#the merchant of river north | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ms0milk · 1 year ago

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𝟏𝟑 | 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐳𝐤𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐠

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"Inside of you, fury has been replaced by something black and entirely unfocused. He twists to glare at what has caught him under the arm. He blinks when he sees it is you."

no cw memories of an overprotective prince and high fever. author is blatantly in love with Kirishima. whole apologies, half apologies, wordless promises, technical treason. learning how to speak softly. covering each other's mouths so the truth can't slip out because I want them to kiss as badly as you do. somewhat suggestive. nonviolent touches in the palatial bedroom of a long-dead prince. part ii: fin 6.7k

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Mina Ashido is sick, not like you finally breathing softly on a bed the size of a merchant village, but with guilt. She flicks a bric-à-brac she found on some grand writing desk and Denki punches her shoulder when her nail taps the metal absentmindedly. Click. Thud.

Their eyes dart to the far side of the room across a row of white windows and stop on the knotted body of their prince, folded like a trench soldier on a chaise half his size. His hair shags over his sleeping face and crossed arms but Mina can still see the veins of his jaw, clenched and dreaming of adrenaline.

One loud sound might be it for them– Bakugou would eulogize sleep schedule before skinning them like fish but it’s four in the afternoon and Mina knows it’s actually because your fever broke this morning and he would detonate if anyone disturbed you.

You can lay there like an angel because you never really fall asleep, right? Sick as a dog and dreaming of work. Sero pokes his head inside for a second to check the firewood cache and steps out again. Kirishima wears a path from the kitchen to your new bedroom with his constant lumber deliveries because he knows you wouldn’t want to see him at your bedside. Dead, conscious, or otherwise. All four of them rot.

You make a spectacle of the prince wherever he’s seen with you and this time you weren’t even awake to witness your destruction. Bakugou, dripping wet for some reason, roared through the halls of Takoba at midnight which wouldn’t have been special save for how tightly he held you and how little you moved. Safe but limp in the crook of his neck.

The castle at midnight is so much more lovely than during the day. There are no accusing Takoban eyes to make your Alderan shoulders itch and there was no loss of dignity in practicing her waltz in an empty ballroom. Mina swayed safe and alone and filled with excitement for the impending party. She anticipated Uraraka and practiced her flirtiest glances to deploy when the soldier inevitably found her, as she did every night, and sent her back upstairs. Mina was just a mage after all, not a lord or lady. Not a royal guard.

Boom! Rattled the ceiling from the floor above and where Mina was expecting a round-faced girl she’d gotten a heart attack. She snapped her candle in a startled fist at the first familiar eruption and darted up two staircases to Kirishima’s quarters with the second and third.

The champion was already half dressed. The heartbeat of the castle woke him up, the sound of hundreds of little bees mobilizing at royal orders.

They joined the flocks of servants and butlers in their night clothes all crowding, choking yawns, and rushing through the hallways, up higher and deeper into those frozen parts of the castle where their prince’s fury vibrated. The place no one dared breathe since the king left eleven years ago.

The North Wing was closed forever and someone had lit a spark at its highest point. Maids to her right, butlers and nurses to his left, Kirishima and Mina became insignificant in the river of nightgowns and candles and slippers and whispers. There is always more staff in Takoba than soldiers. Who could he have possibly picked a fight with at this hour? The farther Takobans hiked, the deeper their bones felt the cold in this place no one should be. Death march.

“Katsuki!” Someone rasped. The champion hoisted Mina onto his shoulders when they could no longer force themselves forward up stairs and through archways. Only little Shuzenji’s great big voice called out clearly for the crowd to hear, “Katsuki– you’ll be arrested, this– this is, I mean, you’re– fuck.”

At the end of the hallway, two red doors hung open, one truly dangling by its top hinges. The prince crouched just inside, squat by the light of a beautiful fireplace and its fine tinder. Chairs and ottomans, a writing desk, curtains and rugs, all delicate and silver and crushed and melting and screaming with moisture in a white Alderan fire.

“She needs fresh air and a fucking fireplace.”

You were melting in his arms too, quietly.

Sweating and indifferent to how carefully he supported the back of your head or with what level of self control it took for him to surrender you into the lap of the exasperated Takoban doctor.

“This is a lot of fuss for a fever, Katsuki.”

“Get useful or die trying.”

Six footmen at the front of the crowd panicked at his words and knelt immediately to collect splinters from shattered furniture. They winced as the crowds continued to push around and above them to get a view of just what the Alderan guest would do with Prince Touya’s long dead bedroom.

He knelt in it. When the fire in its place wheezed, he fed it the dead boy’s gilded furniture and knelt again near you.

He lurched but didn’t strike when you were moved from the floor to the bed and found a seat again. He glared at loud noises from the foot of the bed but sat still as superstitious servants trembled while lighting candles. He rumbled when Princess Fuyumi squeezed herself through the frozen crowd with Uraraka in tow and immediately made an order for fresh bedlinens and firewood because before anything, before she was even a sister she was a saint.

