#the last bastion is under attack

[mrssimply]

First time experiencing withdrawal symptoms... Because AO3 is down.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monsters Reimagined: Svirfneblin

While not as problematic or desperately in need of an overhaul as some of the other monsters in this series, I thought I'd share my take on the deepgnomes to round out my posts on duergar and drow as well as my overall thoughts on life in the underdark.

To put it simply the Svirfneblin fall prey to the one note lore that d&d even more than their subterranian neighbors, having a backstory that effectively amounts to " they live in caves, like gems, and don't trust outsiders". Picking around some different soruces though I found some interesting tidbits about how the gnomes fled underground leaving behind cities upon which people built new settlements, and talk about how their distrusting natures come from living in such a dangerous place as the underdark. This got me thinking about societies where secrecy was key, and cultural touchstones of fleeing underground to avoid disaster.

TLDR: My take on the deepgnomes has them as a fusion of brits during the blitz, survivalists, and the "preparing for armegeddon" culture of the cold war. Their society is suffused with a deepseated worry that the end is coming soon, whether it be a ruinous diaster, an attack from outside, or simply the end of the world. To brace against this ever-approaching calamity they stockpile, build hidden vault cities, and etch their history onto monuments and time capsuls so that the survivors won't have to rebuild from scratch. They build ramparts and artillery batteries in the tunnels of the underdark to defend against foes they haven't met yet, and dig ever deeper hoping to find a home where nothing can find them.

Imagine the party is traveling through a mistshrouded stretch of the underdark only to stumble across a village of deepgnomes hidden away in a terraced valley of mossfarms and blindfish shoals that you'd absolutely mistake for a naturally bountiful area if you wern't looking for it. The svirfneblin shun the use of fire outside of a sheltered hearth and never talk above a whisper, but after days of interrogation the party are deemed not to be spies of "the enemy" and allowed to move about the village with supervision. It is a quiet and placid existance, cut off from the wider world, and the party bears witness to the season's harvest being brought in. While a portion of it is preserved and placed into the village's larders, a far larger potion is prepared according to a "state standard" and put aside under strict guard. A few days later, a signal sounds and everyone retreats to their hidden dwellings. From the home of their hosts the party watch as caravan of other deepgnomes comes into town and loads up the harvest without a word being exchanged. Later, the villagers reveal that they don't know where the food goes. To a city they suspect, but the name and location of it was not haded down by their forebearers after the village's founding. Their best guess is that the tribute is to support the war effort, though how long the war has lasted, and who it's against is for anyone to say.

I wanted to preserve an element of svirfneblin's simplicity but use it as a front, a mystery for the party to poke at rather than that being all there was to them. The culture of jewlsmiths with a deepset connection to elemental earth is still there, but I want it to smack the audience in the face when they realize that it's not just pretty jewlery that the deepgnomes are adept at building, but arcane/blackpowder artillery.

The element of secrecy and paranoia likewise lets the dm play with what deepgnome society is REALLY like, beyond the rugged survivalist enclaves. Is there some great sage soverign maintaining an archave with knowledge about the coming end of days? A desperate ruin where survivors live off the tribute of other settlements while battling in the shadow of shattered art? A toltalitarian bastion building up their warfooting for a tactical fist strike?

Also, I wanted to pay tribute to the fact that the neblin part of the svirfneblin name has to do with mist, and I just liked the idea that their parts of the underdark were cloaked in constant fog as a means of weaving their gnomish illusions.

[amaryllis-sagitta]

DATV post-credit ("secret ending") is a Choice not only because of what it does to the world state, but because of other implications

I got my wildest crack crossover with Neon Genesis Evangelion confirmed in a way I did not expect or ask for. Pack it up, Solas, and pilot the Eva one last time, the Executors from across the seas are the SEELE. They want to complete the Thedas Instrumentallity Project and return everything to the peace and comfort of the Void. Turns out Your Mom and her Ayanami backups across the world tried as they might to push back against that incoming Devouring Storm, the renowned history nudger she was. To dance as long as music plays, one might say.

Here's the thing: Dragon Age has always had that New Age'y whiff.

In some capacity, the whole game series seems to be about the manichaean concept of the perennial war between the Light and the Darkness, though until Veilguard it has been more subdued and mostly passed on through lore. We've had the Blight as the main force of darkness that tainted the perfect realm of Light, the Old Gods as those who dwelled the Darkness, etc. In Inquisition we sang that "The Dawn Will Come". And Veilguard almost attacks us with the allegory of Light being under constant siege from the forces of Shadow, with the Black City bursting at the seams, the Blight slowly taking over the world, the Lighthouse being the last bastion against the Elvhen Gods, Shadow Dragons & Lucerni working underground and what not.

Then, there's the Fade, the quasi-platonic "repository" of thought forms, emotions, experiences and memories. The library analogy in respect with the Fade became more apparent with the introduction of The Vir Dirthara and the archive spirits. In this shape, the Fade most resembles Akashic Records, a concept brought in through Helena Blavatsky's theosophy. Then, we have Lyrium and the Titans, entities of the Sentient Magical Crystal, and its chosen Valta and Harding are enlightened to experience Oneness with their cosmic Source. There's the possibility of reincarnation made explicit in the Avvar culture and now semi-confirmed in elvhen lore. There's the undeniably Archon-y vibe of the Old Gods & Evanuris (gnostic sects), and Arlathan is basically the elven Atlantis (a myth from Plato's dialogues Timaeus and Critias, romanticized throughout the ages). There is literally a primordial Abyss in gnostic and Hermetic writings. I haven't delved into this yet but there's also something to say about Solas/ Mythal and the gnostic Yalbadaoth/ the Demiurge, two characters directly responsible for the descent of the world from pure form into matter through an intrigue of error and moral corruption.

At first, the esoteric inspirations seemed closer to some older themes woven into the lore. It was fun to make comparisons as long as these were comparisons with texts and ideas from antiquity, or something that didn't immediately remind you of shit your neighbor might say.

In this context, consider what it looks like to learn that the inspirations for this series now reach down into the conspiracy theory bog that informs many New Age beliefs. Especially since now, in the XXIth century, New Age seems to double down on the Manichaean concept of the ongoing "spiritual war" between the Light and the Darkness. It also incorporates a lot of the XIXth century esoterical ideas with little thought of its origins or implications. And the implications are, among others, that Western esotericism has INSPIRED WHITE SUPREMACY AND CONTINUALLY HAS A THING GOING ON WITH THE FAR RIGHT.

This is not a joke. It is Not. A. Joke.

So, I'm squinting, instantly hit by the whiplash -- not because of what the Executors twist does narratively to the worldstate of the first three DA games, but because Dragon Age IP has just unabashedly announced that it wants to go there.

An important question to ask here is: in the context of all the esoterical references in the series, do we really need ideas such as

a secret cabal of elusive, shifty entities that can get into anyone's mind and control them

that prevails throughout history and steers its outcomes from the shadows, and

a tease that it is now imperative for the world's heroes to disclose the said cabal and to fight it. That this might be our new duty, new cause to unite people, new adventure, new grand world-saving experience ---

DO WE REALLY NEED TO TEASE SOMETHING LIKE THIS AS A COOL LOOK IN THIS TIME AND AGE??? Especially considering how the only people who oppose Rook's "Ghilan'nain and Elgar'nan" tinfoil speak are framed by the narrative to be unconditional assholes?

Is this their idea of an "impactful story"? Did no-one in that writing room and no-one among the executives consider this twist to be tone deaf and in extremely poor taste? Don't they see that it's now completely indefensible to claim that this is "just inspired fantasy worldbuilding" and not a social pastiche that (inadvertently???) romanticizes prevalent polarizing mythologies?

(I wrote about this in the feedback forums, so fingers crossed someone in there sees it and has fire lit under their ass.)

This is so sad, Manfred, play Komm, süsser Tod from The End of Evangelion, I need a moment in the Memorial Gardens.

[allthatmay]

I hate reading fanfic on AO3 only to find out the author is advertising and selling hard copies of their fics. It instantly makes me feel worse about what I just read. Like, yeah, maybe you do deserve some compensation for sinking your time into writing something that people enjoy, but it's taking liberties with a space that is already under attack! It seriously feels like AO3 is the last bastion, and it won't stand for much longer if everyone decides they want to get paid and uses it as a platform to sell fanfic. If you're going to risk monetizing your work, don't do it on AO3!

[southernprideyall2]

“Those who honor and defend symbols of Southern heritage have found themselves under well-organized (and financed) attack. In summer of 2000 following the removal of the Confederate flag from the South Carolina State House Dome, restaurant entrepreneur Maurice Bessinger raised it and the South Carolina flag over each of his restaurants in the Columbia, South Carolina, area. He issued a press release calling for a public discussion of state sovereignty. Not only did this discussion never take place, but because of a single tract on display tables in his restaurants he found himself denounced by the liberal media as pro-slavery and a racist. His award-winning products were boycotted by Wal-Mart and several grocery store chains, eventually costing him 98 percent of his wholesale business.

In *Defending My Heritage* Maurice Bessinger tells his story for the first time, from his childhood and upbringing in extremely poor, Depression-era Orangeburg Co., S.C., to his rise in the world of Southern barbecue. His golden colored barbecue sauce became Columbia's claim to fame. He also tells the story of how he became involved in politics.

Mr. Bessinger argues that "on his property a man is king." This gives him the right to serve his customers to the best of his ability without interference from the federal government. He also shows, in plain and simple language using several cases from his own life experience, how dangerously far this country has strayed from its Constitutional foundations.

Mr. Bessinger tells why the fight to preserve Southern heritage and symbols and its symbols is so vital today. The Old South and its values of independence, local control over both government and business, and Christianity, are the last bastions of opposition to a rising tide of globalism. This movement seeks to bring all the nations and peoples of the world under a single umbrella of control by an extremely wealthy and powerful elite trying to build a world government--sometimes called the New World Order. Mr. Bessinger has concluded after years of study, prayer and reflection that this New World Order is nothing less than the forerunner of the Antichrist, whose rise to power in the end times is foretold in both the Old and New Testaments.

In this book, Mr. Bessinger reveals the true meaning of the X-cross symbol on the Confederate flag along with its 4,000-year-old history, and the real reasons why this flag is under sustained assault today by the forces of political correctness. He challenges us all to (1) begin bringing our country back to the Constitution and our people back to God; (2) restore a Constitutionally correct relation between the states and the federal government, based on the Ninth and Tenth Amendments which provide the Constitutional basis for state sovereignty; (3) observe state sovereignty by flying state flags over state capitols in all 50 states; (4) return the Confederate flag to its rightful place beneath the South Carolina flag to honor the Southern heritage of independence, state sovereignty and opposition to the concentration of power in the federal government.

While noting that we may have a rough ride ahead if we oppose the forces of globalism openly, Mr. Bessinger's message is one of hope--by placing our trust in God, not in government or politics or political parties.”

