dear Vesper~ Happy birthday to you~”

You slightly missed some keys. However, you managed to get light chuckles and applause from him. "That's more like it. Now I can make a wish,” the scholar smiled.

The Noir Vesper would probably protests and says that this kind of thing was childish. However, when he is with you, he can put all his guard down.

Vesper closed his eyes and joined his hands in prayer. In his heart, he prayed his wishes and hopes. He didn’t forget to mentions your name among these prayers. Then, Vesper blew out the candle gently.

"Thank you," he whispered as he kissed your forehead then your cheek softly. He dropped himself into your arms and rested his head on your chest, inhaling your relaxing scent. It was the best feeling for Vesper. He always feels easy and at home when he’s with you.

You caressed and combed your fingers through his long hair carefully. "I should be the one thanking you. Thank you for being born into this world, my love,” you whispered gently.

He hummed and hugged you tighter.

The light from the World Tree pierced through the windows of the study. However, the tree couldn't even hear what Vesper whispered to you.

“I love you, my world” he whispered only to you, without the world knowing or need to hear.

“Ves, do you have—”

“Shh!” you shushed to whoever suddenly opened the door of your lover’s study.

The person who none other than the alchemist stopped at the door frame of the room after you shushed him and saw you put your index finger on your lips. “—the data of your last research. Sorry."

After spending some time with you over tea and cake you brought, Vesper fell asleep on the sofa in his study. You've covered him body with blanket so the cold couldn’t touch him.

When Dezmond opened the door to the room, you were tidying the room up for a bit. "Let me help you find the data you need," you whispered, loud enough for Dezmond to hear you.

You really didn’t want anyone waking Vesper up and getting him back to work when he clearly needed that break. When was the last time Vesper was able to sleep so peacefully like this, anyway? Let your man rest for a bit, will they?

You started looking for the data Dezmond asked for through the papers and his device. "Is it about the World Tree branches?" you asked when you found a data about the latest research that Vesper just finished a few days ago.

"Yup, that's the one. Just send me the abstract,” the alchemist answered.

“Leader, aren't [Y/N] and Vesper currently on vacation? Look at Dez.”

You and Dezmond suddenly heard a voice that you fully recognize. That was the exorcist of Xenokuni, Banzoin Hakka. He must have just returned from his hunt.

Dezmond turned towards the sound only to be met by Altare dashing towards him in rage. “Oh, shit.” Dezmond cussed.

“Dez, you idiot! Leave the couple alone!” Altare raged, causing Dezmond to immediately run away from the leader while trying to find a good excuse. You could only chuckle at their antics.

There is no such thing as a quiet night in the TEMPUS Guild Hall and you are completely fine with it. Precisely, that’s what makes the guild hall more lively and colorful in the midst of this beautiful, yet monochromatic Utopia.

You looked at Vesper who was fast asleep. You crouched down beside the sofa where he had fallen asleep. Your fingers brushed the stray hair that was covering his face. You gently kissed his forehead.

“Happy birthday, my treasure. I love you.”

Sweet Night Undisturbed Fiction by Author Xandra February, 2023

#xandraspalace #xandraspalace_arc #holostars #holostars x reader #holostars en #holostars en x reader #noir vesper #noir vesper x reader #holotempus #holotempus x reader

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hedgewitchgarden · 10 months ago

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Ostara vs Easter; or Let's All Just Colour an Egg

March 11

This piece was originally written in 2016 and has been updated - *(An updated version (free) of my 2016 article debunking common misconceptions about the alleged pagan history of Easter) Every year there's a lot of commentary that floats around the pagan community claiming several things about the holiday of Ostara, most of them untrue. So lets take a look at the urban legends and the realities, shall we? Firstly the idea that Easter is related to the Goddess Ishtar, that the word and name sound the same, and that Ishtar's symbols are identical to popular Easter symbols: Ishtar is not pronounced 'easter'; it's a pretty straightforward name actually and is pronounced 'ishtar' just like it looks. Ishtar is an ancient Assyrian goddess whose name is connected to the related goddess Astarte; the word easter comes from old English, likely rooted in the proto-Germanic word for dawn (Harper, 2024). Ishtar was a goddess connected to love, fertility, and war. Her symbols were not rabbits or eggs but rather storehouse gates, lions, and stars with different numbers of points (Ishtar, 2016).

original meme author unknown: "bullshit" label courtesy of Ian Corrigan So that's that one.

Was the date of Easter stolen from Pagans? No. The Christian holiday itself was not stolen from or dated based on the pagan holiday; it developed on its own based off of the Jewish holiday timing for Passover and was originally known as Pascha in Latin, only later becoming known as Easter; as late as the 8th century the holiday was still known as Pascha in England.

Did the 4th century emperor Constantine invent it all? This is another idea that I see floating around this time of year. I can say conclusively that the idea that Constantine in the 4th century C.E. speaking Latin was calling the holiday Easter (for the record it still isn't called Easter in most languages that aren't English) is false and he didn't invent the holiday itself. As a Christian holiday Pascha (Easter) seems to have been well established by the mid second century (Melito, 1989).This is at least 200 years before Constantine's lifetime.