He didn’t do too much more than that. He sat like a threat until dawn while staff and nurses buzzed around to make the North Wing breathe again. He waited for arrest.

He frowned at his Alderan company as they hovered in the doorway and sometimes he let them sit with you when he knew he needed to sleep. He balled his fists as he told them your misunderstanding and nothing else. More than anything he waited for you to wake up.

Prince Bakugou sleeps like a psychopath, you bewilder as you rub your eyes. He’s still pretty, knotted half a million ways to hell on the velvet chaise across the room and seeing him asleep is much more unusual than seeing him surrounded by books like this. There’s a pile at his feet and another at his head and a console table between them for his teacup and a pen.

It’s less scary to think about touching him when he’s sleeping. About rubbing his shoulder with your soft palm and stumbling back to this obnoxiously comfortable bed with his heat at your back– no. About rolling over in this obscenely large bed through morning chill and sunlight to find his magic-worn hands already pulling you against him. Fumbling to tuck every part of you inside his arms half-alseep– slipping under your–

About finally throwing your weapon aside as dust settles, victorious, and rattling his skull with the bloodiest punch you can manage. Breaking your fingers on his golden jaw– about kneeling over his battered body, panting, as he uses the last of his strength to raise his arms, to– no– to trace his fingers over your cheeks– no– and through your hair where you loom above him. About letting him pull you down with the last of his strength to kiss you on the battlefield.

Something outside clatters and crashes and your eyes fly open as you sit up in the room you made in a dream. You rub your eyes, deja vu, and spot your golden prince right where you left him. Scowling, pretty, on a sofa across the room in the afternoon sun. Someone shouts outside and you lurch from an aggressively comfortable bed with the confidence of a person who has just woken up without a question for reality. You are a captain and there’s violence outside the place where your prince is sleeping. No thoughts to your ten-pound beddress or the continental mystery bedroom or the fire that blazes in its white marble fireplace.

“You oaf!” Someone hisses as you pitter-patter pitter-patter and clear the room barefoot to throw open one of two elven doors. That someone is Mina. She is pretty and pink and she stares at you with her mouth open in a hallway cold enough to outline her breath in small puffs of shock.

Takoba is a series of beautiful rooms tied to tall hallways, this one’s no different. Mina is bathed in the warmest sunlight October can offer even in a place like this and she’s hunched and pointing in the middle of scolding Sero who has also frozen to stare at you on his knees halfway through reaching for a log that’s gotten away from him.

“Do you need help?”

Mina reaches for you like the air is too thick to move. You almost call her Lady again before you remember.

“Y/n,” she breathes. Sero is forgotten on the floor because you’re suddenly here in this doorway while the last vestiges of sleep drip off of you, gooey, onto the marble. “Y/n, are you–” she slips your hands into hers when she manages a step forward.

Bakugou and the sea, right? A column of fire in your chest and a trip back home. Was touching him a dream? They’re no lords. I hate you. One lost Alderan earring and two hands holding you. Last time they were golden and trembling.

Mina’s fingers twitch with every word out of her mouth, “I’m so sorry.”

“Mina, don’t–” Sero tries to stop her.

“We’re so sorry, Y/n, so so sorry, please gods we’re–”

“Mina.”

Her body goes rigid but her hands stay soft on yours when she snaps at him, “Like you weren’t in tears two days ago! Don’t pretend to be cool.”

You become aware of your clothes for the first time when you consider their earnest Alderan faces and your tangled hands. Completely unarmed in a quilted dress that drags on the ground. Seashells twinkle when you move.

“Course I’m sorry,” Sero shudders. He rises and your eyes finally adjust well enough to sunlight to catch Kaminari standing statue-still beside a window where it appears you burst onto the scene as he was making to close it, “she’s my captain.”

If you weren’t still processing his lack of lordship you’d order him to his knees for the treason of calling you captain. What purpose does he serve in the castle? A mage like Mina? You cock your head and stuffy nose, and shift to shake away the inconvenient thought that someone’s been calling you captain for weeks with no punishment. Kaminari breathes, “Katsuki told us.”

“We thought you knew– we never meant to–!” And again your attention is on Mina, desperately closer than she’s ever been. Closer than anyone’s dared to hold you gently, “We thought you were playing Y/n, we– I should have said something.”

And of all the things to remember from that night, delirium and immodesty, a humiliating rescue, thoughts that meant to stay inside forever, I hate you, the taste of someone else’s teasweet breath– the one bites the least. They’re not lords.

It’s cold out here, you should invite the lot of them inside to warm up. You should ask them where the fuck you are.

“It’s my mistake Ms. Mina,” you smile pretty like you’ve trained for, “Harmless. Don’t worry.”

Three huge eyes blink out of sync surely because someone thought it was funny to put you in a queen’s night dress and hide your shoes. It’s better they’re not lords to be seeing you in the state.

“We,” Sero starts confidently and trails off with the syllable. Mina’s thinking.

