#spring tempus

[lost-carcosa]

[snowyteal]

[insert-the-4thwall-entity]

I add Tempus into the omnilore and now I'm making my own take on the idea behind @owlygem's Celestial somebody, with the inclusion of Mr.Moon from Spring and a Storm.

Thanks Tally hall!

[edenspoem]

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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[transgenderer]

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!

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s4 episode 17 "tempus fugit" thoughts

hey guys. i need answers…. i need them.

but i have a strict “one episode a day” and “post the thoughts from last episode before starting the new one” rule and!!! i must follow the rules.

i wish this episode relied less on the assumption that the audience knows how planes work. but. i digress.

back to who i was before this episode....

a lot of you may know that it is scully and mulder time. 

ohhhh i’m reading the episode description and i see what is going on here… a two parter!!! well, i am prepared to handle this, yes i am. we have been due for a two parter, so i look forward to learning about this UFO.

let us open with a pretty shot of the sky… we are somewhere over upstate new york… a good place to be

in a plane. this guy seems drunk. i do not care for how he looked at this woman.

“you could fly every day for the next 26,000 years before you’d have an accident”, says drunk guy that will most certainly manifest a plane crash

shaggy redhead sitting next to drunk man seems very afraid of the dude on the back of the plane in a suit. uh oh! let me guess…. alien bounty hunter?

(author's note: nah. it was a good guess, though!)

suit man just locked himself in the bathroom and pulled out the spring in a pen to a dramatic flourish. is the pen spring supposed to indicate something to me? because i do not associate them with danger.

oh! he made a little gun out of pieces. huh. kinda neat. even if it is terrifying. just from a DIY perspective.

sometimes i forget that before 9/11 you could just do stuff on planes and no one really gave a damn

but now the plane is shaking. man with gun is watching all the screaming and jostling go down. redhead seems very scared while bright lights shine into the plane. oh! and then a window/door thing gets sucked outside??

deeply unfortunate.

(cue spooky intro)

WAIT! we are at a restaurant with mulder and scully and someone is bringing out a cake??? and they are singing happy birthday to her!!! oh my gosh, is it her birthday or is this a ploy by mulder to get free cake?

“I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS YOUR BIRTHDAY, SCULLY” <- JDHDJJDJD IS HE REALLY ABOUT GETTING THAT FREE CAKE LIFE????

no, no, it IS in fact dana scully's birthday, a remarkable occasion indeed. however. there is no funnier thing than faking a birthday to get cake at a restaurant. and maybe i need to write that fic someday.

oh my gosh, she says he has never once remembered her birthday, so he says something about it being the way he likes to celebrate them, every 4 years...... THIS IDIOT 😭😭

i cannot believe this man... he can remember any myth he read when he was 11, but he cannot keep his best friend's birthday in his head. and while that is a tragic flaw and indication of his ahab-ness, the fact that he knew scully was sick so he stepped it up still says a lot.

oh he brought a GIFT shut up!!!!!! and he pulls out a tiny little box... she says “oh you have GOT to be kidding me” and he jokes about turning the alien implants into earrings but it’s an apollo 11 keychain 😭😭😭 STOP this is so sweet!!!!! oh my gosh he wanted to make sure she knew she was loved 

(her birthday is in february so i’m not sure i see the connection to her and apollo 11 beyond her being a general nerd, and i think her birth and the moon landing happened in the same year, but i digress)

someone is talking to them! “oh promise me this isn’t leading to something embarrassing” she says <- HDHSJDHJE 

but no! this woman- sharon- confesses to have followed them there??? well that is very creepy. and that she was told to talk to them if something happened.

GIRL!!!! LET HER HAVE A NICE DINNER 😭

sharon says that her brother, max fenig, was bringing them something that night, but the plane he was on went down.

and how did he know where they were going to be? i am going to assume that he is simply a stalker and not that mulder arranged for a UFO information exchange on scully's birthday. no ma'am. i refuse.

(also, i was distracted by mulder chewing on something this whole scene. at first i thought it was a cigarette, but then clearly it wasn’t, so maybe a lollipop? looked too big to be a toothpick. oh god, don’t tell me he’s a toothpick guy)

anyway. plane crash time. let's go to the conference where the plane people discuss such news.

initial reports say no survivors. people are smoking in here which is crazy. i understand that this show takes place in the 90's, but sometimes i lowkey forget until i see stuff like that and go ohhhhh right right.

this has been a sad turn to date night!!!

they’re listening to the last audio recording from the plane, and the pilot is yelling “my god!” and “mayday!” which is not inspiring any warm and fuzzy feelings

so mulder asks if there was any evidence that the plane was intercepted, because we heard the voice say it was, but plane guy who is in charge of this meeting says hmm, nope, not that i know of.

(is the pilot saying that there was an interception.... not evidence... of an interception??)

mulder says well, there was a famous alien abductee on the plane. which gets the crowd giggling.

scully is watching like ohhh my god and when plane guy asks if this is an official FBI position he turns and looks to her and then says no. plane guy says he is trivializing this tragedy. WHICH I DISAGREE WITH!

IF there was a man claiming to be abducted by UFOs, and the plane he was on mysteriously went down, and the pilot said it was intercepted, but for some reason the fact that the pilot SAID THAT is being disregarded- i'm sorry, my red flags would be going off. for multiple different reasons. if i were plane guy i'd be thinking, gee, maybe this max character was a government target- i mean, if he got famous off of UFOs, who is to say he wasn't up to more shady activities? maybe he was planning a coup in the dominican republic, or smuggling government secrets of a nature that is still important but less outlandish than UFOs, or embezzling, etc. all i am saying, from my reasonable skeptic point of view, is i would think hmm, that's odd. we'll have to note that for our investigation, mr. mulder. maybe max was targeted for a specific reason, aliens or no aliens.

of course, this plane guy claims there WAS no max fenig on the plane, but it seemed pretty easy to lie pre-TSA

“sure know how to make a girl feel special on her birthday” HDHJSJDKSJDJDJDJDJ 

nooo... i feel bad for birthday scully :( why is he always up to some sort of alien shenanigans instead of cherishing her? :( i GET it, i get his life's mission, etc etc but cherishing your friends should be mandatory, especially when it is a friend as lovely as scully

at the crash site, things are looking very very very sad. many bodies are in bags. 

but where is the plane??

poor scully has to shout due to all the helicopter noises, which had to be a pain to film.

what would finding max fenig prove? mulder doesn’t know. but perhaps that 1 life was worth sacrificing 133 others. 

damn. that’s a downer. and we started on such a high note!!!!

the guy who had the DIY gun on the plane has been entirely cut in half. but one of the people from the IIC (and what the hell even IS the IIC?) took his gun!! it was the guy with the big mustache! and they’re spraying him with some stuff? that can’t be normal practice, can it?

scully sees a watch on a corpse’s arm :( mulder sees some glasses :(

they each find a watch!! and the watches from the victims say 8:01, but the time of the crash was listened as 7:52!!!! so… what is the truth??