Now the other main idea that get's tossed around is that Easter is stolen from or based on a Germanic or Anglo-Saxon holiday or Goddess named Ostara/Eostre. I can't even give an example of this meme because honestly most of them are blatantly offensive in the way they are worded but the gist of it is claiming that Ostara/Eostre was an ancient Anglo-Saxon goddess celebrated in spring whose symbols were rabbits and eggs and Christians stole it all, etc., etc.,

The name of the holiday is likely derived from a word that means "east" and may be related to the name of an obscure Germanic or Anglo-Saxon goddess about whom we know virtually nothing. The name of the goddess - Eostre to the Anglo-Saxons and Ostara to the Germans - is probably related to the same root as the word east: both etymologically come from the proto-Indo-European root aus- meaning 'to shine' and likely relating to the dawn. Our only source of information on Eostre is the Venerable Bede who wrote in the 8th century: Eostur-monath, qui nunc Paschalis mensis interpretatur, quondam a Dea illorum quæ Eostre vocabatur, et cui in illo festa celebrabant nomen habuit: a cujus nomine nunc Paschale tempus cognominant, consueto antiquæ observationis vocabulo gaudia novæ solemnitatis vocantes (Giles, 1843) [Eostre-month, which is now interpreted as the Paschal month, which was formerly called Eostre and celebrated in that month: now the Paschal season is called by this name calling the joys of the new festival by the ancient name of the old] From this we know that there was an Anglo-Saxon goddess named Eostre who had a holiday celebrated for her around the same time as Easter/Pascha but basically nothing else. And we already know that Pascha as a Christian holiday was well established long before this. So we appear to have a case of the new religion's holiday being called by the name of the old one in part due to a coincidence in timing. About a thousand years later Jacob Grimm would go on to write about a hypothetical German goddess he called Ostara who he reconstructed based in part off of the German name for the Christian holiday of Easter, Ostern, and a name for April of Ostermonat (Grimm, 1835). He elaborates on his ideas based on this idea of a connection between the name and the direction of the east and the idea of dawn and spring, as well as widespread connections between Ostara [the goddess] and contemporary Christian Easter celebrations including bonfires and drawing water at dawn which had special properties (Grimm, 1835). Although it is possible that Grimm was noting genuine pagan folk practices that had survived his connection of these practices to a goddess named Ostara are impossible to prove* On to the rabbits and eggs because that keeps showing up in all of these memes. The concept of "Easter" bunnies (originally hares, "Osterhase") cannot be dated before the mid-1500's and the eggs appear to have started in the 1600's, both in Germany (Bauer, 2016). The eggs were originally called 'pace' or Pascha eggs explicitly connecting them to the Jewish Passover and the Christian holiday. In 1682 Georg Franck von Franckenau is the first to explicitly mention the rabbit bringing eggs in De Ovis Paschalibus where he describes the folk practice and the way people get sick overeating the eggs. This appears to have been because eggs - like meat and milk - were on the Lenten 'don't eat' list and so eating them on Easter was a treat (Newell, 1989). Unlike milk and meat however eggs could be preserved more easily and a hard boiled egg played a role in the Jewish Passover meal making eggs both abundant, desirable, and symbolic at Easter (Newell, 1989). Coloring eggs was also a widespread folk custom in many cultures, and while it was surely used by pagans it was easily adapted to Christian symbolism as well. There doesn't seem to be any certainty of exactly where the idea of hiding eggs for kids to find came from, but there is evidence that it began in Germany and spread from there to England and America.

To summarize: Easter is a Christian holiday, based on Christian mythology, and timed based on the Jewish Passover. The traditions involving rabbits and eggs come from 17th century German folk practices, partially based on Lenten food restrictions. Colouring eggs is found across a wide array of cultures. We know basically nothing about the goddesses Eostre or Ostara, historically, and what we do have about them is largely modern speculation or innovated pagan belief.

So in the end we have the name of a goddess which is etymologically connected to the word east as well as the dawn, and likely related to other Indo-European dawn or spring goddesses. But basically there is no real information about her, no known symbols, no myths**. We can say that this holiday was not taken and turned into the Christian Easter, which as we've mentioned already existed many centuries prior and with a different name. It is true that English and German speakers use a name for the Christian holiday based on the pagan one and it is possible that some pagan folk practices were maintained but that was not a matter of intentional theft by the Church - rather it was the people converting to the new religion themselves refusing to give up certain things.

While these practices may or may not be originally pagan, why does it matter? These are fun folk custom that we can practice today, pagan or Christian, whose origins are more or less lost to history. So lets stop arguing over whose holiday is whose and what traditions belong to who - color an egg, make a little nest for the Osterhase and put the eggs in, jump a bonfire, and have a great holiday whichever one you celebrate.

*that story about Ostara and the bird getting turned into a rabbit which then laid eggs is entirely modern

**I am not however arguing that Eostre/Ostara never existed, just that Grimm's evidence of her folk customs in 19th century German is pretty shaky.

References

Ishtar (2016) Encyclopedia Britanica

Melito of Sardis (1989) "On the Passover" http://www.kerux.com/doc/0401A1.asp

Bauer, I., (2016) Der Osterhase

Giles, J (1843) The Complete Works of the Venerable Bede

Newell, V., (1989) Eggs at Easter; a folklore study

Grimm, J., (1835) Deutsche Mythologie

Harper, D., (2024) 'Easter'; Online Etymology Dictionary. Retrieved from https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=easter

#debunking #misinformation #ostara #easter #morgan daimler

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