Kaminari speaks beside the window and the three of you turn to his light, “We watched you grow up in that beautiful castle,” he hums. He has spoken with you twice, three times now, and it’s never been particularly affective or affectionate but he’s right that home is beautiful. Aldera is lots of things. You falter in the doorway now that adrenaline has bled from you into Mina’s hands. “You were in my letters class.”

Eight years old and late for Letters in a thunderstorm that swept you to the prince and clobbered you both with peaches. The students gaped when you stepped inside, dripping rainwater and bruised, to take your seat at the head of the class with a weapon still strapped to your back. Kaminari looks as if on the verge of tears which all feels a bit melodramatic for one damp day fifteen-some years ago. “I was afraid of you. Y/n, I’m so sorry.”

“I –” Mina releases your hands so she can stand a bit taller, so you turn, “I believed what people told me, Y/n, I’m sorry. I listened in the kitchens and spellhalls when they told me you never eat or sing, I believed them every time I scurried past your post with an errand and back again where you hadn’t moved a breath for hours.” It’s kind that she’s not touching as she speaks but the cold of the hallway is pinching your stupid bare feet. You never cared enough to pay attention to her either, why should she apologize? You never noticed her out of the tens of children that studied with you, worked around you, served you, fell to you in training.

“When you didn’t recognize us at the start of the trip I thought you were so cool. I thought, no, it was just so cool to be traveling with the only Alderan apprentice– Spear of the Queen– you– I watched you get stronger for years. Sero would come to the potion pantry while Kaminari and I organized and gush about any impossible whathaveyou Jeanist’s Second pulled off in the gallery that day. Any Alderan could recognize you from footsteps, you’re– I– I’m not doing a good job.”

“She’s sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” she confirms and hovers between your bodies like she’s warming her hands with your fire. “You’re a hero. I’m just a training mage the prince can’t get rid of and you’ve saved the skin off our skulls more times than there are calendars. Y/n,” you look between Mina who presses no closer and the boys behind her, “I’m a coward, I want to know everything about you.”

You are ridiculous, dressed up in a doorway at noon with no idea how you got there and a hunger that teeters on allconsuming. You are a soldier. You are Jeanist’s soldier, you are his prodigy you should have shoes–

Something startles your Alderan company, shoulders jumping, and Sero drops to a knee when he registers the dark cloud gathering behind his commanding officer wilting in a nightgown by the sea.

“Wers, there he goes.”

“I am bound by blood and at your service, my captain! My behavior is unacceptable while you have been serving alone in Takoba.”

A soldier then. Mina turns from her friend on the floor to gauge your new reactions while Kaminari presses two footsteps closer. That night comes back in pieces. You reach for your ear and pinch one lobe in icy fingers while the Alderans look on. What part of the dream is this? First Bakugou, his warmth and anger now these three? What will this one melt into? More fevered confessions? Send them away.

You feel the bark in your throat and wait to see which one of them will scurry from you first. Have they heard your soldier’s voice before?

Go on. No one moves because you can’t actually make the sound. Sero doesn’t raise his head. They are mages and you outrank them. Be gone. “Just–” what finally comes out isn’t the voice of a soldier at all, “please.”

“I’ll help you to bed,” Mina tentatively leans forward as you lean exactly back.

“not necessary.”

“Y/n, you’ve been out for three days,” Kaminari closes in too, “We’ll throw some logs on your fire and get out of your hair, but first can we make sure you’re okay? Call the doctor and get you some food?”

You can only lean so far before you need to take a step, and then only so far after that before your back hits the door that has shut behind you. You haven’t been sick because you don’t get sick. You’ve been dreaming, too much, which is worse.

A series of hollow crashes startle the Alderans again half out of their coats but you haven’t been caught by surprise in seven years.

“Y/n,” Kirishima hardly whispers, barely breathes where he’s appeared a little ways down the hall, dropping stacks of lumber from his arms onto the marble. He didn’t grow up in the castle. He showed up a few years ago stuck to the hem of Bakugou’s cape like tree sap and he’s always made every effort to smile. A smile from a stranger doesn’t mean much.

“Y/n,” he whispers again and staggers forward like he’s tried to catch himself from tripping, “you’re–” at first he is relief and then you remember, in a moment of lucidity, that you’re upset with him. “You’re awake.”

His limp hair flounders red in your direction. What right does he have to look so disheveled? Dark circles and a creased forehead, for what? His palms and sleeves are flecked with splinters and filth that he tries to brush off as he steps over firewood– tree trunks really– that now litter the hallway.

Fury gives you the strength to step forward, “You–”

“You,” the distance is closed. Alderans have stopped pressing into you and watch their companion, rosy cheeks, dark stubble, smile lines thrown to the wayside and big, wet eyes, reach, “You scared me.” And on contact he dissolves into a sob.

Kirishima grabs your sleeve first without his usual care and wrenches you deep into his arms. Maybe you’re tired, you don’t strike him as he shakes.

“You, you have to tell someone, Y/n,” you can only hear the words through vibrations in his chest and now the whole hallway smells like sweet Alderan fire. You should be suffocated, furious, you shouldn’t close your eyes. “You can’t just collapse. No one needs to be that strong– it– you– ’m so sorry.”

