#that is so widely prized and valued and seen as one of the Main Thing)

[ehlnofay]

watching friends get really excited about dating as an aromantic person is such a unique experience... like waow I'm so happy for you !! glad you're having fun!! but what are you talking about

[polymathicdragon]

Terms of Endearment

A Bagginshield Fanfic (also available HERE on ao3)

Summary: Khuzdul terms of endearment are pretty common and Bilbo has heard them all, though he's a little wary of using Hobbit terms of endearment as he's not sure how well they will translate. But after so many years of being together he decides he can't help himself anymore...and it turns out to be the best decision. 

Rating: General audiences

This story is all because I had a random headcanon based on this tiktok. I posted it into our Bagginshield discord and it ran away from there and I knew I needed to write it!

I wouldn't have been so excited to write this without so many amazing ideas and Hobbit endearments from my friends over on the discord. They include: @the-game-is-up @curiousartemis @lesbiankiliel @imsoconfused16 @mulasawala @mandolinearts

Story below the cut!

Bilbo had settled into his new role as husband and King’s consort well, he had tried hard to make sure that he understood and respected Dwarven culture and customs, while also sprinkling in a bit of Hobbit sensibility where he could. Thorin had always called him sweet terms of endearment in Khuzdul, which he now understood much better having learned the language and its meaning, and Bilbo would smile and reply in kind. It wasn’t that Hobbits didn’t have terms of endearment, but he didn’t think that they’d quite translate well, so he let them slip from his mind. Until one day, he couldn’t help himself.

It was one of those rare occurrences that Thorin and Bilbo actually had a day to themselves, which seemed to be less and less as the years went on and the mountain fared better than it ever had. Bilbo was laying in bed still, covers strewn around him, while Thorin had gone to grab them breakfast. As he returned and handed Bilbo a steaming cup of tea, Bilbo grinned.

“Good morning honeycake,” he said as he took the cup from Thorin’s hands.

At first Thorin just nodded, “You’re wel--” but then blinked, “what did you call me?”

Bilbo just laughed and Thorin cocked his head a bit but just let it go, instead climbing up into bed with his own tea and as they enjoyed a quiet morning together.

---

It was a few weeks later and Thorin had been working late at his desk, pouring over paperwork. A pile that no matter how long he sat there, never seemed to diminish. Bilbo walked in quietly, placing his hand on Thorin’s shoulder.

“Hello, my lovely potato.”

Thorin leaned back, smiling up at Bilbo, “Hello, ghivashel.”

“How are things going?” Bilbo asked.

“As well as usual,” Thorin sighed, then he looked up at Bilbo, a small smirk, “Am I a sweet potato?”

Bilbo broke into giggles and Thorin dragged him into his lap, placing lingering kisses all over his face and neck.

---

And so it began, Bilbo didn’t want to overdo it so he waited for the right moment, whenever Thorin was distracted doing something else he would break out a Hobbit endearment.

Thorin was sitting in his favorite chair, reading a pile of documents. Bilbo came in from a meeting and walked up to him, reaching out his hand which Thorin took instinctively.

“Hello, my handsome parsnip.”

“Hello,” Thorin said, distracted still as his eyes scanned the document. Until it seemed he had processed what Bilbo actually said. He blinked and shook his head, looking up at Bilbo, “What is a parsnip?”

---

Bilbo found Thorin one day in his forge, he had been working on a project for weeks and had come to bed late most nights, smelling of smoke and metal. It was a smell Bilbo had long gotten used to. He stepped carefully into the forge as Thorin pulled a piece of metal out of the fire. Thorin smiled at him, lifting his hammer in a slight wave.

“Hello my darling mushroom king,” Bilbo called, a smile plastered on his face.

Thorin paused, setting down his hammer, a slight frown, “Now that’s just offensive.”

Bilbo laughed as Thorin put down the red hot metal he was working with and pulled off his gloves to come over to Bilbo. Bilbo took his hands, “But you're my mushroom, a rare one at that. And I’m so lucky to have found you.”

Thorin leaned down and kissed Bilbo, pulling him into his arms, “As sweet as that is amrâlimê, I hate mushrooms.” Bilbo laughed into his chest.

---

Thorin had been in council meetings for the past two days, they were hosting Men, Elves, and Dwarves of the Iron Hills, hoping to expand trade agreements in the north and also strategize safety and security. Orcs had appeared more frequently recently, coming from the north out of Mount Gundabad. Thorin felt like the headache forming behind his eyeballs would blind him permanently. Bilbo had been in meetings as well, and so they had barely seen each other at all. Finally everyone was free to have an informal lunch together, giving everyone a much needed break. Bilbo swept into the main dining room alongside some Elves and Dwarves. He walked over to Thorin and couldn’t even help the fact that they were surrounded by others.

“How are you my sweet-tasting cantaloupe?” Bilbo said, taking Thorin’s hands.

A few heads nearby turned to look at them, clear confusion on their faces. Thorin’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide, “What?”

Bilbo just smiled. Thorin groaned, a bit mortified, “Why can’t you just call me normal names?” he whispered.

Bilbo frowned, feeling a bit offended, “If more of us valued food and cheer and song, it would be a merrier world.”

Thorin softened then, realizing his error, “Of course, ghivashel. You are right, I’m sorry.”

---

Thorin had been away for far longer than he ever wished. He had needed to visit the Dwarven kingdom in the east to rebuild trade agreements and secure allies as rumors had begun that an evil was building in the south. He finally arrived home late, much later than he would’ve liked. There was little fanfare as it was the middle of the night. Thorin departed from his companions, heading straight to his rooms. There was no way that Bilbo would still be awake. As Thorin opened the door to his rooms, he saw that the fire was still going. The door to their bedroom opened and Bilbo’s face lit up, and he quickly strode towards him.

“You’re finally home! My prize-winning tomato!” Bilbo said as he wrapped himself around Thorin. As strange as it was, Thorin’s heart soared at the endearment, pulling him in tight, never wanting to let go. Somehow, he found himself falling more in love with Bilbo every time it happened.

---

Bilbo was tucked comfortably under the covers, waiting for Thorin to climb into bed. Bilbo had let his eyes droop a bit, sad that they had just been so busy lately as to barely see each other before exhaustion overtook them both. It seemed they would be this busy forever, and he thought about what it would be like to convince Thorin to retire and they could travel and live in the Shire. It was a pleasant thought.

He heard the door to the bathroom open and he opened his eyes. Thorin’s hair was loose and wet on the ends from where it had dipped into the water of his bath. He was only dressed in loose pants and Bilbo couldn’t help but stare. He’d seen his husband naked hundreds if not thousands of times by now, but it always made his breath catch, and the familiar feeling tingle down his spine. Bilbo was hopeless and grinned like a lovesick fool, which Thorin caught on as he climbed into bed, giving his own winning smile.

“Well hello my sexy roast beef,” Bilbo stated, more sultry than he expected.

A slight blush came to Thorin’s cheeks as he looked at Bilbo for a long moment.

“Can I marry you for a second time?” he said, his own voice deep and husky.

Bilbo nodded but the words he meant to say were lost as Thorin pulled him in close, kissing him soundly.

---

Thorin had told Balin he was taking the afternoon off. It had been one of the first nice days after a hard winter and he had hoped to catch Bilbo by surprise and spend a restful and carefree day and evening with his beloved. The possibilities were endless and he knew that this kind of day would be a hobbit dream.

He went first to the kitchens and got a quick dessert that he had pre-planned with Bombur that morning and then went to their rooms. He found Bilbo writing at his desk. Thorin quietly set down the pastries and wrapped his arms around Bilbo from behind.

“Hello my gorgeous steamed cabbage” Thorin said, hoping he had gotten the endearment correct. As far as he could tell after many, many times it was a positive and loving adjective and then a vegetable or fruit of some kind. He wasn’t very well versed in growing anything, but it was the first one that came to mind.

Bilbo stilled in his arms, the pen where it had been moving even as Thorin wrapped his arms around Bilbo had stopped, the ink pooling a bit on the paper.

Then what sounded like a laugh, followed by a cough from the Hobbit in his arms. Bilbo put the pen down and turned slightly in his chair.

Thorin knew immediately by the mirth on Bilbo’s face that it was not correct, “steamed cabbage?” Bilbo said flatly, though amusement played in his eyes.

“Have I offended you, ghivashel?” Thorin pulled his arms away, frowning.

Bilbo started, and then stopped, a few times trying to find the words. “I’m not offended, but it just...your heart was in it…”

“But it doesn’t quite work…” Thorin supplied, disappointed.

Bilbo stood, smiling and took Thorin’s hands, “It was a good effort, but you should stick to Khuzdul, my perfect potato.”

[phantasmagoriaoriginals]

Here There be Monsters: Mage Basic Intros (Part 1)

Hyousa

She/her, Red Mage.

Her history is fairly normal. While her mother died in Hyousa’s early childhood, she was close with her father and lived happily enough even after the loss. She joined the Organization willingly for the sake of making a difference in the world, even mostly unaware of how difficult that would be. Cream was given to her as a Familiar a couple years in. 

Cheerful, energetic, and persistently optimistic, Hyousa is the kind of person who aggressively sees the best in the world and everyone in it. While some people consider her hopelessly naive, her determination can’t be beat. Hyousa is actively, willingly kind to everyone who crosses her path, whether they deserve it or not. She chooses to see the best. 

Her magic is the typical Red— pure power made of her own magical energy. It’s completely suited for physical combat, but somehow, Hyousa manages not to make it violent. She fights to help people!

5′5, 19. Thin, girlish build which nonetheless carries quite a bit of lean muscle. Short, cinnamon brown hair worn mostly slicked back and out of her face, with only a few strands escaping to fall on her forehead. Wide, bright brown eyes, fair skin. She constantly fidgets around. 

Sinclair

She/her, Purple Mage.

After growing up at an orphanage following the death of her parents in an unfortunate accident, Sinclair willingly joined the Organization as a way of making use of her magic. She’d mostly taught it to herself as a way of looking after the orphanage’s children, and once she had access to a real way to improve it, she wanted to learn how to use it properly. 

Sinclair’s personality is best defined as motherly. She’s an incredibly kind, soft person who others feel innately comfortable around. However, she’s also strict on those who do wrong and wants to see people improve, not be coddled. Caretaking is in her nature. She looks after those around her and does her best to keep everyone happy and well. 

Her magic primarily operates around charms imbued with curses and blessings. While she generally prefers to use the blessings to help her allies, when she sets her mind to a curse, it’s deadly. 

5′6, early 30′s. Fat, with a pear-shaped, soft build. Wide through the hips and all-around soft. Black, frizzy hair worn around shoulder-length, with shorter-cut bangs. Black eyes, round glasses, and soft, sweet features. Moderately dark brown skin. 

Livva

She/her, Yellow Mage.

Born with an innate magic known as the “human sealing container”, Livva was highly valued even from childhood. She spent her early years being passed between “homes” and different people who owned her— usually to use her for her magic or to own an expensive prize—, until the Organization took possession of her instead. 

Serious, cold, and disinterested in the world, Livva is the kind of person who rarely shows fondness for anything. She’s seen some of the most selfish sides of humanity, so her worldview is quite corrupted. The things she does are only because she’s forced to, and she has no real attachment or loyalty to anyone or anything. She just exists. 

Her magic, as mentioned above, is sealing-based. A seal on her tongue allowed her to hold “objects” inside of her body and release them at will. These things range from artifacts to spells, to even offensive energy. 

5′10, mid 20′s. Tall, slightly pear-shaped build with notable curves. White, fluffy hair that falls to her shoulders and has considerably more volume towards the ends. Dark brown, somewhat lifeless eyes, fair skin. Posture is always stiff and near-perfect. 

Madeleine

She/her, Orange Mage.

An amnesiac, she lacks any memories from what she assumes to be almost twenty years of life. She only remembers her time with the Organization, and is currently in the process of trying to discover more about her past— including a large, mysterious scar across her chest. However, she doesn’t necessarily want to look too deeply. 

Madeleine is friendly, open, and upbeat. Despite her internal issues, she tries to make life better for herself and the people around her. She’s close friends with Sinclair, likes to use her magic for other people’s enjoyment, and is generally a very kind-hearted sort. However, when it comes to missions, she has a serious, brutal side that comes out. 

Her magic is similar to Sinclair’s but involves food (specifically sweets) instead of handmade charms. Her desserts have a variety of effects and are more useful in a conflict situation than you’d expect. 

5′9, early 30′s. Tall, athletic, curveless build with wide shoulders and strong legs. Dark brown, thigh-length hair worn in thick box braids and a high ponytail. Dark, warm-undertoned skin and sparkling brown eyes. Large, diagonal scar across her chest from collarbone to navel. 

Aurora

She/her, Green Mage.

Born without her left leg from the knee down. It took a while to find her a suitable prosthetic, but after getting a highly functional one and practicing plenty, she’s completely adjusted to it. She’s always lived in the shadow of her older sister, Rosaria, who she both adores and resents thanks to a feeling of having to live up to her success. 

Strict, intense, and serious, Aurora is the picture of ambition and hard work. She’s always felt a need to compensate for her self-perceived weaknesses and feeling of being “second best”. However, her cold exterior hides a warm heart and burning passion. She’s the type to never give up on anyone or anything when she sets her mind to them. 

Aurora’s magic, as Green magic always is, is derived from the world around her. The main way she uses it is to increase her speed, agility, and mobility through absorbed energy from other moving objects. 

5′7, early 20′s. Slim, straight build with long legs and a narrow shape. Long, hip-length, white hair worn loose and straight with bangs and shoulder-length sidelocks. Intense gray eyes with pale lashes. Black and silver, high-tech prosthetic from below the knee down on her left leg. 

Ranisha

She/they, Blue Mage.

The oldest of many siblings, Ranisha had to grow up fast and take on a lot of responsibility. Developing excessive maturity so early gave her a jaded, logical outlook on the world, where she prioritizes what needs to be done instead of what she wants. She joined the Organization for money as well as something to do with herself that felt like success. 

Ranisha is most notably aloof, cold, and efficient. She takes her work very seriously, places her job before any personal desires, and doesn’t make friends easily or well. Seemingly uninterested in anything but what’s assigned to her, many people feel intimidated by her strict nature and harsh standards. She butts heads with Vash quite a bit. 

Her magic turns written symbols into weapons manifested solely from her energy. Ranisha favors guns over bladed weapons, can use anything from small pistols to larger rifles, and her accuracy is near-unmatched.

5′8, early-mid 20′s. Fairly average build with slight curves. Somehow petite despite her height. Black, thick hair styled in a short, natural faux hawk with close-cropped sides. Black eyes, dark, cool-toned skin, and pleasant features that are always set in a stern, neutral expression. 

Katz

He/him, Brown Mage.

While he grew up as a relatively normal Mage, Katz considers getting involved with the Organization to be the worst mistake he ever made. The job is stable and suits his skills well, but the people he has to deal with drive him absolutely insane. He developed a stress-related drinking habit from a young age, which did nothing to help his nasty attitude.

Katz is the kind of person who’s hit his breaking point. He’s an angry, bitter man who’s perpetually exhausted, short-tempered with everyone around him, and a raging alcoholic on top of all of that. While he’s very good at what he does, Katz is the type who most want to stay far away from. His dead-eyed glare is incredibly intimidating. 