[zenia62]

Letters From Brune to Daendels (Part 3)

Hey guys, basically this is the last part of Daendels correspondence w Brune in the 1799 during the perhaps Anglo-Russian Wars. In total there is 11 letters for now. I'm slightly confused on how the letters js jumped to alphabet J after H 🤔 Mendels addressed the letters part in Alphabet btw, if I managed to find the "I" one I'll reblog this post. As usual, I'm still analyzing these letters so I won't be able to give some sort summary since I also js recently found this, sorry guys 😔 I apologize aswell if there is misinformation due to translation 🙏 Anways, that's all for now, thank you guys n have a nice day, stay safe 🌙

7th Letter :

Brune to Daendels. At the General Headquarters in Alkmaar, 23 Fructidor, Year 7. (9 September 1799) Citizen General, The day has come when we must wash away in blood the insult done to the Republic by the perfidious English. They have stolen the Batavian fleet from our ports. A traitor delivered it to them. Let us hunt them down, exterminate these pirates. Their defeat will bring some relief to the nation's suffering. Assemble your officers; tell them that the hour of honor and bravery is about to strike. May the warrior spirit seize every soul! May love for the nation be rekindled in the heart of every soldier! Let a generous emulation between the French and the Batavians make it evident that warriors of one nation fight as one, and that the spirit of liberty unites both armies under the same cause. Finally, Citizen General, instill in everyone around you the sentiments that drive you. You will make arrangements to move your division from the position where it is, towards Eenigenburg. Your right flank is exposed to the approach of three or four routes by which the enemy might harass you if you do not stop them. You must cut the bridges on these roads on your right flank. Block the passages and leave nothing to chance. Your advance guard must be at Einburg at a quarter to four in the morning of the 24th. It must seize the dike. Once this advantage is gained, you will hold it by fortifying yourself to the right of the dike, a quarter-hour from Einburg, towards St. Marten; you will place a cannon there. You will thus establish a respectable defense at this point, while maneuvering on your left. The bulk of your division will make every effort to reach the bridge of Groot sloot by the Burger Weg route and take control of it. General Dumonceau at the same hour will take control of the large dike through Vermenbuysen and Grabberdam by a direct and oblique attack. At the same time, General Vandamme will enter the large dike through Grooter mole and other points in this direction.

You understand, Citizen General, that this combined attack with a bastion-like angle will give us numerical superiority, joined with courage, against an enemy forced to hold its line. It will undoubtedly be glorious to pursue the enemy with heroic vigor, but since the combat will take place on terrain that permits a narrow front and no expansion, you will have to temper your forces with reason to control the impetuosity of the troops, unless the triumph is entirely assured. In this case, you would still have to guard all defiles on the right and left with the utmost attention.

It is likely that our attack will force the enemy to retreat into the dunes; we must pursue them there with the utmost caution to avoid any ambush, and content ourselves with the conquest of the Zyp, holding the position until further orders. Finally, if by some misfortune, which cannot be foreseen, we are forced to retreat, the general meeting point for the army will be in the woods and plains of Bergen, supporting its right on the Alkmaar canal and the left on the dunes. The terrain offers a defensive position that will allow the troops to rally easily. But, Citizen General, victory will not abandon us. By tomorrow evening, without a doubt, news of it will reach The Hague. Long live the Republic!

Brune

8th Letter :

Brune to Daendels. At the General Headquarters in Alkmaar. Citizen General, the movement you made towards Colhorn is infinitely satisfactory to me. However, I desire that you proceed with the utmost caution. In the case of a retreat, which is not presumed, your line will extend from Winckel to Nieuwerdorper-Verlaat. However, General Dumonceau, who is to bring you two battalions, is ordered to occupy the point of Nieuwerdorper-Verlaat without ceasing to hold Outcarspel. His vanguard is at Dirkshorn; I inform you that his scouts are approaching as close as possible to Schagen.

Herencarspel is occupied by a French battalion, and Vermenhuizen by another. In this way, you will see that the divisions are interconnected and that, in the case of a more distant retreat, you will have the important points of Nieuwerdorper-Verlaat and others along this line at your disposal. I have full confidence in your military experience and in the knowledge you have of the country. Republican greetings, Brune

9th Letter :

Brune to Daendels. At the General Headquarters in Alkmaar, 24 Fructidor, Year 7. (10 September 1799) Citizen General, I demand that you inform me without delay whether you can vouch for your troops. I authorize you to execute on the spot any source of disorder. I require it of you. I also demand that you identify the infamous instigators of the enemy's attack, which disorganized your troops. I demand that you burn any baggage within your corps, except what is strictly necessary for each man, officer or soldier, and that is not more than three hours away from the army’s position; and that you shamefully drive away any women who are not laundresses or nurses, limiting their number to four per battalion.

Dismiss cowardly officers and replace them with brave non-commissioned officers or soldiers. Your division will no longer be housed in towns. You will establish a camp in your position; you will pitch tents; you will entrench your camp, either by choosing terrain intersected by canals or by constructing redoubts and fortifications. Only by strict discipline and true military conduct can we prevent the harm caused by cowardice and betrayal. I know your sentiments. I expect you to speak out and take absolute determination.

You will ensure that supplies are distributed at the camp. When marching toward the enemy, everything except for the ambulance should remain behind the position at Alkmaar. Republican greetings, Brune

10th Letter :

Brune to Daendels At General Headquarters in Beverwijk, the 13th Vendémiaire, Year 8 (5 October 1799) I have received your four letters, Citizen General, and I thank you for your accuracy. I have left you with the forces you currently have, as the means of flooding should be sufficient for your defense. I recommend once again that you sink boats in the narrowest parts of the canals that lead to the Y. Since you tell me that you will come tomorrow, we will discuss your position. General Bonhomme occupies Knollendam and Crommenyerdyck. Republican Salute, Brune

11th Letter :

Brune to Daendels At General Headquarters in Alkmaar, the 10th Vendémiaire, Year 8, 8 a.m. (12 October 1799) I have just been informed, my dear General, that the enemy is attacking our left by the Estrand. You will have, by all appearances, to withstand their efforts. Keep your troops well together, and give me prompt and frequent reports. Republican Salute, Brune

[nodawnesperia]

Current Situation Report (map status)

The map has undergone some changes but since I am not great at art, let's take a look at the map piece by piece and go over how things changed from canon.

Ranhorn

Previously: The capital city of the Lightbearer Empire and its surroundings, the heart of the Empire and conglomerate of the Lightbearer nobility. Currently: The base of operations for the current progress of the invasion, includes the domains of Mortas, Leofric, and Olgath.

Bastion of the Elements

Previously: The place where all the elements converge and are balanced, built on top of the Solaran Furnace, it hosts a temple for the Wilder sages. Currently: In ruins, the balance overturned and Solaran furnace shattered, includes the domains of Maetria and Kane.

Yggdrasil

Previously: The sacred tree of the Wilders, its root system spreads through the entirety of the Dark Forest, it's said it also helps provide the magical barrier around the Forest that protects the Wilders. Currently: Yggdrasil has been burnt down, its roots corrupted and turned into a spy network spanning the entirety of the Forest, the magical barrier has transformed from a protective feature to a cage, includes the domains of Framton and Lavatune.

Tomb of the Ancients

Previously: A sacred burial ground of the Wilders and the final place of many spiritual journeys, a sacred land untouched by evil. Currently: A mysterious tomb of an imprisoned goddess, surrounded by misty wastelands, includes domains of Vyloris and Mask Currator.

Desert Sanctuary

Previously: An oasis given to the Maulers by the goddess Dura as their refuge in the desert, Temple of Seers and the center of the Maulers' religious activities Currently: A refuge for those displaced by the war and a hospital for those still willing to fight, with the Celestials on the decline, the temple has been converted into a training and recovery ground.

The Scorched City

Previously: A rough region in the former Bellvale after it was leveled, and a base for bandits and Quicksand Claws trying to ambush traveling caravans, and occasionally a battlefront for the Lightbearer-Mauler conflict. Currently: The front of the war, ravaged by the conflict between the Hypogeans and the Maulers, a land soaked in blood.

Maldan

Previously: The former dwarven capital, abandoned after Alna ushered in the first winter and made it uninhabitable, under Lightbearer control. Currently: The mountain passes have grown even colder and more inhospitable than in the past, most living beings are unable to even pass through, under Graveborn control.

Bantus

Previously: Once a prosperous kingdom founded by the Lenu people, fallen and revived with its last king, Thoran, it is a land of darkness and suffering where the undead work tirelessly on studies of necromancy. Currently: A bustling hub of commerce between the Hypogeans and Graveborn where one can buy whatever they might want from texts to people, under Graveborn control.

The Abandoned Port

Previously: The base of operations for the Graveborn navy, once a beautiful port city, it was overrun by the Graveborn when Thoran returned to rule. Currently: The joint base of operations for both the Graveborn and the Hypogean navies and the planning center of the Isle of the Banished invasion, the residence of Mezoth and Lucretia.

Isle of the Banished

Previously: The last bastion of hope for the undead hoping to just quietly disappear from the world, escaped prisoners of war, and those who see their undeath as a curse. Currently: While the unique natural conditions as well as tireless defenders work to protect the Isle's peace, the relentless attacks by the Hypogean-Graveborn alliance left the island scarred and slowly weakening. It hasn't fallen yet but it is only a matter of time.

Mire Town

Previously: After the brutal Fight of the Black Woods, the landscape turned into a putrid marsh, toxic to all living beings and dissolving even the undead. Currently: After the Barred Gate broke, Mire Town was one of the first locations taken over by the Hypogeans and quickly filled with torture and prison camps, holding those the Hypogeans hated the most, domain of Conrad and Morass Diabolus.

The Ancient Ruins

Previously: Once a glorious temple to the gods, it fell into disrepair after the first Hypogean war and Dura's death despite having been said to be Dura's birthplace Currently: The temple was repurposed by the Hypogean supporters and Sin-bearers to perform grand terrible rituals to bolster the forces of the Hypogeans as well as study the arcane arts for their own purposes, in the private, most sacred rooms of the temple, the god of death himself resides.

The Old Mine

Previously: Mines filled with magical ore, often frequented by dwarves as well as Lightbearer slavers with their Wilder slaves in search of rare and magical metals. Currently: The magical ore has been mostly mined out but the mines remain in use, as the last destination for prisoners of war deemed unbreakable by conventional methods, in the mines, Graveborn and Hypogean jailors subject the prisoners to relentless physical and psychological torture, working them to the bone, domain of Kalthin.

Hoarfrost Ridge

Previously: Before the rise of Altor from the sea, it was known as "The Edge of the World" both due to being the southernmost edge of Hathor and for how many ships found their gruesome end in the icy western winds of the area. Currently: The already inhospitable icy land proved perfect for many of the Hypogeans who sought to remove themselves from the war, it became an area of tense peace – or rather cold indifference, the domain of Respen.

Abandonment

Previously: A mysterious land of permanent frost, it hides a doorway protected by an ancient megalith and powerful enchantments that repel those who attempt to breach it. Currently: After the Hypogeans found the megalith and toppled it, the enchantment wore off quickly, once the seal was broken, there was little of interest left for the rampaging Hypogean army, Abandonment eventually became an end-of-the-line area for worshippers who had lost their purpose and were no longer of use, domain of Khazard.

The White Woods

Previously: The crystals mined in these mountains offer unparalleled hardness. sturdiness, and beauty, coupled with its strategic location, it is an important stronghold to keep for anyone interested in gaining the upper hand in ongoing conflicts. Currently: After the Burning Woods incident, Kane's first focus became claiming the mountain pass and after a swift assault, he managed to secure it for the Hypogeans, earning them an easy advantage in the ensuing war, the domain of Mehira.

Esperance

Previously: An autonomous island off the coast of Hathor, open to all outsiders regardless of their faith or loyalty, including practices frowned upon on the mainland. Currently: Having taken advantage of the natives' kind nature, the Hypogean invasion was quick and devastating, catching the city by surprise and subjugating the countryside within weeks, the domain of Lavatune.

