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thetruearchmagos · 6 months ago

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Heheh, thanks! That whole 'character' strictly speaking predates my current plans for the Worlds by a good while, but they've both changed a lot by now. He gets dumped with the 'itinerant fantasy adventurer' role a little, which makes him stand out from the otherwise 'grounded' tone of the setting. But he's me, so he get's a pass once I figure out a name for him other than my actual one.

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And about the ship!

Drachinifel's stuff is very good, and this video on the class in question goes into a fair bit of detail on what set it apart from previous generations of the 'Standards';

youtube

For a tl;dw on the cancellation, though, it seems the Soviets didn't have much to do with it, which makes sense to me at least from what I know about the era. The WNT was not attended by the USSR, which at any rate didn't have much in the way of naval aspirations and wasn't seen as the primary threat for US interests yet.

Instead, the US's main hypothetical naval adversaries seemed to be the UK and Japan, which at the time were both close allies in the naval domain, and of course each could account for the US's two major 'ocean-areas'. The cancellation of the SD's legally hinged on the class as designed exceeding 35,000 tonnes standard displacement, and was accompanied by the scrapping of UK and Japanese battleships over that limit and under construction. Whether the US considered this a diplomatic victory or necessary concession is not something I'm really sure on, but Drach has a video on the treaty which I might rewatch to answer.

It's also noted that the armour scheme of the class was a bit lackluster compared to the state of the era's gunnery. So, maybe the loss wasn't too painful.

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Ooooo, you're on a very interesting track there! I'll admit my pacific war history isn't as sharp as the ETO either, and as far as tech goes is a little reductive to 'Japan leads in doctrine in the early war, and is gradually but consistently ground down there and in technology as it progressed'. If you ask me, and you don't have to, considering how long the war in Mortal Sparks lasts, this sort of 'push and pull' feels like something that might come up in the war-side of things.

Either way, wouldn't mind giving whatever it is you've been getting this stuff from 👀

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#tbh#racism probably has something to do with it i'd guess#basically from what I remember it was:#Pearl Harbor#US victory at Midway#battle of Okinawa#Atomic Bombs

Y'know, this reminds me of how, in Singapore at least, I recall the racist assumptions of the British at least being blamed for their poor performance in the battle for Malaya. Might not be what you were referring to, but came to mind.

I'm most surprised that Guadacanal wasn't brought up, out of all the others (maybe Coral Sea too?). It was a bit of a slog and not exactly an unmitigated victory, but it was a big theatre for a few years.

🥸- Which character is most like you?

🕳️- Talk about a research rabbit hole you fell down!

Second one is specially for you to talk about whatever it is you need to rant about

Thank you so much for the ask!

🥸- Which character is most like you?

Short answer is that a little bit of me is in all of them, the correct answer is 'the Magi' (name pending), seeing as he started out as a more direct and literal self insert, albeit with obviously significant chances. Really though, he's very much a caricature in that sense, and power fantasy, but that kinda comes with the territory?

Then there's the fact I've dumped every special interest and passion of mine into Gustav, so...

🕳️- Talk about a research rabbit hole you fell down!

Oueghh!1!!!

So, I'm going to use this as an opportunity to talk about that Battleship one I mentioned in the notes of that post o' yours, but as far as my own stuff goes I recently went down the tangent of trying to find whenever it was people first used the words 'track' or 'tractor' to refer to caterpillar tracks and the vehicle respectively. I know I'm not using tanks as a word or a 'classification', if I can help it, but coming up with something original is tricky, like those sci-fi nerds who avoid using 'frigates' and 'corvettes'.

Anyhow!

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^It's this one, btw.

When I first saw your collage, my mind immediately jumped to the battleship in the bottom right hand corner, which contained this picture:

The screen I was viewing this on was a small one, which is my only excuse, because when I decided to try and check the number on the bow there, the very obvious 62, my brain saw that and thought '52'. Now, I think I recognised the ship itself as one of the Iowa class, and probably a Cold War era one at that, but when I checked the designation 'BB-52' (BB being the US Navy prefix for battleships), I got this:

Now, this is where the actual stupid trouble comes in. I will assume I didn't read the 'cancelled' part here, because I decided to try and find actual photographs of this ship, which, y'know, don't actually exist. What I did managed to find was pictures of the South Dakota-class, but...

NOT THE RIGHT ONE!

You see, the previous ship class to the Iowas was also called South Dakota, and to me they looked pretty similar, so I then assumed that North Carolina was one of those ships, and became even more confuzzled as to why I couldn't find a picture of it.

Then, at some point, I checked the photograph again, and quickly realised that the not-in-that-picture ship I thought was in the picture, wasn't. So... rabbit hole!

Anyhow, though, I did find out about the existence of a class of ship I didn't know anything about, which is handy. I think I've brought up Naval Treaties with you before when we chatted about naval stuff in Mortal Sparks, so I thought it was interesting for it to come up again. They're very interesting phenomenon in international politics and strategy to me, considering some of the behaviour they can push governments to take, and I think any politics or military focused setting should at least consider the place for 'balance of power' treaties like this in them. For what it's worth, I've put in a lot of thought into how they function in the 12 Worlds, a subject I might bring up at some point.

Hope this rant was maybe a little enlightening!

#I know a post thread is long when I start pulling out line breaks

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meru-chanx3 · 8 years ago

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Drawing manga is hard… ( ; ω ; )

#RIP IN WIP #i plan on making two or three more pages but who knows how long that'll take orzorz #meru ocs #meru art #lord drache #this is basically me beating up one of my cheerful characters as rant art;#not having the best time right now.. so might as well be productive and make something with my feelings

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moonlightreal · 4 years ago

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Strange Fate first two chapters

I figured out where I read the first chapter of Strange Fate! It’s in the Night World guide, it has the first two chapters…. At least the first two chapters as of 2009 before Brionwy’s story split off into its own book.

And reading just these chapters I can see why. Sarah's chapter feels kind of clunky and forced, maybe because the author has to cram in all the introductory info, while Brionwy’s chapter is just… really good. *sigh*

Anyway, I decided the internet needs these chapters so I typed ‘em in. (so all typos are mine) Enjoy! Inspire your fanfics! Just don’t use them as the first chapters of your fanfic, that ain’t cool. And buy the Night World guide too. It has plenty of other clues about the plot of Strange Fate if you read carefully.

Chapter 1 Sarah

Sarah wasn’t trying to hear the whispering that was going on in front of her. She couldn’t help it. Soft as it was, it seemed to override the teacher’s voice.

“You’re really getting me worried about homecoming. Are you going or not?” Rachel Carr was saying softly to Pamela Adams.

Sarah absentmindedly decorated math sums in her notebook with a design of flowers, which somehow seemed to make the voices even clearer.

“It all depends.” Pamela answered, sighing. ‘the idea was to get Mal Harman to ask me, but so far...” she shrugged gracefully. “You know.”

“Same with me.” Rachel whispered back heavily, without turning to look at Sarah.

Sarah stopped drawing and stared at her notebook. Maybe they didn’t know she was there. Since her mother’s funeral a year ago, people often didn’t know she was around until she spoke. And the two most popular girls at E.B. Turner High School didn’t usually sit near Sarah or pay her much attention.