His magic focuses on sealing. Specifically, sealing the powers of others. Katz creates items that, when placed on someone’s body, restrain some or all of their magic to whatever extent he crafted them to. 

5′11, mid 30′s. Thicker build that’s on the stockier side of muscular. Reddish taupe-colored hair worn in a short style that falls about to his ears and is often slicked back. Fair skin, dark eyes, and a good amount of stubble on his upper lip, cheeks, and chin. Perpetual scowl. 

Emilio

He/they, Purple Mage.

A lot of Emilio’s life has been spent wishing he was something other than himself. He grew up relatively average, but underwent a fair amount of bullying for being shy and reclusive. When he learned magic, his main goal was to change himself— and he did that completely. He’s always trying to hide from the person he used to be. 

Emilio is best described as a charismatic jokester. Despite being very much a “class clown” type, he exudes so much pleasant, cheerful energy that people can’t help but be drawn to him. However, underneath his sunny disposition is a serious, capable man who wants to give his best to the people close to him... as well as something of a dark side. 

The magic he uses revolves around shapeshifting. Emilio can change his own appearance at will and is known to constantly be doing so. No one is sure what his original appearance is, and Emilio isn’t telling. 

Mid 20′s. Everything about Emilio’s appearance varies. He can change his height, hair color, eye color, features, build, and more with a simple spell, and he does that frequently. He seems to favor taller, more handsome looks, though, and usually retains bright hair and eye colors. 

Vash

He/him, Orange Mage.

Trained in magic from a young age, Vash made it his mission to be as good at it as possible— and gather all the admiration and respect he can. He’s never experienced much in the means of personal hardship, but the standards he’s placed on himself do plenty of damage. He’s been in the organization since he was fifteen, thanks to his family’s choices. 

Short-tempered, viciously ambitious, and high-strung to a fault, the main things in life that drive Vash are gaining the approval of everyone around him and making himself look as impressive as possible. He’s a hot-blooded teenager in every sense of the word, and painfully unaware of his own inexperience and how dangerously reckless he can be. 

Vash’s magic is typical for the Orange kind. He uses elemental powers; in his case, fire. Despite being made of magic, this fire burns just like the real thing and is every bit as destructive and hard to control. 

19, 5′8. Skinny, lanky build with less muscle than you’d expect. Straight, chin-length, black hair usually worn covering one eye. Pale skin, orange eyes, and numerous silver piercings all over his body. Extensive burn scars covering him from his magic going haywire.

Alexander

He/him, Brown Mage.

Born to a prestigious and high-class Mage family, Alexander grew up in the lap of luxury. He was spoiled to a fair extent, but the consequences are fortunately mild. Told from a young age that he’s destined for great things and incredibly capable, Alexander has always felt like he doesn’t have to do much of anything to be successful and loved. 

Alexander is friendly, sociable, polite, and generally pleasant to be around. He’s the kind of charismatic person who draws others to him whether he tries to or not. However, he also has an unfortunate tendency of viewing people as lesser than him and expects things that he shouldn’t more often than not. He’s also worryingly naive. 

The magic he uses relates to forcefields. Alexander can generate and manipulate forcefields out of his magical energy, and uses them for defense as well as offense. Their purposes are quite varied. 

6′1, early 20′s. Tall, broad-shouldered, elegant build. Dark red, wavy hair worn in a short-ish cut and sometimes styled with a low ponytail or pins holding the side back. Dark hazel eyes, handsome features, and fair skin. A perpetually welcoming smile and the posture of a trained nobleman. 

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Guerrerita

Part 2 ->

Summary: Nevada takes you out on a fancy date and things go poorly.

Nevada Ramirez x Feral Female Reader

Warnings: allusions to domestic violence but no actual domestic violence, just some assumptions based on Nevada being generally an asshole.  A bit of regular violence though. (OK, you know that trope where the Honorable Tough Guy beats up a stranger’s abusive husband to teach him a lesson?) Mature content, but no smut this chapter.

1,796 words

While most people would consider a romantic dinner at a sophisticated restaurant relaxing, everything about it had you on edge. It was too fancy for you to belong there, even in the elegant dress Nevada bought for you. The dress was too form-fitting, too low-cut. It made your cleavage look ample, and though you were getting accustomed to wearing such pieces in your new employment, your confidence in the feminine was still lacking.

You hunkered low in your seat, trying to be as small as possible so no one would look at you. Of course your nervous fidgeting only made them look more.

Not helping matters was your date, sitting across from you at the small, intimate dining table. Nevada Ramirez cocked his brow sarcastically as he made an inappropriately sexual comment about the aforementioned dress, and the aforementioned way your breasts looked in it.

“It’s almost distracting enough that you don’t notice the—” he gestured at your face with a mocking smirk, and laughed almost cruelly as he saw your eyes flash wide. 

Your jaw clenched and you thought of a million biting comebacks you could shoot at him, and briefly envisioned flipping over the table and decking him, but instead you shrunk further in your chair.

“Come on, guerrerita, don’t be like that,” he frowned. He seemed genuinely upset that you were shriveling instead of being riled into taking his bait.

Never in a million years would you have imagined yourself with an asshole like Nevada. Vulgar, loud, rough around the edges. A gang leader who earned the nickname of a ruthless dictator. But your life had been in a downward spiral, and Trujillo found you at the bottom of it. He recruited you into the crime family, and gave you a purpose when everything in your law-abiding life was falling apart.

It was a recent development that you’d admitted your feelings for each other, and until now your relationship (outside of work) had been limited to passionate, desperate, intense sex. Fucking Trujillo was like fucking the illegal fireworks he sold, but this was the first time you’d allowed yourself to be seen out in public with him—in decent company, anyway.

He’d insisted on taking you out to celebrate with something nice, just the two of you. None of his men lurking over your shoulders. Something he thought you’d want, even though all you wanted was to go back to the Heights and rip his clothing off. Now you were too pissed off and embarrassed to even want to fuck him.

You thought he might tone himself down for the upscale venue, but Vada had been his usual obnoxious self all night, and more genteel diners were glaring. Honestly, this was why you couldn’t stand him at first, even though he was incredibly handsome. But his boorish exterior belied a cunning, organized businessman who had all of Washington Heights under his thumb, who earned his community’s loyalty through fear, yes, but ultimately, by taking care of them. There was, underneath the showy performances of flippant laughter and casual brutality, a certain sensitivity you had grown keenly protective of. 

He saw the value in things others overlooked. He recognized all the anger and pain stamped inside you behind those mild suburban manners—things polite society considered flaws—and told you that you were exactly what he needed. That those things were an asset to him. That you were valuable. 

No one ever said that to you before. 

You weren’t in love with him. He would always be a ruthless criminal, and one day you’d want your normal life back. But you had grown… attached.

One of the glaring diners was eyeing Nevada with particular suspicion, not just briefly glancing up when he laughed too loud or made a rude remark to the waiter. He shot Vada a profoundly dirty look and held it long enough to raise your hackles. He sat at the bar about four table lengths away, had shoulder-length hair, a messy stubble beard, and a solid physical build. You would have mistaken him for a surfer except you were on the wrong coast, and your instincts told you he was dangerous. You quietly assessed the potential threat while maintaining your meek posture low in the chair. A cop? Or a rival gang leader? Unlikely to make a move inside the restaurant with so many witnesses. You’d watch the exits when it was time for the check.

The waiter brought the main course to the table, and blessedly, digging into a meal finally shut up Nevada’s feisty tongue. Instead of sleazy remarks, he made small-talk about how good everything tasted. Maybe it wasn’t just having his mouth stuffed that mellowed him. There was a softness in his eyes now—a look reserved for when you were alone together, when he knew something was bothering you. You guessed he finally caught on that you were not having a good time.

Nevada never took anything seriously, until suddenly he did. You’d seen him throw opponents off balance by dropping from sardonic laughter to spine-chilling hostility, and the effect was equally potent when he dropped into affection.

His foot bumped into your leg—those shiny black leather shoes that looked like someone cut off a tacky cowboy boot at the ankle—and slowly brushed against it under the table. It wasn’t an aggressively sexual maneuver, just an affectionate contact letting you know he was there. It worked. You lanced a slice of filet mignon on your fork, and felt your shoulders relax with his change in attitude. It was a simple gesture, but the warmth of his leg spread tingling waves through your skin, making your face flush. A private, intimate moment, like a sharing secret. That was the most thrilling part of the relationship, really—the secret that the fearsome Trujillo had a tender side. In a way, you were like two opposite halves that fit together perfectly.

Before long, you were comfortable enough to start gushing about the day’s victory you were there to celebrate, and the staring stranger had slipped entirely from your mind.

***

You excused yourself to use the bathroom, and as you washed your hands in the mirror, you got a good look your swollen black eye. You’d taken a glove to the face hard, but it opened your opponent’s guard and let you hit them back harder until they went down, and you walked away with prize money from the biggest tournament you’d ever won. Nevada was so turned on by your aggression, it took all his willpower not to barge into the locker room and fuck you right then and there. Instead, he treated you to dinner at a nice place like a gentleman, which was a very sweet, if misguided effort.

The bruise had spread and darkened in the hours since you received it, and your makeup no longer did anything to hide it. And there you were all innocent, in a cute little dress, slouching nervously across from a character from Breaking Bad. Oh fuck, no wonder everyone was giving him dirty looks.

An icy fist clenched around your heart as you remembered surfer-hair sitting at the bar, and you suddenly didn’t feel right about leaving Nevada unguarded. You shook the water off your hands and rushed back out into the dining area.

You were just being paranoid, of course. No one would start a fight in the middle of the restau—

Fuck.

Your table was empty. And so was that spot at the bar.

Worst-case scenarios ran through your head and your field of vision narrowed. A waiter hurried past with a tray of dirty dishes and you grabbed him by the arm hard enough for several plates to go flying as you whipped him around. “Did you see where the man at that table went?!” you demanded, pointing.

Indignant protests died half-formed on the surprised waiter’s lips and turned to terror at your intensity. “I-I think he went out to smoke! The side door!”

You dropped his arm without a thank you and marched with purpose to the door, which pushed open into a dim back alley.

“If you ever lay a hand on her again—” surfer-hair was snarling, pinning Nevada against the side of a metal dumpster, fist raised about to strike. 

Nevada’s lip was bleeding, but he wore a cocky grin, letting fly a string of filthy Spanish expletives. 

“You think it’s funny beating on a helpless girl? Let’s see how you like it.”

Nevada was scrappy, but not especially large. He’d gotten in a few hits, but was losing, badly. He was more the brains of his criminal operation, which was why he was always accompanied by protection. And now you were seeing red.

The man got off another punch to Nevada’s smirking face before you could reach them, the dull impact unlocking a boiling rage that rose in your blood and turned you into someone you wouldn’t recognize once the heat had passed. As he reared back for another, you used his momentum to keep him sailing backwards, off balance. 

“DON’T YOU”—you kicked him in the chest, staggering him back—“FUCKING TOUCH HIM!” you roared. 

Carrying forward on the momentum of the kick, you threw your entire body into punch after brutal punch, hissing and snarling like an animal, driving him back and down, your primal fury relishing the sensation of fists slamming into solid flesh and bone. You were going to break this fucker for daring to hurt Trujillo. “I will kill you! I will kill you!” you screamed, thrashing him in a relentless onslaught that never gave him an opening to regain his footing. The man might have given a better showing, but he was still recovering from the shock of being beaten senseless by a demon he had assumed was a fragile soul in need of rescuing.

You felt a hand grasp your shoulder and threw a vicious elbow, stopping yourself inches before seeing whose nose it was you were about to shatter. “Princesa, princesa—calmate. Tranquila, baby girl…” he cooed, pulling you off.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” you kept shrieking, legs and arms kicking out at the air, trying to continue raining blows down on your enemy as Nevada restrained you. You struggled against Nevada’s arms, your hammering pulse chanting murder in your ear, but never striking a blow against him. Even in a blind rage, your instincts recognized he was yours to protect.

In the way his long fingers gripped you, the rhythm of his breath in your ear, and how close he held his body firm against you, he was clearly turned on. 

He cackled at the would-be do-gooder. “You don’t wanna mess with an MMA champ’s boyfriend, comemierda. I don’t think she’s kidding! Better run while you can.”

“Alright, alright, Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, guarding his face. “Who the hell are you people?”

Nevada’s smile could have split his face in two. “She’s my bodyguard.”

[not-xpr-art]

Art Deep Dives #1 - The Value of Art ~

Hi everyone!

This is the start to another project I want to start on this account, a companion to my Art Advice tag, and each week or so I’ll be ‘deep diving’ into art history, arts & culture, society’s relationship to art, etc etc... (I basically want to make use of my history of art degree, and also because I genuinely love talking about this stuff... especially without the pressure of deadlines lol)

Side note: don’t worry about these being really ‘academic’ or ‘formal’, since neither of those things are in my vocabulary lol... this is a very casual, informal kind of ‘essay’ writing that I want to be accessible to everyone, regardless of how much you know about art! 

This first one is a kind of follow up of my Art Advice post talking about references, and I’ll be talking about the ideas of how we ‘value’ art.

(this is about 1600 words long by the way...)

The Value of Art

It’s no secret that art is highly subjective. Particularly when it comes to the question of ‘what is the most important type of art?’. It changes from person to person, country to country, and era to era. How we define ‘great art’ now is vastly different to how we defined it several hundred years ago. I mean, just look at the kinds of art in galleries in the modern era (Tracey Emin’s bed comes to mind) versus that of the 18th century (with the likes of Joshua Reynolds, JMW Turner and Thomas Gainsborough). Really, it’s clear to see that what we see as ‘the most important type of art’ is forever changing...

Or... is it?

In order to really answer whether the kinds of art we value now versus that of the past has changed, we need to first establish what ‘valued art’ even means. 

I think in today’s day and age, ‘value’ is often synonymous with ‘price’. So, a Banksy original chipped away from it’s original wall setting and having been sold at a Christies auction for £3.2million is, by this definition, what we as a society ‘value’ as art... Right? Or maybe ‘value’ is more to do with what kinds of works that are displayed in big galleries or public spaces? The Tate has an entire wing dedicated to the works of landscape/seascape painter JMW Turner, so surely that means that we today place a high ‘value’ on his work still? What about public sculpture? Architecture? Sculpture and architecture are often a lot more available for the general public, and even if most people wouldn’t be able to tell you who made the Statue of Liberty, they at least know about her and perhaps even enjoy to look at her? And surely the fame of buildings like the Eiffel Tower or the Taj Mahal mean that they, too, are ‘valued’ as pieces of art? And what of artworks from other countries and cultures? A Chinese man may find no ‘value’ in a painting by a so-called ‘Great Master’ of the Italian Renaissance, but instead will ‘value’ a piece of Imperial Ming Dynasty porcelain instead, does that mean his opinion is the ‘right’ one? Colonialism has played heavily into what arts are now called ‘valuable’ and what are not, so how do we quantify whether a work has ‘value’ without placing our own individual cultural bias on it?