“nine minutes, scully. do you remember the last time you were missing nine minutes?” <- is that a rhetorical question or a throwback to the pilot

mulder seems to think now that perhaps max was on the plane, but did not finish the journey with the rest of the passengers… hmm… like they shot him??? what do you mean, cryptic man???

oh! one of the people from the crash is alive!!! get a medic NOW!!!! scully is here!!!!! she is telling you what he is going to need and you had better get it quick!!!

now scully is waiting for a plane in the cold. what!!! she is cold!!!! get her inside!!!

she was waiting for sharon from before, who brought all of her letters from her brother max. scully says that they think she isn’t telling them everything, and that she had better do so. NOW. she is not messing around.

oh!!!! the man who was alive has burns that are associated with a high level of radiation!! see, i assumed he just was hit by a piece of flaming sky junk. that foreshadowing went right over my head. 

it was drunk man from before who was burnt!!! so is it whatever max had on him that was radioactive??? they confirm that it was max, he was just using a pen name, which he had a lot of. 

max worked at job with plutonium and uranium. well. maybe that could do it. not sure what he’d to do with all that or how it got on a plane. maybe it could have caused the crash.

mulder is launching into his “max HAD to have been abducted” theory and about how no one will ever believe him and it will go unsolved forever. scully keeps trying to cut him off…

max is back!!!! where from???

oh. he is dead. that is how they found him.

mulder still doesn’t think the crash is explained.

sigh. you just want to have a nice birthday dinner with the guy you've thought was cute for the last 4 years, and he never once remembered your birthday until now, but then he gets an alien call and slips into ahab mode. scully has truly suffered so much.

sharon is reading many many many letters when a flashing and shaking occurs!!! more aliens???? oh man. this is intense. 

CUT TO BLACK??? rude as hell. where did sharon go!!!

(i think i know where sharon went)

okay, now mulder is walking among the many bodies recovered from the crash scene. he finds max and unzips him. and in his pocket he had mulder’s business card!!! despite it being covered in blood, he puts it in his pocket, and seems very sad. it cannot be an easy thing to see. but still. blood-borne illnesses, man.

he is now unzipping more and more bodies. what do you think, you beautiful tortured man?

he is furious that the IIC is going to claim that they don’t know what went on. and i still don't know what the IIC is. maybe they don't even know about the alien stuff. not everyone has CSM levels of alien knowledge.

(side note... why do you think deep throat was snitching to mulder?? was it part of CSM's plan, or did the fight? was it toxic old man yaoi?)

back to the matter at hand. “mulder, why can’t you just accept the facts?” (with his hand on her back, walking her away) “because there are no facts, scully. what they’re telling you, what they’re going to report, they’re the opposite of facts- a claim to ignorance of the facts” oh man, he’s yapping! but he has a point.

“claimed steadfastly, ignorance becomes as acceptable as the truth” <- he’s lowkey right though… he ate with that one thing

still pissed he cannot remember birthdays.

he points out that all of the watches have been stolen that show the difference in 9 minutes between the reported and the actual crash time!!! and that somehow they need to figure out what happened in those 9 minutes. hmm. is this a possible task?

well, with a rental car, you can go anywhere, including to this military base.

oh no!!! someone already came and asked this military man (later revealed to be named louis frish) about the crash, the night it happened! oh no… someone else has a lead

hmm….. hmm…. some discrepancies in stories are occurring here. it must be CSM.

uh oh... the minute they leave, louis frish says to his buddy that he told them “what he was supposed to say”… there is STRANGENESS afoot!!! this other guy says if they come back, he’s gonna tell them the truth.

back to the motel…. well, sharon is no longer there!!! surely you recall the lights and the shaking, etc etc! the landlord seems to think that she trashed the room and dipped, and is telling our agents they MUST pay for it. she was making her 5 seconds of screen time COUNT.

“okay scully, hit me with your best shot, what do you think happened here?” (deep sigh) “i haven’t a clue” <- i love when they admit they don’t know wtf is going on. i think it’s very endearing.

plane guy shows up!!! mulder is being snippy with him about the lack of evidence, but he comes with evidence in hand!!! he won’t make an announcement though, because he’s afraid he’ll sound as crazy as mulder. woah… plane guy redemption arc??

the plane had wear and tear marks, but the gag is it was a brand new plane!!! and all of the cracks radiate from the door they think was blown off!!!

big shoutout to mulder for trusting his door launching instincts. 

back at the air force base….. the one guy who said he was gonna snitch has a bullet hole in his head!!! and three cars are rapidly approaching!!! including one with shady mustache man who was spraying drunk guy’s body!!!

louis frish is hiding on the roof. hmm. hope they don't climb up there to check.

mulder is rocking back and forth, listening to the audio from the flight. then he busts out a rotary phone and spins it with great determination. another forcible reminder of the 90's. also, him rocking back and forth was funny. it was giving old man on a porch energy.

he’s calling scully!! she sounds very sleepy and points out that they have been up for over 36 hours, but he asks if she can please come over, as he thinks he has heard this voice before

yayyy, they can say they know who the voice belongs to, and then fall asleep all cuddled up <3 and everyone lived happily ever after- the end!

NO!!! when she gets out of her room, someone GRABS HER!!! this guy is closing her mouth and saying not to scream, which really makes a person want to scream more, i can imagine.

it’s louis frish??? saying he caused the plane crash???

girl. i was ready for some snuggling.... gtfo with this nonsense.

ooooookay, so it was frish whose voice they heard on the recording! frish says he was ordered to lie about what happened to the flight…. and now he’s fessing up that he saw a second aircraft shadowing it, then an explosion, then the disappearance. 

plane guy is saying that this guy must be a liar. but mulder says there has to be a THIRD aircraft, shot down by the intercept aircraft, which caused this crash. so there has to be a second crash site.

man, i was still thinking about them cuddling, but sure. sure, we have 3 aircraft now. i'm getting lost but i'll just roll with it.

plane guy says that if there is a second crash site they need to find it. i cannot get a read on him. also, frish the whistleblower needs to be kept somewhere safe because the military is clearly gonna kill him.

time to head out…. but cars are approaching!!! can a man who hasn’t slept in 36 hours do a high speed chase? well, he sure can, but the question is more about the ethics than the actual possibility. 

mulder’s crazy idea is to drive straight into a landing plane which just BARELY works and scully straight up was looking death in the face. 

plane guy goes to the OG crash site and sees a UFO!!! it has a beam it is scanning down on the wreckage!!!! he seems entirely gagged and runs towards it, which is not what i would do in that situation. i would be hiding. and then it wooshes away!!!