Rachel continued, “Don’t worry, I’m not competing with you. I mean, I have my eye on Kierlan Drache. But the question is, can either of them be pried apart from that mousy little Sarah, even for one dance?”

The girls must not have noticed she was there. Pam and Rachel were always full of sweetness and light to Sarah in front of other people. But the, that was because Kierlan and mal were usually the other people around Sarah. Sarah bit her lip. She would never last more than a few seconds in a debate with these girls, but…

No. She bit her lip harder, holding back words, imagining herself in a cool green forest instead of this slightly stuffy first-period math class. Her teacher’s droning voice became the creaking of the redwoods.

It was October 12 and no one had really asked her to homecoming, and she certainly hadn’t asked anyone. But then, no one ever asked her to dances. What happened just happened by itself.

“So have you spoken to Mal about it yet?” Rachel asked Pamela. Somehow, despite how Sarah tried, the whispering, although soft, would not become the sound of leaves rustling in the trees.

“I’ll make my move when I’m ready,” Pamela said coolly, uncrossing and recrossing long, elegant legs in her very short white knit skirt.

“But it is Mal you’re after—and not Kierlan, right?” Rachel demanded. Neither of the boys in question were in the honors math class. Mal was in regular math and Kierlan—well, he was supposed to be at the junior college for this class.

Pamela spoke indignantly, “Are you joking? As if I would even think about Kierlan after what he did to me last year at the Spring Fling!” Pamela forgot to whisper as she tossed her glossy blond hair.

This got the two girls a long, stern look from Mr. Osford. Another student was called up to the blackboard, and Sarah hastily bent over and scribbled the exponential equation from the board into her notebook. Then she frowned, solved the problem, and decorated the number with twining vines. Much more elegant.

Math and art were the only two subjects that made sense to Sarah. She could never be a mathematician like Kierlan, but she hoped she could be an artist. In the big art room she had a painting hanging that had recently won a county prize, and she would be packing it up with Ms. Jessup to go to the state competition later that day.

But that doesn’t give me long, gorgeous legs like a model’s, she thought.

“No, no, no,” Mr. Osford was saying to the student at the blackboard. “Like this, not like that.”

Rachel and Pamela barely paused.

“Well, wear a long dress this time, then. He can’t flip that.” Rachel leaned over to pat Pamela’s arm with a sympathetic air that held just a hint of smirk.

Pamela simply moved her arm and looked back haughtily. Pamela had everything a girl needed to look haughty, sarah thought with sad admiration. She was tall, blue-eyed, a natural blonde, with a perfect, curvaceous figure and those long, long legs.

And Rachel was as perfect in her own way, with thick dark hair, wide dark eyes, and legs that were almost as elegant.

Sarah, on the other hand, was rather slight and fragile looking, with very little on top and nothing at all anywhere else. Coltish legs, no hips, flyaway brown hair… and a face that somehow couldn’t do “haughty” at all, not that she tried.

“Anyway, good luck if you have to ask Mal yourself.” Rachel whispered the words as if Pamela had proposed taking a swim in a river full of alligators. Sarah found herself nodding agreement, then remembered she ought to want to skewer the girls and barbecue them for being so insensitive. Mal wouldn’t barbecue Pam and Rachel though, if Sarah told him about this conversation. Mal was the master of the cold stare.

“And that’s supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Rachel said hastily, in a placating voice. ‘It’s just—there have been other girls who’ve tried, you know. They usually come back frozen solid. But at least if—when he says yes to you, you know you’ll look great together.”

and so they would, Sarah thought. No arguing with that. The gentle rustling of sarah’s green woods had retreated and Mr. Osford’s voice grew louder, trying to make the power of exponents sound interesting with his inflection. Sarah very carefully drew a design of branching leaves around another sum.

“I just honestly can’t see what they see in that Sarah girl.” Pamela said in exasperation.

Neither can I, Sarah thought, suddenly breathless. She had to really blink to suppress a sniff. She started worrying about what would happen when the class was over—would Pam or Rachel glance behind them when they walked out? If they did, it was going to be agonizingly embarrassing for all of them. And what about later? She had art class with Pamela, for pity’s sake. How was Sarah supposed to act then?

Sarah moved ahead of Mr. Osford’s lesson, copying questions from the board and solving them. She scribbled a gigantic venus flytrap looming over the last equation.

Despite the hurt Sarah felt from Pam and Rachel’s remarks, Sarah knew what was really going to happen. Kierlan, with his dark red hair, tawny eyes and cheerful face, would definitely be the one to bring up the dance. He’d be sure to act as if they were all going to the dance together, if only as ajoke. Everything was a joke to Kierlan. He’d ask when Sarah wanted to head off to “do-si-do” or “get down and boogie.”

And then Mal would ask, coolly, if Kierlan had actually asked Sarah to the dance or if he was just making assumptions again. Sarah could almost hear Mal saying it. Mal was the opposite of Kierlan. Sleek, dark-haired, always perfectly dressed, with eyes that were like windows into the early morning sky, he’d definitely ask if Kierlan was making assumptions.

And then Kierlan would say that he and Sarah were too close for him to have to ask about every little dance. “So if you’re planning to ask her,” Kierlan would say to mal, one arm casually thrown around Sarah’s shoulders, “go right ahead.”

And then both of them would look at Sarah for justification.

“You’re not really going with this jerk?” Mal would say. “You know I’ve warned you about him. He’s an animal.”

And Kierlan would say, “But Sarah loves animals, don’t you, Sarah?” Except, of course, that Kierlan almost never called her Sarah. He used the nickname he’d given her when she was five.

This nickname would both muddle Sarah's feelings and melt her heart. Then sarah would look up helplessly at Mal, who would say that Kierlan was using undue influence, and that sarah’s decision should be entirely free of prejudice.

And somewhere in all of this, the fact that Mal never—ever—actually asked Sarah to go with him, either, would get lost. And it would end the way it always did: with the three of them going together, the guys alternating turns buying Sarah flowers. And the three of them would spend most of the dance talking—and trying to keep Kierlan from slipping “a little something’ into the punch bowl.

“So what color are you going to wear? Mal’s not going to have much time if you wait until the last minute,” Rachel whispered, making it sound as if the deal was done, the arrangements already made.

Sarah thought of the lovely little homecoming dress that she had bought two weeks ago. It was aquamarine, to match her eyes, and she’d bought it knowing—assuming that she knew—exactly how the scene with Mal and Kierlan would play out.

Except… maybe things wouldn’t happen the same way this year. Mal and Kierlan were seniors now; Sarah was only a junior. Maybe being a senior was more serious and things were going to be different this year.

The thought made her heart pound, and Sarah knew she couldn’t stand much more of this. Class was almost over but—what if Pamela turned around? What if Pam realized she had overheard their entire conversation? What would Sarah say?

“I’ve got something in basic black; that ought to be easy to match,” Pamela said, “What about you?”

“I bought something creamy—sort of ivory,” Rachel said with a pat to her long dark hair. “also easy to match.”

Somehow that did it. That short exchange about dresses, already bought and waiting—just like hers. Sarah suddenly heard someone speaking aloud, in a conversational voice, then with a slight shock realized it was her own.