Monastery

Previously: An area said to determine the loyalty and devotion of Dura's chosen, never breached fully by a mortal, carrying silent bones of heroes of days past in its bowels. Currently: After the Celestials lost their divinity, their seals placed upon the Monastery weakened significantly. Unable to withstand the influx of refugees, the celestial guardians began slaughtering the innocents indiscriminately. In the chaos of resentment and pain, the place was tainted, becoming a breeding ground for the Hypogeans until its eventual fall. The domain of Lucretia.

Sanctum

Previously: The glorious castle of the gods, a safe sanctum far removed from mortal strife, beautiful and pure, housing the gods' workshops, training grounds, and the center of their social lives. Currently: After the fall of the Monastery, the Sanctum closed its gates, and most of the gods withdrew to the deepest reaches of the fortress, a large part of the beautiful Sanctum now lies in ruins, leaving the gods trapped or scattered across Esperia.

Barred Gate

Previously: Dura placed a mighty seal on the Barred Gate to keep the Hypogeans at bay but due to the Celestials slacking on their duties as well as the Hypogeans outside of the Gate working to weaken Dura's seal, it slowly grew faint over time. Currently: The Gate broke open, spilling Hypogeans back into Esperia, its strange rift in time and space leading some to believe its power can yet be used to save the day and turn the tides of war, the domain of Zolrath.

Altor

Previously: After rising from the sea, the mysterious continent was colonized by the dwarves, its savage brutal natives trying and failing to stop the encroach of civilizations, its northern regions hiding many a tribal secret and eldritch horrors beyond the mortals' wildest dreams. Currently: Reclaiming his lands, Uemiss started rebuilding his kingdom, slowly but surely wearing down the curse placed on his people and ushering in a new era of prosperity, built on the blood and bones of those who would oppose them.

[jae-birde]

doth thou have any OCs? and if you do I request that you rant about them. if you have a lot then rant about a few of your favorites.

If thee do not have OCs, I request of thee that thou rant about thous? favorite characters. tell me what fandom they're from and why thou liketh them

Okay, so I don't actually have any proper OCs (unless you count D&D characters, which I don't)

However for favourite characters? I have many. It comes from having many fandoms, but alas, 'tis the curse of being ADHD and autistic.

Currently, (as many of my reblogs may suggest), I am VERY into the Life Series, and Pearl from Double Life in particular, has VERY much gotten my brain going in ALL the best ways. And so, prepare for the rant under the cut (which is basically an analysis on Pearl throughout the season) that got a little too long

In the first episode, we see that Pearl genuinely never meant any ill intent to Scott. Before she even knew who her partner was, she went out of her way to protect them before she knew who it'd be. She defends her partner multiple times throughout the entire episode, both from damage and from when Martyn took a crack at her future soulmate, and she just goes, “No! You leave them alone!” Even when she starts taking a lot of damage because she was getting attacked, she starts apologizing profusely to her partner the whole time, even though she has no idea who they are. And then when they finally do find each other, she was so happy when she discovered it was Scott.

And then she saw the messy breakup that Cleo and Martyn had, but she thought that surely, surely she and Scott would team up, and Cleo could join them, and it'd be Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss again. And sure, it’s a different and new season, and there are new rules, but it’s still something so familiar that it’s almost like coming home because this is her team. The Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss trio was her ONLY TEAM. Pearl had only been a part of Last Life beforehand; she's genuinely never teamed with anyone else at this point. And the three of them are reunited for all of 10 seconds and she is just so happy to be there because she doesn’t realize that Scott was also leaving her.

The quiet realization, followed by Scott and Cleo both leaving her, just breaks my heart (and I know from an irl standpoint it was played up, but from a character standpoint, it's heartbreaking). The only thing she did "wrong" was go to the Nether with Martyn, which took a lot of pestering from him for her to even go. The whole time they were there, she was worried about their partners, trying to keep herself and Martyn safe, whilst Martyn was insisting that they go find a bastion, that they go to the fortress, that they do all of these things to put them in danger.

And then Martyn leaves her too. Even though he was the one at fault for their partners leaving them, and yet he also leaves her.

And then Pearl is left alone. She has no one else, but at least she has Tilly, right? Except Tilly dies within the first few minutes of episode 2.

And from there it just gets worse.

She has a brief alliance with BigB and Ren, but then she inadvertently causes their deaths, and they shun her. The Ranchers are nice to her, but they don't trust her after the way she stood in the powdered snow to "tickle" Scott. Any chance of an alliance with the Boat Boys is dashed by their deaths and her stealing Joel's chestplate. She doesn't have too much actual interaction with the Homewreckers from what I remember other than the fishing rod chain in front of their house and the pool party. Scar was basically her only "ally", and that was only for specific circumstances.

Pearl is basically alone for the entirety of the season, until the rest of the Divorce Quartet come to her as the only other yellows left.

And then the only people left are the four of them.

Martyn and Cleo go after Pearl, betraying her and attempting to kill her, but she manages to win the fight, killing Cleo while Martyn dies from his trapped base.

And Tilly is dead again.

And it's just Pearl and Scott left.

And Scott, the one who left her in the beginning, saw all that Pearl had gone through to make it to this point, and sacrifices himself so that she could win.

And Pearl herself says that she didn't believe they could do it, and with the way she acted and played, you can see why. Pearl builds her base to be defendable and to have what she needs. She's alone, with little to no allies at any point, and her only friend is Tilly, throughout the whole time. Looking at the series objectively, Pearl is clearly the underdog and one of the least likely to win.

And yet she does.

She makes it to the end, and thanks to Scott's sacrifice, she wins, ending up getting first place.

I love her character arc throughout the series, as well as her slow descent into insanity. She is a character who is driven to survive by spite. Spite against Scott and Cleo for leaving her, to prove that she can make it on her own. Spite against Martyn for ditching her after he was the one who convinced her to go to the Nether. Spite against every other player for turning their backs on her and leaving her on her own. And that spite drives her to win.

Sorry for how long this is, but I am extremely hyperfixated on the Life Series, and, as I've mentioned, I'm going to be writing a Double Life fic focused on Pearl eventually, so I have a lot of thoughts about her.

So... here's a thoughtdump about her! (If this wasn't what you asked for, then I apologize)

Thanks for sending in the ask!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

As a new generation of young people speaks out against attacks on women and children halfway around the world — this time in Gaza — college administrators from Boston to L.A. are racing to call in heavily armored riot cops to shut down protest encampments at campuses they’d sold to applicants as bastions of academic freedom, open expression, and historic demonstrations that had changed the world. They are destroying the American university in order to keep it “safe.” In a week when decades happened, the lowest moments in what became a nationwide assault on college free speech by militarized police veered from shock to tragicomical irony. [...] The most tumultuous week on U.S. college campuses since May 1970 resulted in at least 600 arrests at 15 different schools as of Saturday, with more surely on the way. It’s going to take even longer to tally all the students facing suspension and in some cases expulsion for speaking out on the bloodshed in Gaza, or the now-ruined careers of principled professors who stood between their students and a nightstick. Not to mention the lasting psychological scars for young people who saw their dream college summon cops to arrest them or even fire rubber bullets or canisters of tear gas at them, which would be considered a war crime if used in Ukraine but is apparently OK in the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s hometown of Atlanta. The notion of college as the American dream — fostering not just upward economic mobility but a nation of informed citizens taught to think critically — has been steadily dying since the original right-wing backlash against student protest in the 1960s triggered the end of taxpayer support for low tuition, which caused a $1.75 trillion student loan crisis. The maelstrom around the war in the Middle East has given the enemies of higher education — and they are many — a chance to move in for the kill. [...] Their ammunition is the complicated relationship between student protests for Palestinian liberation and against Israel’s current conduct in Gaza, where its more-than-six-month assault has killed at least 33,000 people — the majority of them women and children — and the constant scourge of antisemitism. Even though some advocates lump political criticisms of the state of Israel under an overly broad definition of antisemitism, there’s no question that the despicable harassment and assaults on Jews on or around college campuses have risen since the Oct. 7 start of the war (as they also have for Muslims). A few of the claims linking the worst antisemitism to the student protests have been disingenuous, such as when some journalists cited a nonstudent and well-known antisemite stationed a block from the Columbia University main gate as an example of protester hate speech. At Boston’s Northeastern University, administrators sent in police Saturday who detained 100 students based on a shout of “Kill all the Jews!” that veteran journalists on the scene said came from a Jewish demonstrator waving an Israeli flag, apparently seeking an escalation. But there has also been some instances of antisemitism that are indeed the fault of pro-Palestinian student protesters.

[...]

The biggest driver is right-wing authoritarianism. Red-state governors like Abbott in Texas or Georgia’s Brian Kemp have watched the new hero of U.S. conservatism, Hungary’s Viktor Orbán, make crushing his homeland’s once freethinking universities the centerpiece of his strongman governance. Now they are importing the strategy. The Gaza protests have given governors and their fellow travelers on Capitol Hill a golden opportunity to squelch the notion of a liberal education while squeezing out a few more tax-cut dollars for their billionaire donors, and creating a nightly Two Minutes Hate of young people on Fox News that distracts from the 88 felony counts against their presidential candidate. [...] The complexities of never-ending conflict in the Middle East is what allows the cynical Greg Abbotts of America to get away with this. Too many would-be Democratic critics are too wedded to years of deep support for Israel, ignoring that a) the right-wing extremism of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and his allies is not your father’s Israel and b) the assault on campus free speech has much deeper implications than the current crisis. Too many college presidents have displayed extreme cowardice, caught in the headlights between Republican bullying and billionaire donors, who likely fear the protesting students might eventually question the brand of capitalism that made them billionaires.

Will Bunch at The Philadelphia Inquirer on the violent crackdowns of student protests against Israel's genocidal campaign against Gaza on college campuses orchestrated by police (04.28.2024).

Will Bunch wrote a solid column in the Philadelphia Inquirer about how the recent violent crackdowns on student protests against the Gaza Genocide and Israel Apartheid are a prelude to the fascist hell that America will be under should Donald Trump be elected come November. The violent crackdowns on student protests are also an excuse for right-wing reactionaries to wage war on higher education, academic freedom, freedom of assembly, and freedom of speech.