The champion’s fingers clutch at the back of your neck and shoulders but you’re too shocked to notice until his warmth, his fire and safety, pulls you away by the cheeks. Kirishima cradles your face in two hands that could crush and tries to speak through agony. Drowning teardrops plummet off his black lashes, “it must have been so lonely.”

And what Mina saw as exhaustion, Sero anger, folds the corners of your mouth like paper, lips trembling, and wets both eyes with a blink.

It is something inexplicable like being thirteen on your way home from Peruro. A day of joy, song dance and feats of strength. Fencing competitions. They don’t give toy swords to soldiers and so you slipped inside the quietest part of the celebrating castletown, victorious two years running, bloodied and something more than tired. Crunch. As you approached the basin in the stables for jockeys to rinse mud from their eyes, you lifted your boot just enough to watch the broken green body of a mantis fall apart between the ground and your tread. One thin arm, little just like yours, remained untouched by your footprint and detached entirely from the creature that was just two more arm’s-lengths too slow.

You were startled for the last time in your glance to the mirror. You usually rinsed muck or sweat off your cheeks in the stables and the horses were here, the smell and warmth were here, but today you were splashed in blood. And so much worse than that, tears ran clean streaks through the filth. When you fall to pieces in your beautiful dress beside the sea it is impossible to hide.

“Please can we help you?” Kirishima blubbers through a smile before you nod, and he pulls you back in tight.

It is so strange to be held and uninjured. A hand materializes at the top of your head and more bodies surround you in the dark of Kirishima’s chest. Splinters poke at your cheeks but you press through them. You hold tight to the fabric of his sleeves and wrap a warm finger around the cold fingers that find yours.

It’s condescending and so unnaturally welcomed. You can’t even cry right. The tears fall and your voice breaks uneven because you’ve forgotten how to breathe with a lump in your throat, how long has it been? Steady arms hold you upright as you try to remember. Anything for you, Majesty. Don’t need a babysitter. Who’re you lookin at? Cover yourself. Captain! Y/n! Yes sir. Yes sir. Yes sir.

“I’m.. ‘m so hungry,” you sob in muffled fragments and the champion rumbles with true tearful laughter,

“She’s hungry!”

Mina wraps herself around your back and grips the knit of Kirishima’s tunic to keep all three of you tight together. She’s crying too from the sound of it, and rambling as always through the tears, “Don’t just drop dead in the hallway for Kats to collect! Thought he was gonna torch the castle–” she shakes you all, Kirishima as the lighthouse, “my blood pressure’s never recovering from this week snakes on high I know we deserved it but we haven’t had a moment’s rest with that lunatic playing bedside officer,” she is still gentle when she touches you, when she rubs her cheeks to yours, when she leans herself into the champion’s hold to be that much closer, “I’m a much better nurse, Y/n, promise, I promise wouldn’t–”

“Talkin shit?”

What if someone had found you that day in the stables, instead of clapping you on the back for the day’s bloody victories and ignoring your red rimmed eyes? Bakugou crosses his arms over his golden chest and leans against the doorway framed by fire whipping in the bedroom behind him. It’s subtle, but the heat’s made his ears pink. No one moves.

“A bit..”

Mina stuffs her hand over Kirishima’s wobbling lips before he says anything else to get you all sent to the gallows. You just watch and the prince watches back; over the champion’s soft forearms and part of a filthy cotton coat, and partially through Mina’s hair. Bakugou’s collarbones roll with his breath where they poke out from his soft tunic, same with his stomach. It fills slightly with each heartbeat like he’s still too sleepy to harden himself and his posture.

You’re warm in this October hallway and your heart has been picked open by fruithungry doves. Bleeding down the front of this nice white nightgown, pooling rich at your feet. It’s easier to look at him when you’re crying. You stare through a crack in the hug with stray tears tumbling from your eyes like springs.

I’m not letting you out of my sight.

“Go on then, down mutts.” The prince unfolds and steps forward to pry Mina’s arms apart, “Couldn’t trust you assholes to be quiet if I cut out your tongues.”

His Alderan company thaws slightly at the sarcasm and the hands tying you together unravel at every angle under his orders until you are the only one standing on the stain your bleeding heart made.

Prince Bakugou is not the same as he was when he carried you from the sea. He surveys your heavy beddress and bare feet with a frown but no fireworks and today he’s wearing no jewelry at all. Not a ruby, bone, nor sun in sight. He is still clearly out of place here, golden milk and glowing like coals; two red eyes that love to glare and his lips that called your name as you both choked on ocean foam.

“Hungry?”

You nod and the shake dislodges loose tears.

He grunts and tips his head towards the bedroom door, “Back inside. The rest of you,” and then turns to his company who has stiffly lined up along the wall to try and avoid the punishment their prince laid out very clearly in the event a series of Alderan shenanigans woke you up, “put your pea brains together and track down Uraraka– she’s late. And stop fucking crying.”