“Mal always wears black—but he doesn’t like it on girls,” Sarah said, watching Pam and Rachel start to turn and look at Sarah. “At least not since—,” Sarah began, but discovered she couldn’t finish her sentence. At least not since my mother’s funeral, Sarah thought.

Now that Sarah was this far in, she turned to Rachel and said, just as loudly, “and if you’re going to wear ivory around Kierlan, you’re going to come home covered in punch.”

There was a moment of perfect silence, and then Mr. osford rapped sharply on his desk. “Pamela Adams, Rachel Carr!” he called. ‘Sarah...um, Strange! Are you three looking for a detention?”

Sarah, embarassed as she was to find everyone in class looking in her direction, felt slightly vindicated.

Then, to her horror, she smelled roses. A shaft of pain shot through her head and she shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Oh no! Not now! She couldn’t have a migraine here.

Automatically, Sarah's other hand flew up. She lifted her head to see Mr. Osford shaking his head as if to say “Give me a break.” he looked to Rachel and Pamela, as if expecting their hands to go up too, but they sat stiffly, flushed, staring straight ahead like extras in a movie scene.

Sarah knew from experience that she was fighting the clock now. If she couldn’t stop the migraine in the next minute or so, she wouldn’t be able to hold it off at all. Without waiting for permission and with her vision already edged with sparkling silver, she stood up—and knocked her math book off her desk.

Sarah could hear scattered laughter, not really unkind laughter, but she didn’t have the mental balance at the moment to judge fairly. All she knew was that she had to get out of this class.

Abandoning her books, trailing her backpack, Sarah hurried to the end of the row of desks. The pain in her head was coming more and more frequently, and she heard Mr. Osford say, “Sarah, I’m sure you can wait for the restroom for another six minutes.”

Sarah was no longer paying attention. She lunged toward her goal: the door. Someone she couldn’t see caught at her backpack as if to stop her. Sarah stumbled and there was more laughter. Mr. Osford, who had never had Sarah in a class before this year, asked, suddenly concerned, “Is something wrong?”

Someone else, far away, said, “She gets migraines.”

Sarah found the doorknob by touch; the glittering silver aura now covered half her visual field. She opened the door and slipped through, just in time to hear Mr. Osford saying faintly, “Quiet down, everyone. A migraine is just a headache.”

Not my migraines, Sarah thought grimly as she headed more by instinct than by sight through the empty halls toward the girls’ restroom.

Not even Sarah's doctors could explain what happened when Sarah's migraines hit full force. They weren’t classic migraines, but they weren’t classic seizures, either. They didn’t respond to medication.

All Sarah knew was that at the peak of the pain, she lost consciousness and had—nightmares. She had these same nightmares when she was asleep. But Sarah never told anyone about what happened in the nightmares, not even her kindly, sympathetic doctors.

Sarah was afraid that her kindly, sympathetic doctors would have her locked up.

Here was the girls’ restroom. Thank God, she’d made it. She needed hot water. She stood at a sink and began running the water as hot as she could get it, ignoring the two senior girls who were putting on their makeup and talking.

Sarah leaned forward, breathing slowly and feeling the steam on her face. When the water was hot enough, she soaked a handful of paper towels and held them on the back of her neck. Sarah lost track of time. But she realized, gradually, gratefully, that the smell of roses had gone away, and that the shimmering silver covering her vision had retreated. She had caught the migraine early enough to stop it.

But she’d also left the hot water running in the sink. The entire mirror was misted over with steam.

Sarah realizes that the older girls were looking at her pointedly. Hastily, she turned the hot water off and used her wad of paper towels to make a vignette in the misted mirror. She tried to shut out the glares of the senior girls as they scrubbed at their glass too.

Doing her best to appear casual, Sarah looked in the mirror. Her aquamarine eyes reflected back, their depths somehow giving the impression of being full of unshed tears.

The rest of her features were also all present and correct. Flushed skin that was usually pink, as she blushed easily. A small nose and a small, determined chin with a dimple. A nice mouth, if she thought so herself, and eyelashes that didn’t require mascara. Hair; light brown and always falling in different configurations over her shoulders.

It was… a gentle face, Sarah thought as she turned away from the mirror. Sarah’s mother had had a small, heart-shaped, gentle face, and Sarah took after her in that.

Sarah sighed, and turned to throw the paper towels into the garbage.

And was engulfed by the smell of roses.

Chapter 2 Wings

It happened all in an instant: the shaft of pain coursing through her head, holding her frozen again.

The smell of roses filled her nostrils, almost sickly sweet, much stronger than it had been in the classroom.

Sarah clutched feebly at a sink. Oh God, she thought wildly, this isn’t fair! But her vision had already narrowed to a small circle, and she couldn’t ignore the scent of warm, full-blown rose blossoms. They were so real she could almost see them. Sarah was going to have a migraine—right now—and somewhere down there was a very hard tiled floor.

She turned as another lance of agone shot through her head. Sarah was trying to get into a stall where there was privacy, when suddenly both of the senior girls screamed. The door had just burst open and a boy walked inside.

“This is the girls’ restroom!” one of the seniors cried in outrage.

The boy answered indifferently, “Well, that’s what I’m here to find: a girl.”

The two seniors were still shrieking at him in fury and shock as Sarah tried to take a step forward. All she could see, in the center of her glimmering tunnel, was a tall boy with dark hair and chiseled features in a rather pale face. She saw eyes so light gray that they almost weren’t a color, and two arms held out to catch her.

“Mal,” Sarah heard herself whisper, and then, without question or hestiation, she let herself fall forward into the darkness.

And as she went, sarah realized that today’s migraine-nightmare was going to be a bad one. It started with wings.

***

Wings.

Crispy was squatting on her haunches at the far edge of the boneyard. The white shape she had been staring at for the past few minutes was not some sheet of amazingly clean paper dumped from the Grand House. It was an animal. An animal with wings—a bird. She was proud of knowing that fact, and even more proud of knowing what kind of bird it was.

A pidge-un, Old Useless had told them when she described it. Not all things with wings were Masters, the old woman had explained to them. Not all things with wings meant death.

In the old days, Useless said, there had been lots of birds in the sky, the blue sky. That was before the Masters had purged the animals, of course, and darkened the sky, making it forever gray.

Despite her bragging rights, Crispy was deeply grateful that in the plump, gently curving shape of the pigeon, she could discern no sign of wings at all. Even knowing it was not a Master, she didn’t think she could watch wings unfold without shrieking. And, considering the predators that lived in the boneyard, one shriek would mean her death.

Okay, so you’ve seen a bird. Now get back to work, said Crispy’s mind, or, more accurately, said one half of Crispy’s mind. It was the half she called Smart Crispy, who knew what was really important and what wasn’t. Important was surviving, gathering food, and most especially not getting caught and put back into the fawn pens where the little kids were kept to be fattened.

Important was not a bird.

Still, she sat. it’s alive. It moves by itself, the other half of Crispy’s mind marveled. This part was the part she labeled Dumb Crispy. Dumb Crispy was slow, but stubborn. What does it hurt if I sit here and watch the bird for a minute? It asked.