[forbelobog]

Captain Gepard, your father wants you recalled from your post immediately. He said… he said to tell you there was an accident last night. In the Snow Plains. Some sort of avalanche from melting ice drift fell and… your sister, Lynx… she…

She’s in Belobog General Hospital, but he’s not sure how much longer she can hold on… I’m so sorry, Captain.

over the years being belobog's shield, it's bastion for hope and safety, gepard landau has developed a habit of compartmentalizing - pain, emotions, anything he felt he struggled to handle in the moment, his mind would try to fit it into a neat little shape, and store it away. sometimes, if he were lucky, he would take that shape at a later date and process it like he should, but sometimes not. sometimes, he would quite literally leave his mind. find somewhere else to be, mentally. a fog, he could be 'gone' for hours at a time. it wasn't a healthy habit, he never claimed it to be. but it made withstanding injuries and heartbreak easier to wade through. when he is first approached by one of his officers, gepard expects bad news. he's seen the look on the guard's face before, the look in his eyes. 

something has happened. captain steels himself for the worst.

the mention of his father of all people draws more concern from captain's usually stoic features, a brows raising as he goes on to explain...sister. his sister. there is a sudden, rotten second where gepard almost hopes serval's name is uttered first - not that he wished harm to come to her, never in a thousand amber ages. but lynx? lynx was precious to them both. he knows serval would wish it were her instead, too. but it isn't serval. it's lynxie, their baby sister. if his father made a point to call for him, it could only mean bad things. an avalanche...her body crushed under ice and sleet and rock and-

 the guard in front of him might as well have been a figment of his imagination, for as much as gepard pays him mind after the initial message is delivered. his pupils shrink, his chest clenches tight with despair's cold hands, so sudden it takes the wind from him. he can't breathe. no amount of training could prepare him for the sudden, drastic drop in his stomach, the dread like ice in his veins. rarely does cinema or dramas portray true tunnel vision accurately, though he experiences it now; gepard feels as though he's sucked out of his body, down, down through a narrow chasm where light cannot penetrate. sound dulls, fades, until it springs back in a tinnitus-like ring in his eardrums. like he's an observer, a sickly out-of-body experience that leaves him feeling a helplessness he hasn't since he were a child.

he can't breathe.

captain? the guard says. gepard only has enough power to manage words, a hand out to push the guard aside, "i have to go," to lynx, to fix it, to save her, he has to go. he has to go anywhere but here. he has to go now. 

it takes all his training, his control, his will to not stumble away like a fool, hands trembling as they fumble for his beacon in his pocket. there are several texts, gepard finds he can't read a single one. his eyes won't focus. his fingers won't respond to what he wants them to do, trying desperately to call serval, tell her what's happening, ask her if she knew. but he barely gets his thumb to punch in an 's' on the keyboard before he gives up on the idea entirely, and sprints back for town.

somehow, belobog comes in to view. gepard realizing only then, with the concerned stares and mumbles of citizens he must look a sight. pale, sweaty, eyes blown wide as dinner plates. he's had a panic attack the entire trek back - still having one in fact - and his breaths are short and shallow. he manages to stumble his way into fort qlipoth, where he's greeted almost immediately by guards on staff. they must have been expecting him. he can't focus. none of their voices even sound human - are they even saying words? 

"i have to go," he repeats, shoving them aside to head to the medical wing. muscle memory at this point, is he even going the right way? his vision starts to blotch, he still can't breathe. it feels like he can't get enough air in his lungs, his body doesn't work right-

a hand slides in to his, gepard's terrified gaze shifting to the person now beside him. serval. it's serval. she takes one look at her brother before ushering them to a side office, and closing the door behind her. safe from prying eyes and judgement, gepard lets his barely-there grip of his control come loose. he collapses to the floor in a heap, and screams.

[raytm]

gepard landau felt the foreboding attendance of death for years. an acrid tang of iron in his mouth, the lances of agony across the faces of his comrades as their limbs were wrested from their bodies, bloodied streaks of red in the snow. it beset his nights with harrowing memories, screams heaving from gasping lungs, the gossamer film of white eyes that stared out into the fray, sightless. It had marked him for a fleeting life the moment he had marched out into those desolate plains, a legion of soldiers at his flank. he had thought of it many times, but a captain was not afforded the benignity of choosing his own death.

when it comes its advent is undulating roars of fire, withering skin that curls in on itself, brittle and black. it’s his comrades dying one after the other in quick succession. he has enough time to seize an opening, to give them the opportunity to rally their remaining forces, to gasp in respite and arm themselves for the onslaught. he had not left home that day knowing it was the final time, had not greeted familiar faces at the barracks and warmed his hands around a blazing flame knowing that would be his last day. when he braces for impact, serrated limbs ending in hooked talons, he spares a solitary, fleeting glance over his shoulder and commands his men to retreat. they look upon him, astonished, exhausted, covered in slick sweat and drying blood. there’s an understanding that passes between them, wordless and pervading with the knowledge that he would not be following them.

the blunt impact against his shield is so immense that it sends shudders to his bones, his teeth clacking, a lance of excruciating pain surging through his arms, burying itself in his shoulders. he sinks his boots deep into the snow, ice swelling upwards as he was plowed backwards, his entire body keens beneath the force. the monster opens its jaws, rows of serrated teeth incandescent with heat, its eyes buried deep into its carapace skull. It retracts its long, spinose pincer and brings it down again, the pressure fractures bone, he can feel the pain of it towing him backwards, forcing his senses to remain alert, to push back against the barrage of strikes. its frustrated wail carries on the wind and the next time it withdraws, inspecting him with its bulging, rotating eyes, he launches his counter attack.

the shield wedges itself under the creature’s limb, a strident crack of impact that has the monster reeling, ice burgeons from the wound, rushing up its flesh, solidifying around it. gepard heaves a searing breath in, all of his mustered strength going into holding it in place, suddenly, a sharp, blinding agony erupts from his shoulder. it had brought down its other claw, punctuating the juncture between his throat and shoulder. blood rushed to the surface, blistering against his cold skin, surging from the wound, filling the dip of his collarbone, sousing his proud, white clothes carmine. he is the last bastion between this monster and his men, so he endures with unfaltering resolve. the ice is like a starved beast, rapidly swallowing the creature, limb after limb, until it splintered the hard, outer shell of its skull and the pincer embedded in his shoulder went limp.

he sinks to his knees, it were as if all the vigour had been drained from him, his shield hitting the ground, burying into the snow. he presses his hand to the wound, staunch the blood, he remembered that, even in the amorphous haze of his wavering consciousness. but it keeps flowing, the gash is so deep it’s carved past bone, if he were to wrench it from his body it would tear open a gaping fissure in his skin.

it was cold, belobog was always cold. beside the gargantuan corpse the captain sits upright, his back flush to the jagged husk, sheltered from the wind. It was cold, it was always so cold. he had held his gloved hand against the wound until it was sodden, until his arm was heavy, until he could hold it up no longer. he yearns to keep his eyes open, the bleary winterscape feels so vast when it’s so very empty. his blinking is somnolent, the world an indistinct smear of ice and blood. if he waits here, someone will return, someone will find him. he tells himself that is why he waits, sits in silent vigil, that he will close his eyes for a moment - then awaken when someone arrives. however, when they arrived, desperately plunging through the snow, it was already far too late. the captain was cold to the touch,  delicate fractals of ice clinging to his lashes, to his hair, turning his skin to an icy pallor. he had not known it would be his last day when he joined his men on the battlefield, but there was pride in knowing he had saved them.

[dragons-clause]

The Dragon's Clause

Sabo x Fem Reader CW: Forced marriage, intrigue, character death, fantasy violence, blood, magic, language, smut, 18+ mdni

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff

Chapter 3: Breathe

The guards at the gate verified your identity, and then transferred you and your belongings from your family’s carriage to one allowed past the gates. They were a bit stiff, but not impolite, and you said your farewells to those that had seen you through your long journey.

The carriage ride within the palace grounds wasn’t long, but you would only walk upon entry or exit if you weren’t nobility of some manner. To fall to such disgrace was considered by some among the upper class to be worse than walking to the gallows.

The Palace grounds are beautiful. The style of Goa has a little more flourish than Lulusia, but your Uncle had said it was for the gems to shine, not the castle. Goa’s castle might not shine, but it was well-maintained, and the landscape was pleasant. It was in better condition than the rest of the city, but that wasn’t unexpected.

Palace grounds weren’t just a symbol of a given kingdom, but also a last bastion should the kingdom come under attack. Maintenance was the first step to being certain everything was sturdy and that there weren’t any weaknesses to be exploited.

It was, for better or worse, all you could say about it. There was something generic about it all that gnawed at the back of your mind. There was no sense of Goa’s history in anything that you saw. None of the buildings, nor any of the gardens, had a sense of self to them. It was like looking at a dollhouse someone made based off what they believed a castle should look like.

Getting down from the carriage was the first sign something was amiss. Instead of being aided by the captain of the royal guard, or even the prince himself, a butler helped you alight from the carriage.

“My lady, I am Chabo, the head butler of the Prince’s palace. Please allow me to escort you.” He says kindly.

“Certainly,” you reply as evenly as you can.

It will do no good to unleash your concerns on him, but for not a single member of the royal family to be present upon your arrival is unsettling at the least. You had provided ample notice to the castle about your progress, and had sent an additional message first thing in the morning. You hadn’t even left the inn until after lunch, with the intention - the stated intention - of arriving with sufficient time before dinner to show proper courtesy.

Yet, there was no one here save the butler, a couple of unarmed knights to help with your luggage and a couple maids. It wasn’t as though the entire royal family was required to greet you, but the Crown Prince should have at least been here.

“Prince Sterry sends his regrets for being unable to receive you.” Chabo says as you walk. “It is unfortunate that the family is predisposed for the day. I have been instructed to show you to your room. Dinner will be brought up later this evening.”

“… Very well,” you reply as he leads you through Palace hallways. You are near to bursting with questions, but there was no sense in asking. Polite deflection, ignorance true or feigned, was all you would easily get, and the butler wouldn’t be worth the risk for anything more than that.

The best thing you could do was simply not cause any issues for him or the staff tasked with attending you. Impeccable behavior was going to be your only saving grace.

The butler brought you to a guest room. It was sizable, and like everything else so far it seemed to be right on the line of acceptable. Clean, and well-kept, but sparse and outdated. Not that either point bothered you personally, but among nobility such would be nothing short of an insult.

“If you need anything beyond the room, my lady, please feel free to inform one of the guards.” The butler explained, holding a hand toward the door where both of the knights had positioned themselves after bringing your items into the room. “The maids will be available to assist you for whatever you need within the room.”

“Thank you, Chabo.” You state, turning toward him with a soft smile. “I would not want to impose upon the royal family, so I shall wait patiently until I am called upon.”

You see his face crack a little, the stoic expression nearly giving way to something like surprise before he bows. “Your understanding is appreciated.”

Once the butler left, the maids offered to help you get cleaned up and changed. You had bathed in the inn yesterday, but there was a big difference between that and what the maids would provide, so you accepted the offer.

The hot bath was useful in helping to keep your nerves calmed, and it was easier to get dressed with assistance than on your own. After they were done it was nearly dinner time. You were provided a warm meal and some tea, and after that you requested a book or two to read for the remainder of your evening.

You dismissed your maids, assuring them that you could get prepared for bed on your own, but you would appreciate their assistance in getting ready the next day. It wouldn’t do to be summoned by the King or someone else in the family only to be struggling with your petticoats.

All you could do for now was breathe. You weren’t sure what was going on, but any slight, any complaint, any negative expression from you was going to be exploited. Of that you were certain.

You hadn’t needed to walk on eggshells back home, but you had ample practice in doing so. It had been a personal choice and a conscious effort on your part, which took some of the sting out of it now.

“Yer precious lil’ Prince can’t even-.”

You sigh. Now you really wish you knew what it was that the Crown Prince couldn’t do. It would be best right now to simply assume he couldn’t do anything, and wait until each capacity of his was verified or denied before you said anything regarding it.

No assuming he could sire children, no assuming he could fight with a sword, or had any academic capacity. Considering it was commoners talking about it, it was probably something far more difficult to keep secret.

Chewing on the possibilities and frustrated at your capacity to logically narrow them down, you got ready for bed and did your best to rest. Being sleep-deprived could lead to irritability, and you couldn’t afford to be anything but at your best tomorrow.

[fromchaostocosmos]

I found this article on Vox it is from April 2024. It is called The untold story of Arab Jews — and their solidarity with Palestinians

Because vox only has a limited amount of free articles I'm going to paste the whole article under the read more.