NO!!!!! it is above him now!!!!!! the beam is shining upon him…. but it wooshes away again. phew. that was very close.

however, a woman is wailing in the trees. SHARON??? is that you??? plane guy is running toward the voice!!!! and it is sharon!!!

plane guy holds sharon as she sobs and begs him not to let them take her again…….. which is a lot of responsibility to place on a random guy, but clearly she has been through a lot.

mulder and scully and frish are trying to get on a plane now. but mulder says what if there IS no second crash site because the second aircraft never fell??

well, i was just getting used to the idea of there being a second crash site, and now it has been taken away from me!!! but i assume he is saying that the UFO must have gotten away fine???

(author's note: no! no, i assumed wrong, for he surmised correctly that it crashed underwater? again, was i supposed to be following that? because i wasn't)

scully does not want to take frish back to DC by herself, and who can blame her? that’s a long drive with a strange man! and surely now mulder is going to run off and engage in some sort of antics!! probably to get himself kidnapped and all that!!!!

aww, but he waves goodbye as their airplane takes off. and then he sets out into the night. 

he drives out to the lake where he thinks maybe the UFO got away, where some guy is telling him there is a hovering light flying over every now and then

scully brings this frish guy back to her HOUSE??? she says she needs to get some stuff before she talks to her agent in charge and i’m thinking no!!! what if he’s lying!?! you brought him into your house!!! what if he gets you?!?

he’s having a crisis of faith on if he’ll get arrested for lying about the plane crash, and i’m sorry to hear he has to live with that guilt, but let’s do this in a place where she doesn't live. 

she says she will do her best to tell his story to someone who can help him. which is very kind of her. but again. let us not bring strangers to our residence.

and he asks to make a phone call to his girlfriend and say he’s safe but i’m thinking noOooOoo why does it have to be on HER phone???? i don’t trust this man at all!!!!!

mulder is sailing out into the lake with this random guy. oh he’s gonna scuba dive. you see, that isn’t something you should do without experience, but here he is. that's the kinda crazy fox mulder brings to the table.

scully takes frish to a restaurant, and who is here but PENDRELL!!! yelling about her birthday. he tries to buy her a drink, and she points out she is with somebody. he laughs and says well let me buy him one too. good for him! 

BUT MUSTACHE MAN IS HERE. he is trying to SHOOT frish. and pendrell is bringing his drinks over and HE GETS SHOT as SCULLY SHOOTS MUSTACHE GUY.

oh my god. is she gonna watch PENDRELL DIE RIGHT THEN AND THERE???

well i thought he was a bit weird, but i didn’t want to see him BLEED OUT!!!

mulder is diving. into god knows what. i’m scared he’ll get the bends or something. or run out of air. or any other horrific scuba related phenomenon. 

but there is something down there!!! something big and metal. i’m scared some sort of evil creature is going to jump out. 

BAH! ALIEN!!!!

okay, he didn’t jump out, but he was unexpected. 

and the light is back!!!! it must be the UFO!!! come to get the alien and maybe the mulder in the process!

end scene.

woaugh…. 

we started with birthday dinner and ended with dead alien and dying pendrell. what a piece of TV.

honestly, the episode was good, don’t get me wrong. but there was so much happening so quickly that i was a little lost. can you blame me? first we had two aircraft and then three and then two crash sites and then one and then two but the other one was underwater. and it was going really fast. 

i firmly believe that in media like this when the world is always about to blow up, you need to take time to make me care about the characters living or dying. you can't replace character development with a ticking time bomb or blow after blow after blow and expect that to be compelling writing. and while i think in the past seasons there has been an excellent balance of character development to character torture or fighting the end of the world, this season has been very heavy handed on the character torture. and i want to make it clear: i am an angst enthusiast. but also, after a certain point, it's like, are we here to just watch these guys suffer? is that what brings us before the TV screen? you don't need an even ratio of character happy time to character sad time- a small amount of character happy time can go a long, long way, so i'm glad we started with some today- perhaps the first all season?

what i'm trying to say is that the opening is going to to get me through a lot of hard times. but still... mulder doesn’t remember birthdays………. this man... i want to shake him like a rag doll and knock some sense into his head.

oh pendrell... how i wonder where your story will go next!

[sciatu]

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.

[toyamacityfm-hibikore-archives]

よしもとかよ 「日々是好日」。vol.157 (2025/4 / 9 + 4 / 16)

2025   9th + 16th april 　

M1 brand-new day (Joshua Radin)

　 M2 a hundred years from yesterday (Alice Babs) 　 　 M3 spring (Ashley Maher)

　 M4 tempu ki bai (Mayra Andrade) 　 　 M5 spring can really hang you up the most (Rickie Lee Jones) 　 　 M6 dandelion (Eddi Reader) 　 　 M7 OH DEAR (ASIA 7) 　　 　　 M8 つきたちの花 (おおたか静流) 　 　

[好日の素…記録すること。] 　 それなりに年齢を重ねてきておりますので 記憶力の低下など 気になるところではあり、 過去のことをなかなか 思い出せなくなっていたりするこの頃。 どうだったっけなぁ…とか いつだったかなぁ…などと 口にすることが多くなりました。 　 そんな時、どこかしら何かしらに 記録が残っている、というのは ああ、そうでしたね！となって 安心できたりもして、 ありがたいものかもしれないなぁと 思うようになりました。　 （ま、敢えて思い出したくないようなことも あるっちゃありますが・苦笑） 　 今年は日本で放送が始まって100年ということで テレビなど拝見していますと、 知らない時代のものごとを 知ることができたり 懐かしいあれこれに再び出会うことができたり。 記録が残っていたことで 救われることもあるかもしれないと 思うようになっています。 　 個人的な記録、というと 日記の他に 今日ですとブログやSNS、また 文字だけでなく音声や動画もあり、 記録する形式も多岐にわたっていますね。 見る分にはとても便利で ありがたい時代になったな、と感心します。 　 ただ、アナログなわたしの気持ちとしては ペーパーレスの時代に逆行するようですが、 電源を入れて立ち上げないと 記録に辿り着けないものよりは 紙に書かれているものの方が 手っ取り早いことも。 電気が使えない、機器が使えない状況下だとすれば アナログな手法も大切なように思います。 　 ともあれ、大切なことや 素敵なことを 忘れないための記録、 さまざまな手法で 手元にとどめておきたいものです。 　 　 　

* * * * * * * * * * *

[日々是食べたい！… 玉ねぎのごま和え] 　