Crispy tried to remember other things Old Useless had told her about birds. Useless could tell you lots of things if he was in the mood; you just didn’t want to get too close to her mumbling, toothless mouth. Useless’d lived her life in one of the crazies’ pens, but somehow she had avoided the selections, and somehow she had escaped from the pen during the chaos of the Grand Hunt, the Hunt when Crispy had been burned. Old Useless’d cared for Crispy then. Now Crispy cared for her. A debt was a debt: that was the iron rule.

Besides, half the time Old Useless said they were family. Sometimes she said she was Crispy’s grandmother, sometimes her great-gran, and sometimes even her mother, a clear impossibility. It was probably all nonsense, but the thought that crispy might really have a relative, even a crazy, white-haired useless old woman, made her feel warm.

And that’s the kind of thought that gets you killed, Smart Crispy snapped. Can you imagine what Roach would say to that?

Dumb Crispy wasn’t completely dumb. She was sampling the twilight constantly, instinctively. She was sniffing the air, opening her mouth so she could smell better, listening, glancing all around her, checking with all her senses for danger.

She hadn’t reached the ripe old age of eight and a half by not paying attention.

Of course, she’d very nearly not reached that age. Crispy grinned, stretching some of the red scars on her cheek, and glanced down at her hands. One was full of graybread, the coarse, springy fungus that grew here and provided most of the food Crispy scavenged every day..

her other hand was her baby hand. It was curled and stunted by the fire that had given her these scars, and it looked completely helpless. Old useless was the one who had exercised Crispy’s hand using herbs and poultices to take away the pain. Old Useless also claimed to be a witch and said she’d used the last of her witchlight to help Crispy, but Useless said so many different things that it was impossible to know what to believe.

However it was, by luck or chance or Old Useless’s magic, Crispy had one good arm and one that looked withered but could do everything the other could. Like the two halves of her mind, the two halves of Crispy’s body were divided, one normal, and one puckered with angry burn scars from her dusty towhead to her small, rag-bound feet.

Right now Smart Crispy was coming up with an idea that appaled Dumb Crispy. So you want to watch the pigeon? It said. Okay, I’ll watch too. And I’ll tell you something: there’s meat on that bird’s breast! Meat! Remember how long it’s been since you tasted meat? Can you remember?

Dumb Crispy could feel her heart pound. The bird was harmless; it was free. It could get out of the valley, flying over the boneyard, over the hills that surrounded the Grand House and the farm that belonged to it.

She didn’t want to kill it.

Then you’d better scavenge something better than fungus, Smart Crispy said. Because I know what Roach is going to say when she hears that you saw meat and didn’t even take a shot.

All right, all right. Crispy blinked rapidly; she wasn’t crying, of course—she never cried—but she had to blink before moving again. Slowly she stuffed the last cones of graybread into the rags that served her as a tunic. Then, slowly, reluctantly, she reached down to her rawhide belt, groping for her slingshot. It was makeshift, with almost all the materials gathered from the boneyard. A piece of tire from an old tractor for the cup. Bits of rubber for elastic and a Y-shaped pipe for a handle.

Then she positioned herself, inching upward, praying that the mound of garbage at her back wouldn’t collapse. And all the while she thought. She thought herself part of the night, part of the boneyard, just another bit of garbage that the bird wouldn’t notice.

At last Crispy was in line for the shot. Slowly she fitted a pebble into the slingshot. Now was the time to disappear into the boneyard background. The bird mustn’t sense any danger. No danger… no danger…

That was the moment Crispy sensed the danger to herself. It was unmistakable, and it was close. It was just a hint over the reek of garbage, a rank odor that froze Crispy’s heart.

Werewolf.

#nightworld #LJSmith #strangefate

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raibebe · 5 years ago

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time to spilllll! 4, 5, 10, 11, 14, 24, and 29!

4. What song(s) took you a while to warm up to?

Nothing comes to mind directly, but most likely any sweeter songs with a cute concept... Other than that I’m currently browsing NCT 127, Regular and Simon Says took a while...

5. Have you ever disliked a group/idol? If so, why?

Don‘t hate me but.... BTS? I don’t really get the hype and honestly their fanbase just makes it unappealing for me.

10. How long have you been into KPop?

About a year now? Pretty much exactly a year.

11. What music did you used to listen to before getting into KPop?

Rock, Punk, Hard Rock, Metal... I like guitars and getting screamed at by men with deep voices 😂😂

24. What is the cringiest thing you did when you were starting to get into KPop?

Uuuuh... Did I do anything cringy? Not sure. Trying to sing along to the Korean lyrics?

29. What name from our native language would you give your ult bias?

Many may assume it‘s Kihyun but. In reality it’s G-Dragon from BigBang. He basically got me into this whole thing. So because I‘m absolutely uncreative, I‘ll just dub him G-Drache. (Drache means Dragon in German.....)

Get to Know Me Uncomfortably Well (kpop edition)

#ruby 💎#ask game #in ruby i can trust!

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blkdragoninn-blog · 5 years ago

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BlkDragon Inn

BlkDragon Inn’s setting is in a high fantasy, medieval world called Siveth with a wide range of countries in varying climates and geographies. Our main setting is in a city called Drache where characters can drop into the illustrious BlkDragon Inn at any time. Our narratives are very player-driven, and we allow a lot of flexibility when creating quests and adventures!

Over the years, players have built up a world with tons of lore to use, but there’s always room for people to flex their own creativity! Players can make a broad variety of characters from different races and classes. Check out our wiki for details on our lore

BDI is an 18+ server. ERP isn't allowed, but violence, fantasy drug use, and some sexual themes are common.

There’s a 3 complete sentences with proper grammar per post minimum.

Drop in/drop out and play-by-post roleplay channels are available!

We require the submission and approval of a basic sheet for all characters.

We encourage players to create their own quests, storylines, and gm’ed random encounters. Please see our policies on our website to learn more!

Our activity expectations are relaxed since many of our players are adults with real lives.

It can get a little weird in here sometimes, but we’re a supportive and active community!

Come check us out!

Server Invite: https://discord.gg/GqsTpGE

#discord rp #discord roleplay #discord group rp #RP Group #Group RP #FANTASY RP #fantasy roleplay #literate roleplay #literate rp

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handeaux · 6 years ago

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The Day Adolph Drach’s Walnut St. Saloon Exploded

It is uncommon for Cincinnati saloons to explode, so when one does, we need to find the culprit. When Adolph Drach’s saloon exploded in 1896, the blame involved advertising and electricity.

Drach’s saloon was one of three in a row, located on the east side of Walnut Street, just south of Fifth. That corner today is occupied by the 1902 Traction Building. The three saloons would have been located just north of the alleyway separating this row of buildings from the Mercantile Library building. Three watering holes in chock-a-block proximity must have generated some competition and, indeed, that appears to have been the case.

If you were to alight from a passing street car on Government Square in 1896, and turn down Walnut from Fifth, you would first pass the Esplanade Building on the corner, then Louis Fey’s saloon, Drach’s and, finally, Theodore Foucar’s. The three buildings between the Esplanade and the alley were wooden frame, five stories tall, and around 50 years old. Retail occupied the ground floor, with apartments and storage upstairs.