The prince would pull rank against a baby. He oozes control and ego and desperation for the self and it is infuriating how much he gets away with and how often he is right. His eyes are pomegranate seeds behind slits that shift constantly towards you in the cold hallway.

“Go on.”

You exchange a glance with your company behind you and each one of them is glowing with life. Mina has cleaned herself up with a smile and Kaminari leans against her, almost behind her, grinning nervously at his hellfire prince. Sero and Kirishima fight back tears and the lot of them hold their breath.

The mages delay their prince’s orders no longer. They file down the hallway. “Welcome back, Y/n!” Mina waves and rolls her eyes at Bakugou’s seething.

“Rest well,” Kirishima smiles and wipes his eyes with his filthy sleeve while collecting the logs he dropped. Kaminari manages a curtsy, which makes you laugh, and they all round the corner with unsubtle exhales.

For all his spitfire, cunning and rage, for all their worry and apology, your Alderan company never objects to leaving you alone with the prince. For all their apologies, for all his harsh words and actions. Is it their trust in you, or their trust in him? Alone and for a moment you stand just two arm’s lengths away from your prince while he looks pointedly down the hallway after their footsteps. His posture is returning. He rakes his hand like a claw through his hair to settle in itch and pauses for one more beat before turning to you. Prince Bakugou saved your life and you told him you hate him.

He cocks his head, “You look like shit.”

“Feel like shit, Highness.”

One fricative cough like laughter slips out of his chest and his eyes widen a bit, as if surprised by himself, before settling back to a scowl. He’s soft today, sleep deprived. You wipe the last of the salt from your eyes.

“Go back inside,” He instructs as he moves forward and corrals you back step by step.

“Where am I?”

Fury has been replaced by something wet inside of him, doused and smoking like a forest fire. He slips past you inside the white bedroom and marches to the camp he set up around his chaise to collect two books and a pen, which he tucks inside one cover before sticking both volumes under his arm. Prince Bakugou saved your life and slept beside you, and you told him you hate him.

You step toward him when he walks past again, this time out into the hallway, just too quickly for you to trap him with a stare. Your stomach cramps with hunger and your throat is dry from crying.

“Just go lay down.”

He does not get farther than one step over the threshold before you reach though, and clutch the hem of his tunic in a clammy hand.

Inside of you, fury has been replaced by something black and entirely unfocused. He twists to glare at what has caught him under the arm. He blinks when he sees it is you.

Prince Bakugou saved your life. He turns now when you dare to touch him, and when he looks at you the smoke inside him pours from his ears. The eye contact is not difficult like a spotlight or the sun, it’s more like a candle in the dark that stains the backs of your eyes for many few minutes. He looks like a dream in your delirium. What you must look like beneath him..

He squeezes his books tight under his bicep and fully squares himself to you, “I didn’t,” he starts. It’s a croak. It’s foreign to speak so softly as he speaks now, so softly you drop your hand from him and lean away. His ears are still red. “I didn’t tell them,” he frowns with thought, “about the sea.”

You stare at him like always and today like a void, and melt a little in front of the candle he is. What else is there to say? You nod and move away. His wax will burn you.

“Don’t–” he huffs. You weren’t surprised for seven years, not through contests or training, not under orders, not truly by the queen at the foot of your bed all those weeks ago, not camping with your new company and holding magic in your palms, not by blue fire. Bakugou clutches your wrist, your hand, when you turn away from him and the static shock makes each hair on your body rise. He squeezes your fingers through the goosebumps.

“Don’t ever–”

“Yes sir.”

“– not ever again.”

“Yes–”

“Y/n.”

You look forward unblinking while your prince reels you in like a fish, rolling your fingertips in his palm. You can’t even manage a frown when you face him, all that bubbles up is bitten lips.

You get one more chance to look at him, and when you do he doesn't bark or spit. Earnest red eyes watch under a frown.

“Just a prayer gone wrong, Highness. I promise.” You can’t feel the faint smile. You do not know what makes his eyes widen or scowl fall.

Someone clears their throat in the doorway behind him and the pair of you jump. Bakugou is quick to catch the books that fall from under his arm and you both rush to wipe your hands at your hips. Uraraka. She leans her weight against the door, “Sleeping beauties,” and smiles at you while your prince jerks away.

“You’re late,” he spits and pushes into the hallway.

“High Lords are waiting.”

“Spare me.”

Uraraka preens less than your Alderans but still ushers you to bed and rings a bell on the wall labeled ‘kitchen.” A log falls in the fireplace. Embers spit onto the marble hearth. The last glimpse of gold you catch is in your prince closing the bedroom door behind him, his hand like a claw again violently tousling his hair. You are a liar, you lie and tell lies, and you do not hate him at all.

Embarrassment is replaced with shame when you learn the princess has filled your new dressers with her old winter nightclothes. And when Uraraka tells you about her brother, the late prince, and his palatial bedroom locked away from the world with his mother’s sorrow.