Basically what I’m getting at is, what we value as art in this day and age is very complicated, in a big way because our society is complicated. But for the sake of arguments, and for my next few points, I will be defining an art’s ‘value’ predominantly by whether it has been featured in a big gallery... Which also means I’ll be focusing on painting and sculpture... And also focusing on the Western world of art, specifically Europe, which I want to clarify doesn’t mean I personally ‘value’ that art more, it’s just where I’m from and predominantly what I studied in my course... 

Art historians often declare the Renaissance (around the 14th to 16th centuries) the ‘beginning’ of what we know as art today. But for this essay, I want to instead start a little before this, in the Early Medieval period. People often know of this era as ‘the dark ages’, in Europe at least, because it was after Rome had fallen and taken all their so-called ‘genius’ with them. A particular note for why for years we’ve seen this period as ‘regressive’ is through their art. A quick Google search of ‘Medieval baby’ will come up with a plethora of results for a wide range of paintings depicting babies (usually the baby Christ) as scaled down versions of adults, complete with receding hairlines and strangely buff arms and chests. 

Now, is this because medieval babies actually looked like this? I think this is... highly unlikely... I know most things happened earlier in that era than nowadays (girls getting married and pregnant at age 14, for example), but I think it’s a bit of a stretch to think their babies had six packs... No, instead it’s more likely that rather than being direct representations of babies, these were purely symbolic. And particularly given how they often were of Christ, art historians often say that the weird adult-baby hybrids are to represent Christ’s divinity. 

Now... What’s all this got to do with art and value? Well, the thing about early medieval art is that the value was almost entirely placed upon the symbology and meaning of a piece. Later in the medieval period, paintings began to become more ‘realistic’ to some extent, but it still for the most part stayed true to this idea of symbolism over representation. 

That is, until we get to the Renaissance and all of that gets thrown out of the window because artists want to be able to paint babies that actually look like babies, thank you very much! And with the likes of Leonardo da Vinci championing for art to become a science, surely this means that the kinds of art that was valued in this era were highly accurate portraits or landscapes... Right?

Short answer? No. 

Long answer? Well, portraits and landscapes had their place in the hierarchies of art. Portraits were often commissioned by wealthy patrons, and were basically ways of the artist showing off how good their portrait skills are. And landscapes were less important, more seen as ‘nice backgrounds’ than anything else. But the art that was highly valued by most wealthy patrons and art connoisseurs of the time was... (imagine a drum roll here please) 

History painting! These are basically big biblical or mythological scenes, often with a lot of figures doing a variety of things (think Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel), often with some pretty landscape as the backdrop, and often featuring a couple of portraits in the mix (including one of the patron who commissioned it, probably being blessed by the Virgin Mary, and a cheeky one of the artist peeking out from behind a bush or something...). From the Renaissance era up until basically the mid 19th century, History paintings were seen as the most important works of art to be featured in galleries. 

And really, things only really began to change when we reached the end of the 19th century, with the development of photography. 

Photography, and film, both lead to a massive shift in not only the kinds of art that are produced in the 20th century, but also the kinds of art that are valued. For so long art had been the main form of representation of society, and the advent of photographs meant that art had almost lost that ‘purpose’. Not to mention the leading towards a more secular society which no longer had a need for symbolic or spiritual artworks. 

So, the only place art could really go was to become a form of expression instead. The likes of artists like Picasso and Braque pioneering cubism, being about new ways of representing the world. The Surrealists delving into ideas of the subconscious. Pop-Artists like Warhol looking into media and consumerist society, and the list goes on... 

Which brings us onto my most hated period in the history of art: Conceptual art. 

I’m not going to go big into this period, which is still around today (unfortunately), but all you need to know is this twat Marcel Duchamp flipped a urinal (which he didn’t even make himself) upside down and called it a ‘fountain’ and shoved it into a gallery and thus art that has no value beyond it being ‘concept based’ was born. And yes, yes I hate it a lot (I’m not even trying to be objective about this, I hate conceptual art with a burning passion... some guy put some sh*t in a box and put it in a gallery & called it art and I am SO mad about it lol...). And as much as I hate this period, what it does signify is how art began to be valued not through the craftsmanship of the work itself, but instead the ideas. 

And this idea remains today. Damien Hirst has forged his entire art identity on creating works that are based entirely on some ‘meaning’ that could be forced onto it, rather than the aesthetic or material value. And as mentioned before, Tracey Emin’s infamous bed isn’t about the work and effort gone into the piece itself, but instead about what the artists intends for the piece to ‘mean’. So, the ‘value’ of the work is what it says, and not what it is, essentially. 

(This is not to say that there are no artists who work today that get featured in galleries and are highly skilled at their craft. The one that springs to mind is Grayson Perry, who’s well known for his pottery and tapestries with some kind of social commentary bled into them.)

This ideology around art also bleeds into online spaces of art (which I see as distinctly separate from the world of art galleries and the Turner prize). I still see artists, and non-artists, talking about how much they enjoy work that is ‘original’, and oftentimes ridiculing and demoting ‘fanart’ as purely ‘derivative’ or ‘unoriginal’. 

And all this brings us back to history paintings. Because their ‘value’ wasn’t just in the immense amount of skill that went into them. A large part of their ‘value’ was that artists and non-artists alike saw them as feats of the artist’s ‘genius’ or ‘imagination’ at play. And in the same way that Early Medieval art was valued for the symbology of the piece rather than the representation, history paintings had the benefit of including both elements. In essence, they were both meaningful AND beautiful. 

In conclusion (just to remind you that this is technically an essay lol), a lot about art HAS definitely changed in the last few hundred years, particularly in what kinds of art is getting made now (and why we make art in the first place). However, what we as a collective society ‘value’ as art has remained surprisingly the same, often with a heavy preference for a work’s meaning and symbology, which can sometimes overshadow the craftsmanship of the work itself. 

I still hate that godforsaken Duchamp toilet though...

(images used:

unknown medieval painting (I just liked that he had his hand down mary’s dress lool)

mona lisa by da vinky 

detail of the creation of adam on the sistine chapel by michelangelo

a photograph by louis daguerre, often known as the father of photography

*clenches fist* ‘fountain’ by marcel duchamp

‘my bed’ by tracey emin )

I hope you enjoyed this informal essay about art, I will definitely be doing more of these in the future! If you have any thoughts on this, feel free to reply to this or message me, etc! I love having open and frank conversations about art! 

[therealcalicali]

Apple Thief

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Fluff and even more Angst

Type: One Shot

Wordcount: 7,003

“Y/N! You need not go.” Your ailing father called out from where he was sat by the fireplace. Though you lived in a cramped quarter, the main room was always the warmest. And due to his injury, keeping his temperature up was best. “From the looks of things, a storm is brewing. Did you hear me, Buttons?”

With a smirk you threw his cowhide overcoat atop your woolen pullover. It wasn’t as nice as the fur-lined cloaks most girls wore. But it kept you warm despite being unfashionable. After grabbing your gloves, you bounded into the main room. Peering out the window, you realized the skies were indeed overcast.

However, you couldn’t stay home.

Rain or otherwise, you had to earn some coin. Especially since the sum your Uncle left was depleted. He had given all he could before leaving for a nearby town to sell his wares. And since you had no inclination of when he would return, you had to be resourceful.

“Just look at you, Buttons….” Your father exclaimed as he did his best not to chuckle. “You look like someone cast a shrinking spell upon you.”

“The coat may be ill-fitting, but it’s warm. So, if you keep taunting me, I might never give it back.”

“Please, stay.” He said as his smile began to fade. He then pointed his walking stick in your direction. “As my only child, I have no desire to see you fall ill.”

“Papa, I cannot sit around hoping Uncle is on his way back. He is far off, and your medicines are finished. And what’s more, we are in need of foodstuffs.”

“We are not.” Your father countered. “What of the red yams and potatoes? We can get by cooking them with cabbage and carrots.”

“First off, we have two red yams and no potatoes. And as for cabbage and carrots, I used the last of them in last night’s stew. So, like it or not, I must venture out.”

“It’s times like these I wish we still had our chickens. The eggs would bring in good coin.”

“Don’t fret, Papa. I’ve been saving what Uncle gives me for my upkeep. I intend to buy at least four of them. Soon, we could even own a nice milking cow again.”

Your father’s gaze went to fireplace.

He was a proud man, and it truly hurt your soul to see him dejected. But it made sense for a former Kings’ Guard to feel inadequate. At one time, your father provided a very posh lifestyle for the family. But once he was maimed in battle, he was forcibly discharged with a paltry severance. Once that was spent, your father had no choice but to start using what had been saved.

As expected, hardship followed. So much in fact, your mother decided to abscond with the little coin that was left. That was nearly three years prior. But for you, the betrayal felt like it had occurred only yesterday.

“Papa, please do not guilt me going outdoors.” You said, walking to him and taking a knee. “If I promise to come home should the weather should take a turn, would that ease your mind?”

Reluctantly, your father nodded.

“And take my dagger.” He said, pointing to the table nearest the front door. The weapon was a magnificent piece of military craftsmanship. Something only most decorated of fighters were ever bestowed. Still, your father wanted you to have it. “From now on, it is yours.”

“But Papa, that is a relic of your service. You earned it with much blood and sweat. I cannot possibly think of wielding it. Besides, it’s far too valuable to be taken out of the house.”

“Y/N, the only thing of value that I have, is you.”

You couldn’t help smiling. After sheathing the dagger, you informed your father that you would soon return. As you exited the cottage and approached the stables, you were suddenly filled with great hope.

You made your way to the town square on the back of your Uncle’s trusty steed, Moss.

Being a thoughtful man, Gadin left town in a hired wagon so you would have transport. So, as you tied the horse to a wooden post, you gave him a soothing pat.

“Have no fear, boy. We shall not stay for long.” You said before reaching into your leather satchel. After grabbing a handful of apple slices and oats, you fed Moss. “Well, things are really bustling today. No doubt I will make some coin.”

And you had good reason for being confident. Aside from the handmade gloves you made, you intended to sell some jewelry. The silver necklace and earrings had been intended for your mother on her Naming Day. But since she abandoned the family prior to him surprising her, your father passed them to you.

When Moss suddenly whinnied and stomped his hooves, you grabbed hold of his bit.

With that, you turned on your heels and began walking toward the marketplace. 

Trade was truly flourishing because you had never seen so many foreigners in Stillwell before. But it was a good sign. It meant that soon, there would be expansions and all the other benefits that came with being a thriving village.

��Move your corpse, jackass!” A gruff voice bellowed.

When you turned to see who had spoken so rudely, a grey-haired elderly man pushed past. He was in such a huff, he nearly knocked you over. It was enough to make one angry had it not been so amusing. 

Because though he appeared exceptionally frail; the man hauled his cartful of wares with the strength of twenty men.

“Magic.” You mused. “Everyone that wields it or buys it, is a nuisance.”

Suddenly, something else caught your attention. From the corner of your eye, you spotted a foreboding man cloaked in black. Naturally, this piqued your curiosity. From what you could assess; the armor signified his status as a formidable warrior. Likely a mercenary or something along those lines.

You knew this because the symbol that hung from the stranger’s neck didn’t appear to belong to any King.

When you noticed the tufts of white hair peaking from his hood, you promptly realized he was no mere mortal. Mostly because such a hue was not be found amongst your kind. As he walked, the stranger behaved as if he didn’t wish to be amongst people. But despite this, he had a traveling companion. A pleasant looking fellow who seemed to be relaying information in a lively fashion.

“Those two cannot be from any of the nearby townships.” You mused. “Perhaps they hail from some of the wealthier domains.”

Realizing that you were getting distracted, you returned your thoughts to selling your wares. 

As luck would have it, your devotion to Ryrdohr, the God of Wonders, paid off.

Not only did you manage to unload your mother’s earring and necklace, but the silver merchant gave a fair price. Mainly, at the behest of his partner. As you were haggling, the man had taken one look before exclaiming that you reminded him of his late niece. For that reason, he forced his miserly friend to cough up more coin.

What you received, eighty Denars, was equal to a month and a half worth of wages. Thus, you were feeling quite blessed as you walked down the pathway toward The Bargainers Lot. It was where people that didn’t own traditional stands or storefronts conducted business.

As you passed a barrel-lined walkway, you heard a faint whistle. There, stood only yards away, a shabbily dressed boy, no older than twelve beckoned.

“Lass, might you have any food to spare?” He asked, glancing over his shoulder before looking at you again.

“Do not take me for a heartless person, little boy. But why ask such a thing whilst standing in an alleyway?”

“Apologies…….” He said as he rubbed his hands together. “But I must take care. I do not want the Sentries to see me begging. They are quite rough with street children these days.

Your father was right. It did appear that a storm would soon come. For that reason, you wished to give the child something. Enough to buy some food and even bestowing a pair of the gloves you intended to sell. 

However, you had no desire to enter the alleyway to do so. After all, nothing good ever came of venturing into secluded places.

“If you want food..…..” You said, reaching to your coat pocket and producing eight Fenning. It was coin to buy two meat pies and some peach ale. But the boy needed it far more than you. “I am willing to be of help. But you must come here and------”

The first shove cut you off midsentence. But the second swiftly knocked you to the ground.

Before you grasped what was occurring, you were set upon by three other children. As you struggled to unsheathe your dagger, one kicked you in the shoulder as another seized your satchel. Infuriated, you quickly realized that you had to fight back or risk losing everything.

“I am being set upon by bandits!” You screamed. “Help!”

You had expected your words to bring someone to your aid. But after a few seconds, you realized it was for naught. In Stillwell, as in most townships, people preferred to keep to their own affairs. That meant unless a Sentry happened upon the attack, you were on your own.

When you rolled onto your back, you managed to break the buttons on your coat. With shaking hand, you finally unsheathed your father’s dagger. Taking note of this, the three children stared, wide-eyed.

“Now, you little monsters! Return my belongings before I cut your throats.”

“You will do nothing of the sort!”  A raspy voice countered.

Peering into the alleyway, you spotted the owner. A man with a crescent moon upon his left cheek was now stood next to the boy that had beckoned you. Only a foot away, a fiery-haired woman aimed an arrow in your direction.

“Let’s kill her and be done with it.” She suggested.

Mercifully, he didn’t seem eager to comply. After pondering a moment, he motioned for one of the children to take your dagger. Alarmed at losing your father’s prized weapon, you pointed it menacingly.

“If you prefer, we can kill you and take it, all the same.” The man threatened.

From his tone, it was apparent that he was not simply mincing words. 

He spoke very much like an experienced butcher. Still, you could not compel yourself to hand the dagger over. As the three children stared wearily, awaiting their next directives, everything suddenly went black. 

“Aye, she finally returns to the living.” An amused voice announced.

As your vision adjusted to the light of day again, you winced. For whatever reason, a dull pain within your head became more prominent. Indeed, even looking at your surroundings proved difficult. Still, you managed to lift yourself off the bench and sit upright.

Since the pressure seemed to be concentrated at the base of your neck, you attempted to feel it. However, a hand swiftly caught you by the wrist.

“Do not go touching the wound, jackass.” The old man commanded. “You’ll only smear the Black Mares ointment that’s been applied.”

“Wha…………………where did those children go?”

“What children?”