I am really interested in what Mizrahi Jews have to say on this article, what your opinions are, and your thoughts if you feel like sharing them.

I do have thoughts and opinions on the article, but because I'm Ashkenazi myself I don't feel comfortable commenting on this article. I feel like maybe it is not my place.

So again if any Mizrahim want to share their thoughts, feeling, and/or opinions on this article please feel welcome to do so.

“This is a struggle between the children of light and the children of darkness, between humanity and the law of the jungle,” Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu said in a speech last October, days into the Israel-Hamas war.

Netanyahu has voiced that idea repeatedly, both before and after the Hamas attack on October 7 — the idea that Israel is a bastion of Western civilization in an uncivilized, backward, and barbarous region.

His mention of “the jungle” recalls a popular Israeli expression, attributed to former Prime Minister Ehud Barak three decades ago, that Israel is “a villa in the jungle.” The jungle, in this case, is the Arab world, and the Palestinians in it are the “beasts” par excellence.

But the idea goes back even further, to the early Zionist thinkers. Theodor Herzl, the Austro-Hungarian father of modern Zionism, wanted to establish a state where Jews could be safe from the violent antisemitism they’d long faced in Europe. He painted a vision of a Jewish state in Palestine that would grant civil rights to the Arabs who remained there (in his diary, he toyed with the idea of transferring some outside the borders). He argued that by bringing Western civilization to the region, Jews would be benefiting the local Arabs economically and culturally — and that the Jewish state would “constitute part of the wall of defense against Asia; we would serve as an outpost of civilization against barbarism.”

This “outpost of civilization” ideology is key to understanding how Israel justified Palestinian dispossession to Israelis and to the world as Jews seeking refuge from persecution settled in Palestine in the 19th and 20th centuries. When Israel was founded in 1948, more than 700,000 Palestinians were expelled or forced to flee their homes in what is now the Jewish state.

But from the early days of the state, there was a group that didn’t buy the justification: Jews with roots in the Arab and Muslim world.

Called Mizrahim in Israel, these Jews today make up the largest ethnic group in the country. They mostly immigrated to Israel after 1948, and for much of the country’s history, they’ve been victims of the same kind of anti-Arab ideology that is wielded against the Palestinians.

For centuries, Mizrahi Jews had enjoyed high status in their countries of origin in the Middle East and North Africa, which ranged from Iraq to Egypt to Morocco. But when they landed in Israel, they found that the new state was ruled by European Jews, called Ashkenazim, who overwhelmingly viewed them as primitive and culturally backward.

Mizrahi intellectuals at the time were quick to link the discrimination against them to the discrimination against Palestinians. Orientalism — Palestinian scholar Edward Said’s term for a European tendency to portray “the East” as exotic, irrational, and uncivilized — was being used to cast both groups as inferior and deny them equal rights. Their struggle was one and the same. And so, starting in the 1950s, Mizrahim and Palestinians formed a solidarity movement, producing everything from joint magazines to joint street protests.

This movement offers a counterpoint to the “villa in the jungle” view of Israel — an alternative vision for how Jews and Palestinians can live together on the land. It also offers a more nuanced way to think about contemporary debates on the meaning of indigeneity, nationhood, and colonialism in Israel-Palestine.

The vision of Mizrahi-Palestinian solidarity seems even more important in light of what has actually happened in more recent decades: Mizrahim drastically moved to the political right, and solidarity with Palestinians became Israel’s road not taken. Understanding that swerve is key to understanding what went wrong in Israel’s history that made it unable to imagine coexistence with an Arab people. And it may be key to building a better future for all.

Who are Mizrahi Jews?

Mizrahi Jews came to Israel from the Middle East, North Africa, and Asia, often from Arab countries. (Although they’re sometimes lumped together with Sephardic Jews, with whom they share some religious customs, the term “Sephardic” technically refers to Jews from Spain and Portugal.) But before emigrating to Israel, they would not have thought of themselves as Mizrahi; that term, meaning “Eastern” or “Oriental” in Hebrew, was coined in 20th-century Israel.

Most would have simply thought of themselves as “Jewish Iraqis,” say, or “Moroccan Jews,” depending on their country of origin. But some described themselves as “al-yahud al-arab,” or “Arab Jews” — and their Muslim neighbors occasionally used that term to describe them, too.

Nowadays, it’s so common to hear about animosity between Jews and Arabs that many people may think the relationship was always a hostile one, and the term “Arab Jew” sounds almost like an oxymoron. But for centuries, Jews were deeply integrated into Arab society, serving as musicians, merchants, and even government ministers. They consumed and produced culture in Arabic. Their philosophy and theology was profoundly influenced by Islamic thought and vice versa. There were Arab Jews as surely as there are Arab Christians.

That said, “Arab Jew” is a contested identity today. Many Jews with roots in the Arab and Muslim world, disillusioned by how that world treated Jews — particularly after Israel’s founding — prefer terms like “Mizrahi.” Still, some scholars refer to them as Arab Jews to emphasize how much they identified with Arab culture before the creation of Israel.

Take my family, for example. My father’s side is from Baghdad, Iraq. A century ago, Jews like us made up one-third of Baghdad’s population. They were prominent in the Iraqi parliament and in the judicial system. They were all the rage in the music scene. In the 1920s, King Faisal I of Iraq affirmed their integral role, declaring, “There is no meaning for words like Jews, Muslims, and Christians within the concept of nationalism. This is simply a country called Iraq and all are Iraqis.”

The story is similar in Morocco, where my mother’s side is from. During World War II, when the French Vichy regime tried to impose Nazi persecution in Morocco, King Mohammed V refused: “There are no Jews in Morocco,” he said. “There are only Moroccans.” There, too, Jews held top positions in government. They cultivated deep friendships with their Muslim neighbors — so deep that, when I visited Morocco and found a 90-year-old man who’d known my family 70 years ago, he got so excited that he shouted my grandfather’s name over and over with glee.

The point is not that Jews were always safe under Arab or Muslim rule — they weren’t. It depended on the time, on the place, and on which empire was in power. For example, Jews experienced persecution in medieval Yemen, and in 1656 they were expelled from Isfahan, Iran.

But if you were a Jew living in the vast and long-lasting Ottoman Empire, you had it relatively good. Muslim rulers viewed Jews as “People of the Book” — fellow monotheists who, though they ranked below Muslims, nevertheless were entitled to respect and protection so long as they paid a special tax.

It was very unlike what was happening in Christian Europe, where Jews were blamed for everything from the death of Jesus to the bubonic plague. On the whole, in the Muslim world, Jews coexisted with their neighbors to a remarkable degree for two millennia.

“It was a comfortable age in comparison to life in Europe,” said Orit Bashkin, a professor of Middle Eastern history at the University of Chicago. Although there were ups and downs, “in general, the Jews in Muslim lands thrived.”

Yet today, the remaining Jewish communities in the Middle East and North Africa are vanishingly small.

Why did Mizrahi Jews leave Arab countries?

While Middle Eastern Jewish communities survived — and often thrived — under Arab or Muslim rule for over 2,000 years, they ultimately could not survive the founding of the state of Israel.

During and after World War II, hundreds of thousands of Jews fleeing genocide in Europe settled in Palestine. By 1947, amid calls for a state that would serve as a safe haven for Jews after the Holocaust, the United Nations partitioned Palestine, which at the time was controlled by the British Empire, into an Arab state and a Jewish state.

But Egypt’s delegate to the UN warned at the time, “The lives of one million Jews in Muslim countries will be jeopardized by the establishment of a Jewish state.” The fear was that in the Arab world, all Jews would be seen as supporters of Zionism, and that Arab countries would turn on Jews within their borders as a result.

Sadly, that’s exactly what happened.

To understand why this was such a seismic moment, we have to remember that this was also a time in world history when the great world empires were being shaken up amid efforts to decolonize. Tectonic shifts were happening in political ideology — including in the Arab world, where the forces of Arab nationalism had been brewing for years.

In the 1930s and 1940s, Arab countries like Iraq and Transjordan had gained independence from European powers, most notably the British. Arab nationalists in these countries pictured the whole Arab world as a single unified nation. It was a pan-Arab vision that stretched to include Palestine — where tensions were rising between Palestinians and Jews as European Jews began immigrating there in greater numbers.

Even before the state of Israel was founded, this put Jews in the Arab world in a confusing position. Would Arab Jews see themselves as part of the Arab nationalist movement? Would other Arabs perceive them that way? The answer varied. Some Jews felt so much a part of Arab culture that they supported Arab nationalism — including in Palestine.

“We are Arabs before we are Jews,” wrote the Iraqi Jewish educator Ezra Haddad in 1936. In 1938, a group of Iraqi Jewish professionals told the press they were “young Arab Jews” who supported an Arab Palestine.

But many of their non-Jewish neighbors perceived the Jews as supporting the British instead of supporting the Arab countries’ efforts to get out from under colonialism. A rift had opened.

Then, the state of Israel was founded, and the rift turned into a gaping chasm. Now Jews in Arab countries were also suspected of supporting the removal of Palestinian Arabs from their land to make way for a Jewish state.

Across the Arab world, Jews became targets of suspicion, viewed as possible spies for Israel. They were sacked from government positions, arrested, and even executed on the accusation of collaborating with Zionist activities. Anti-Jewish riots erupted. Jews’ property was confiscated, their assets frozen. In many cases, conditions became so hostile that they were effectively forced out.

In other cases, Jews left the Arab world because they wanted to. Some felt a deep religious yearning to return to the Holy Land. Besides, Zionist emissaries had been active in these countries since the early 1940s, trying to inspire Jews to immigrate.

In other words, there was both a push and a pull. The net result was an exodus of Middle Eastern and North African Jews to the fledgling state of Israel.

What was life like for Mizrahi Jews in Israel?

Although Zionist envoys had promised Mizrahim they’d find a better life in Israel, in reality, these Jews were in for a massive disappointment.

It started as soon as they got off the planes. First, they were sprayed with the insecticide DDT to “disinfect” and “delouse” them. Then they were sent to live in transit camps known as ma’abarot — tent cities with no electricity, running water, or basic sanitation.

Later, they were moved to poor towns known as development towns, which offered permanent housing but little infrastructure or economic opportunity. Through the 1950s, Israel struggled to build enough housing for the immigrants flooding in from both the Arab world and Europe, but European Jews were given better housing in more desirable cities.

That’s because, in the eyes of the ruling Ashkenazi elite, their fellow European Jews were already civilized, while Mizrahi Jews were primitives — or, as the Mizrahi intellectual Eliyahu Eliachar put it, the “white man’s burden.”

For a painful example of this attitude in action, consider what came to be known as the “Yemenite Children Affair.”

Between 1948 and 1954, somewhere between 1,500 and 5,000 Mizrahi children — mostly Yemenite children — were disappeared from Israeli hospitals, either immediately after birth or when they were taken to see a doctor for some medical problem. The parents were told that the children had died, but no proof was given. Some Mizrahi Jews believed that the babies were given to childless Ashkenazi couples.

In recent years, these claims have been substantiated with the help of DNA testing. The Israeli government minister charged with investigating the affair publicly acknowledged a few years ago that the abductions did take place.

Testimonials show that hospital staff kidnapped the children because of a belief that Mizrahi Jews were unfit parents with too many babies. Giving the kids to Ashkenazi couples would be doing everybody a favor, in their view — including the young state of Israel, which would get a new generation of citizens shorn of the “backward” Mizrahi influence.