You will find the princess tomorrow and press your head to the floor at her feet, you will kneel to the queen in thanks for her generosity, but tonight you will find your prince.

It won’t take long. Uraraka told you where his meeting was while she braided your hair and only half-heartedly instructed you to stay in bed when you asked for privacy. There is no lame guard stationed outside of this room, a room so high in the castle the fireplace can suck oxygen straight from the night sky above you. Warm like home. It’s easy to keep a fire that excited alive so you tent logs over the embers to feed it while you’re gone. Your white arming doublet blocks the cold– dragontooth brooch glowing– when you step into the hallway lit by torchlight, a gift and invitation from Master Aizawa.

The hallway is thawing slowly from it’s edges to its center and seems to be lined with every flammable item one could think of; candlesticks, torches, candelabrum, chandeliers– if a flame escaped from your fireplace the castle would burn from this hallway to it’s cornerstones like a match.

You smile watching the fire dance in place as you walk past them and into darker parts of the castle. Down staircases and through white hallways lined with their seed-sized carvings. Your temples ache with the change in temperature.

“Office of the King?” You ask a passing footman and they make a point to avoid eye contact before murmuring directions and shuffling away. Deeper you descend and even with rest and warm food in your belly your lungs start to work with great effort. “Office of the King?” You catch a housekeeper this time who is less timid but still keeps his head down like you are noble.

“Straight ahead,” he points and when he bows slightly to leave you no longer register his presence, because a fluffy golden head slips back inside a door in the hallway. You step down the last stair in front of you and into the corridor. Your boots would creak on wooden floors at home but along the marble you are silent.

There aren’t half enough torches down here to adequately light the way or warm the castle from the chill of its many windows. The door your prince tucked back inside of glows when you approach it. This is when you would steady your hand on your weapon, or shift your shoulder blades to feel the weight of your master’s halberd.

Office of the King. You trace the silver details with eyes and fingers because it is beautiful and you have finally found all the places your prince could possibly hide. With your relief you should have considered how to hide from him. The door flies open with too little forewarning for you to dodge and stops just short of knocking you across an already throbbing temple. Bakugou emerges in an air of tempest.

“Knew it,” he crackles like you are exactly who he was looking for and is wholly aggravated by it, “you’re fucking fired, get back in bed.”

He is wearing fine silks from Aldera and their golden fixtures and tassels stop your heart. His hair is soft tonight. It is pushed back with a jeweled comb so that pointed fringes fall barely over his eyes while medals and brooches pin silk in a bunch at the shoulder of his gambeson. He looks more like a general ready for war than a guest in a seashell castle.

The prince simmers, “We’re planning the ball not a coup, I don’t need a sentinel.” And squints when you don’t budge, eyes unfocused. He tuts his head in the direction you came, “Rest. Now.”

“Yes Majesty– Highness,” you snap and reach for a pair of passing maids who squeak when they can’t get past the Alderans fast enough to hide, “one of you, fetch me a chair.”

“Belay that,” he growls and they squeak again, “you’re a fucking handful.”

Bakugou pauses on you for three seconds and rolls his eyes before turning back inside to address someone, “Please continue without me,” with a voice you’ve never heard before.

When your prince walks you back to your bedroom he steers you from just slightly behind and at the exact angle you would use to escort a prisoner to the Hold. The only signs from him are in the thick of his black trousers beside your own legs or a sleeve ushering you up a staircase. When your breathing becomes obvious he slows pace. If you lean the wrong direction his head dips down close to glare and guide you with a trail of smoke. He’s only this quiet when he’s thinking.

What’s the time? Stars twinkle at the highest points of the castle lined with torches and tall windows.

“Ahead,” Bakugou murmurs and waves you forward with an open palm to the red doors around the bend. Your own corner of Takoba. You don’t remember the night that you were brought here. You don’t remember anything past, ‘I hate you.’

The prince clears his throat to answer your unvoiced question, “Shuzenji arranged it. Told the queen you needed a fireplace.” He walks clear through the logical spot to stop and leave you on your own for the evening, and marches right beside you to the doors. Add the doctor to your tour of thank yous and apologies.

“I told that shit apprentice not to leave you alone. You’re the gods' perfect little flight risk.”

It would be easier to stand close together if you still brimmed with unbridled fury. You drift beside him, too tired for any strong feelings one way or another. He does not hint at eruption. Your prince only grumbles and watches to make sure you step fully inside after pushing down the door’s silver handle.

The wave of hot air inside is a cushion at the end of what should have been a simple journey and instead knocked the four winds out of you. They were telling the truth, you must have been fighting something for days. It could be midnight, it could be dusk, your body cannot tell the time past its fatigue. There’s one more thing you have to do before you can give it what it wants.

“Kirishima’s coming to morning meetings tomorrow. I don’t need you both,” the prince speaks awkwardly loud like the thought came out too fast. He is telling you to rest.

“Yes, sir.”

“Wait for summons.”

He’s asking you to trust him.