It was then you realized whom you were speaking to. The old man tending you was the very same one that had nearly bowled you over. For whatever reason, he was the only person that came to your rescue.

“Sir, did you happen to see which direction those bandits went in?”

“I do not know what you speak of. But here is your eight Fenning.” He replied, shoving the coin in your palm. “It was scattered about your person when I found you.”

“But what of my satchel? Those people took everything!” You exclaimed as all that had occurred came to memory. “I must find a Sentry.”

The old man cackled as if you had said the silliest thing in the world. After stating that the Sentries did their job well, he added that they only did so for the affluent. However, someone of your caliber would have to pass coin to their hands.

“And from the looks of it Lass, you hardly have enough to sway them.”

After securing the kerchief to your head, he practically jumped his feet. You could only stare in astonishment as he then took hold of his loaded cart.

“But sir…………I have not even properly thanked you.” You said, scooting forward on the bench. “At least take this, for your trouble.”

The man eyed the four Fenning in your hand before sneering. With a gruff tone, he advised that you keep it. Adding that he did not assist you because he lacked the means to care for himself. Apologetic for offending him, you stated that you had not intended imply such a thing. Nevertheless, he had already begun walking away.

He moved so swiftly, you could only shout words of gratitude as he disappeared into the crowd. 

As you entered the small shop marked ‘The Long Caravan’, you pulled your coat closer to your body.

The light rain had already begun. Thus, you knew you only had a short time before the full gale set in. Though you had been robbed, you simply couldn’t go home empty handed. Especially without your father’s necessary medicines. So, if nothing else, you meant to buy the herbs.

“I accept no beggars in my establishment.” The snobby shopkeeper announced upon seeing you. “The soup house is down the road by the Great Sawmill.”

Incensed at the insinuation, you glared at her.

She then snapped her fingers at her young assistants, ordering them to set down two massive bags. One marked ‘corn’ and the other, ‘oats’. And that’s when you saw him by the Alchemy portion of the shop. The massive stranger clad in black. Even now, he appeared disinterested in his surroundings.

This was quite peculiar since he was apparently making purchases. But as for his companion, he was gingerly conversing with the shopkeeper’s husband.

“I said, no beggars!” She said once more.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not one!” You fumed, tired of her relentless assumptions. “I’ll have you know I’m here to purchase medicines. Or do you no longer take coin?”

Distracted by your words, the more jovial of the strangers stopped chatting.

He then leaned against a banister and folded his arms over his chest. Pardoning herself from the cloaked stranger, the woman sized you up before asking what you required.

“Four packets of Pearl Moss, two packets of Lakebarberry Leaves and four packets of Sour Quassia”

Despite wearing a spiteful expression, the shopkeeper went behind the counter. She then began measuring things out as you glanced around the shop. It was then you noticed the sizeable fruit display. From dragon pears to apples, there was good variety available.

“I’m so famished. I hope there is something left over.” You thought, pulling the eight Fenning from your pocket.

When you realized you were being watch, your head jerked in the direction of the white-haired man. At first, he appeared to be looking directly at you. But as you studied his expression, it became clear that he was looking past you.

Taking notice of his fascination, the shopkeeper’s husband went to him. He then began explaining that they had purchased the mounted head on the wall from a passing tradesman. As always, the stranger remained quiet. But suddenly, he actually glanced at you for the first time.

“Demon eyes.” You thought. “He is no mortal. Of that, there is no doubt.”

“That will be twenty Fenning.” The shopkeeper announced. “And do not dawdle, girl. I have other customers.”

You sighed. Apparently, the cost of herbs had gone up significantly since the last time. Placing all you had upon the counter, you eyed the woman.

“I……………I only have eight. However, look at these gloves I’m wearing. I made them myself. Pure cowhide with rabbit fur lining. Surely, they are worth the remainder.”

“Does this look like the trade-in post?” She snapped. “Either you have the coin, or you don’t.”

With tense jaw, you asked that she remove two satchels of Pearl Moss since it was the most expensive. But unexpectedly, the nicer of the two strangers walked over. After asking the woman to wait a moment, he looked at your hands.

“I know a lady that would really fancy those.” He said with a smile that reached his eyes. “I’m Jaskier, by the way. Nice to meet your acquaintance.”

Though your day had been nothing but terrible, you couldn’t help giving a smile in return.

“Y/N.” You replied, shaking his hand.

You then removed the smartly made gloves and set them down. When you asked if he was truly serious, Jaskier nodded firmly. After placing twenty Fenning on the counter, he took possession of his wares.

“I now have my gloves, and you, have your coin,”

Utterly beside yourself, you couldn’t help thanking him several times. Truly, he was an answer to your silent prayers. Such a show of kindness not only lifted your spirits but gave you a more optimistic outlook. While the moody shopkeeper finished tying the bundle of herbs with twine, Jaskier informed you he was a Bard.

A renowned and much sought after one, at that.

“You?” You exclaimed in astonishment.

“What’s the matter? Do I not look the part?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that you appear……..………you know….”

“Appear what?”

“To be quite honest. From your style of dress, I swore you were a Lord or something of the sort.”

From nearby, his companion made an odd grunt.

“Pay him no mind.” Jaskier said, looking in his direction. “He isn’t known for his manners.”

“If you take your time, I will leave you.” The cloaked man replied, ignoring the insult.

Though his tone of voice was cold, there was something within it that held some humanity. Perhaps, the Bard was his charge.

“Is that man your Hired Sword?” You asked.

The question sent Jaskier into a fit of laughter. However, his companion was not amused. In fact, he appeared meaner than he had been already. Leaving your side, Jaskier went to the shopkeeper’s husband and pointed to the waterskins.

It was then the woman finally handed you the satchel of herbs. 

As you walked to the middle of the shop, you realized it was now raining quite hard. Not wanting to get your purchase wet, you opened your coat and pushed the satchels into the inner breast pocket. After closing the flap, you were buttoning your coat when the apples caught your eye.

Though you had eight Fenning left, thanks to Jaskier, you had not desire to spend it. So, as the storeowners busied themselves with their wealthier patrons, you began slipping a few into your coat. But as you finished taking the sixth and last one, the woman swiftly rushed over.

“Thief!” She shrieked, grabbing hold of your coat immediately. “I knew you were trouble from the moment you set foot in here!”

Though you were caught, you wished to turn the items over yourself. However, the shopkeeper refused to let go.

“I’m no thief!” You protested. “At least…………………….not really.”

“Not a thief, she says! Well, we shall see about that.” The woman mocked, holding your coat more firmly.

She then began shaking the fabric until the apples started coming lose. One by one, they soon dropped to the ground at your feet.

“Hmm. The girl is either an apple tree, or a thief.” Geralt remarked.

He then picked up the bags of corn and oats and hoisted them over his shoulder. As he walked to the exit of the shop, Jaskier stared at you and the shopkeeper. From his expression, you could see he felt your humiliation.

Thus, you averted your gaze.

“Geralt!” Jaskier yelled as he departed into the busy street. Though it was now raining, he made no attempt to seek cover. “Geralt! We cannot leave that poor girl to that woman. She will likely report her to the Sentries.”

“Why do you care?”

“Well, the laws against theft in Stillwell are harsher than in most townships. And she appears quite sweet……….……………. but desperate.”

Geralt scoffed as he kept to his path.

Nevertheless, Jaskier refused to give in. As he tried to keep pace, he confessed that he felt compelled to help. And if he had to convince the storekeeper and her husband alone, he would return to the shop.

“Then, go.” Geralt replied. “But remember, I will not wait long.” 

“I swear, Madame, it was not my intention to take from you.” You said apologetically. “I had a great deal of coin a short time ago. However, I was robbed of it, and the rest of possessions. It’s the only reason I didn’t wish to spend the little I have left. That’s the truth of the matter.”

“Do not give me your sad tales.” The shopkeeper snapped. “When the Sentinels come, you may tell it to them, if you like.”

Just as you were about to drop to your knees and beg her mercy, Jaskier returned. With damp hair, he walked over and looked the woman straight in the eye.

“Allow me to pay for the value of the apples, plus a little extra for compensation.” He said. “Surely, that ought to be enough to allow the girl to leave peaceably.”

It sounded like a reasonable solution. But to his astonishment, the woman refused. After stating she was tired of your “type”, she added that you had to be an example.

“I cannot have every thieving liar thinking my shop is a free market. She must be turned over to the Sentinels.”

“Madame, have mercy.” You implored. “I cannot be away from my father for days on end. He is a cripple. If he is left alone, he could fall ill or even worse.”

Jaskier’s expression went soft. The revelation only made him more determined to be of help. But no matter how much he argued your case, his words fell on deaf ears.

“Natasja.” The shopkeepers husband said as he approached. “The girl seems genuine. Besides, she didn’t take anything of true worth. Only food. It’s obvious that she meant no real harm.”

Despite his attempt to defuse the situation, his wife proved hardheaded. With a hand still grasping your coat, she informed both he and Jaskier that she had already sent one of the shop assistants to fetch a Sentinel.

And thus, the four of you waited.

Whilst the time passed, the shopkeeper’s husband stated he would not give a statement. In fact, he wanted no parts of anything should the lawmen ask anything of him. Still, his wife didn’t seem moved.

“Bastien, if that is what you wish, so be it. But I will make sure this girl is made an example of. I will not become a target for every poverty-stricken bastard.”

“How dare you! I’m no bastard!” You seethed. “My father is an honorable man. He was a King’s Guard in Narin.”

“Ah, King Jethofius.” Jaskier mused with an impressed expression. “It’s said that he only commissions the most-skilled.”

“Most-skilled.” The shopkeeper repeated with a chuckle. “You keep listening to her tales.”

Angered by her flippant attitude, you countered that you spoke the truth. Not just about your father, but about being robbed earlier in the day. But none of that mattered. Because it wasn’t long before two well-armored Sentinels entered the shop.

“That is her.” The young worker said, pointing you out.

With annoyed expressions, the two men walked over. After politely acknowledging everyone, they looked you over.

“Your boy tells us that you caught the thief in the act.” The taller of the Sentinels said. “What did she take.”

“Apples.” Jaskier interacted. “Simple, ordinary apples. Hardly anything to take you from your patrol.”

The shopkeeper cut him a mean glare, however, she added that he was correct. You had stolen apples.

“But I would hardly say it is trivial. A thief, is a thief at the end of the day.”

“Do you wish to have her locked away until you can petition the Justice?”

When the shopkeeper nodded, her husband grumbled. He truly disliked how his wife had forgotten their struggles. There had been times even they came close to stealing. And though they never did so, he understood your plight.

“Let me state this now. I will not participate.” He announced.

Somewhat taken aback, the Sentinels looked between the husband and wife. One then grabbed you by the arm.

“Alright, it’s time to go.”

“Please! There must be something I can do to make things right.” You protested as you looked at the shopkeeper. “I am needed at home!”

“You should have thought about that before you went about nicking things.” The man countered. “Now either you move your legs, or I’ll resort to brute force.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Geralt said in a calm tone.

When you all looked towards the entrance, he was stood there with an annoyed expression. In an unhurried pace, he made his way over. He then scowled at poor Jaskier, who could do nothing but shrug in response.

“Stranger, this is none of your affair.” One of the Sentinels cautioned. “It’s best you keep moving before you are charged with interfering with the law.”

“The girl is my servant.” Geralt said, ignoring everything he had said. He then tossed the shopkeeper’s husband a small black pouch. “That’s nine Denars. Twenty times the value of what she took.”

Angered by the meddling, the shopkeeper declared she wanted justice, not coin. She then informed the Sentinels that Geralt did not speak truthfully. You had come to the shop alone, thus, you were not a servant of either man. But as she continued raving, her husband suddenly placed a hand upon her shoulder.

“Do not take offense, love…” He began. ‘But for once, shut your mouth.”

Ever the jovial one, Jaskier burst into gleeful laughter.

This caused one of the Sentinels to chuckle as well. However, things quickly subsided when Geralt shot both men a severe look. Approaching the lawmen, the shopkeeper’s husband first apologized for wasting their time. He then assured them that the coin was more than enough to resolve the matter.

“It appears there is nothing for you to do here. But gratitudes, all the same.”  He added.

Obviously, the shopkeeper was livid. But as she followed the Sentinels, they ignored her pleas to return.

“So, we may take our leave?” Geralt asked of the husband.

“Aye.” He replied. “The little Lass is free to go.”

“I cannot stay.” You protested as you entered the Blue Raven Tavern with Jaskier and Geralt. “I must begin my journey home!”

As expected, it the place was quite busy due to the storm. As you were guided to a table, the patrons appeared to be mostly traveling merchants, migrants and Mercenaries. All of them in search of a temporary place of shelter until the weather improved.

“Sit.” Geralt gruffly commanded.

Naturally, his tone didn’t sit well with you.

“My Lord, I am no dog!” You protested despite doing as asked. “I’m quite grateful for your show of kindness. And as promised, I intend to repay the coin you parted with. But I must ask that you speak to me like I am a person.”

After staring for a moment, Geralt simply looked away. Frustrated by his odd behavior, you gave Jaskier your attention. Unfortunately, he was too busy staring at the ample breasts of the Tavern maid.

“Look here! Do you intend to ogle me all night or is there something you are in need of?”

“Oh, I am in need of many things.” Jaskier replied cheekily. “But let us start off with a pitcher of Black Mead. And perhaps a platter of rose-honey rolls with fresh churned butter on the side.”

The woman gave a flirtatious smirk before turning to leave. As she walked, Jaskier stared at her equally ample backside.

“You have coin for that?” Geralt asked.

“No, but you do.”

When he took note of your smile, Jaskier stated he had spent most of his coin repairing his lute. He then lifted it for you to see. From the way he spoke of it, you could tell the instrument held great sentimental value.

“It’s simply exquisite.” You remarked. “It makes my Uncle’s own look plain by comparison.”

“Do you play?” Jaskier asked with great excitement.

Reluctantly, you confessed that you did. Adding that music was one of the main sources of entertainment in your household. When you stated that you could play most string instruments, Geralt closed his eyes. Seeing the two of you bonding over your music, made him fear either of you playing a song.

Because after the exploits they had encountered in the last township, he had no desire to hear noise.

“Would you play something?” Jaskier asked, passing you his lute.

You were flattered that he would entrust you with his prized possession. However, you hesitated. Though you knew many songs, you played according to mood. And with how you were feeling, a sorrowful melody was likely to come through.

“Go on, Lass!” A man drunken man shouted from a nearby table. “Help me drown out my talkative companions.”

Carefully, you positioned the lute, finding that your fingers eased about the instrument comfortably. With a deep breath, your eyes shut so you could drown the noise around you. From the pluck of the first note, a sense of peace washed over you. 

You were no longer in a dimly lit, packed Tavern. But rather, sat by the scenic lake nearest your cottage. 

As you played, the commotion in the establishment began to die down. From weary traveler, to the most imposing of Hired Sword, everyone was soon listening to your haunting melody. As for Jaskier, he rested his cheek in hand as he watched.

It wasn’t often he came across someone like you. Not only were you amiable, but you now proved to be quite talented. After setting down the rolls and pitcher of Black Mead, the Tavern Maid observed a while before getting to her work.