Each of the saloonists had invested substantial sums to upgrade their facilities. Both Fey and Foucar had successfully developed effective advertising gimmicks and Adolph Drach had to compete.

To call Louis Fey’s place a “saloon” was somewhat slanderous. True, he sold beer, and lots of it. He had a nice bar and the traditionally empathetic barkeeps. Louis Fey, however, thought of himself as a wine merchant. Even though he specialized in the finer vintages, his beer was no afterthought. Fey was famous for selling something called “sharp beer.” Descriptions of this lager are confusing. It most certainly was a lager, but some reports claim it was sharp because of added carbonation. Others say it was something we might call a “light” beer while others suggest an acidic flavor. William C. Smith, in his excellent book, “Queen City Yesterdays,” describes Fey’s “sharp beer” like this:

“This came in quart bottles and was highly carbonated; being without any brewer's name on the containers it was evidently bottled on the premises. Combined with the aged sharp cheddar on the lunch counter, it was a great attraction for the homeward bound clerks and business men who kept the place crowded from five to six in the evening.”

Theodore Foucar’s gimmick was elegance. His establishment on the east side of Walnut Street was not the legendary palace he later created across the street, but showed signs of the opulence to come. Foucar’s had a large skylight, an immense mirror behind the bar, distinctively stylish glassware and substantial furniture. Foucar’s had recently relocated uptown from the bottoms and displayed the impeccable flair that would create his legacy. He was already earning a reputation for his steaks.

In contrast, Drach’s bar, known as the “Black Cat,” was dowdy and old-fashioned. He inherited the place from his father and knew it had to be spruced up. What could Adolph Drach do to compete? He had invested in carbonation equipment for a fancy soda fountain, but needed a real kicker. The answer was electricity.

Both Fey and Foucar apparently lit their barrooms with gas. The light from gas fixtures was warm and inviting, but electricity would brighten Adolph’s saloon, providing a beacon to thirsty tipplers alighting from the Walnut Street cars.

Although electricity had arrived in Cincinnati, distribution was not yet a monopoly and a citywide power grid was off in the future. There was no single utility stringing wires from a central power plant. A dozen companies sold electrical systems – powered by generators – for the home and business. Adolph Drach contracted with the Triumph Electric Company to install a generator for his saloon.

The electrical plant Triumph Electric assembled in the basement of Drach’s saloon employed a gasoline-powered generator, supplied by a 60-gallon fuel tank that leaked fumes. To turn on the generator, an operator descended into the dark cellar, carrying a candle or lantern. Drach’s saloon was basically a large Molotov cocktail.

Adolph Drach’s saloon exploded at precisely 7:42:30 p.m. on Monday, 4 May 1896. Eleven people died and a dozen more suffered serious injuries.

The explosion completely flattened Drach’s and Fey’s buildings, punched holes through the walls shared with J.H. Bass’ barber shop to the north and Foucar’s saloon to the south. All the windows in the Gibson hotel across the street blew out, and two street cars got knocked off the tracks

The casualties included Adolph Drach himself and his four-year-old daughter, who was upstairs in the family apartment. Also dead was Drach’s maid, his bartender and a salesman who just happened to be walking by. Drach’s wife and son survived with horrible injuries. After weeks of agony, little Emil’s arm needed amputation. The Enquirer [5 May 1896] reported:

“So terrific was the explosion that it could be plainly heard for several miles beyond the city limits. In a trice all was excitement and confusion in the vicinity of the dreadful accident. The cries and moans of the imprisoned victims of the dreadful accident could be heard for almost a block, and in a short time thousands of people were drawn to the scene.”

Rescuers worked through the night under the glare of calcium lights. As they excavated survivors and corpses, remnants of the demolished structures threatened further collapse. Father Louis Tieman of Old St. Mary’s Church comforted the entrapped victims by conversing through a hole in one of the remaining walls. A loose brick knocked him to the ground and he ended up in the hospital.

Frantic relatives rushed to the morgue, anxiously examining every corpse in fear that a loved one was involved.

Narrowly escaping injury were several members of the Boston baseball team, gathered outside the Gibson hotel. They had dropped an 8-2 game to the Reds that afternoon and were likely on their way to recover at some nightspot.

Also watching was George “Boss” Cox, kingpin of Cincinnati’s political machine. His office was across the street from the explosion and it had a telephone. He allowed reporters from Cincinnati’s dozen daily newspapers to phone in stories from his desk, and earned a few grateful squibs in return.

#cincinnati saloons #Adolph Drach #Louis Fey #Theodore Foucar #electricity

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heirs-of-prythian · 6 years ago

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Heirs of Prythian Profile

Name: Ares Edelstein Vanserra

Birthday: 7. September

Age (600 a.a.): 511

Hair colour: red

Eye colour: black with Red-Amber flecks like glowing embers

Outward appearance:

Ares is a little taller than Rubin, broad shoulders, messy short red hair, looks more like his grandfather on his mother side, sharp teeth.

Has like a second form, since he isn't a purebreed high fae, but a Halfbreed fae and Salamander (which are in our mythology fire fairies).

(Salamander are (in my headcanon) a fae dragon race. Like basically fire dragons who have a "humanoid/fae/bipedal" form, like fae, but with scales all over their body, completely black eyes, no white, that has flecks that glow like embers, on different places always changing. Also horns and dragon ears, a dragon tail, claws as hands and feet, long thin tongue, big nostrils, sharp and jagged teeth, black hair, big dragon wings on the back)

So Ares and his brothers look like the "Fae form" of the salamander race, when they are in their second form, (their beast forms are dragons), but they also can just change one part of their body at will. Meaning if just want the wings, they pull them out, or just eyes, or just claws, etc.

Epithets/Nicknames:

Firestarter

Dragontalon

Fire-chaos

Drache (By Family)

Positions/Titles:

Prince of Autumn

Duke of Night

Lord of the Edelstein Family

Future Third-in-Command to the Autumn Court

Magical Abilities:

Glamouring

Winnowing

Healing

Fire Manipulation

Salamander Magic

Flight by Wings

Family:

Eris and Berna (Parents)

Rubin and Garnet (big and little brother)

Elain, Karla, Heidi (Aunts)

Lucien, Garret and Otto (Uncles)

Hemera, Helena, Aurelia, Callista, Felicia, Heller, Kiefer, Odette (Cousins)

Azriel, Leda, Arianna (In-laws)

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Romances:

Joelle (ex-lover)

Hilda (ex-girlfriend)

Darissa (ex-girlfriend)

Echo Vanserra (Wife)

Best Friends: Khion, Aurelia, Heller

Squads:

Autumn brothers

Edelstein cousins

Day-Autumn Cousins

Autumn Court's Future Inner Circle

Hobbies:

Pranking, Woodworking, Fire-dancing

Three Characteristics to describe them:

Mischievous, Playful, Humorous

Hogwarts House: Gryffindor

___________

If you have any questions, please feel free to ask me. I would love to answer them.