“Yes sir.” You are too tired to lace the words with instigation and so Bakugou does not flinch like you like him to do when you call him sir. You turn away from the white warmth, fine cushions and curtains and fireplace, back to His Highness still stood stubbornly under your doorway. His headpiece glistens in the moonlight.

You will be his captain and you are not too good for a borrowed pair of greaves. You do not hate him. He can be the first stop on your tour.

Weary in your own little world and surrounded finally by fire, you steady your hands at your side and bend to take a knee. Forgive my…lots of things. “I’m–”

But Bakugou reacts again faster than you can fall. He jerks forward and catches you by both shoulders with his spark-leathered hands. The the last creature alive that can still startle you, not with his hold or speed, not with his magic, but his eyes. He stares through you in distress behind a pinched and stormy gaze. Spilled wine.

“Do not,” his voice rumbles through his touch. He pulls you up to standing and does not back away. Each hint his shoulders give promises that he will close any gap you try to make and so you do not move. He’s warm, his ears are red. Bakugou reaches between the gold clasps of his tunic and pulls out his fist for you to puzzle over in the few seconds it takes him, first to breathe, and then to open his hand.

One tiny sun, no bigger than an apple seed and polished to its core, twinkles like a spark on his palm.

He makes fine magic for you, he always has and you’ve never known it. He breathes again, “I. I’m..”

And you don’t mean to startle him, touch or stop him, but you do all three in rapid succession. Your hand jumps to his mouth because you don’t know how else to stop the birth of a star. You’re not ready for an apology.

His eyes mirror yours in their paralysis, his cloudy, yours panicked. His lips are damp. They part against your skin for a moment as he breathes once more deeply. As he closes his eyes– breathes you in. As you contend with the pulse of his tongue one last shock away from tasting the salt between your fingers. He is soft here. Here and when he wraps his own hand around your knuckles to disarm you. He does not let go when he lowers your hand, he does not let go after tucking the sun into your palm and closing your fist around it. Just for a moment.

Infinity is what exists in the void that replaced your fury and tonight it is full of fruit. Bruising peaches. Falling plums. Sneaking dinner under the Oak to watch his twinkling magic and to hide from crowds. Never questioning why students who told ghost stories about the child soldier never dared to bother you. Ignoring the peculiarity of Jeanist taking only one apprentice.

Inside, your expertly timed fire eats itself up in the silence and collapses to break the trance.

Immediately Bakugou dips away. He pulls back like you were the one holding him in place and leaves you briskly with his heart in your hands. He shakes his head and barks like a startled dog and does not look behind him, “Another time.”

The fire giggles and spits out embers. He hurries down the hallway because something in him died at sea to save you.

As you jump and skitter inside to the smell of smoldering rugs, your brooch and earring lay side by side where you toss them and leave them and try to sleep despite them, safe on the green velvet chaise.

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tagged angels ✧.* @nnubee @nonomesupposedto @kotarousproperty @strawberry-mentos69 @sveetnn @lunrai @km7474 @cathwritestragediesnotsins @idimmadontgiveashit @kooromin @k1tk4tkatsuki @litiri @kiwibao @sarcasticlittlebook @condy-wants-a-cookie @mysticalfridge @falling4fandoms @katanaski @romiinlove @cherripunch26 @acid-rain27 @bakugouswh0r3 @zukowantshishonourback @ultracrii @chandiewashere @screechingdreameater @mecuryxmoonstone @onlysarcasm @ilovemushroomss @when-you-are-just-done @levisbae2 @flyhighinthesky @1astr0id1 @thebluespacecow @mizzfizz @butterscotch-ripple-icecream @phoenix-draws77 @ltadoriyuujl @keli-pie @dreamingoftomorrow @optimisticprime3 @misscaller06 @the-omnipotent-phlowr @definitely-notalissa

#i am so excited to enter into part iii- the last part!- with you all :')#theres only one more turn this relationship can take #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au #fantasy bakugou #fantasy bakugo #thank you for being a part of this adventure with me #a hymn to black water #bnha x reader #mha x reader

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whencyclopedia · 1 month ago

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Mutapa (aka Matapa, Mwenemutapa, and Monomotapa) was a southern African kingdom located in the north of modern Zimbabwe along the Zambezi River which flourished between the mid-15th and mid-17th century CE. Although sometimes described as an empire, there is little evidence that the Shona people of Mutapa ever established such control over the region. Prospering thanks to its local resources of gold and ivory, the kingdom traded with Muslim merchants on the coast of East Africa and then the Portuguese during the 16th century CE. The kingdom went into decline when it was weakened by civil wars, and the Portuguese conquered its territory around 1633 CE.

#HistoryFacts #History #Mutapa #Mapungubwe #GreatZimbabwe #WHE

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elbiotipo · 8 months ago

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I am watching a video with criticism of geographical determinism in worldbuilding and realized that I don't really remember seeing any fictional stereotypic merchant state that relies on rivers.

Norse and Rus were whom I had in mind, but to my knowledge British and Japanese people also heavily utilized rivers for trade and I would be very surprised if Ancient Chinese people didn't.