She too seemed to prefer music over the usual cursing and threats to take fights outdoors.

When you struck the last chord, you were astounded by the eruption of cheers and mugs hitting the tabletops. Your father and Uncle always complimented your playing. However, you had assumed they only flattered you because they were family.

With a bashful expression, you passed the lute back to Jaskier.

“Y/N, you are quite fascinating.” He remarked. “Not only can you sew beautifully, but you have the makings of a Bard.”

“Though I hardly deserve such praise, I will accept it graciously.”

“Good. Now, how about you start eating while I pour us some mead.”

Naturally, you were still quite famished; however, you didn’t want to make a pig of yourself. So instead of taking several rolls, you took one and began spreading the butter. As you were doing so, you realized Geralt staring at you once again.

“My Lord, is there something on my face?”

Though he appeared irritated by your very voice, he replied that you were bleeding. How he could know such a thing was a mystery. Because, at present time, you were sat across from both he and Jaskier.

When you touched the back of your head, and looked at your palm, Geralt was proven correct. Apparently, the wound had begun to seep.

“Oh!” Jaskier exclaimed. “That’s why that fabric is about your head. All this while, I thought it was some new trend.”

“If only.” You replied with a weak smile. “An old man applied ointment to my head before tying this. I only wish I got his name before he disappeared.”

As you removed the kerchief and folded it, Geralt reached inside his cloak. He then produced a small vial and held it towards you.

“Here. Drink this.”

“My Lord, I will do no such thing.” You replied. “First, tell me what it is. Even better, tell me how you knew I was bleeding.”

Despite your words, he said nothing more. Instead, Geralt studied you as if you were an inanimate object.

“My Lord…………”

“For the last time, I am no Lord.”

“Oh, so you CAN put more than five words together.” You jested. “At any rate, since you refuse to tell me how to best address you, I shall keep using the title. My father says it’s best to err on a high position.

Refusing to be drawn into banter, Geralt set the vial on the table.

He then took hold of his mug and got to his feet. When Jaskier asked where he was off to, he nodded towards the door. Despite the storm, it appeared that he was in no mood for company or conversation. As Geralt departed the table, you watched with great curiosity.

“How did he know I was bleeding?” You asked, your gaze following his dominating figure out the Tavern. “Is he part Demon?”

“Demon? Why do you assume such a thing?”

“For one thing, his hair. That alone tells me that he is no mere mortal. But also, his eyes. They seem…………well…………sinister.”

Though he tried, Jaskier burst into laughter. Indeed, he had called Geralt many things whenever they fought. But sinister, was not one of them. Between chuckles, he assured you that his brooding companion was no Demon. In fact, he was one of the few people that stood between such creatures and the innocents.

But from your expression, it appeared you weren’t convinced.

“Why do I get the feeling that you distrust, Geralt?”

“It’s not that, my Lord.” You replied. “However, where I’m from, magic and magical being are not trusted. People are put to death for simply buying magical items.”

“But Stillwell seems quite open-minded.”

“I did not grow up here. I spent most of my life in Narin.”

“Oh, that’s right. Your father was King’s Guard there.” Jaskier remarked, recalling your past conversation. “Tell me, how did you come to reside here?”

Though you stated it was a long tale, he shrugged. Lifting his mug, he reminded you that there was nothing but time. After all, the storm didn’t appear to be letting up anytime soon. Since they had been so kind, you figured it wasn’t an unreasonable request. Thus, you quickly decided to oblige. 

So, as Geralt sat in the enclosed stables, drinking his mead beside Roach and Moss, you shared your life with Jaskier.

“Apple thief.” Geralt exclaimed.

He the grabbed hold of Moss’s bit before rolling his eyes.

Though you had insisted on riding, it was apparent that you were too fatigued. Not only had you fallen asleep twice, but you kept saying things that made little sense. Typically, such a thing wouldn’t be cause for alarm. Especially since your Uncle’s steed followed your companions at a good pace. However, you had also nearly fallen both times.

And since a broken neck would do no one any good, Geralt was becoming irate.

“Y/N, you slept again.” Jaskier remarked as he brought his hired mare alongside. “Either you ride with one of us, or risk having an even worse headwound.”

You yawned as you looked about the forest. Though you had given proper directions, your mind was hazy.

“Are you certain we’re headed the right way?” You asked as you stifled another yawn.

“We exited the Western gate and veered left when we passed the guard tower.” Jaskier replied. “So, by now, we are quite deep in the Highland Grove.”

Though he repeated your directions perfectly, you still had quite the time processing your surroundings. Everything felt somewhat………off.

“Perhaps it’s best if you rode with me the rest of the way.” Jaskier suggested. “Otherwise, you are likely to get hurt.”

You wavered, however, you soon brought Moss to a halt. As Geralt held the bit, you dismounted and stretched a bit more. Suddenly, his neck snapped to the left. With a tense expression, the brooding warrior peered into the darkness.

Evidently, he was observing something neither you nor Jaskier could see.

“Don’t move.” Geralt commanded.

In one swift motion, he dismounted before pressing a finger to his lips. Unsheathing his sword, he shoved you behind his person. It was then the cold of the night finally hit you. As you held your coat about you more firmly, you tensed your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering.

“There are five of you.” Geralt declared into the darkness. “If you wish to live, keep to your business.”

“And whom are you, stranger?” A voice replied in amusement. “From what I see, you appear a foreigner. Therefore, unless you are a patsy of the Magistrate or Town Council, your word holds no weight here.”

You expected Geralt to say something more. But instead, he simply grumbled before looking over his shoulder. After advising you to stay where you were, he began moving in the direction of the voice.

Without warning, the distinct sound of an arrow broke the silence.

It was enough to make you and Jaskier draw anxious breath. But had you blinked; you would have missed what came next. Though it had been headed right for Geralt, he deflected the arrow as if swatting a fly. In fact, not even his expression changed as he pressed forward.

Stopping at the tree line, he suddenly extended his free hand.

At first you were confused. What Geralt hoped to accomplish, you did not know. However, it became apparent that he was casting. Rapidly, an odd blue light formed in his palm. When satisfied with the scope of it, he released the energy into the darkness.

And it must have hit its intended target. Because what came next was a cacophony of agonizing screams and curses. When all the noise died down, three furious men came bounding out from the tree line.

“Damn abomination! You killed my mates with your sorcery!” A man wielding two blades shouted.

In the entirety of your life, you had never witnessed such a battle up close. Sure, your father and Uncle had protected the family on many occasions. However, nothing to the degree of what was before you.

“Keep behind me, Y/N.” Jaskier whispered as he kept hold of the steeds. “If anyone wanders close, I will protect you.”

You wanted to ask what weapon he intended to use. Because from observation, the only thing he could wield was his lute. Nevertheless, since it was the thought the mattered, you remained silent. As things got bloodier, you avoided the carnage by looking to the ground.

Mercifully, the violent commotion began to fade. Before long, it was replaced by the song of crickets once more. When you looked at Geralt, he hardly looked like he had just fought off three men. Not only was he breathing normally, he was calmly wiping the blood from his sword.

“You used magic on them.” You said, peeking out from behind Jaskier.

Ignoring you completely, Geralt commanded you to continue the journey on the Bard’s steed. Incensed at being snubbed, you stared at him.

“Though you are no mortal, my Lord, I must say this. You simply do not understand how things work in Stillwell.” You said as he tied a rope to Moss’s reigns. “You cannot simply execute people here. The law states that one must give opportunity for surrender.”

“Hmmm.”

“Is that it?” You asked. “You just killed five people and all you can do is grunt.”

“Apple thief, get going.”

“Apple thief? I have a name, you know!”

As if you had said nothing at all, Geralt pointed to Jaskier who was stood by his hired steed. Sensing the awkward tension between you, the poor Bard gave a meek wave.

“Alright!” You fumed. “If you will not address anything I have said, at least answer this. What are you, exactly?”

After giving an exasperated sigh, Geralt grabbed hold of you. With little effort, he then set you upon the saddle by force. Hiding a smirk, Jaskier mounted the steed, taking his place behind you. As he took hold of the reigns, you perceived the Bard was on the verge of laughter.

“The absolute nerve of him!” You seethed. “That man is not only a Demon, but a rude one, at that.”

“You know something? Despite being his closest friend, I cannot argue with the last bit.”

Jaskier then snapped the reigns as your little convoy continued down the road.

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[larktb-archive]

How to Write About Africa - Binyavanga Wainaina

Always use the word ‘Africa’ or ‘Darkness’ or ‘Safari’ in your title. Subtitles may include the words ‘Zanzibar’, ‘Masai’, ‘Zulu’, ‘Zambezi’, ‘Congo’, ‘Nile’, ‘Big’, ‘Sky’, ‘Shadow’, ‘Drum’, ‘Sun’ or ‘Bygone’. Also useful are words such as ‘Guerrillas’, ‘Timeless’, ‘Primordial’ and ‘Tribal’. Note that ‘People’ means Africans who are not black, while ‘The People’ means black Africans.

Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.

In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don’t get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn’t care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.

Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African’s cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it—because you care.

Taboo subjects: ordinary domestic scenes, love between Africans (unless a death is involved), references to African writers or intellectuals, mention of school-going children who are not suffering from yaws or Ebola fever or female genital mutilation.

Throughout the book, adopt a sotto voice, in conspiracy with the reader, and a sad I-expected-so-much tone. Establish early on that your liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can’t live without her. Africa is the only continent you can love—take advantage of this. If you are a man, thrust yourself into her warm virgin forests. If you are a woman, treat Africa as a man who wears a bush jacket and disappears off into the sunset. Africa is to be pitied, worshipped or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.

Your African characters may include naked warriors, loyal servants, diviners and seers, ancient wise men living in hermitic splendour. Or corrupt politicians, inept polygamous travel-guides, and prostitutes you have slept with. The Loyal Servant always behaves like a seven-year-old and needs a firm hand; he is scared of snakes, good with children, and always involving you in his complex domestic dramas. The Ancient Wise Man always comes from a noble tribe (not the money-grubbing tribes like the Gikuyu, the Igbo or the Shona). He has rheumy eyes and is close to the Earth. The Modern African is a fat man who steals and works in the visa office, refusing to give work permits to qualified Westerners who really care about Africa. He is an enemy of development, always using his government job to make it difficult for pragmatic and good-hearted expats to set up NGOs or Legal Conservation Areas. Or he is an Oxford-educated intellectual turned serial-killing politician in a Savile Row suit. He is a cannibal who likes Cristal champagne, and his mother is a rich witch-doctor who really runs the country.

Among your characters you must always include The Starving African, who wanders the refugee camp nearly naked, and waits for the benevolence of the West. Her children have flies on their eyelids and pot bellies, and her breasts are flat and empty. She must look utterly helpless. She can have no past, no history; such diversions ruin the dramatic moment. Moans are good. She must never say anything about herself in the dialogue except to speak of her (unspeakable) suffering. Also be sure to include a warm and motherly woman who has a rolling laugh and who is concerned for your well-being. Just call her Mama. Her children are all delinquent. These characters should buzz around your main hero, making him look good. Your hero can teach them, bathe them, feed them; he carries lots of babies and has seen Death. Your hero is you (if reportage), or a beautiful, tragic international celebrity/aristocrat who now cares for animals (if fiction).

Bad Western characters may include children of Tory cabinet ministers, Afrikaners, employees of the World Bank. When talking about exploitation by foreigners mention the Chinese and Indian traders. Blame the West for Africa’s situation. But do not be too specific.

Broad brushstrokes throughout are good. Avoid having the African characters laugh, or struggle to educate their kids, or just make do in mundane circumstances. Have them illuminate something about Europe or America in Africa. African characters should be colourful, exotic, larger than life—but empty inside, with no dialogue, no conflicts or resolutions in their stories, no depth or quirks to confuse the cause.

Describe, in detail, naked breasts (young, old, conservative, recently raped, big, small) or mutilated genitals, or enhanced genitals. Or any kind of genitals. And dead bodies. Or, better, naked dead bodies. And especially rotting naked dead bodies. Remember, any work you submit in which people look filthy and miserable will be referred to as the ‘real Africa’, and you want that on your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are trying to help them to get aid from the West. The biggest taboo in writing about Africa is to describe or show dead or suffering white people.

Animals, on the other hand, must be treated as well rounded, complex characters. They speak (or grunt while tossing their manes proudly) and have names, ambitions and desires. They also have family values: see how lions teach their children? Elephants are caring, and are good feminists or dignified patriarchs. So are gorillas. Never, ever say anything negative about an elephant or a gorilla. Elephants may attack people’s property, destroy their crops, and even kill them. Always take the side of the elephant. Big cats have public-school accents. Hyenas are fair game and have vaguely Middle Eastern accents. Any short Africans who live in the jungle or desert may be portrayed with good humour (unless they are in conflict with an elephant or chimpanzee or gorilla, in which case they are pure evil).

After celebrity activists and aid workers, conservationists are Africa’s most important people. Do not offend them. You need them to invite you to their 30,000-acre game ranch or ‘conservation area’, and this is the only way you will get to interview the celebrity activist. Often a book cover with a heroic-looking conservationist on it works magic for sales. Anybody white, tanned and wearing khaki who once had a pet antelope or a farm is a conservationist, one who is preserving Africa’s rich heritage. When interviewing him or her, do not ask how much funding they have; do not ask how much money they make off their game. Never ask how much they pay their employees.

Readers will be put off if you don’t mention the light in Africa. And sunsets, the African sunset is a must. It is always big and red. There is always a big sky. Wide empty spaces and game are critical—Africa is the Land of Wide Empty Spaces. When writing about the plight of flora and fauna, make sure you mention that Africa is overpopulated. When your main character is in a desert or jungle living with indigenous peoples (anybody short) it is okay to mention that Africa has been severely depopulated by Aids and War (use caps).

You’ll also need a nightclub called Tropicana, where mercenaries, evil nouveau riche Africans and prostitutes and guerrillas and expats hang out.

Always end your book with Nelson Mandela saying something about rainbows or renaissances. Because you care.

[ton-e]

Ooo small worldbuilding detail But!! On earth 513, on Asgard, it's not an uncommon reacurance for royalborns to be illiterate while the normal class receives mandatory education;

They, specifically princesses or general female personel, are thought general politics and basic history, yet the male population isn't educated in forms of writing and reading as they're just not seen as important. At best, they're thought at least high vocabulary but that's about it, because most of them end up involved or ruling over a heavily warfare influenced field.

"Our boys are going on a battlefield," Borr huffs mockingly as he drowns perhaps his 5th goblet of wine. The purple rain drips down from his frizzy beard and sticks long after he slams the gold down. "What are they going to do? Stab the enemy with a quill?"

Bestla sighs, resigned a close familiarity on her tongue, knowing it's a battle lost. Her eyes send a mute apology to three heads watching longingly from the tall windows of their chambers down at the chain of little feet thumping happily towards the schooling grounds, laughter walking closely in their step.

She teaches them in private, secretly away from cunning eyes and ears with more love for money than for their life. Bestla knows her husband well, better than he knows her, or else he'd know she doesn't leave any battle on her knees.