It wasn’t just the old European Orientalist ideology that demanded Mizrahi Jews be “civilized” and shed their cultures. It was also a political fact that was distinctly Israeli. In the 1948 war that led to the creation of Israel — which Israelis know as the War of Independence but which Palestinians know as the Nakba, Arabic for “catastrophe” — neighboring Arab countries had attacked Israel. “Arab” became synonymous with “enemy,” and anything that threatened to blur the boundary between Jews and Arabs had to be excised.

In the quest to de-Arabize the Arab Jews, Israel invented “Mizrahi” as a social category. Now these Jews would have no use for unacceptable identifiers like “Arab” or “Lebanese” or “Syrian” — they would all just be Mizrahi. (Persians, Turks, and Indians who were not Arab were also included in the umbrella category of Mizrahim because they were perceived as “Oriental” or “Eastern.”)

The repulsion for all things Arab also meant that Mizrahim had to give up their mother tongue, Arabic, which had previously united them with neighbors in their countries of origin and which Israel now viewed as the language of the enemy. It was a painful rupture perhaps best captured in the words of Moroccan-Israeli author Sara Shilo: “Along came the knife of Hebrew and cut us in two.”

The fascinating, little-known history of Mizrahi-Palestinian solidarity

Mizrahim faced such intense discrimination that some came to see themselves as victims of Zionism and warned remaining family members back home not to emigrate to Israel. In fact, thousands of Jews from North Africa and Asia actually left Israel and returned to their former countries.

In one memorable protest in 1951, Indian Jews announced a hunger strike to the death and made a single demand of Israel: “You brought us here — we want you to send us back.” Israel ended up flying them back to Bombay.

Most Mizrahi Jews, however, stayed put in Israel. They did what immigrants do: They tried to assimilate. If that meant shedding their Arabness to buy social capital, so be it.

But there were resisters, too. Mizrahi intellectuals analyzed Zionist ideology and argued that it grew out of 19th-century European nationalist thinking, where colonialism was seen as noble and Orientalism was de rigueur.

After all, in the early 1900s, Herzl had turned to the British for support in creating a Jewish state because, as he said, “the Zionist idea, which is a colonial idea, must be understood in England easily and quickly” given that England was “the first to recognize the necessity of colonial expansion in the modern world.” Colonialism was portrayed as a way to “civilize” the world. Israel’s first prime minister, David Ben-Gurion, unabashedly said, “We do not want Israelis to become Arabs. We are in duty bound to fight against the spirit of the Levant, which corrupts individuals and societies.”

Given this ideology, it was no surprise that Zionism would cast Arabs as uncivilized brutes — whether they were Jewish or Palestinian. The very same ideology was oppressing both groups, Mizrahi intellectuals realized. And so they formed a solidarity movement.

In 1953, Arabic-speaking intellectuals created a magazine called al-Jadid, which published poetry and fiction written by Mizrahi Jews and Palestinians. The editors said they wanted to shine a light on anti-Mizrahi and anti-Arab discrimination “out of the spirit of [establishing] Arab-Jewish solidarity,” according to Bryan K. Roby’s book The Mizrahi Era of Rebellion.

This solidarity extended into the streets. When Mizrahim and Palestinians joined together in grassroots protests, carrying signs that stated “Bread — Work — Peace” and “For a united and persistent struggle,” the Israeli police responded with heavy force.

Even just talking to each other was risky business. As Roby documents, one officer told a Bedouin Arab who had been speaking to Mizrahim in the southern city of Beersheba, “For you it is permitted to visit the city, but it is not right for you to talk to the population.”

Despite what Roby describes as “the government’s divide-and-conquer efforts to plant the seeds of mutual hatred between Palestinian and Mizrahi citizens,” Mizrahim like the Iraqi-born writer Latif Dori urged the creation of a joint socialist youth movement for Mizrahi and Palestinian teens to cement “a bridge of understanding” between the Jewish and Arab peoples. Dori wrote that “our common struggle” is the only way to create a positive future for “the two brotherly peoples” standing “hand in hand in front of the nationalist waves.”

“The real original sin of the Zionist movement was the fact that, in returning to our Homeland, which is part and parcel of the Orient, we did everything we could to estrange ourselves from the Middle East in which we wanted to live,” Mizrahi intellectual Eliyahu Eliachar said in an interview in 1975. Elsewhere, he wrote, “Ultimately, the [Mizrahi] problem is closely bound up with the Arab problem: for it is only when Israel is able to acknowledge to itself that it is, among other things, an Oriental country, that Israelis will be able to prepare themselves for a constructive encounter with the Arabs.”

Mizrahim in those days also felt an affinity with another oppressed group: African Americans. The Ashkenazim for whom they did menial labor often derogatorily referred to Mizrahim as “shvartse khaye,” or black animals. So they reclaimed their “blackness” and found inspiration in the US civil rights struggle.

So much so that by the 1970s, Mizrahim had formed the Israeli Black Panther movement to fight for social justice. Despite then-Prime Minister Golda Meir famously complaining that “they are not nice people,” the Panthers got the government to shift resources toward Mizrahi communities to fight poverty and inadequate housing, at least for a time. Panther leader Charlie Biton — who named his daughter Angela after political activist Angela Davis — met with members of the Palestinian Liberation Organization to rally together those victimized by Israeli policies.

Colonialism, indigeneity, and nationhood — from a Mizrahi perspective

Yet for many Mizrahim, the goal was not to fight the idea of a Jewish homeland per se but to fight Ashkenazi Zionism, which they saw as intrinsically colonial and racist. They recognized that there’s a difference between migrating and colonizing, and they had no problem with Jews returning to live on their ancestral land so long as they did not dispossess or exploit the Palestinians who already lived there.

This view stood in stark contrast to an early Zionist slogan that described Palestine before Jewish settlement as “a land without a people for a people without a land.”

It’s worth taking a moment to understand what that slogan really means. It’s not that early Zionists literally thought Palestine was an uninhabited desert — when Herzl visited, he saw the local Arabs with his own eyes and called them “the indigenous population.”

In fact, European Jews who settled in the land in the early 1900s romanticized the locals as emblems of native authenticity, to the point that it was trendy for young Zionists to dress in Bedouin shepherd garb and sprinkle their Hebrew with Arabic phrases. As one later wrote, “we were dying to be like them … to talk like them, to walk like them, we imitated them in everything … We regarded them as the model of the native.”

Clearly, there were already people on this land. But in the view of many early Zionists, there wasn’t a people. Herzl called them “a mixed multitude,” a hodgepodge of different populations rather than one coherent ethnic group. According to the 19th-century European logic of nation-state building, only a unified nation could stake a nationalist claim, so the local Arabs’ heterogeneity invalidated any rights to the land that they might have on the basis of their indigeneity.

Ashkenazi Zionists were happy to view Arabs as romantic ideals while they lacked power but would reconstruct them as the “other” when they became too much of a threat by opposing Jewish statehood in Palestine. So it was that Zionists went from cosplaying as Arabs before the founding of Israel to discriminating against them afterwards.

Meanwhile, the Ashkenazi Zionist movement was trying to produce a unified Jewish people in order to stake a nationalist claim. To achieve that, it had to strip Mizrahim of any markers of Arab identity, which challenged the picture of unity. Yet this paradoxically showed that peoplehood was not a fixed essence but a manufactured construct, with pieces that could be removed at will. Indigeneity and nationhood were socially constructed categories, constantly shifting depending on the political needs of the day.

Mizrahi intellectuals refused to lift up Jewishness while denigrating Arabness. Instead of agreeing to a form of Zionism that would build a nation-state with one nation at the top, they pushed for a reformulation that would grant equal rights to all inhabitants of the land. The only route to that kind of a universalist vision would be to give up Herzl’s idea that Jews were there to be “an outpost of civilization against barbarism.”

But by the 1970s, historical events had narrowed the space for imagining a version of Israel that could offer everyone equal rights. In the 1967 Arab-Israeli war, Israel captured the West Bank from Jordan, Gaza and the Sinai Peninsula from Egypt, and the Golan Heights from Syria, massively expanding the territory under its control. Roughly 300,000 Palestinians were displaced from the newly occupied territories, and millions came under Israeli military occupation. Though Israel later gave back Sinai, it maintained varying degrees of power over the other areas.

Can Jewish-Palestinian solidarity be more than a romantic vision today?

You might expect, based on their history, that Mizrahi Jews would be associated with the Israeli left today. Yet that’s not the case: Many Mizrahim are now right-wing. In fact, it’s impossible to understand Israel’s lurch to the right and the rise of the hawkish Likud party without understanding the trajectory of the Mizrahim. So, what happened?

For starters, the experience of being kicked out of Arab countries post-1948 naturally soured many Jews’ feelings toward the Arab world. Plus, from the moment they arrived in Israel, the experience of discrimination taught Mizrahim that gaining social status was contingent on rejecting Arabness.

And what better way to reject it than to become the most nationalist and the most anti-Arab of all?

As Smadar Lavie, a Mizrahi anthropologist and author of Wrapped in the Flag of Israel, put it to me, “If your only choice is to wag your racial purity — you need to prove that you’re a good Jew, which means you’re a nationalist Jew — then that’s what you’ll do.”

But there was another factor at play. For the first three decades of Israel’s existence, it was ruled by the Labor Party, which was rooted in both socialism and Ashkenazi Zionism. In practice, that meant building up leftist institutions like the kibbutz — a kind of utopian agricultural commune that stretches back to Zionism’s early days — even while pushing Palestinians off their land and discriminating against Mizrahim (who were more likely to be hired as cheap laborers on a kibbutz than to gain membership in it).

This was the version of “leftism” that Mizrahim encountered. For many, continuing to support the Labor Party when it represented the Ashkenazi Zionists who oppressed them was an extremely unappealing prospect.

Meanwhile, the Israeli right, which favored an even more hardline approach toward the Palestinians, strategically used the left’s discrimination against Mizrahim to its own advantage. From the 1950s to the 1970s, it invested in courting Mizrahim by promising them concrete benefits and upward mobility.

This culminated in a historic election upset in 1977, when Mizrahim helped unseat the governing Labor Party by voting for the right-wing Likud Party led by Menachem Begin. As Mizrahim formed an attachment to Likud, they adopted some of its political views.

Today, Netanyahu, who opposes the idea of a Palestinian state and has presided over the mushrooming of Israeli settlements that undercut the viability of creating one, leads Likud. Mizrahim — who remain economically disadvantaged compared to Ashkenazim — are a crucial part of his base.

Of course, there are some left-wing Mizrahim. They’ve tried to join forces with the Israeli left, which is today Ashkenazi-dominated. But many told me that they’ve come away alienated, feeling Ashkenazim ignore the issues that matter to them — like poverty and housing inequality, which are the legacy of racial discrimination within Israel.

“I really wanted to be part of the peace movement. But I’m not sure the peace movement wanted me,” said Sapir Sluzker-Amran, one of several Mizrahi activists I spoke to who said they’ve felt marginalized, patronized, or tokenized by the left.

These Mizrahim have periodically tried to reboot the old vision of solidarity with Palestinians by founding their own groups, like the Mizrahi Democratic Rainbow Coalition in the 1990s, Breaking Walls in 2019, and the Mizrahi Civic Collective in 2023.

Netta Amar-Shiff, a Mizrahi human rights lawyer who helps lead that last group, insists that Israelis’ future is bound up with Palestinians’ future, as the prolonged conflict puts both populations in danger. “I know that if Palestinians are not safe, I won’t be safe. It’s either mutually assured destruction or mutually assured salvation,” she said, sounding a lot like the intellectuals of the 1950s.