　 前回、前々回の 酢の話を 若干ひきずるかもしれないのですが… 新玉ねぎの季節ということもありまして ぽん酢を使ってつくる 玉ねぎのごま和えをピックアップしてみました。 　 新玉ねぎをたのしみたい、というだけでなく スライスして、 水にさらして、 材料を和えるだけ！という簡単さが 何かと忙しいこの時期には ぴったりなのではないかと思いまして。 　 ビジュアル的には地味かもしれませんが、 玉ねぎのしゃきしゃきとした食感と ぽん酢のさっぱりした風味、そこに ごまの香ばしさが とてもいいあんばい。 　 季節を問わず手に入る 普通の玉ねぎでも もちろんおいしくできるのですが、 旬の新玉ねぎでつくると 甘みもあってみずみずしくて ますますおいしい！ 　 冬の間に 鍋や水炊きを楽しんで、 そういえばぽん酢、余っちゃったなぁ、というときにも いいかもしれません。 　 春ならではのおいしいものは いろいろありますが、 わたしにとってはこのごま和えも そのひとつ。 何かもう一品増やしたい…というときでも サッとつくれるありがたいメニュウです。

[invinciblerodent]

❤️Introductory post❤️

Common tags for filtering purposes:

#squirrel speaks (general posts unrelated to fandom) #squirrel plays bg3 (posts about Baldur's Gate 3 that relate to my playthroughs and characters) #squirrel plays dragon age (posts about Dragon Age that relate to my playthroughs and characters) #squirrel plays datv (posts relating specifically to my playthroughs and characters in Dragon Age: The Veilguard) #squirrel watches stargate (posts about -you guessed it- watching Stargate) #happy tag (funny or cute things- I keep this tag to scroll when I need cheering up ❤️)

❌Not currently spoiler-free!❌

Fic:

AO3 page (as of 2024, mostly old Dragon Age and Mass Effect fics- this might be updated later)

Ficlet on immortal elven souls and vampiric immortality (BG3, Astarion/Iona)

"Prayer of an unknown cleric" (BG3, Gale/Arvid)

Warden Tristan of the Grey - OC backstory snippet (DA:TV)

Verbena of the Shadow Dragons - OC backstory snippet (DA:TV)

Selected love letters (DA:I, Dorian/Ray, Pavelyan)

Character list and bios below!

Baldur's Gate 3

Arvid Trygg (he/him, 54)

"Gold dwarf" cleric of Tempus, soldier background

❤️: Gale Dekarios

Playlist 🎶

Summary:

Note written by Gemria Bozzahr, 1438 DR, found pinned to the swaddling of a corpse-blue, wailing infant boy: "If you've any care for the weak, please find one who may care for him. I cannot face my family as mother to a half-breed. May he find grace in the glory of your god, and let him bear the name 'Arvid', after the father he may never know."

A bastard son born from but one night shared by a trader's daughter and a handsome duergar soldier, Arvid was raised by clerics of Tempus in a small and insignificant monastery/fortress, in a small and insignificant town close to Neverwinter. Now, it was unusual for Tempurans to take in urchins like that, but the boy, while unusual in his appearance and meek in his nature, proved a quick study, and a rare talent at healing. Which, with his quiet, mellow (and soon, not even quite so anxious!) personality, made him a favored addition to the "mercenary" excursions of the warrior-priests: and so, hitting the ground running, Arvid learned to fight in the very melting pot of battle.

With body and spirit molded by the Foehammer's teaching, he took his Acolyte vows shortly after his 16th spring, and became a fully fledged cleric of the Faith much younger than most. And as time passed slowly (and with... only a regular amount of constant bloodshed), he made his way to the rank of Direhar (guardian-priest). It was at 53 that he was called to Baldur's Gate: partly to replace the sole healer of the city's monastery who had perished (naturally in battle), and partly at the urging of his Warlyon (high priest), as an opportunity for him to eventually, maybe, even head his own congregation.

Of course, the mind flayers had different plans.

After merely a year of trying to establish a foothold in the city with... middling-to-poor success, Arvid was yanked from the city streets while trying to usher as many of those fleeing into the protection of the temple as possible. Fat load of good playing the hero did for him. (But to be fair, that's... kind of his theme.)

Iona Raedir (she/her, 61)

High elf sorcerer (draconic ancestry, red), guild artisan background (jeweler/trader)

❤️: Astarion Ancunín

Playlist 🎶

Summary:

"Don't ask, kitten, and I won't lie."

Once dutiful daughter, once devoted wife, always a secret sorceress. Iona lived most of her life in a settlement by the name of Puremount's Hollow, among the so-called 'Emissaries of the Immaculate': a radical offshoot of the Ilmaterian church, one that views all magic as the domain befitting solely the gods, and arcane casters, abhorrent thieves of divine power. So, with the magic of ancient dragons thrumming in her veins, that... was sort of a problem.

To her very good excuse, neither did she join of her own accord, nor did she know she commanded such powers at the time. She was only 11 years old, after all.

But, one of the things elves do best, is wait. So that's what she did, and she played her part expertly: she and her beloved father lived their life in accordance with human traditions, he took a second wife (we don't talk about the first, it's too painful), she married the first boy who asked her (Herric Birchlight- a nice boy, if rough around the edges), and kept her facade (though loveless and rote, minor issue) impeccable, while ignoring her magic as it grew and yearned to be used. For over 30 long years, she kept playing her part. But even the best liars must eventually slip- or be made to slip, more accurately.

Uncovered as an "abominable thief" of divine power, a "pretender", a "fucking witch" and "magespawn" (all Herric's lovely words about the woman he had once called "wife" and "love"), Iona was forced to flee the compound, and took the burning of bridges behind her quite literally, taking little more than the clothes on her back and that brand new scar on her face.

She was snatched less than a day after she had finally arrived to Baldur's Gate, penniless, exhausted, and alone- and for all intents and purposes, she can't quite shake the feeling that this really might have been a better outcome than many of the possible alternatives.

Petyr Wildbrook (he/him, 45)

Wood half-elf ranger/rogue/fighter, outlander background

❤️: Shadowheart, Halsin Silverbough

Playlist 🎶

Summary:

Raised among druids of the Circle of the Shepherd, Petyr waited quite a bit longer than he should have had to for his magic to show itself. And, well, it... simply never did. Brother, cousins (gods, so many cousins), friends, all inducted into the druidic arts before he could as much as conjure a single goodberry.

So, partly at the urging of his mothers and partly out of spite, Petyr took to trying to learn all he could about the wild- on his own, through sheer trial and error if need be. At 20, he gathered what meager belongings he could call his own (and a big pack of gifts from his worried, but oddly relieved family), and set out to find his luck wherever it may guide him.

Though it wasn't easy, or painless, or even smart by any stretch of the imagination, he fell into the role of a ranger and forester, and made a living as a hunter of monsters and big game, and a silent keeper of his little patch of woods: a lone watcher, and reclusive woodsman. He had always enjoyed the company of those who expect no social niceties from him anyway.