Hel and Allfather harbour a love for books and pretty words, pudgy little fingers following every line of charchol ink as if to gobble the world hiding in every letter, making her heart warm. Balder interests himself in academics, everything from the history of the titans to Njords first touch of water, he's knowledge about, and Bestla bursts with a pride as big as the staff for seeing them starving for a knowledge young and innocent.

Its a nice escape from a harsh reality.

Then, Balder finds his Godhood, and Borr ceases to care what he does.

The distaste is not spoken directly, but the angry screams bleeding from the marital chambers tell him enough. He's not permitted on any battleground touching even the tightest corner of their Kingdom and no one feels brave enough to point his absence out.

'It's because he cares, ' Allfather tries to convince himself, ignoring the presence of a hand, heavy and cruel, squeezing his heart when no celebration is in order for his brother. Balder was devious, harsh, and fickle, but he was his brother all the same. ' Father would hate for him to get hurt.' Even if he knows Balder doesn't hurt easily.

There was a knowledge of what Hel was, when he was born, the nothingness of sound as the cold body of a cryless infant was carried ringing like a death bell above everyone. Hel is born more ghost than boy. Many thought him death. Many think he still is

. But when the proof of his Godhood manifested in the form of a crow dusting in the wind for stealing Bestlas necklace, rumors become information. He holds his baby brother during the long cry of a sleepless bed like a man going to beheading for a terrible cry.

Borr, like countless others, lacks the courage to deny him anything after that.

The poetry slowly stops. What's the meaning of beauty if you can't share it with anyone?

Allfather and Bestla keep them the stash still.

Allfather dreads the day he will have to stop being a mortal, praying to the Norns to grant him as much time as possible. Blessings are granted to the needy, however, and without much surprise soon he presents too.

The greatest feast of all 9 Kingdoms is raised for his Godsake day, and all he wants is to hide. Hide from the tales of old soldiers wishing him good fortune, for the weaponsmaster pushing swords, daggers, axes and spears into his arms, from the young lords, too young and too naive for what awaits them, boosting about the terror they'll unleash in battle, and from his father's mead flavored breath .

" You're my last hope, my one true son," the King slurs, hand cradling Allfathers face in his gloved hand with an affection the blonde lad knows not what to do with it. "Your mother, she thinks I don't know those two aren't my blood. She doesn't know me, just as much as I don't her. But I trust that you will become the King this country needs, won't you? You'll be strong, and true, and worthy. "

He gulps his uncertinity as much as his fear. "... Yes."

"Good lad," Borr beams, eyes hunting for the maiden behind him. "I love you most, Odin."

Allfather locks his books away. He learns to handle a sword sooner than a pencil.

With times, his beloved stories lose their shine to the grime of battle, of war, of what he can't forget, can't give back. His mothers soft lullaby fades to the the screams of widowed women, mothers without husabnds or sons. He wonders, would the knights in his books look at him a hero, or slay him with the sharpest sword? Both possibilities make his chest ache.

But not every region is like that!! Nidavellier prizes wisdom best, tailored their legacy onto paper rather than in battleground; Therefore education is extremely important to them, knowledge crowned the true King among them. It makes no difference to them weather they teach a Prince or princess, stable boy or lord, squire or knight; Everyone is seen the same.

In Jotunheim, they can be considered brightest as they're the main providers if that makes sense! Even if they prefer the shred of reclusiceness in their own territory, a cinsierdable present of the country is seen as a merchant state; They supply almost all of Asgard with plenty of materials, foods, fabrics, you name it they got it, which indicates most of their educational system is a blend of everything.

But it's really important to keep in mind what regions values as "Education" to them! On Asgard it's politics, teaching them their roles as leaders and how to twist the coin so it lands in your favor; On Nidavellier, they encourage each person to aim for blacksmithing, therefore chemistry, physics, mathematics and the such is the most prominent pattern!

Jotunheim, in the same as many Northern regions that differentiate the North and South, possesses a knitclose kinship with spirituality and the unknown old practices, therefore their knowledge holds very close to nature and it's branches; Animals, biology, travelling, everything is an ecosisyetm of subjects but it boils down to being able to shape expert craftiness in wildlife!! Not only do their raise scholars, but also survivors.

The idea came from imagining Allfather being embarssed and feeling unworthy of being in the presence of two of the brightest minds in this generation; Frigg is a ball of energy with a mouth and brain that spills the most interesting sounding things. He doesn't understand them, but she could make floor scrubbing seem captivating if she really tried.

Farbauti has an elegant way with his words, carefully hand picked, complex sentences hosting even more complex thoughts that he can't feel are dumped down for him. They can hold lengthy conversations between the two of them, until the sun raises and falls, trading ideas that sound brilliant. He can't bear the humiliation when they turn to him for his piece and he stays silent, so most of the time, he just agrees without his own addition.

But it's not only that, it's him being very eager to listen to them reading, content to let his hair be played and caressed while resting On a comfortable lap of either harsh leather or soft silk. But he never reads with them. Everytime he tries letter blend into the other or mangle themselves to take form of either other dialect or even numbers.

They take note, because unlike him, they use their heads for something other than holding the rest of his body together.

Farbauti is a gentle man, mirroring the fierce beast in so many ballads and whispers about him. " If you... If you'd fancy some aid with reading, I'd be happy to help you. I know the hardness of being introduced to concepts that, perhaps, you weren't made familiar with. Really, I thought Shaggy dog would skin me for always forgetting a certain sign, he's been looking for a motive for a time, and,-" He stops, words halted and eyes wide when Allfather refuses to meet his gaze, hand wiping away shameful tears.

He's pulled to a strong chest, having to lean down due to their considerable size imbalance. "There is no shame in not knowing," he hums, lips moving gentle and loving in the crown of gold hair. "There is no shame around me, understand?"

The same story happens with Frigg, who brings him great comfort when her small figure sits on his knees and her autumn burned hair tickles the bridge of his nose as they read a book together, out loud, one gentle voice coaxing the other to say every line.

He didn't use to write much, not as much as he read, before. He was content with only drowning in a world far away from the one he couldn't escape, that he didn't dare to create something else.

He writes their names first and the envelope securing well wishes is salted with tears of happiness.

[badoperafanfiction]

Captives: Chapter 5

Work: Lucia di Lammermoor/La Boheme crossover

Vampire!Ashtons, Fairy!Bucklaws.

Notes: Arturo and Lucia both survived their wedding night.

Main character: Marcello

Author notes: The word of the day is Hopeful!

Character guide

"I've spoken to the Lord Fairy," declared Marcello. "He won't help us."

"What!" exclaimed Colline.

"Such a potent discovery, and it will have no  further bearing on our lives!" moaned Schaunard.

"And in such relatively good prose, too," muttered Rudolfo.

"However," cut in Marcello, "all is not lost."

"Have you good news?" asked Schaunard, with hopeful eyes.

"Better. I have scandalous gossip about His Illustrious Lordship, our host."

All six eyes lit up, and Marcello sat on the piano while they struck schoolchild poses around him. He told them everything he had seen and heard, in lurid detail; of the dark hall, of Lord Bucklaw, of the portrait, of the hithertofore unmentioned sister. The boys drank it up with rapt attention and barely restrained glee.

"What will we do with such  gossip?" asked Colline.

"mayhaps we can blacken his name somewhat," Schaunard suggested hopefully.

"That wouldn't work," Colline said. "The servants already know, and he takes no guests except the lady's husband."

"But so many extrapolations to be made!" Rudolfo exclaimed. "With such detail he gave those impassioned descriptions to Marcello's hand!"

Schaunard seemed to have an idea of where this was going, and leaned foreward in his seat with glimmering, hopeful eyes.

"He forbade their love, his heart swelled with rage at the thought of his sister in such a man's arms - a man whose features he had studied empassionately!"

"Of course!" Schaunard exclaimed, leaping up. "And on the night of the wedding, the night when at last he had dismantled the risk of their love..."

"Rejected, and distraught!"

"The maid, locked away, for fear of the memories she brings."

"The name banished away from the face he knows so well."

"Rudolfo, we must write a ballad!"

"Once we change the names and make the maid a boy, why, we shall fill the opera houses all over France!"

"Why suffer that, when we can sing it in the streets of Paris, unedited?"

"Of course!" Marcello said, leaping on the pianoforte. "What a song the hopeful paupers will sing, of a passionate young sir and his tender feelings towards  the man he longs for! All of Paris will know the name Ashton!"

"Are you up to the task?" Colline asked of Schaunard and Rudolfo, lounging on the rug. Marcello looked hopefully over to Schaunard.

"Writing passionate songs of tender love towards longed-for young men is the work I was born for," Schaunard said, while Rudolfo and Marcello stole hopeful glances at one another. Colline silently grinned, down towards the rug and away from their faces.

---

Colline reflected long and often on their captivity. Many philosophers, many of the men who he admired most, did the best of their worj in caves - in social slavery to unjust governments - in the midst of great hardship - trapped, alone and friendless, in the isolation imposed by circumstance or by black bile.

Colline was desperately unhappy. Despair was nothing new to him, and its taste in his mouth was familiar and bitter. He had resigned himself to material helplessness long, long ago, to a world where it mattered not what he did or said; only that the fire stayed lit another night and their bellies stayed empty of starvation.

Lady wisdom was a prize to be cherished above all discomfort. To her bosom he fled the daily drudgeries and the gnawing nerves. He lost himself in her bliss, drinking in the words of his great teachers from their cream-colored beds on the pages of old, musty books, world left behind as he fled the reaches of wisdom.

Colline was desperately unhappy. He found less and less energy in his mind to be with the others each day. He was slowly withdrawing from others, eating less, reading books from the Ashton library to the exclusion of any other pursuit.

This is how he found the Ashton family baptismal records. And the family tree. And several generations of diaries.

Colline was a philosopher, whose mind was trained to higher things and who bent his efforts to the pursuit of wisdom, but even a philosopher is riveted by good, juicy gossip, and there was plenty to be had here.

---

“Marcello,” Colline said, “Bucklaw told you that we have to solve this problem without his help, yes?”

“That is correct,” Marcello said. “Fairy law would require payment in the form of an object of equal value.

“But he saved you from the Lady Bucklaw without making any further demands.”

Marcello blinked. “That... That’s true.”

“What are you thinking?” Schaunard asked, confused, and knowing that this had to be going somewhere.

“I have an inkling why,” Colline said. “Lady Bucklaw, as he said, is his wife, and his responsibility. You were intruding in a realm, but not in his realm - merely a forbidden wing in his brother-in-law’s house. Which means that your injury would have been nothing short of manslaughter, and his responsibility.“

“I see. That’s quite interesting,” Marcello said.

Schaunard raised an eyebrow. “What use is this to us?”

“It has to do with the wedding,” Colline said. He sat down, perching on the arm of a chair. “In his library, Lord Ashton keeps all kinds of records, as any lord would - ledgers, family records, the works. He is meticulous with his filing, as was his father, although I think their grandfather had a few bats in his belfry.”

Rudolfo arched an eyebrow at Marcello. Colline was quiet, the vast majority of the time, but he was also fascinated by knowledge of all kinds, and when he became fixated, he was not easy to stop.

“Well, at the date previously mentioned, the Ashtons were in debt - far more in debt than the lavishness of this estate would make clear. The union with the Bucklaws included significant financial and political gain.”

“Now that is something,” Maracello said, interest piqued.

“There’s more,” Colline said. “There are missives and letters scattered about their records as well. About one year ago, there is one regarding the disappearance of one Sir Ravenswood, a name we know well.”

“The time of the wedding?” Rudolfo asked.

“Precisely. If you go back earlier, there is a land acquisition from that same family in their ledgers, and directly before that, remarks on the funeral of another Ravenswood, this one with the title of Lord. He died in a duel with our dear Ashton’s father.”

“A family enemy, then?” Schaunard asked, hope sparking in his eyes.

“Indubitably,” Colline said. “But it goes back further.”

“Just how much of this madman’s journal did you read?” Marcello demanded.

“He’s literary, Marcello, you don’t understand!” Rudolfo rebuked. “Please go on, Colline.”

“Well, the earliest mentions I saw - as early as I got, that is - we find, when the Lord Ravenswood was still certainly young, the death of a girl - a cousin - at the hands of a previous Ravenswood. This one was mentioned without a title. The girl, who was eighteen at the time, was a cousin of the Ashtons. Her death was supposedly a crime of passion.”

“So we have a feud on our hands,” muttered Schaunard.

“Or the dredges of one,” said Rudolfo. “Sir Ravenswood is disappeared, yes? Does he have any kin?”

“I think not,” said Colline. “The missive I found was by a fellow Scott and political ally. I got the distinct impression that Lord Ashton was the only possible contact he could think of.”

Marcello slumped down, looking defeated. “Then our only possible human ally is gone.”

“And our chance of getting in with Lord Bucklaw is back,”  Schaunard said, stroking his chin. “The Ashton family is his responsibility. If we have the means to expose them to scandal or injure them in some way, it would reflect on his wife. We may have our equivalent exchange.”

---

Later that day, Schaunard caught Colline by the arm.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said. Colline looked confusedly up at him, and Schaunard felt awkward. “You’ve been spending a good deal of time with your books lately, and, well, I hope it’s been good for you.”

“Of course it has been,” Colline said pausingly.

“What I mean to say is-” Schaunard sighed deeply and frustratedly and scrubbed his face with his hand. “You’ve been avoiding us lately. If it’s because anything is wrong, then please--”

“Nothing is wrong,” Colline said, a bit to quickly, a bit too wide-eyed.

“Then please,” Schaunard pleaded, “don’t be afraid to tell me.”

Colline still looked confused, but he nodded, then went on his way back to the library.

Us, Shaunard realized a moment too late. I meant don’t be afraid to tell us.

[lastsonlost]

And this is from Buzzfeed. Not Fox. Not Breitbart.

She’s The Public Face Of #MeToo In Science. Now Critics Are Speaking Out About Her Tactics.

Seven leaders of the MeTooSTEM group have resigned, citing a lack of transparency and the founder’s combative tweets.

An outspoken campaigner against sexual harassment in science is facing a crisis of leadership at MeTooSTEM, the volunteer organization she founded last year to support victims and hold perpetrators and institutions accountable.

Since November, seven members of the leadership team have resigned, citing concerns about the behavior of its founder, BethAnn McLaughlin, a neuroscientist at Vanderbilt University in Nashville.

In their resignation letters, former MeTooSTEM leaders said that McLaughlin kept them in the dark about key decisions and reacted with hostility when they asked about the small organization’s finances and legal structure. They also worried that McLaughlin had alienated allies through her combative tweets.

“There have been several instances where supporters of MeTooSTEM have been upset by the tenor of your tweets, up to and including blocking you or being blocked by you,” wrote Julie Libarkin, an environmental scientist at Michigan State University who has compiled a database of more than 770 academic sexual misconduct cases, and Tisha Bohr, a biology postdoctoral researcher at Cornell University, in their resignation email sent in November.

“Some of them, victims themselves, have reached out to us for clarification and support ... putting us in an impossible position of trying to support victims as well as you and the movement,” the message continued.