Yet now, as then, these Mizrahi bridge-building groups are starved for resources. “There is always a minority that keeps the solidarity alive,” Orit Bashkin told me. “But right now, with very minor exceptions, this solidarity is more or less dead.”

Since Mizrahim make up the largest share of Jews in Israel, that bodes poorly for Israel’s prospects for peace. And it’s not just Mizrahim — over the years, the Israeli public as a whole has been moving to the right.

A few years ago, Sluzker-Amran created a public archive that houses materials related to Mizrahi history, from protest flyers to the writings of bygone intellectuals. She wants people to have a true reckoning with the Mizrahi experience. That experience reveals the particular aspects of Ashkenazi Zionist ideology that made Israel unable to imagine coexistence with an Arab people.

Like a three-sided prism that refracts the light anew, looking at Israel through the triangulated history of Palestinians, Ashkenazim, and Mizrahim allows us to see the problem properly illuminated so we can grope our way toward a solution.

“We always wanted to have the chance to build a movement that pursues justice for all communities — the Palestinians would be a big part of that,” Sluzker-Amran said. “But we’ve never had a chance to really do that experiment. I feel like we’re always sitting in the archive.”

She hopes more people come to see the Mizrahi vision of solidarity like she does: as a grand experiment just waiting to be tried.

[zaznayka]

The Reason to Come to Minrathous

Inquisitor Adaar returns to Tevinter in the middle of one of the worst crysis to hit Thedas (this decade). Logically, for a meeting with a possible ally. Emotionally? Well...

Spoilers for DA: The Veilguard up until and including when Rook meets the Inquisitor. Nothing further than that. That whole meeting and revelations about what's happening in the South made me feel emotions that I poured into this little thing.

Read on AO3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/60391144

or under the cut

One always remembers their first time coming to Minrathous. (Unless one grew up here, of course; such early memories may only be preserved as fade echoes if at all.) Inquisitor Adaar first saw Minrathous as oppressively big; the buildings were too tall for how narrow the streets were and created a sense of prison walls closing in. With the amount of slaves, keeping the whole thing running, it wasn’t an inaccurate comparison. But after that first impression, he warmed up to the city. Not enough to love it the way Dorian loved it, but enough to look forward to each visit for more than one reason.

This visit feels different. Yes, there’s a whole layer of anonymity but that is nothing new; each of his previous visits wasn’t publicly announced but the rumours still spread. No rumours could be allowed today. It isn’t even because of Minrathous itself either, despite how agitated it looks after the dragon attack. (Adaar still struggles to comprehend how it was more than ‘the dragon’ so he tries not to focus on that.) The difference is in what he left behind to come here. The world, drowning in the Blight, fighting a desperate war. Dying.

He shouldn’t be here. He should be back, standing on the ramparts of Val Royeaux and making sure the Emperor doesn’t throw his remaining forces into a hopeless counter-attack. He should be protecting the builders at Denerim, who work in impossible conditions to dam the wave of undead from engulfing the last bastion of Ferelden. He should be helping with the evacuation of Kirkwall; Free Marches are technically his homeland but when was the last time he heard from friends he left behind a full decade ago? Did the company still exist? Was anyone still alive?

Yet, selfishly, Adaar immediately agreed to come when Morrigan approached him. He tried to justify it with the importance of meeting the leader of this new force that chased the cause of the disaster that the remains of Inquisition fought to contain in the South. Combining their resources could mean they could provide better help for a smaller number of people. It would mean they could focus on Orlais and Ferelden and Free Marches and not tear themselves apart in response to the horrifying news from Antiva. But all of this isn’t why he agreed to come. Not at all.

Adaar is in Minrathous because that’s where his heart lives. He is here because they have been apart for several months without a hope for a meeting even before the Blight crawled out to the surface. He is here because he almost died of fear when he first heard about the city having been attacked. He is here because Dorian is here.

Adaar has only a fraction of a second to take in the walls of the dark room he steps into through the eluvian because then his eyes fall on the person waiting near it. Magister Dorian Pavus, his back straight, his expression all formal; only a hint of real emotion in his eyes. Adaar doesn’t care for the formalities. He makes two wide steps towards Dorian and picks him up in a bone-crushing hug. Dorian gasps, then laughs, locks his hands behind Inquisitor’s neck, plants a little kiss on his cheek, and whispers into his ear: “Amatus.” This sends a shiver down Adaar’s spine: he hasn't heard it said out loud in months, even if he could hear it in his mind each time he read a letter.

Reluctantly, Adaar puts Dorian down on the ground, lays his hand on his cheek and bends down for a proper kiss. The rest of the world stops existing, just as it did all those years ago, when they met. Despite the Breach, despite the march of Coripheus’s army, despite the civil war, they found comfort in each other. Love in the middle of the world falling apart. It is the same now.

There is a soft chuckle from behind when Morrigan steps through and sees the two of them. Adaar doesn’t feel embarrassed, it’s been many years since he last felt self-conscious about showing affection in public. It was something to avoid in the streets of Minrathous or in the middle of an Orlesian party, but amongst allies? It didn’t matter. And Morrigan didn’t judge, she simply couldn’t help but find it adorable.

“Greetings, Magister. I hope you don’t mind if I refrain from the same pleasantries as Inquisitor.” She steps closer when they finally pull apart.

Flushed but suave as ever, Dorian laughs. “Ha! I appreciate that, Lady Morrigan. Glad to see your charm hasn't withered from the recent developments.”

“It’s good to see you,” Adaar finally finds his voice and melts in Dorian gaze when he looks back at him.

Dorian looks tired, stressed, but tries to hide it. It’s been awhile since he let the sun kiss his skin and fill it with warmth. His hair grew another quarter of an inch, and he wears yet another new dress. There is a new wrinkle in the corner of his left eye. His voice is silky smooth when he answers: “It’s good to see you too, darling.”

“I am going to send a message and see if Rook has already arrived. I will arrange the meeting after the sunset, when there’s less chance you would be spotted walking the docks.” 

Adaar blinks and looks down at Morrigan. He realises she didn’t believe, even for a second, that he came here just for the meeting. She insisted they left Val Royeaux in the morning not because that’s when the meeting was happening, but because she knew it would give him more time.

“Thank you, Morrigan,” Adaar murmurs.

“You know where to find us if something urgent arises,” Dorian adds with a smirk and wraps his fingers around Adaar’s elbow, pulling him away from the eluvian.

“Don’t get seen,” Morrigan shakes her head.

“I know my way around secrecy, you don’t have to worry.”

They don’t talk much as they traverse a labyrinth of dark tunnels and impossibly long corridors. Every city has a web of secret passages under it. The only difference is that the ones they walk now don’t smell of sewage; Dorian would never choose to go down into those without a very good reason. They stop several times for more tight hugs and desperate kisses, unable to contain the happiness of being close once again. Finally, the walls become familiar, and Adaar feels his shoulders start to relax. Home. Dorian’s home. His heart’s home.

As the door to Dorian’s quarters is shut, they smash into each other, finally free of the need to keep up appearances. Nothing needs to be said, all has been said in letters and in the glances they shared on the way here. There is nothing separating them anymore, two pieces of one slotting together to be whole again. In touch, in breath, in heartbeat.

It’s raining outside, a steady rustling noise as background music to the two of them lying in the pile of pillows and crumpled blankets. Every couple of seconds a louder sound can be heard where larger drops fall on a metal dish sat outside on the windowsill; Dorian likes to feed birds. Adaar looks at the grey square of the sky he can see from the bed and runs his fingers through Dorian’s hair, who is pressed to his side. As his body cools down, he finally feels the coldness of the air in the room; they should have lit the fire before getting distracted.

“I’ve been worried about you,” Dorian suddenly says, revealing that he isn’t sleeping.

Adaar snorts, surprised. “That is coming from someone who just survived an attack, and correct me if I understood it wrong, by a pet dragon of an elven god?”

“Ha!” Dorian sits up and his hair streams down his back. “Despite how it hurts me to say, I wasn’t the primary target. With all the panic of evacuating the Magisterium, I didn’t step out onto the streets until the first defence had been already organised. All that was left for me was to clean up some darkspawn and see the dragon fly away from a distance.”

“The ‘clean up some darkspawn’ part is not nothing.” Adaar looks up at him and wonders for the thousandth time what he did in his life to deserve being with this handsome and incredible man.

“So, by your logic, it is understandable why I might be worried about you, seeing how you have to have to fight a horde of darkspawn with an army. Is that really less dangerous than being in proximity of an elven god’s dragon?”

Adaar sits up, his cheeks burning. “I suppose not.” He leans in to plant a kiss on Dorian’s forehead. “I promise I am safe. For now.”

Dorian raises both hands to cup Adaar’s face. He runs his thumbs over his coarse beard. “Are you still throwing yourself in the midst of the battle?”

“No,” Adaar says neutrally, but they both can feel how untrue it sounds. He tries to justify himself: “I don’t march with the main forces but I have to step in when the defences get breached. It’s usually nothing more than ‘cleaning up some darkspawn’. You know that I haven’t been an effective combatant for a long time.”

Dorian’s gaze drops down to Adaar’s left arm, severed below the elbow. He doesn’t wear a prosthesis unless necessary, like during official meetings or high society receptions. Or into battle. 

“We both know you can still manage impressive magic even with just one hand. Even without a staff.”

Adaar sighs. “And this is why I step in instead of staying behind in the relative safety of the command tent. If I knew I couldn’t handle it, I wouldn’t risk the lives of my companions, who would be slowed down by me.”

Eyes still focused on Adaar’s arm, Dorian nods, reluctantly. “Who is watching your back these days? I’ve heard Vivienne was called back to the court?”

“The battle lines are not that far from the Imperial Palace these days…” Adaar smiles apologetically at the glare and the raised eyebrow Dorian gives him. “There are the chevaliers, marshall Proulx has been joining me on the missions for some time now. Sera is always ready to watch my back when I drop by Denerim. Lady and Sir Hendyr fought by my side valiantly until it became clear Kirkwall had no chance. And, of course, Chargers are there when needed. You know how efficient Bull can be.”

“Don’t I,” Dorian chuckles and shakes his head. “His is the only name that feels reassuring to me. But fine.” His sardonic smile gives way to a more serious expression and something fierce starts burning in his eyes. “I will not tell you to cut it off. Same as I trust you not to tell me to leave Tevinter. This is who we are, this is what matters to us. I only ask for you to be careful. I will not forgive you if the next letter I receive is one that informs me of your untimely passing.”

Adaar smiles cheekily and nods. They have been together for over ten years, but they never lived together, not since the Inquisition days. Dorian’s life was here, in Minrathous, fighting for reform during the day and helping the Shadow Dragons at night. Adaar’s duty lay in the south, most of the time next to the Emperor of Orlais. There was no way for them to fall asleep in each other’s embrace every day. Despite this, only once they raised the topic of maybe ending this relationship. Well, Adaar raised it; while still recovering from the events that occurred during the Exalted Council, he felt inadequate, useless, not fit for anything. No longer worthy to be someone who Dorian would traverse the continent for. He got quite a bollocking in response. And fell in love much, much harder than before.

“I am trying my best,” Inquisitor promises. “And I will try a little bit harder.”

“Good.” Dorian kisses him again. 

“Don’t think I won’t be asking you the same questions though,” Adaar smirks after a moment.