Turns out, the exception to that particular rule is the silent, squirming passenger of a tadpole behind the eyeball. And, yeah, so maybe even a self-identified utter bitch of a man is capable of being a "hero", if you stretch the meaning of the word far enough.

"Mara" (she/her; ???)

Lolth-sworn drow monk

Dark Urge

❤️: Karlach Cliffgate

Playlist 🎶

Summary:

She is three days old, and all she knows is murder.

But she's... nice. No, I promise. Or at least, she's... she's trying her best.

Dragon Age

The Veilguard

Verbena "Ver" Mercar (she/her, 32)

Human (Tevinter), Shadow Dragon warrior, Champion spec

❤️: Davrin

Playlist 🎶

✨Canon Rook✨

Summary:

There is little that is set in stone about Rook, but all of that is pretty well exemplified by Verbena: she is, ultimately, only a person striving to do the right thing, and she isn't particularly concerned with the opinions of those who claim to be in charge to achieve that.

The only difference between her background and the game's Shadow Dragon backstory is that she lost her parents not as a baby, but slightly later in life- when she was around 8 years old, in a nearby slave revolt, a magister's faulty defense system went haywire, and led to the destruction of large parts of the residential area in which she and her parents lived, and her parents lost their lives in the fire that ensued. In the aftermath, it was her paternal aunt, Abelia Caeso, and her husband, Valerius Mercar, who took her into their home.

From a young age, Verbena poured a lot of her emotions and her impotent rage into her training at her uncle's alma mater, and she quickly grew into a promising prospecting officer- but despite Valerius' pulling of the strings (and subsequent resentment at her rejection of the favor), at 18 Ver decided not to pursue a military career, and instead elected to leave the Mercar household, and move into one of the many, primarily Soporati-populated entertainment districts of Minrathous known affectionately as the Redbrick (and locally as Catsbane). Here, she gained some amount of notoriety as one who worked as a security guard, a bouncer, a general blade for hire on most days, and a Shadow Dragon operative on others.

She was sought out by Varric partly based on the recommendations of her fellow Shadow Dragon operatives (that may or may not have come mostly because of the concern over her last job going belly up), and partly word of mouth- just as much because of her role as a reliable and well-loved member of the local scene with word often passing through her as it was because of her reputation for being able to get through even the toughest skulls fairly easily: if not with her words, then with her fists.

Ver often feels in over her head, but it's her sincere belief that if you just keep your feet kicking, the surface is never too far away. All you need at any given time is your next breath- and once you have that, the next, the next, the next. She's a fairly free-spirited, kind young woman whose talent of rolling with- and taking punches equally well won her the dubious honor of being saddled with preventing the latest apocalypse- you know, no pressure.

Tristan Thorne (he/him, 41)

Human (Ferelden/Orlais), Grey Warden warrior, Champion spec

❤️: Emmrich Volkarin

Playlist 🎶 (WIP)

Summary:

Tristan Thorne is an unconventional figure, as he's not... technically, fully, completely, alive.

As a boy of 17 and the oldest of five siblings, he fought to protect his home at Ostagar during the Fifth Blight- and, promptly, lost his life in the process to the deadly blow of a Darkspawn blade, the corruption of the Blight already spreading in his veins as he fell.

It was his stubborn refusal to stop drawing breath, his sheer force of will that caught the attention of a spirit of Purpose hovering just past the ragged edges of the Fade, and upon touching the dying boy's mind, the two fused: both together and apart, two and one, dead and alive- spirit, man, and neither, all at the same time.

He was found by the Orlesian Wardens arriving to clean up the last of the Darkspawn horse, wandering the Brecilian forest in tattered, makeshift armor, and with no real memory of how he got there- rumor has it that no recruit in recent memory and no recruit since had taken the Joining as easily as the skinny Fereldan lad they just happened to stumble into.

Over 20 years have passed since then, and Warden Tristan, though quiet and maybe even harsh by some tastes, rose quickly in the ranks, all the way to becoming a Warden-Lieutenant as he wandered Thedas: from Ferelden, to Orlais, through Nevarra, the Anderfels, and even skirting the southern edges of the Tevinter Imperium.

Few ever got close enough to him to know his secret, and none have lived to see the present day.

Tristan is a brusque, matter-of-fact warrior- a leader who is not unkind, but also isn't particularly concerned with coddling his men, or sharing much about his own life either. Over the course of his life, though he had many experiences, he's not had many intimate friendships, no romantic bonds, and as far as his family is aware, he's decades dead.... but who knows, maybe a certain necromancer can bring him back to life.

In his free time, he does embroidery, ostensibly to keep the fine motor skills of his undead fingers, but his work is also quite beautiful.

Marcus Ingellvar (he/him nonbinary, 27)

Human (Nevarra), Mourn Watch mage, Death Caller spec

❤️: Bellara Lutare

Playlist 🎶 (WIP)

Summary:

Ask him, and Marcus Ingellvar will tell you that there is not much to say about him. He might be persuaded to mention some of his academic achievements, if you have a pair of pliers you might extract from him his preference in hot drinks (he is, all things considered, a peppermint tea type of guy), but unless you're careful, you might just wind up exiting any conversation with him feeling like you've just spent the past hour talking about yourself, and while you do feel much lighter than you did before and he was nothing but courteous and lovely, you have still learned absolutely nothing about him.

And that's the way he's been since he was just a child: taught by the Mourn Watchers who found him in the crypts to always be attentive to the needs of others, he's an introspective, careful, strategically- and scientifically minded thinker, a researcher and necromancer with more to prove to himself than he has to anyone else, but he nevertheless possesses the same rebellious streak that makes Rook who they are- that last part is probably what makes some of his meticulous calculations of risk seem like he fucking stinks at math.

But, maybe if he's good enough, smart enough, virtuous enough, loving enough, kind enough, beautiful enough, he might one day feel worthy of being known.

(An addition to the canonically given backstory is that Marcus is actually of noble birth- the son of an unwed noblewoman who unfortunately passed in childbirth, and her servant lover blinded by terror and grief, who took the child to the catacombs in the hopes that he might later return and "adopt" the child, once he no longer runs the risk of being accused with the murder of his beloved. Unfortunately, that day never did end up arriving. Marcus will most likely never learn that he was always loved and wanted, and that it wasn't callousness, but simple misfortune that put him on this path.)

Aramis de Riva (he/him, mid-thirties)

Human (Antiva), Crow rogue, ??? spec

❤️: Lace Harding

Playlist 🎶 (WIP)

Summary:

Yeah, that's not his real name- not "Aramis", and most certainly not "de Riva", but for whatever it's worth, it works just as well as any other.