The most recent three departures, on April 24, included the only two women of color on the MeTooSTEM leadership team. “We … felt that white leadership input was prioritized over our own,” wrote Deanna Arsala, a biology graduate student at the University of Illinois at Chicago, and Vidhya Sivakumaran, a former biophysicist who now works for a health informatics company.

MeTooSTEM was formed after a string of sexual harassmentscandals involving leading scientists, amid growing recognition that sexual and gender harassment is a pervasive problem in science. The rifts within the organization come against the backdrop of a debate about how best to tackle these problems, as McLaughlin’s burn-it-all-down zeal clashes with efforts by some activists to work with the academic establishment to achieve reform.

“I am aware that BethAnn is a polarizing person. Much of her effectiveness has been in bringing truth to power and being in your face,” said Carol Greider, a Nobel Prize–winning molecular biologist at Johns Hopkins University, who earlier this month agreed to serve on MeTooSTEM’s board. “And sometimes those approaches do undermine the effectiveness.”

McLaughlin declined multiple requests for comment.

Leaders who have stayed with the organization defended McLaughlin’s activism, much of which is not in public view, they said.

“In my experience, all ideas were welcome and supported,” Britteny Watson, MeTooSTEM’s business manager, told BuzzFeed News by email.

“On the whole, I have personally had positive experiences with BethAnn and MeTooSTEM. I have seen her consistently go above and beyond for survivors, especially for transgender people of color and people who are dealing with issues related to immigration,” said Johanna Folk, a postdoctoral fellow at the University of California, San Francisco.

Folk added, however, that she can’t speak for anyone else. “My overall positive experience does not negate the concerns of others. All the people who left MeTooSTEM are ones I really look up to and value both personally and professionally. I am grateful for all of their work."

MeTooSTEM is not the first grassroots activist organization to face growing pains: Occupy Wall Street was riven by infightingamong its founders; the Women’s March was accused of anti-Semitism; Black Lives Matter has wrestled with debates over its future direction; and the March for Science, formed to protest the Trump administration’s science policies, added women of color to its leadership in 2017 after complaints that it was neglecting the concerns of minority groups.

McLaughlin is a particular lightning rod within the #MeToo movement in science because she has become its public face amid concerns that her combative approach may sometimes do more harm than good.

“There is a distinction between trying to speak truth to power and just bringing heat.”

“There is a distinction between trying to speak truth to power and just bringing heat,” said Kate Clancy, an anthropologist at the University of Illinois in Urbana and an longtime advocate of women facing sexual harassment in science, who reached out to former volunteers after seeing their resignation tweets.

“What I’m hearing and seeing is heat being brought to women of color, heat being brought to grad students, and heat being brought to victims of sexual harassment,” Clancy said.

McLaughlin’s public activism grew from turmoil in her own career at Vanderbilt. Her application for tenure was put on hold after another Vanderbilt neuroscientist, Aurelio Galli, accused her of sending abusive tweets about him and other colleagues from multiuser accounts.

Galli had already been accused of sexual harassment by a former PhD student, who in July 2014 sued him and the university. McLaughlin later testified in support of a research collaborator from the University of Washington who in January 2015 alleged that Galli said, during a dinner at his house, that he would spend “every last penny” to make sure the person who accused him was ruined. (Vanderbilt settled the lawsuit brought by the PhD student in December 2014, and the judge dismissed her case against Galli.)

McLaughlin’s tenure application eventually restarted in 2017, but a faculty committee voted against her. She filed a grievance, which was rejected in February. (Galli has left Vanderbilt for the University of Alabama at Birmingham, and filed his own lawsuit against McLaughlin for defamation in October 2018.)

McLaughlin rose to public prominence in May 2018, when she launched a petition asking the National Academy of Sciences remove members who had been sanctioned for sexual harassment. She followed up with a similar demand to the American Association for the Advancement of Science, and later pressured the National Institutes of Health, the main federal funding agency for biomedical research, to stop giving grants to harassers and to exclude them from committees that help decide which scientists should get funded.

Through her acerbic Twitter account @McLNeuro, McLaughlin railed against “harassholes” and sparredwith scientific leaders including NAS President Marcia McNutt. In June 2018, she founded MeTooSTEM, initially as a website for women in science to tell their own stories about harassment.

She got results. In June 2018, the website RateMyProfessors.com dropped its “chili pepper” rating of professors’ “hotness” after a McLaughlin tweet criticizing the feature as “obnoxious and utterly irrelevant” was widely shared. In September, the AAAS announced a procedure to remove elected fellows involved in cases of sexual or gender harassment. And in February this year, NIH Director Francis Collins and other agency leaders cited McLaughlin’s activism in a statement that apologized for a failure to “address the climate and culture that has caused such harm” and promised: “We can do better. We must do better.”

Praise for McLaughlin culminated in November 2018 with the $250,000 MIT Media Lab Disobedience Award, which she shared with Tarana Burke, the civil rights activist who founded the #MeToo movement, and Sherry Marts, who has worked with scientific organizations and other nonprofits to make their events more inclusive.

But by that time, volunteers who had joined MeTooSTEM were starting to leave the organization.

First to depart, on Nov. 9, were the two scientists behind the @9replyguys Twitter account, launched to highlight the trolling and unhelpful comments that women often experience on social media. Scott Barolo, a cell biologist at the University of Michigan, said that he and the anonymous @shrewshrew, the account’s other author, were worried about a lack of transparency over the direction, structure, and finances of the organization.

“@shrewshrew and I became concerned that we were publicly associated with a fundraising organization that we didn’t understand and couldn’t get any information about,” Barolo told BuzzFeed News by email.

They were followed later that month by Bohr and Libarkin. “I left because I felt like attempts to organize structure and incorporate inclusive language were dismissed or ignored, that credit wasn't being properly allocated, and that differing opinions were often met with hostility both privately and publicly,” Bohr told BuzzFeed News.

“The things which people want (bylaws, structure, hierarchy, communication) are all critical,” McLaughlin replied to Bohr and Libarkin’s resignation email. “But those things do not have to happen now.”

Other leaders said that they pressed McLaughlin to give them designated roles. “When we tried to make long-term plans, BethAnn wasn’t really interested,” Erica Smith, a physics postdoctoral fellow at Indiana University Bloomington, who resigned in April, told BuzzFeed News. “We had a leadership team in name, but not really in practice.”

Smith, Arsala, and Sivakumaran left after a tense exchange of messages with McLaughlin after they asked questions about MeTooSTEM’s nonprofit status and finances, boosted by a GoFundMe launched in October 2018. The campaign has so far raised more than $78,000 toward a $200,000 goal. The money, according to the donation page, will be used to file for status as a tax-exempt nonprofit and to provide legal help for victims of harassment.

McLaughlin has also clashed on Twitter with activists who have disagreed with her. In August 2018, Anna Waymack, a humanities graduate student at Cornell University, responded to a McLaughlin tweet that told victims of campus sexual assault: “Title IX is broken. Go the the police.”

After Waymack argued that survivors should make their own choices, and pointed out that some have been further traumatized by the criminal justice system, McLaughlin cut her short with a one-word tweet: “Bye.”

“Being blown off like that was personally upsetting but also concerning because it replicates what the academy already does with that sort of dismissiveness,” Waymack told BuzzFeed News.

Last month, McLaughlin tweeted angrily at Hontas Farmer, a transgender woman of color who teaches physics at the City Colleges of Chicago. In a thread about student–faculty relationships, Farmer noted that it would be “unenforceable to forbid relationships.”

“Get off my time line with your pro-preying on students garbage,” McLaughlin responded. “Grown ups are talking. #STEMTrollAlert.”

That hashtag had previously been used to encourage allies to defend women scientists being trolled on Twitter. In response to its use against Farmer, one Twitter user tweeted an image of Jimmy Fallon in a wig. (The user later deleted the tweet, and apologized to Farmer.)

Farmer told BuzzFeed News that she has experienced worse attacks online, and she has continued to retweet McLaughlin after the incident. “I’ve dealt with people like BethAnn before. They’re very driven by what they believe and that sometimes makes them do wrong things,” she said.

McLaughlin’s strongly held beliefs extend to the current debate about how best to reduce sexual harassment in academia. Speaking at a meeting at the NIH on May 16, she condemned an effort launched in April called the Action Collaborative on Preventing Sexual Harassment in Higher Education, led by the National Academies and involving more than 40 colleges, universities, and research institutions.

“Every single one of them takes this Action Collaborative as a gold ribbon that they have done something right,” McLaughlin said. “They have all done something terribly, terribly wrong, and they have the wrong people at the table.”

That position has put her at odds with advocates including Clancy and Greider, who argue that reform should involve leading institutions. “I disagree with BethAnn about that,” Greider said. “We can have disagreements about approaches and still go forward.”

The volunteers who have left MeTooSTEM said that they are still committed to its wider goals of supporting victims of sexual harassment. “I believe that STEM would greatly benefit from having an organization, or more than one, with the goals of fighting sexual harassment and discrimination,” Barolo said.

“My hope is that we can learn from this experience to make a stronger and more inclusive community intent on battling harassment,” Bohr said.

[nickharvey16-blog]

*Isocrates, Politics, and Rhetoric*

In this entry, I will examine the critical question: What is an example of an artifact that fits Isocrates’ criteria of good rhetoric (kairos, appropriateness, originality)? Is this example of “good rhetoric” ethical/productive for democracy?

To Investigate these questions, I examined Malala Yousafzai’s speech to the United Nations regarding education back in 2013 as my rhetorical artifact. Malala Yousafzai presented this speech in order to fight for the rights of women and children nationwide to have equal opportunity in education. This speech came at a time when the Taliban had a very strong hold over the Pakistani people and were the main decision makers in regards to how women and children were treated and what they were able to accomplish in their lives. This speech exemplified good rhetoric, it was extremely well prepared in order to express Malala’s personal ideals to the United Nations in an ethical way, which came at a time that was very critical to not just Pakistan but to people all over the world who were being treated unjustly.

Malala Yousafzai’s speech came just one year after she had been shot in the head by the Taliban when she was just 15 years of age. At the young age of 11 she began a blog for the BBC where she detailed life under Taliban rule. This is widely thought to be the cause behind the Taliban taking action against Malala. Her speech to the UN was given back in July of 2013 at the young age of 16. A year later, when she was 17 years old, she became the youngest person ever to be awarded with a Nobel Peace Prize. She was awarded this great honor for her struggle against the unjust treatment of children and young adults as well as her fight for equal opportunity, specifically in terms of education.

In Isocrates’ Against the Sophists (390 BCE) he explains that for rhetoric to be considered good rhetoric there are three key principles that must be in play. Isocrates’ laid it out very clearly when he stated, “The greatest indication of the difference is that speeches cannot be good unless they reflect the circumstances (kairos), propriety (to prepon), and originality…” (Isocrates). For the purposes of this essay I will be referring to the previous three tools as kairos, appropriateness, and originality. I will address each of the three criteria individually in the following paragraphs.

First off, I’m going to talk about the kairos of Malala’s speech. I believe that she filled the criteria very well. This speech came at a time when Taliban had a tight grip on the people of Pakistan. Something needed to be done in order to fight for equal opportunity and the right to education for all children, and Malala put that fight into her own hands. Within her speech to the UN she made a statement in regards to the shooting, where she said, “…nothing changed in my life except this: weakness, fear, and hopelessness died, strength, power, and courage were born” (Yousafzai). She was ultimately able to take this tragic event and turn it into something that would spark a passion within her to empower millions of others in a fight for equal opportunity. The bravery, determination, and compassion that this showed, I believe, was a major component behind what made this address so riveting and powerful in the public eye. Many countries and individuals were to afraid to interfere with the Taliban rule over Pakistan and this teenage girl took it upon herself to stand up for her people and fight for her beliefs regardless of how it could impact her life personally.

The next aspect to good rhetoric that I would like to speak on is appropriateness. Within Malala’s speech, she does not use negative rhetoric or slander the opposition in any way. She simply focuses on her goal for Pakistan and the rest of the world and does not stray from her purpose, which is equality. There are countless examples of this type of rhetoric throughout her speech but a statement made by her that really resonated with me was when she said, “I want education for the sons and daughters of the Taliban and all the terrorists and extremists. I do not even hate the Talib who shot me. Even if there is a gun in my hand and he stands in front of me, I would not shoot him. This is the compassion that I have learned from Muhammad the prophet of mercy, and Jesus Christ…this is the legacy of change that I have inherited from Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela and Muhammad Ali Jinnah.” (Yousafzai). Along with the people listed in this quote she goes on to list multiple other universally recognized figures and attributes their studies to the way she goes about her own ideals and speeches. This gives her a lot of credibility and shows the audience that she is focused on people who have caused change in the past by using their voices and by standing by their beliefs while not concerning themselves with bashing others along the way.

The final key component of good rhetoric is originality. Malala Yousafzai did an extremely good job when it comes to the originality of her speech. She speaks from her heart, and through personal experience and tragedy. She has lived in Pakistan her whole life and has seen the inequality and harsh rule of the Taliban over her people. This is all she has ever known and from a very young age she decided to be vocal with her ideals and express them to the world, beginning with her blog for the BBC. This is why I believe that her words are truly her own. The topic of equality and equal opportunity is something she feels so passionately about that not even something as life-changing as being shot in the head by the very people she is speaking out against could silence her. This became extremely evident to me when she spoke of Islam and what it meant to her by saying, “They think that God is a tiny, little conservative being who would point guns at people’s heads just for going to school. These terrorists are misusing the name of Islam for their own personal benefit. Pakistan is a peace loving, democratic country. Pashtuns want education for their daughters and sons. Islam is a religion of peace, humanity and brotherhood. It is the duty and responsibility to get education for each child, that is what it says.” (Yousafzai). It is her belief and the belief of her people that their religion is based upon peace and brotherhood and this is an ideal that is evident in her fight for equal opportunity.

To relate the rhetoric within this speech to another source that is invested in what good rhetoric consists of, I will turn to a quarterly journal written by Karl Wallace (1963). This work was titled ‘The Substance of Rhetoric: Good Reasons’, the author’s main point throughout was to look at classic versions of what good rhetoric was said to consist of, while forming his own ideal on what it means to him. To best inform on what his overarching idea of good rhetoric was, he wrote, “My position is this. First, rhetorical theory must deal with the substance of discourse as well as with structure and style. Second, the basic materials of discourse are ethical and moral values and information relevant to these. Third, ethics deals with the theory of goods and values, and from ethics rhetoric can make adaptions that will result in a modern system of topics.” (Wallace). When taking this definition of good rhetoric and applying it to Malala Yousafzai’s UN speech, I see a lot of points of intersection. Throughout Wallace’s journal he presented a very strong focus on speaking with an ethical purpose and following a certain moral guideline. This is where I felt that Malala fit into Wallace’s idea of good rhetoric very well. Looking at many of the quotations used above, she spoke very ethically and stuck by her moral code without getting distracted by things such as slandering the opposition or vocalizing any kind of hatred for people who are the cause of her people’s unjust treatment.