Tagging: @thelaziestgeek @lux-et-tenebra @mindnumbmikey @starlightheir @guthiix @iamthebonecarver (if you want to get tagged, just let me know)

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deathwishy · 4 years ago

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*searching frantically for a spell to water the flowers that haven't been watered for days*"

Very confused babbling: Drach sin ver te se viah?

*plants grow out of their pots and basically make a forest in the house*

*confused and scared witch neighbor noises*

Totally meant to do that <3

You are the dangerous Chaos Mage. Everyone fears you. You are actually just dyslexic and keep reading you spellbook wrong.

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researchkraft19 · 4 years ago

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Aluminum Oxide Type

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5uvaustus · 7 years ago

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I spontaneously decided to listen to the old Runescape soundtrack and now I’m pretty much dying of nostalgia. I guess you could say Runescape is/was to me what Pokemon is to many others? Man, that was my childhood. I was never very good at the game (not ‘very’? Make that not any. I sucked.) but I still loved every second of it. And it helped me so much with learning English, too. I started playing before the German translation was released and only knew ... very basic English, so there were many new words for me to learn. I still remember the first new words that really stuck with me were ‘continue’ and ‘dagger’, but I also still remember how I learned the English word for Fass - I was stuck on a quest searching for a key, so I googled for a walkthrough describing where to find it. Again - back then my knowledge of English was extremely limited, so the only thing I got from that walkthrough was that apparently the key was in a barrel, so I just wandered around the place wondering 1) where said barrel could be, and 2) what in the world a barrel was, but I thought the word sounded kind of round and so I simply checked all the round things I could find until eventually, I found the one that was the barrel with the key (it’s not that simply grabbing a dictionary and looking up the meaning of ‘barrel’ and other words didn’t occur to me, it’s just that I was a bit embarrassed I needed help with that, too. My thought process was basically, ‘needing the help of a walkthrough in the first place is embarrassing, but then even needing help for just understanding the walkthrough is even worse’, so I spent hours on a quest that was probably only meant to take 30 minutes or so, but the feeling of success was absolutely worth it).

I tried getting some of my classmates into it too, but they spoke even less English than I did and so only one of them (my best friend at the time) actually kept playing. I think I still remember our usernames from back then - slayattack (me, your friendly neighborhood 2edgy4u kid, who had looked up these two words in English for the express purpose of getting a ‘cool’ username) and drache224 (him, who, as the name implies, loved dragons. February 24th/April 22nd wasn’t actually his birthday, though. 224 was just a number the game added to the name because just ‘drache’ was already taken).

Thinking about those days hurts, but in the good way. The “those were awesome times and I miss them” way.

#the soliloquy of 5u #long post #it had a major impact on my sense of humor too #'oh dear you are dead!'#or some highlights from the German translation that came later: 'Kreisch! Ein Geist!' when you inspected a ghost #and 'Oh je. Ein Bär!' when inspecting a bear #like. really?#thanks game #didn't know that #and that 'oh je' ... what a major hecking understatement #the first time I saw that I couldn't stop laughing for ... 5 minutes? 10?

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fusisgoenig · 5 years ago

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Damit ich richtig abnerden kann, ist eine gescheite Spielmatte schon Pflicht eigentlich. Die auf dem Bild is ziemlich Basic aber eigentlich fast schon genau das was ich suche, nur gibts die leider nur über Ebay aus China... naia Ich hab zum einen Bock auf ne Custom Playmat, die kann man beispielsweise hier bestellen: https://www.custom-playmat.shop/shop/1-player-custom-playmat/

Das Motiv bei einer Custom Playmat wär mir natürlich am liebsten eine Kombination aus dem Siegel von Orichalcos und meinen Deckmonstern (Blauäugiger weißer Drache, Dinomight und Crimson Nova).

Für die Custom Playmat gibts zb. Leute auf Fiverr die die Grafiken machen: https://www.fiverr.com/luiscamacho3/do-any-playmat-edit-for-any-plataform-material-or-wallpaper?context_referrer=search_gigs&source=main_banner&ref_ctx_id=ec5c4e80-aede-45ec-94d1-e6d3823f5b40&pckg_id=1&pos=2&context_type=auto&funnel=88e6742b-62dc-4cad-9996-443a9bc35872

Oder ganz classic sowas hier: https://www.amazon.de/YU-GI-OH-Blau%C3%A4ugiger-Ultimativer-Drache-Kartenh%C3%BCllen/dp/B07TKB99T3/ref=sr_1_1_sspa?__mk_de_DE=%C3%85M%C3%85%C5%BD%C3%95%C3%91&keywords=yugioh+playmat&qid=1574812657&sr=8-1-spons&psc=1&spLa=ZW5jcnlwdGVkUXVhbGlmaWVyPUFDM1RRMFJNNUtISzMmZW5jcnlwdGVkSWQ9QTAxMzM0MjFZTkcyTUg0VDVDVFAmZW5jcnlwdGVkQWRJZD1BMDEyOTIwMzJONTFLRVFYRlJSR0gmd2lkZ2V0TmFtZT1zcF9hdGYmYWN0aW9uPWNsaWNrUmVkaXJlY3QmZG9Ob3RMb2dDbGljaz10cnVl