(TBF)

As of yet unplayed:

Coris de Riva (she/her, early 30's)

Dwarf (Antiva), Antivan Crow rogue

❤️: Lucanis Dellamorte

Playlist 🎶 (WIP)

Summary: TBD

Syl Aldwir (she/her, 27)

Elf (Tevinter), Veil Jumper rogue

❤️: Neve Gallus

Playlist 🎶 (WIP)

Summary: TBD

Origins

Aren Lorna "Arie" Aeducan (she/her, DAO: 25, DAI: 36, DATV: 46)

✨"Canon" Warden-Commander✨

Noble dwarf, sword and board warrior (Berserker+Champion)

❤️: Leliana (softened, Divine)

Aesthetic

Summary:

Aren Lorna Aeducan is a woman forged in fire through and through. Bearing the name- and donning the armor of her late grandmother, she quickly proved herself to be as steadfast and politically shrewd as her namesake.

As she was bred and born a leader and thus grew up an unintentional rival to her elder brother, she is generally proud and poised, unapologetic in her way of carrying herself, and assertive in her opinions which, while driven by a desire to do and be good, are quick to take backseat to a strong emotional motivation- She is as dedicated and passionate in love as she is in duty.

While her assertiveness may make her come off as harsh, stubborn, she is nonetheless essentially benevolent, mindful and supportive of emotions and wants of those around her- keeping people’s best interests at heart, she is diplomatic and ambitious, occasionally sarcastic, with strong convictions of what is right and just, which she intends to enforce and uphold even if that means resorting to less than legal measures. The end, in her eyes, sanctifies the means, even if that end is just the survival of one more person, be it others or herself.

The main conflicts of her character throughout the story are the choices that force her to pick between her compassion and her desire for vindication, and the choice dictated by her royal upbringing in grossly homophobic Orzammar conflicting with her later-life realization of her own bisexuality, with which she grapples until eventually she allows herself to fall in love with Leliana.

While trying to avoid facing her own emotions whenever possible, for the first chunk of the game, she is almost singularly obsessed with the idea of revenge, and until Bhelen’s eventual death at her hands, her personal vendetta takes priority even over the establishment of a stable dynasty that might be best for Orzammar in the wake of the Blight. That anger and defiance that resides in her is eventually placated, and it is only once the faith of Ferelden and Thedas no longer rests on her shoulders that she mellows out, turning from the commander into herself.

Vogar Brosca (he/him, DAO: 22, DAI: 33, DATV: 43)

Casteless dwarf, dual-wielding warrior (Reaver)

❤️: Zevran

Non-canon Warden, but an unrelated Warden in my head regardless

Vogar Brosca is unequivocally what the Hero of Ferelden should not be- he is abrasive and selfish, almost completely illiterate, and easily the most cynical man Thedas has ever carried, in its belly or on its back.

He carries a lot of anger in him- a lot of envy and jealousy, as well as overall resentment towards most everyone willing to exploit him and people like him. As he is motivated mostly by spite and a drive to prove people wrong, he always strives to show an image of strength and confidence, even though many times he would rather hide under a rock and never again poke his head out- the man has turned “fake it till you make it” into a personal motto and intends to stick to it.

After an adolescence and early adulthood as a Carta grunt (during which he had to sell his sword arm and honor simply to stay alive), he keeps his loyalties fluid, and his morals where his money is; if it suits his fancy, he is prone to reasoning away any and all decisions he might make as reasonable and moral.

As little beyond his love for his sister and his friendship with Leske tied him to the city, he was quick to jump on the opportunity to abandon Orzammar in favor of the promise of an ability to be someone beyond a casteless thug, although he won’t deny that the idea of “pretty and easy Surface girls with knockers the size of my head” also contributed to the decision- the fact that later he happened to find love by the side of a very male assassin who had been sent for his head is but an amusing caprice of fate.

As the game progresses, he grows and changes rather quickly and dramatically- the responsibility of decision-making affects him pretty badly, but the rest of the party poses a whole new set of good and bad examples and influences on him. The surface, where people look at him and say “Ser” instead of spitting, will finally show him an angle of the world which he likes- a world in which his existence is at least acknowledged beyond him being an eyesore. He also manages to eventually overcome his deeply internalized homophobia with Zevran’s help, (come to terms with his now past but then obvious affection for Leske,) and learns to trust and allow people to get close to him.

Inquisition

Raymond "Ray" Percival Trevelyan (he/him, DAI: 24, DATV: 34, BG3: 55)

✨"Canon" Inquisitor ✨, Inquisitor-as-Tav AU

Human

DA: sword and board warrior (Reaver)

BG3: fighter/Oath of Devotion paladin (noble background)

❤️: DAI- Dorian Pavus, BG3- Wyll Ravengard

Playlist 🎶

Aesthetic

Summary:

There's one thing that is to be said / about him in the years to come: A hero seldom lives to see / past the ending of his tale.

Raymond begins his story a naive, idealistic young man with a passion for the romantic, the sentimental, the dramatic, and the comedic. He is witty and bright, an educated and charming man, but as such, he is also impulsive and brash, immature, and emotional- his decisions are motivated mostly, if not only by his heart, and an almost comical sense of justice.

Inspired heavily as a young teen by the Tale of the Champion and the refugees' tales about the Hero of Ferelden, he aspires to be the great hero Hawke and Lady Aeducan were painted as- while fully aware of how unattainable that ideal might be, he nevertheless aims to become the generous and brave "Knight in Shining Armor" Thedas wants him to be, more or less successfully.

In the beginning of the story, he is deeply Andrastian and practices his religion frequently, but throughout the game, his faith is shaken. Initially, it is his firmly held belief that he is in fact Andraste’s chosen, but confirmation of the opposite at Adamant plants the doubt in his heart that later results in the abandonment of organized Andrastianism, and establishing a rather more lenient, personal relationship with religion.

Throughout the events of the game, as he is faced with more and more injustices and pointless loss of life, his initially neutral-positive views on mage freedom and elf rights quickly radicalize. While the realizations take away a lot of his naiveté and optimism, make him slightly jaded and more skeptical, ultimately he matures and grows as a person. He unlearns a lot of the toxic views he internalized growing up noble, and slowly, with the help of the friends and the love he finds in the Inquisition, he also learns to allow himself to be loved.

At the end, while tired and battered and suffering from moderate- to severe PTSD, the once-green-eared kid emerges a soldier and a man more or less worthy of his title as Inquisitor.

---

The BG3 AU is set roughly 30 years after the events of DAI. After a tumultuous youth of adventuring, ostensibly saving the world (which earned him the moniker "Inquisitor of the Dales"), and the loss of his sword arm in the process, Raymond had retired from heroics young, at merely 25 years of age. Upon the peaceful passing of his father (a minor, but old-money Baldurian baron in this reality), he quickly took to managing the family estate (reconciling a tenuous love with his estranged mother- we don't talk about the past much on that one), and settled in for two joyous decades of blissful domesticity by the side of the love of his life, Dorian.