In summary I believe that Malala Yousafzai’s speech to the UN was an extremely brilliant example of good rhetoric. She not only exemplified the three key components of Isocrates’ idea of good rhetoric. These components of course being kairos, appropriateness, and originality. Then, when looking at a more updated version of what it means to use good rhetoric, as provided by Karl Wallace, Malala’s speech also fit his definition. Wallace focused on the ethical side of rhetoric as well as facing discourse with an appropriate structure and style. Malala exemplified these standards within her speech and I believe that Wallace would agree with that statement. She did not stray from her personal ideal and accomplished this in a way that did not specifically hurt any other party but instead called upon all people to take action for equal opportunity. Her speech came at a time when women and children of Pakistan, and many other places around the world, needed someone with such bravery and courage to share their ideas on the global stage in order to gain traction for their goals. All in all, Malala’s speech should be a template for rhetoricians to look at in the future in order to form new ideas as well as provide examples for existing ones.

Works Cited

Mirhady, David, and Yun Lee Too. “Isocrates: Against the Sophists.” University of

           Texas Press, 2000.  

Wallace, Karl R. “The Substance of Rhetoric: Good Reasons.” Quarterly Journal

           of Speech, vol. 49, no. 3, Oct. 1963, p. 239. EBSCOhost,

           doi:10.1080/00335636309382611.

Yousafzai, Malala, director. Malala Yousafzai UN Speech: Girl Shot in Attack by

           Taliban Gives Address. YouTube, The New York Times, 12 July 2013,

[wazafam]

The Wizarding World is full of ordinary and extraordinary professions. There are Aurors, Ministry workers, Diagon Alley shop owners, Dragonologists, Authors, and Professors, just to name a few. Many of the characters in Harry Potter went on to further their studies and work after their time at Hogwarts.

RELATED: Harry Potter: 10 Characters Who Were Underused In The Movies

But what if they had the same goals and personality but were muggles? Would their contributions be relatively the same? Or would some have to alter their profession to fit into the realm of muggle possibility?

10 Neville Longbottom - A Botanist

It's no surprise that Neville Longbottom would thrive as a Botanist in the muggle world. He is, after all, the Herbology professor at Hogwarts. A Botanist is an expert in the scientific study of plants. Neville could also put his plant knowledge into Floristry. He could also teach Biology or broaden his field of specialty and study Entomology and Mineralogy.

This career is based on one of Neville's passions and the possibilities are endless. Neville could also be an inspiring motivational speaker, as shown in his ability to stand up for what is right and remain hopeful despite his experiences.

9 Luna Lovegood - A Cryptozoologist

Luna Lovegood believes in creatures seen and unseen. She pursues discovery and believes in the existence of magical creatures that others think are extinct or never existed. In the muggle world, these people are called Cryptozoologists.

RELATED: Harry Potter: 10 Magical Creatures You’ve Never Heard Of

Instead of looking for Nargles and Wrackspurts, Luna would be looking to prove the existence of muggle myth and legend, such as Bigfoot, The Lochness Monster, and Sasquatch. Luna could even have her own jewelry shop on the side, creating unique and indie styles.

8 Fred & George Weasley -  Inventors/Theme Park Developers

Although many would expect Fred and George to become stand-up comedians, their humor is more within the realm of creation and pranks. Fred and George have flare and charm so they can be both hosts and inventors. Although a Joke Shop is possible in both the Wizarding World and the muggle world, the muggle world would be tamer than what the twins enjoy making.

So, combining all their talents, the twins could run a very successful and brilliant amusement park brimming with their very own inventions.

7 Severus Snape - Saucier/Critic

Severus is a Potions professor, which could loosely translate to a Chemistry teacher in the muggle world, but Snape could also be several other things. He could do something he doesn't openly despise. If only his voice were to be factored, Snape would make a brilliant voice-over narrator.

RELATED: Harry Potter: 10 Innovations In Magic Pioneered By Severus Snape

However, Snape's attention to detail and precise actions could give him the ability to be a saucier or a food critic. He is critical of others and seeks perfection yet is knowledgeable in the art of balance. A Saucier is someone who specializes in the preparation of sauces, who understands the ratio of ingredients needed to "ensnare the senses."

6 Minerva McGonagall - A Principal

McGonagall's Wizarding World job as Headmistress has a muggle equivalent - a principal. However, before McGonagall became a Transfiguration professor and eventual Headmistress of Hogwarts, she was involved in Magical Law Enforcement in the Ministry of Magic.

That means she has the skills required and valued for a position in law enforcement. McGonagall's ethics, strength, and experience mean she has a wide range of possibilities in the muggle world.

5 Voldemort - A Herpetologist

Tom Riddle was incredibly intelligent, a brilliant wizard, but Voldemort would only use his mind for power, obliterating noble ambitions for his own gain. In the unlikely event that Voldemort would allow himself to be involved in the muggle world. Voldemort would find only true companionship in the creatures of the land, those who would form true allegiance.

RELATED: Harry Potter: 10 Death Eaters and What Their Muggle Careers Would Be

A Herpetologist is someone who studies and cares for reptiles and amphibians. After the loss of Nagini and the defeat of his most prized and historically valuable items, Voldemort would isolate himself to the shadows and seek the intelligence of those of cold blood.

4 Dumbledore - A Philosopher

Dumbledore is as wise as he is mistaken. He faces the preconceptions of life and what he believes can alter personal and shared pathways. Dumbledore's trauma and grief burrowed into his being, making him incredibly attuned to introspection.

He was compassionate and provided his wisdom in an effort to help those he saw shared his own parallels. He attempted to understand the world that had become and the nature of the individuals living in that reality, as well as how they chose to exist.

3 Ron Weasley - An Investigator/Owns A Food Truck

Ron is an Auror in the Wizarding World, but he has two loves, and one of those is food. Why not have two careers? An investigator and a food truck owner. Coming from a big family and a mother who made incredible meals, Ron Weasley loved and appreciated his food. This could be seen as he thoroughly enjoyed his meals in The Great Hall.

Ron is rustic and genuine, authentic and knowledgeable. Another possibility is that Ron could also be a professional chess player. His skills were praised in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone when he passed McGonagall's wizard's chess obstacle.

2 Hermione Granger - Human Rights Lawyer

Hermione found herself working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in the Ministry despite her comment to Scrimgeour in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Her career in the muggle world would also be one of noble intentions.

Hermione would be a Human Rights Lawyer, advocating on behalf of those whose rights have been violated. Hermione, whose compassion and intelligence have guided her, has always been repulsed by inequality, wanting to support, empower, and raise voices.

1 Harry Potter - Criminal Investigator

Harry becomes an Auror and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement after The Battle of Hogwarts. Aurors continue the search for truth and justice and apprehend criminals.

In the muggle world, an Auror is basically a criminal investigator. Harry could be an agent in the FBI, CIA, MI6, or Scotland Yard. There is no doubt Harry would be promoted, excelling in his field.

NEXT: Harry Potter Characters Post-Hogwarts Careers (& Salary In Galleons), Ranked

Harry Potter: The Main Characters & The Muggle Job They Would Be Perfect For from https://ift.tt/34oIo8F

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Written by Guest Contributor on The Prepper Journal.

Editors Note: Another guest contribution from valknut79 to The Prepper Journal. As Summer vacation approaches. As always, if you have information for Preppers that you would like to share and be entered into the Prepper Writing Contest with a chance to win one of three Amazon Gift Cards  with the top prize being a $300 card to purchase your own prepping supplies, then enter today!

It takes a certain kind of person to become a prepper. This lifestyle has a certain charm, but because it is often backward-looking, it doesn’t appeal much to the next generation and their instant gratification, tech-savvy lifestyle. That said, kids are one of the main reasons why people turn to preparedness, and protecting and preserving a family is one of the main reasons why people are tuned into the idea of future-proofing their life. When you inevitably pass away, will you have done enough to instill the values of preparedness into your children, so that they can live a safe, stable and prepared life?

Parenting Style

I was never in the military, but my wife and I run a household of very near-military precision. My children say “Yes, sir” and “No Sir” and they follow orders. They know hand signals, and can interpret a glare or a look. When it comes to their behavior, we correct quickly, often, and we always pull them aside for an explanation of why they need to alter their behavior. There is no good-cop-bad-cop between my wife and I. We are both disciplinarians, and we planned it that way from the start.

We make it a habit of saying “no” just for the sake of having our children practice disappointment, and we made sure that they had chores from the age of three. A three-year-old can set the table and get the mail, a four year old can change laundry from wet to dry and drag recycling bins out on garbage day.

Our children have responsibility, and they also are familiar with following orders. Because both Dad and Mom are present as disciplinarians, we have only minimal difficulty in having our children follow along with the plan. If we need to move quickly, nine times out of ten, we can get our kids packed up and out the door in a flash. If they are told to be quiet, hold or bring something important, they can do it. They know how to dial out for help, and they know their neighbors in case of an emergency when (for whatever reason) Mom and Dad cannot respond.

Our style isn’t perfect, but in a bug-out situation, I have faith that even our youngest will be able to perform the tasks we need them to do.

Building Interest

My daughter knows the value of studying far before the tests in school. She has seen that when she crams, she does worse on the exams and remembers less when the inevitable final exams come. Despite this, without enforcement from her mother and I, she would cram for every test, even while espousing the value of learning and revisiting along the way. Practicality is always trumped by momentary fun.

This doesn’t make sense to an older person. If you see the value in acting a certain way, then you should act that way. They forget an important part of being a child: young people are all about the concept of play (even well into their late teens and twenties). Regardless of a thing’s inherent practicality, enjoyment, benefit, or any other factor, if it isn’t framed and presented in a fun way, it will never stick.

Therefore, instead of preaching the benefit of a prepared lifestyle, teach them how much fun it is to do prepper things. Want them to gain the benefit of food storage? Take them on a “shopping trip” in the garage and make cookies for breakfast out of the dried fruit and flour you find. Want them to learn about survival gardening? Start with the ultimate kid’s crop – sunflowers. Even teen boys will love growing flowers if you remind them that they are excellent presents for the young ladies they desperately want to win over. If you want them to learn survival skills, print out a hiking bingo sheet, and have them follow you on a short half-mile hike into the woods, increasing in length as they grow older. Camping in the woods is a scary proposition for many kids, but few object to camping in the backyard, especially when bribed with s’mores.

Young Preppers

For myself, I vividly remember the allure of having a pocket knife. My dad made me earn mine: I had to chop veggies for dinner with regularity, whittle a passable tool with his knife, and feather wood for a fire. I practiced for a summer, and after (eventually) demonstrating knife safety, I was given a choice of a few very small knives to begin my collection. This memory has stayed with me, and while I lost the knife long ago, I remember how having such a tool made me feel, and it did open my young mind to the possibility of fun outside of the television and backyard games.

Finding this niche while young was, I believe, quite essential, and while my Dad was no prepper, I think he helped turn me to this field of knowledge with this important lesson he taught.

Youngsters (let’s say 11 and younger) are much easier to work with than teens. You need to expose them to a wide variety of experiences so that they can find the hook that draws them in. I spent a full summer practicing to earn my knife, while my own daughter could care less about this privileged.

Regardless of what you think about their politics, The Boy Scouts of America and Indian Princesses are two very worthwhile organizations for your children to join when young. You don’t need to do too much in terms of fund raising if you are OK with ponying up some cash, and if you have a good organization, they’ll teach kids and motivate them to explore learning about first aid and many survival skills at an early age. Nature camps are available in most suburbs, and if yours is any good, this can be a great option, as are sleep-away camps, where youngsters will finally have the opportunity to fend for themselves in a very supervised environment for a while, and perhaps come back with a love of the outdoors if you’re lucky. Taking them to events with your local park district or zoo is also a good way to teach a variety of skills, from archery to animal husbandry. There are dozens of books for young children that are about surviving the wilderness (see Hatchet by Gary Paulsen for the most famous of these). Even movies can be a good intro, and you literally cannot find a Disney movie that doesn’t have some bent towards practicality or preparedness.

Teens

Teens are easier than they seem (I teach high school and raised three of them, so I can make bold claims like this). I think that the problem that most parents find themselves in is that they let their teens go too soon and too often, or they hold on too tightly. Balance is essential. You might read into the “parenting style” section and think that I rule with an iron fist, but you’d be surprised with what I let my teens get away with.

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Kids legitimately want to talk to you, and most want to get to know you, but are sometimes drawn to talking with specific parents about specific issues. My daughter will talk with me about her boyfriend issues, and my wife is left completely in the dark, just as I know almost nothing about what happened at soccer practice or which of her friends has a boyfriend. When we are together, nobody gets to know anything about her life, other than that school is “stupid” and she did “nothing” with her friends. Each of us fills a role for advice in her life, and neither of us, when together can cross over to the other side. Together, I cannot know anything about her social life outside of boys, while Mom cannot know about boys, so there is literally nothing we can talk about together.

One of the reasons that I think we have such a special relationship with her is that we planned very specific separate trips and activities with her. I took her on a cross-state driving trip to attend a soccer camp, and we spent a good 16 hours together in a car over the few days that she was gone, which is when I was finally allowed into her life space. My wife planned a similar vacation, and in each case, it has led to fun follow-up activities. She asked me about guns, and I took her to a shooting range (shh…Mom doesn’t know yet!). Mom brought her on a less educational trip to the spa. These kinds of trips have encouraged her sharing policy, but they are not the reason for it – this is how teens are wired (I know from my students). Specific people can learn about specific things.

It is also essential to allow your kids to be out and on their own ,and get in trouble to find a way out. My kids know that I am a good safety net, and that I’ll bail them out when things get too scary or dangerous, but we allow them to have a wide range of freedoms when it is their time. I let my son build a bonfire in my backyard once he could demonstrate the ability to safely start a fire. One of my other sons has had a few run-ins with police, and I let him suffer natural consequences. That’s a good thing for kids sometimes, and will teach them how to adapt to changing and unexpected circumstances quite quickly.

Growing Up

As children grow older, they will inevitably leave things behind, and the prepper interests you have cultivated may be among them. What’s great about growing older though, is that while those skills may fade, or be forgotten and left behind, that makes them ripe for nostalgia moments. Nostalgia, when older, makes everything you did as a child seem ten times more fun and adventurous than it once was, and may prompt more serious conversations when your young adults start to come back into the fold. “Remember when we went hiking and you showed me how to purify stream water, Dad?” Yes, I most certainly do, and apparently, my son remembered as well, and I took him out for the same experience later in the month, and he now has his own kit stored in his backpack.

As children grow older and make plans to move away, that is the ideal time to introduce them to the basics of true preparedness. When they get a car, make part of the privilege of borrowing your car be that they must also take a basic auto mechanic class. If they want to start attending parties, they need to learn basic first aid skills so that they can take care of someone suffering from alcohol poisoning, or someone so drunk that they fell down the stairs. Phrasing it like this is important – it makes the learning more real. When they choose their major at college, you can encourage practical skills that lead into a career instead of paying for courses in Basketweaving, Stress Relief or South African History. Part of their college packing should include a get-home bag, complete with emergency chargers, a first aid kit, and hidden away somewhere secret, a few small bills. When they eventually graduate and move to an apartment, they can then learn about food and water storage.

Nurturing a new generation of preppers is difficult, and it’s time consuming, but continuing the cycle is a sure way to ensure that all your own preparedness is going to lead to something, If you truly want and need your family to stay safe, then this is the next step.

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