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lord-tathamet · 7 years ago

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Hassestränen

Once again, I torment the world wide web with an abominable amalgamation of typing and bashing my skull on a keyboard to produce what is basically a fanfiction of the Edda. In german. Which the majority of followers and by extension Tumblr doesn’t speak. Fuck it. Here we go. Von den Neun Reichen die Yggdrasil, die Weltenesche umgaben, gab es keines das kälter und leerer und einsamer war als die Eislandschaft von Niflheim. An diesem Ort fand sich keine Wärme und keine Zärtlichkeit. Hier herrschten Schnee und Nebel und Dunkelheit und jedes Leben das es wagte hierher zu reisen wurde von Niflheims Luft erdrosselt und gefror. Kein Baum, kein Grashalm, kein Wolf, kein Rabe, kein Hirsch, kein Ase und kein Riese mochte hier gedeihen. Hier, am Fuße des allumfassenden Weltenbaumes, wo seine Wurzeln sich zu einem dichten Gespinst verworren, pulsierend und vor Leben überquellend wie die Blutgefäße, hier entsprang, umgeben von einem Meer aus Leichen, die große Quelle aus dessen Gewässern einst die Welten geboren waren. Sie wurde Hvergelmir genannt, der einzige Ort der Wärme in diesem von ewigem Winter geplagten Ort. Aber doch hätte niemand es gewagt diese Gewässer zu betreten, denn Hvergelmir war stets am dampfen und brodeln und voller schwarzer, schnappender Schlangen. Aus Hvergelmir floss ein Strom welcher sich durch ganz Niflheim zog. Elivágar wurde er genannt und sein Wasser war flüssiges Eis. Aber dies war nicht der eigentliche Grund, warum dieses Land so verlassen war. Nein, das lag an dem was tief in dem Wurzelgespinst an Yggradrils Fuß hauste. Etwas gewaltiges und abgrundtief böses, dass immerfort an der Rinde und den Wurzeln der Weltenesche nagte und die Leichen der Toten an Hvergelmirs Ufer verschlang. Und doch, eines Tages kam ein Wanderer nach Niflheim, allein und gebeugt. Eine Frau, hochgewachsen und krumm, das stolze Gesicht verhärmt und ihr goldenes Haar ergraut vor Sorge und Kummer. Nifhlheims Luft stach in ihrer Lunge und die Kälte schürfte und riss Wunden in ihre Haut, und doch schleppte sie sich verbissen durch die brache Winterlandschaft. Gehüllt war sie in einen Mantel aus Falkenfedern. Ihr Rücken beugte sich unter der Last der Trauer und der eines alten Webstabs. Als sie das Ufer Hvergelmirs erreichte, müde und geplagt von Kälte und Sturm, verstummte das Zischen der im brodelnden Wasser hausenden Schlangen und tausend kleine schwarze Köpfe reckten sich in die Höhe empor und sahen sie an. Sie würgte als ihr der Gestank von Verwesung und totem Fleisch in die Nase stieg, aber sie schritt weiter voran, den Webstab in den Händen als hielte sie einen Speer. Vorsichtig ging sie am Rand von Hvergelmir entlang, denn hier war der Nebel am dichtesten und ein falscher Schritt könnte einen Sturz in die brodelnden primordialen Gewässer und damit auch ihr Ende bedeuten. Ab und zu hieb die Wanderin mit ihrem Stab nach dem Kopf einer vorwitzig nach ihren Beinen schnappenden Schlange, bis sie die kochende Quelle ganz umrundete hatte und nun direkt unter dem Netzgleichen Gewirr aus Wurzeln und Ästen stand welche Yggdrasil aufrecht hielten. Keuchend stützte sich die Frau auf ihren Stab, die lange Reise ihren Tribut fordernd, und atmete rasselnd die faulige Luft des Quellgrunds ein. „Grüße, gnädige Herrin“, quiekte es über ihr im Wurzeldach. Ein Schauder lief durch die Verästelung und mit flinken Hüpfern und wehenden Schnurrhaaren näherte sich ein zweiter Besucher dieser stinkenden Einöde: ein mannshohes Eichhörnchen mit rostrotem Fell und gebogenen Hörnern welche ihm aus der Stirn wuchsen. Ein halbes dutzend Fuß über der Wanderin kam es zum Halt, seine großen, Krallen-bewehrten Füße fest eine hervorstehende Wurzel umklammert und putzte sich geziert die feuchte Nase. „Pfui, was für ein schreckliches Wetter, nicht wahr? Mir sträuben sich doch jedes Mal die Schwanzhaare wenn ich mich durch diesen feuchtkalten Nebel kämpfen muss. Das ist ganz schlecht für das Fell, das kann ich euch sagen.“ „Ratatoskr“, nickte die Wanderin mit einem müden Lächeln. „Sei auch du gegrüßt. Wie geht es dir?“ „Ach, ich kann nicht klagen – abgesehen von den tausend Eiszapfen die sich beim Klettern in meinem Fell gebildet haben und mir bei der kleinsten Bewegung die höchste Unannehmlichkeiten bereiten“, grummelte das mannshohe Nagetier und strich sich die Schnurrhaare. „Erlaubt mir euch gegenüber erneut mein tiefstes Beileid auszusprechen , gnädige Herrin,“ fügte es mit ernster Stimme hinzu. „Balder war ein Licht in unserer aller Herzen. Ich hoffe, dass der Mörder seine gerechten Strafe bekommen hat.“ „Ich danke dir“, sagte die Wanderin leise, während sich hier Herz in ihrer Brust zu einem kalten Klumpen zusammenzog. „Aber was bringt euch hierher, gnädige Herrin?“ fragte Rattatoskr und sein buschiger Schwanz zuckte vor Neugier. „Habt ihr ebenfalls eine Nachricht vom alten Adler an den Hausherren?“ „Nichts dergleichen. Aber trotzdem muss ich mit Nidhöggr sprechen.“ Kaum hatten die Worte ihre Lippen verlassen, ging ein Beben durch den Stamm der Weltenesche. Tief im Herzen des des Wurzelgespinst regte sich etwas, ein Zischen und Grollen erfüllte die Luft, dann ein Schaben wie von Nägel über Schiefer, ein schleppendes Kriechen. Rattatoskr legte unruhig die Ohren an und die Wanderin machte einen Satz nach hinten, als sich ein massiger, schuppiger Leib aus der Dunkelheit schlängelte. Gewaltige, elfenbeinfarbene Krallen bohrten sich in Yggdrasil's Wurzeln und Nüstern flatterten als sie den Geruch der Lebenden einnahmen, die in sein Heim eingedrungen waren. Zwei Lichter flackerten, so bleich und leer und kalt wie die Augen einer Leiche. „Nanu, nanu, nanu. Wen haben wir denn da? Was für eine Ehre dich in meiner Halle willkommen heißen zu dürfen, Friggr“, raunte der Leichenfresser, seine Stimme gleich dem Brechen von Gletschern. „Die Ehre ist ganz meinerseits, Nidhöggr“, antwortete Friggr steif und richtete sich in eine etwas geradere und herrischere Position wieder auf. Mit steinernem Gesicht sah sie an der kolossalen Form des Lindwurms hinauf, sah die Reihen blutverschmierter scharfer Zähne, die schwarzen, zu einem hässlichen Grinsen verzogenen Lefzen und den Hunger in seinen Augen. „Ich bin den weiten Weg hierher gereist, um dich um einen Gefallen zu bitten. Es geht um...“ „Um die Wiederbelebung deines kleinen Sonnenscheins, ja ich weiß.