With a dramatic sigh, Dorian sits back. “Yes, yes. I do have people watching my back and those ready to provide assistance if need arises. Mae is doing well, thanks for asking. Says it’s a shame there is no time to meet today. She sends her love.”

Adaar blinks. “No time? But it’s still early in the day and the meeting is not until-”

“Absolutely no time.” Dorian insists with an intense glare. “Did you really think coming here for just a few hours would be enough after the months apart we had?”

Of course, it wouldn’t. Even a full day, a full week wouldn’t be enough. And there is no time to argue about it either. Adaar leans in for a kiss, sliding his hand around Dorian’s waist and pulling him close. A few hours isn’t enough but he is going to make the best out of this time.

Responsibly, they arrive at their final destination a bit early. A heavy wooden door is the furthest the tunnel goes in the Dock Town; beyond it lie the dark streets of the docks in the lowest part of Minrathous. The tavern they are meeting at can’t be accessed any other way. Inquisitor comes prepared with an inconspicuous travelling cloak, an Orlesian-style mask to hide his face, and the prosthesis to not attract additional attention. He wishes he could ever reach the same level of anonymity as his companions or as Dorian, who traverses the streets occasionally under the guise of a commoner. Unfortunately, the horns and the stature are not so easy to hide.

They are embracing in the dim light of a foggy lantern on the wall. Dorian rests his head against Adaar’s chest with eyes closed as if listening to his heartbeat. They talked about the recovery effort and the general situation in Mirathous over lunch, they debated the chances of Val Royeaux over afternoon tea, they shared juicy gossip during dinner, and they whispered words of love and longing in between. There is nothing left to say. Or moreso, there is not enough time remaining to start saying anything. Neither of them knows when they will get the next chance to meet. Maybe, the South would drown in the sea of darkspawn; maybe, the North would perish in a Venatori ritualistic sacrifice. Maybe, the world would end tomorrow.

The door creaks open, startling the two of them, and Morrigan slips inside. She is wearing a dark cloak with a wide hood.

“You are here, good.” She says in a low voice. “We should hurry. They will be here any minute now.”

Adaar nods and looks down, trying hard not to let despair show on his face. “Right.”

Dorian is much better at this. He smiles and steps back, one hand still on Inquisitor’s chest. “Send a message before leaving Minrathous, will you?” he asks casually, and nobody can tell how much he is hurting inside. Nobody, except for Adaar. “I have already memorised all your letters by heart, I would love something new to reread before sleep.”

“Of course,” Adaar chuckles and wonders if it sounds more like a sob. “Take care.”

“Always. Good luck, amatus.”

One last kiss. A moment that they want to freeze in time and last for an eternity. Two seconds of warmth before the future of cold nights and busy days.

They step apart. Inquisitor pulls down his mask, closes the sides of his cloak, and steps after Morrigan into the rainy night outside. Thedas needs him.

Dorian paces the corner near the fireplace in the Shadow Dragons' secret headquarters. He is here much later than he ever stays, even Mae has already left. But he can’t stomach the thought of returning to his room where everything would remind him of the prior day and how he can’t have it back.

He catches a glimpse of Neve Gallus and Rook on the way to their own secret eluvian. The meeting is over; he doesn’t ask them about how it went, there is no need to draw attention to his connection to Inquisitor. He continues pacing, calculating the time it would take them to get from the Dock Town to Morrigan’s eluvian and then the time for a message to reach up here. Surely, it is enough now. Or now. Maybe now. Now?

A young woman in ragged clothes steps into the room and whispers something to an elf at the door, who turns and points at Dorian. He straightens and tries to look casual, unbothered. Years and years of practice allow him to quell the sudden tremble in his knees. The woman walks to him and hands him a folded piece of paper, quivering in her grip. A freed slave, she must be. Habits like these take a long time to die.

“A letter for you, Milord,” she murmurs.

“Thank you very much,” Dorian replies in as gentle a voice as he can master without sounding condescending. He still doesn’t know what the right approach is when talking to the freed slaves. He thinks that it’s best for him and them to interact as little as possible.

The moment he takes the paper, she rushes away not looking back even once. But Dorian doesn’t care about it anymore. He steps closer to the fire and reads the letter.

“Beloved,

I am leaving Minrathous with a gaping hole in my heart. As usual. But I don’t regret today. Or the years leading to today. I come here to feel whole and it is an incredible feeling, one I would not exchange for anything. Thank you for your love, thank you for the care, thank you for being you. Thank you for giving me strength to carry on.

I promise to write more once I am back in Val Royeaux and check on the situation. I will be more careful, as promised.

Forever yours,

A.

P.S.: Please, keep an eye on Rook for me. They are in way over their head, but they have their heart in the right place.”

Dorian stares into the fire until the tears in his eyes dry up. The warmth he feels on his skin can’t compare to the heat spreading through his heart under the letter, pressed to his chest.

[dzthenerd490]

File: Undertale

SCP#: AJN

Code Name: The Last Bastion of Monsters

Object Class: Nexus/ Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-AJN is actually so remote that no one would ever be able to find it, furthermore no one even knows it exists to begin with. However, to prevent accidental encounters the entrance needed to be covered up as soon as possible. The area was bought by the Foundation and an old cabin was placed at the only known entrance into SCP-AJN. where retired MTF unit [data expunged] and his family live both peacefully and in guard of SCP-AJN. [data expunged] hopes to make it a family tradition to guard the area.

Description: SCP-AJN is a hidden world located under the [data expunged] mountain of [data expunged] park. Within SCP-AJN are an anomalous Species of Interest that seems to be related to Species of Interest: The Descendants of the Fae but are more monstrous and honestly fragile in nature. The strangest thing is that SCP-AJN-Civilians, as they are called, have the anomalous ability to start a “fight” with either each other or humans. 

These fights involve a direct confrontation with the Human’s heart and causes them to create projectiles that the victim will have to dodge otherwise their heart will be hit. Granted these projectiles or objects are metaphysical and don’t really hurt or can be touched by anyone not in the “fight”. However, the target is the heart of the one the “fight” is targeted against and thus if contact is made with the heart, they will suffer damage and could even die if hit multiple times. However, these attacks are limited in time, power, and overall determination of the SCP-AJN-Civilian. Once their turn is done it’s time for the other opponent to fight, if the opponent is a monster, then it will play out the same but if they are a human or something stronger, then the result will be very different. 

It's unknown how or why but when a human is initiated in a “fight” with an SCP-AJN-Civilian typically a single punch or even just five is more than enough to kill a SCP-AJN-Civilian they are fighting. Once they are killed the SCP-AJN-Civilian will wither to dust, how such creatures can be so powerful yet so fragile is not well understood. There are the occasional SCP-AJN-Civilian that are quite powerful to the point that not only can they manifest the “fight” objects anywhere but withstand almost hundreds of punches or other simple attacks from a human.

What separates these particular instances from others seems to sometimes be strength, determination, species variation, and sometimes even laziness. Entity of Interest: Sans, is one of the most chill and lazy instances yet he appears to be one of the strongest SCP-AJN-Civilians, even stronger than any of the declared king of the SCP-AJN-Civilians. How this is even possible is not well understood. Furthermore, it's been debated if Entity of Interest: San should be considered an SCP-AJN-Civilian due to how different he is from the others. 

SCP-AJN was discovered in 2015 when Foundation researchers were leading an expedition to find a potential Fae hideout from historical archives relating to the Species of Interest. Instead they found SCP-AJN by accident, though it ended up being right on time as a child was extremely close to falling into the hole, MTF units escorting the researchers got the child away and back to their parents. 

Unfortunately, testing was declared impossible as expeditions into SCP-AJN were immediately met with hostility and traps. SCP-AJN-Civilians had a terrible history with humans as in the past the two species were at war, there is no further details or information to confirm any of this. 

Furthermore, it was confirmed from the few skirmishes between MTF units and SCP-AJN-Civilians that not only are they fragile, but their species has dwindled greatly. It's unknown exactly if the Foundation, the small living space, the war, or all of these are the reason for their species being endangered. Due to Foundation contact making things worse for the SCP-AJN-Civilians, the Ethics Committee ordered that all testing and by extension contact be discontinued. Instead, all information obtained within SCP-AJN is to be archived and all entrances to the anomaly are to be sealed forever. It is under heavy debate if SCP-AJN will ever be opened again and if so when and what should be done.

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SCP: Horror Movie Files Hub

[princess-of-the-corner]

And for all of this, I am hated. For being there at the outset, for laying the foundations that others would willingly build on. I think they wish to find something in this story that explains things - some moment of decision, some choice that could later be regretted or accounted for. But it's just as I said - none exists. I have always been on this road, never turning never deviating. A long time ago, aware of my limitations, I formulated an expression to capture my condition: blessed is the mind too small to doubt. I am very attached to this maxim, and propagate it wherever I can. I hope it will be taken up with enthusiasm once our task is completed and the False Emperor is expunged from eternity. For now, though, I am content. I am loathed by those I betrayed, and loathed by those I guided into betrayal. I have brought a Warmaster to the Truth, and cracked the galaxy's vaults to speed his armies. I have burned worlds, and been burned by them, and who thanks me for this? This rebellion does not even bear my name - it bears the title of the scorpion I stayed closest to, the most dangerous of the breed who will ever live.

Now I observe my disgrace. I consider the wounds I have suffered, and the pain that will dog me forever. I consider those that inflicted such ignominy upon me, and how they started their stories so nobly and will end them in the gutter. They hate me not because of what I am, but because of what they were. They hate me because they turned, and I did not. The records of our enemies call us all turncoats, but I changed no allegiance. I was always here just as I am now, aware of myself and the universe that made me. I lied with every breath I ever took, except to myself. That is purity, of a kind, and something that no other soul in this grand armada of renegades can boast. I look on Terra now from my void-cold vantage and see its huddled lights glimmer in the fragile dark. Soon the order to attack will come and the final act will be entered. The monsters I created will burst from their fetters, giving no thought to what long labours brought them here.Horus mutilated me, my own primarch discarded me. That could be a cause for self-doubt, here on the edge of Terra's fall. That could make a lesser soul slink away, gnawing on his failure even as humanity's bastion collapses at last. But that's never been my way. I've been stung before and I always come back for more poison. I'm still the boy in the shadows of Colchis, pulling on the garrote-string and feeling my blood pump.The old games never really ceased, in truth. Only the players changed.Nothing remains to be explained. I can whisper these truths to my own screed-inscribed face, if I wish, that I can now hold up in front of my own eyes as my only audience. The ragged flesh is dry and cracking now, and will fall apart soon, but I keep it, just as I used to keep my mirrors for the same purpose. I took this face from another man, once, to become what I wanted to be. Now it is my reminder, that all despots are fragile, and that the hand of destiny will always be despised. Such is my power, now, I could fashion a new skin in moments. I choose not to. My face still weeps blood under my helm, glistening on flayed muscles. It hurts, and that too is a reminder. I was there at the start. I was there before we even had names for all the things we're doing now. I have no congregation any more, but I will again. The faithful will come back, thirsty for accounts of how this feat was achieved, and I will have stories waiting for them. Such stories. Stories that will make their ears bleed and their hearts burst. So it's not done yet, Erebus. Not yet. Just watch. Just watch.

-----------------------

Monologue of Erebus from Warhammer 40, about himself.

Like, there is reason why "F*ck Erebus" is most repeated phrase in Warhammer 40k

Gonna be honest I was low-key freaked out at first because I didn't realize you were quoting something

But also OOF