Except fate has a way of throwing its doomed chosen at increasingly bigger problems, until one finally manages to kill them.

A handful of years pass between the assassination of his husband over blasted politics and his own abduction by mind flayers, and Ray, both dreading and strangely anticipating the adventure, falls back into the role of a leader and a hero like he would into a bad habit, though he is barely a shadow of his once-gregarious, larger-than-life hero self.

Maybe this time, throwing himself at a nigh-immortal god-monster will finally wind up killing him for good. And then, maybe he can finally rest.

Or not. Who knows. At least if he's lucky, fate will take a fucking leg this time.

Adela Cadash (she/her, DAI: 37, DA:TV: 47)

Surface-born dwarf (Marcher, Tantervale)

Archer rogue (Tempest)

❤️: The Iron Bull

Non-canon Inquisitor

Summary:

Adela Cadash is a woman with an undeniable talent for consciously putting herself into the wrong place at the wrong time. She’s cynical and efficient, energetic- not one to sit idly by and contemplate consequences, more often than not she leaps before she would look. She fixes mistakes as she goes, making a lifestyle out of risk and thrill-seeking, but regardless of what it is into which she’s throwing herself, she always gives off the impression that she is at least one step ahead, even -or especially- when that’s not true.

Perceptive and cunning, Adela is an expert at reading people and giving them who, and what they want her to be. She is flexible and adaptable, clever and shrewd, capable of morphing herself into whoever the situation requires her to be- from the principled dame, through the mother figure, to the commander of war, there is a personality in her arsenal that fits that role, while she keeps her true thoughts and feelings buried six feet under.

As for religion, Adela is mostly agnostic in her views. She is mostly neutral concerning the plight of mages- while she is mostly aware of the injustices, Tantervale's Circle never caused the kind of problems Kirkwall's did, and overall, she holds mostly the same views as Vivienne does- that magic is dangerous as fire is dangerous, and she's not about to let herself get burnt.

She has, however, a passion for the finer things in life- be it food, bathing, or love, she likes to make an event, a spectacle out of the mundane. Be it Orlesian opera, really nice shoes, disgustingly overpriced alcohol, or elaborate, kinky sex, she is not one for saving things for special occasions- to her, having lived most of her life in mortal danger, every day lived is a special occasion worthy of celebrating, and she lives life from one day to the next, barely thinking past tomorrow for it may never come.

She is, all in all, a professional survivor.

Harwen Lavellan (later on Harwen Montilyet- he (primarily)/they (incidentally), DAI: ~35, DATV: ~45)

Dalish hunter

Archer rogue (Assassin)

❤️: Josephine Montilyet

Non-canon Inquisitor

Summary:

Harwen is a no-nonsense, practical man- a calm and collected, rather quiet person whose every word is spoken with purpose.

Able to think coolly and logically even in the face of danger, Harwen is a born analyst and strategist. He’s prone to seeming emotionally detached in his decision-making and known to prioritize the purpose over the idea- Ultimately, he is a smart worker rather than a hard worker, with a remarkable talent for seeing the big picture without getting swallowed up in the details.

He is very pragmatic and equally introverted; a very private person and while not unfriendly, he is difficult to get to know and even more difficult to predict. Being perceptive and at times suspicious, he may come off as grumpy, coarse. That is, however, merely the surface- as a private person, he is deeply romantic, loyal, and works best as a member of a team. Having been trained as a Dalish hunter, he seems to have a gift for seeing the strengths and weaknesses of each of his companions, and working with- and around them with efficiency.

He is also an eerily fast learner- while as a Dalish elf, he has not had any formal education and is barely literate in human writing systems, he is remarkable at absorbing large amounts of information very quickly and applying it as the situation requires.

Regarding beliefs, Harwen is a traditionally wired mind with a modern twist- while conscious and critical of its flaws, he observes Dalish customs and honors the gods according to his clan’s practices, invoking Falon’din and Andruil before each battle. In this, he does not allow himself to be shaken- while he accepts that his people are not perfect, not by a longshot, he is nevertheless devout. As the story of the game progresses and he is forced to give up elements of his heritage, he only seems to cling tighter to the few parts to which he can.

In his spare time, he enjoys gardening, and he often whistles out of tune.

By Veilguard, he lives in Antiva as Josephine's husband, no longer wears his clan name, and is a father to one half-elven daughter by the name Valeria Montilyet (she looks human, and her father is often mistaken for merely her caretaker).

[lightkrets312]

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.

[hedgewitchgarden]

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 

[rhianna]

THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME. VICTOR HUGO.

MOST certainly, the Cathedral of Notre-Dame is still a sublime and majestic edifice. But, despite the beauty which it preserves in its old age, it would be impossible not to be indignant at the injuries and mutilations which Time and man have jointly inflicted upon the venerable structure without respect for Charlemagne, who laid its first stone, and Philip Augustus, who laid its last.

There is always a scar beside a wrinkle on the face of this aged queen of our cathedrals. Tempus edax homo edacior, which I should translate thus: Time is blind, man is stupid.

If we had leisure to examine one by one, with the reader, the various traces of destruction imprinted on the old church, Time’s work would prove to be less destructive than men’s, especially des hommes de l’art, because there have been some individuals in the last two centuries who considered themselves architects.

First, to cite several striking examples, assuredly there are few more beautiful pages in architecture than that façade, exhibiting the three deeply-dug porches with their pointed arches; the plinth, embroidered and indented with twenty-eight royal niches; the immense central rose-window,29 flanked by its two lateral windows, like the priest by his deacon and sub-deacon; the high and frail gallery of open-worked arches, supporting on its delicate columns a heavy platform; and, lastly, the two dark and massive towers, with their slated pent-houses. These harmonious parts of a magnificent whole, superimposed in five gigantic stages, and presenting, with their innumerable details of statuary, sculpture, and carving, an overwhelming yet not perplexing mass, combine in producing a calm grandeur. It is a vast symphony in stone, so to speak; the colossal work of man and of a nation, as united and as complex as the Iliad and the romanceros of which it is the sister; a prodigious production to which all the forces of an epoch contributed, and from every stone of which springs forth in a hundred ways the workman’s fancy directed by the artist’s genius; in one word, a kind of human creation, as strong and fecund as the divine creation from which it seems to have stolen the two-fold character: variety and eternity.

And what I say here of the façade, must be said of the entire Cathedral; and what I say of the Cathedral of Paris, must be said of all the Mediæval Christian churches. Everything in this art, which proceeds from itself, is so logical and well-proportioned that to measure the toe of the foot is to measure the giant.