“ Nidhöggr gluckste als er Friggrs verdutzen Gesichtsausdruck sah. Langsam schlängelte er sich weiter aus der Finsternis von Yggdrasils Wurzeldickicht heraus. Friggr ließ ihn nicht aus den Augen. Das Fressen der Leichen die hier in Niflheim landeten, und das Nagen an den Wurzeln der Weltenesche hatten den Drachen immer und immer weiter an Größe und Stärke zunehmen lassen. Friggr wusste, dass wenn die Bestie den Gedanken hegte sie hier und jetzt zu verschlingen, selbst Thors Hammer Mjölnir weniger als ein Kitzeln bei Nidhöggr ausgelösen würde. Ihr Mantel aus Falkenfedern wäre ihre einzige Möglichkeit diesem Ort zu entkommen und selbst mit der Kraft des Fliegens würde sie alles geben müssen um den langen Zähnen und Krallen des Leichenfressers auszuweichen. Nidhöggr redete weiter: „Ich sitze im Herzen Yggdrasils, Friggr, hier wo alle Wurzeln der großen Esche ihren Ursprung haben und in die Neun Welten hinauswachsen. Und über Yggdrasils Wurzeln höre ich das Echo von Hunderttausenden wie sie in deinem und Balders Namen Klagen und Jammern. Eine wunderbare, wenn auch langsam eintönig werdende Melodie.“ „Dann bitte ich dich darum uns deine Stimme zu leihen. Hel, die Herrin der Unterwelt hat zugestimmt Balder zurück ins Leben zu rufen, wenn alle Lebewesen der Neun Welten, sei es Mensch, Ase oder Riese, Tier oder Pflanze über seinen Tod trauern. Von Asgard über Álfheimr und Svartálfheimr, über Midgard und Vanaheim, ja selbst nach Jötunheim und Muspelheim bin ich gereist und habe um die Trauer ihrer Bewohner gebeten und alle haben sie bereitwillig ihre Tränen Balder zu Ehren fließen lassen. Du bist die letzte Kreatur in den Neun Welten welche ich aufsuche.“ Friggs Stimme, erst stolz und herrisch brach nun letztendlich und der eisige Klumpen der ihr Herz war schmerzte in ihrer Brust. “Ich bitte dich, Nidhöggr, um meines Sohnes Willen, weine für ihn und lass mich ihn wieder in meine Arme schließen.“ Ein dünnes Rinnsal bildete sich in den Augenwinkeln der Äsin. Sie war so nahe dran. Wölfe und Riesen, Zwerge und Elfen, Mensch und Tier, Baum und Fels hatten sich von ihrer Verzweiflung und von Balders Namen rühren lassen und bereitwillig ihre Tränen vergossen. Stoisch betrachtete der gewaltige Drache das Flehen der Äsin. Seine bleichen Augen zeigten weder Mitgefühl noch Hohn, sie waren einfach nur leer und bohrten sich in sie hinein. Aber seine schwarze Zunge züngelte hervor und schmeckte die Luft während sie sprach und ein dumpfes, genüssliches Grollen brodelte aus Nidhöggrs Kehle hervor, so als fände die Schlange gefallen an ihrer Trauer. Neben ihr trippelte Rattatoskr nervös von einer Pfote auf die andere und zupfte wie wild an seinen Schnurrhaaren herum. „Wie werde ich genannt?“ kam es schließlich zischelnd aus Nidhöggrs Maul. „Wie bitte?“ „Du hast mich richtig verstanden. Wie nennt man mich in den Neun Welten? Was bedeutet mein Name?“ Die hohe Äsin stützte sich auf ihren Webstab und sammelte ihre Gedanken. „Dein Name ist Nidhöggr, der hasserfüllt Schlagende. Du wirst Nasenbleicher genannt und die Schlange.“ „Was ist es das ich tue, Frigg? Sag es mir“, zischte Nidhöggr und blies der Äsin seinen fauligen, nach geronnenem Blut riechenden Atem entgegen. Friggr hielt sich eine Hand vor den Mund, blieb aber standhaft und fuhr fort: „Du verschlingst die Mörder, die Ehe- und Eidbrecher. Du trinkst ihr Blut. Du quälst und plagst. An den Wurzeln von Yggdrasil nagst du hartnäckig, einzig darauf aus die Weltenesche zu Fall zu bringen.“ „Ja, gut. Sehr gut, Friggr. Aber das ist nicht alles, was ich tue. Wenn Yggdrasil fällt und Gjallarhorn zur letzten Schlacht ruft, wo werde ich dann sein?“ Nidhöggr schob sich weiter aus den Wurzeln Yggdrasils hervor, seine Schuppen schabten über die Rinde und seine Klauen schnitten tiefe Furchen in den mit Leichen bedeckten Boden. Friggr wich zurück, ihr Gesicht so weiß wie Schnee. Rattatoskr erging es nicht viel besser. Furchtsam keckernd hüpfte und kletterte das gehörnte Eichhörnchen in die höheren Gefilde des Wurzeldaches und außer Reichweite des nun halb-geöffneten, zähnefletschendem Maul des Lindwurms. „Du, die in der Lage ist das Schicksal zu lesen und neu zu spinnen solltest es doch gerade wissen. Wenn Ragnarök die Neun Welten heimsucht, wenn Yggdrasil bricht und in die Gewässer von Hvergelmir stürzt und die Welt endlich in Flammen versinkt, dann werde ich überdauern. Ich werde die gefallenen Krieger verschlingen, Riesen und Asen. Ich werde Odin verschlingen. Ich werde dich verschlingen. Ich werde das Blut der Geschlachteten trinken und ich werde mich erheben und den verbrannten Leichnam der Neun Welten hinter mich lassen und davonfliegen. Ich. Werde. Euch alle. Verschlingen. Also verrate mir, Friggr, Herrin aller Asen, warum sollte ich für deinen Sohn weinen?“ Das Wort blieb Friggr im Halse stecken. In ihr drin schrie alles danach ihren Federmantel um sich zu schlingen und in Falkengestalt davonzufliegen. Aber der Gedanke an ihren Sohn ließ sie verharren. „Dann sollte es dich doch wohl wenig kümmern, wenn Balder wieder von den Toten aufersteht, Nidhöggr. Im besten Falle bekommst du einen weitere Leiche an der du dich laben kannst.“ Die Worte die sie hervorbrachte füllten sie mit Abscheu auf sich selbst. Aber sie schienen Wirkung zu zeigen. Nidhöggr, der Leichenfresser, legte den Kopf schräg und sein blasses Augenlicht wanderte ziellos in seinen Höhlen während er ihre Worte überdachte. Dann verzogen sich seine Lefzen zu einem breiten Grinsen. „Ja. Ja. Das ist gut“, raunte der Drache und seine Schultern räkelten sich genüsslich. „Ja, ich werde eine Träne für Balder vergießen. Ich werde sein glockenhelles Lachen hören und die Freudentränen der Asen die seine Rückkehr feiern schmecken. Ja, ich werde es tun. Sieh her!“ Und Nidhöggr reckte seinen langen Hals und wies mit den Kopf auf eine der rankenartigen Wurzeln, dick und bebend, die sich über seinem Haupt an der Decke der Kaverne entlang zog. Sie war ergraut und Eiterblasen-ähnliche Auswüchse hatten sich stellenweise an ihrer Borke entlang gebildet. Und dann bemerkte Frigg, dass es nicht nur eine Wurzel war, die befallen war. Dutzende von ihnen, hunderte von kleineren Auswüchsen des Stammes der mächtigen Yggdrasil sahen aus wie von einer schrecklichen Krankheit befallen, verfärbt und voller klaffender Entstellungen. „Die Weltensche wird schwächer und schwächer“, flüsterte Nidhöggrs Stimme voller Hohn. „Es dauert nicht mehr lange, dann werde ich mich auch durch den letzten Rest ihrer Wurzeln gebissen haben. Ragnarök steht bevor, Friggr. Denk an meine Worte.“ Dann schloss der Drache seine Augen und Friggr sah zu, wie eine einzige, dicke schwarze Träne, mehr ein Klumpen Sand als flüssige Trauer, zwischen den schuppigen Liedern hervorquoll, an der Wange des Ungetüms hinunterrollte und mit einem Zischen und Dampfen auf den Boden tropfte. „Für Balder“, wisperte Nidhöggr hämisch. Aber da hatte Friggr auch schon ihren Mantel aus Falkenfedern enger gezogen und davongeflogen, so schnell die stürmischen Winde von Niflheim sie auch trugen. Aber das grässliche Lachen des Lindwurmes würde sie den ganzen Weg lang verfolgen, bis hin zu den Toren von Valhalla.

#norse mythology #poetic edda #prose edda #fanfiction #writing #some bullshit #mythology shenanigans #no one can read this #nidhoggr #friggr

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