Let us return to the façade of Notre-Dame, as it exists to-day when we go reverently to admire the solemn and mighty Cathedral, which, according to the old chroniclers, was terrifying: quæ mole sua terrorem incutit spectantibus.

That façade now lacks three important things: first, the30 flight of eleven steps, which raised it above the level of the ground; then, the lower row of statues which occupied the niches of the three porches; and the upper row1 of the twenty-eight ancient kings of France which ornamented the gallery of the first story, beginning with Childebert and ending with Philip Augustus, holding in his hand “la pomme impériale.”

Time in its slow and unchecked progress, raising the level of the city’s soil, buried the steps; but whilst the pavement of Paris like a rising tide has engulfed one by one the eleven steps which formerly added to the majestic height of the edifice, Time has given to the church more, perhaps, than it has stolen, for it is Time that has spread that sombre hue of centuries on the façade which makes the old age of buildings their period of beauty.

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[atravellingfoodie]

One Pot Roasted Mixed Potatoes with Spring Herbs

Vestibulum ante ipsum primis in faucibus orci luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curae; Fusce porttitor metus eget lectus consequat, sit amet feugiat magna vulputate. Phasellus iaculis tellus augue, at ultrices lacus efficitur a. Mauris a nibh erat. In sed massa sed erat consectetur convallis vel vitae felis. Vivamus in tempus erat. Cras porta nisi sit amet leo dictum, non suscipit neque…

[libidomechanica]

“And who saw in suffer her thirty year the wrong”

A tanka sequence

               I

Outside of inside your ruin’d again, which he wood. And who saw in suffer her thirty year the wrong! The can be he best pleasure?

               II

So little eye hath was happing absence of the moment’s foreign stole better. Never can please. Next day when I recognize you.

               III

Helpless, Mercy, pity as its lonely we. His stilly branch the combine, which make men adore these? She sea, the moon hateful cloud.

               IV

Of the maples for he side and but want of the steal dead: then of eyes there is a wayle heart. Let me loves, here the barbershop.

               V

How quiet take—best fro their chief and makes in slow circumstancy contend. The bloomin’ and light: and I’ll both will luck on the heard.

               VI

Spirit meet the youngest; the bare; but Calvary— O Yonge fast he cancell’d thy bear takes a haze of loue to my Mother circle.

               VII

Belief has been gone, but pyping lips to makes him in the wide lean toward very large, wanting together the vale. Enjoy, give me?

               VIII

Do you, you hast the sing when my love my reason, yea, hungry, and maidenly fedde. What thy hearts in a might dale, old Susan Gale.

               IX

Down thy heard, brooding. Gone with wondrous sweet it lies, no hand. A crocus too deed to gives on me He with garland loue the moon.

               X

His of Cupid a ponder. Head and Evil. Clawed in her name. And that sad tears: and of him? And thother, no needs of Arcady?

               XI

And lace for ever her eyes glory, to me, my cold, and, curl. Of wrong is death, and to die if she stream of joy. Charley snarling.

               XII

So they drest? Thou are, ye’ll crack him, untested my wrath shelter, to governs me frae his joy. As been their eye: yes; and some way ring?

               XIII

—Soon-tints doen, where many days, oh, how he cattle he knowne, and then should that is hands, thou Menalcas, that meant night like raise. The vice.

               XIV

But scorne of us will not they burr, burr—now Johnny took sometimes the moon in wonderful; it is my chin, your rhyme, were slick-faced.

               XV

Jealous sky do melt, dost walking head and blood. And round and trim, what in thy teeth of his own visions to be anchor falshode more.

               XVI

Here we sense, weenin’, sae ye must: so be your terrors of insolence bid me their false pate. When like genuine, tho’ the devil.

               XVII

Cried next day over mad; mad in a springs as one: there is gifts. Thy fireweed flame playing in the four tomato’s still Day!

               XVIII

Dismantled, he wide; the line, remembers breath our eares would me when, eu’n of Patience, which of wedding. Like in itself with sleep.

               XIX

With is measure his may staff. The wee the moonlight around us as if no partly forces, that the springs because of him?

               XX

Won. Resting, our coffee pot you may be, but when your rhymed in what will beleeue me, whom she and fire, to windowes my Johnny sooth!

               XXI

Stella, in their fears; then comes and her grow. Next day nor lost all to me; then shepheards, she wayle here, sick, and the plague are the Kidde.

               XXII

Be here threading haven’t mad purple season. To seven fox-kits cunning, the springs, quickly vnder bleach. Since, it in Wine, or me.

               XXIII

There is slack; now but aye thus to see rail and he rein? The scents about thirty mine eyes have often make fast forests and I do?

               XXIV

Is a soul contend. On your tomb already morning thy wrist, the water you’ll gallop on fountain, and my dispraise has he spard?

               XXV

And she thee; how she’s decline from me ances return! And never then bird of she tooke: well asked to help my bondslave it half-closed.

               XXVI

Like glowing I sooner but all. Whenever significancel, to my mounds of lovers life’s bliss frozen,—o dool on my kind.

               XXVII

Doubt—now thee, that the Doctor, like to open, won’t. To the should brass and has been fair of sorts, that so preuelie, but old Tempus will swinck.

               XXVIII

When of the morrow from worldly and towers, still gently will stand. Forsaking me the clear March night, and Johnny may louely leave.

               XXIX

And with others of a lassie does crown, thy beauties of shame and smiling fast and darts, O Moone, still I could lie her. For when home.

               XXX

At last, where is in my foe, the shooting up the fire with blood-red by blackness and passed me, that, in me? Know me without can see.

               XXXI

And where is misse! Next day tarnished flood turn’d entire, while this time and red fevered and Johnny is gan were is society?

               XXXII

And than to my eye, unable crying is. On thy bonier yet to his father Adam first was cutting behind that I Love?

               XXXIII

A broken with light? All with me; then his bow, and sunflower fell, that relieued by the pony more the goal yet, dost ten, carried!

               XXXIV

Go calm white am I in the Pedlar her face. With a melt, and floor of my soul is, and when I shall a young some a new pan.

               XXXV

Therefore Nature: incapable of the life—and farewell! Thou thing, the like the noon’s gray happy Betty a dreadful night but yet.

               XXXVI

I would not let you love left. To the cannot refused to asswage: and the luring painter-sections I cannot homely, as head.

               XXXVII

Life, and hail a lamb into loathe spider if he did cruell of God, which thought and Pity here then persisting still beleeue meet you can.

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A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater.

When, while the lovely valley teems with vapour around me, and the meridian sun strikes the upper surface of the impenetrable foliage of my trees, and but a few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuary, I throw myself down among the tall grass by the trickling stream; and, as I lie close to the earth, a thousand unknown plants are noticed.

Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don’t resist them – that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like. 

Lao Tzu

LOVE WHAT YOU DO. DO WHAT YOU LOVE

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