I don't know about history of First Nations of North America and did they have trade in our understanding, but I heard that river system of North America is so convenient that the entire 19th century demand for transportation could have been covered by it alone, without trains.

Just some ideas

Freshwater systems are woefully underused in worldbuilding. The other day I was reading about the history of my region and I was amazed at how big and sophisticated native canoes were in the Paraná, the Paraguay and the Amazonas, and how virtually nobody talks about it. We are talking about ships that could hold about 30 people and some were bigger than Columbus caravels. For centuries into the colonial era, the Spanish and Portuguese hired or pressed into service native navigators for the rivers which were though to navigate as a sea. Still before that, they were the major arteries of commerce and trade through the continent, this is well known. Even Patagonian goods are reported in Corrientes (North of Argentina) which indicates that trade there got very far. As for the Chinese, not only rivers were important to the but also they boasted an amazing canal system but that's about all I know.

One thing I learned recently about rivers and cities is that cities were often founded on the side of rivers, yes, but almost never at their mouth. Look for example at Paris, Rome, London, the Egyptian capitals. They were founded by the river, but the mouth of the river next to the sea is where the delta is, and deltas always change and flood, carrying mud and slit, they aren't good places to build at all. Good river cities are built in the 'deep side' of the river where you can build ports, not in the side where sediment accumulates. Another issue with river cities are marshlands. For example, I remember reading that the marshlands of ancient Rome were drained at great cost. Ancient peoples knew that marshes were 'unsanitary' even if they didn't know why (it's because they host mosquitos and parasites, not because of anything bad wetlands have on itself) and they had to deal with them. There are some exceptions to this, like Venice which was basically built on a marshland (or the Netherlands).

And indeed rivers were (and still are! I see ships going up and down the Paraná every weekend!) a very efficient way of transportation. There's lots about it written in Europe, but river barges were basically the railroads of their time. Before the advent of railroads, people in Europe (and China) weren't thinking roads, but canals, the French built a lot of canals at great expense which became obsolete later by railroad.

Unfortunately the sources about river canoes and transportation in America (continent) are often tucked away in papers and history books, there really isn't that much accessible literature and illustrations about it. Which is a goddamn shame because learning about native canoes bigger than Spanish caravels (and they were still building them in Paraguay and Argentina during colonial times, according to my sources) blew my mind.

#worldbuilding #history #rivers

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ltwilliammowett · 10 months ago

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The Legend of the Princess Augusta or the Palatine Ship

The legend goes back to the historic shipwreck of the Princess Augusta at Block Island in 1738. The ship is known from several contemporary accounts and from statements made by the surviving crew after the sinking, which were discovered in 1925 and reprinted in 1939. The British merchant ship Augusta sailed from Rotterdam in August 1738 under Captain George Long and a crew of fourteen, carrying 240 immigrants to the English colonies in America. The passengers were German Palatines who came from the Palatinate, which is why the ship was referred to as the "Palatine Ship" in contemporary documents, which explains the later confusion about the name. The ship was on its way to Philadelphia, from where the passengers were possibly travelling to a German-owned settlement on the James River in Virginia.

The Burning Ship, by Albert Bierstadt 1869

The Princess Augusta's voyage was ill-fated: The water supply was contaminated, causing a "fever and flux disease" that killed 200 passengers and half the crew, including Captain Long. First Officer Andrew Brook took command when severe storms forced the ship off course to the north, where the survivors were exposed to extreme weather conditions and dwindling supplies for three months. According to the crew, Brook forced the passengers to pay for the remaining rations. Apparently he tried different routes to Rhode Island and Philadelphia, but the storms drove the damaged and leaking Augusta to Block Island. She ran aground in a snowstorm at Sandy Point at the northernmost end of the island at 2 p.m. on 27 December 1738.

According to reports, Brook rowed to shore with the entire crew and abandoned the passengers on board. The Block Islanders apparently did what they could to help. They convinced Brook to let the passengers disembark the next day, and later retrieved their belongings when he left them on board. They also buried about 20 people who died after the shipwreck; the Block Island Historical Society erected a memorial plaque at the site of the "Palatine Graves" in 1947.

The authorities took statements from the crew, but what happened afterwards is unclear. Apparently the crew was not charged for their actions, and they and most of the surviving passengers made it to the mainland, from where little is known about them. Two survivors remained on Block Island and settled there. Most reports indicate that the ship was deemed unsalvageable and was forced out to sea to sink. It may have been set on fire to sink it. According to some reports, a woman, sometimes referred to as Mary Van Der Line, was driven mad by her suffering; she was forgotten and sank with the ship, according to these reports. However, no remains of the wreck have ever been found, and there are indications that the Augusta may have been repaired and sent on to Philadelphia.

There is a rich oral tradition of this event, and numerous sightings were reported in the late 18th and 19th centuries. The legend was immortalised by the poet John Greenleaf Whittier in "The Palatine", which faithfully reproduces the traditional story in verse. Which gave the Legend it's name. On Saturdays between Christmas and New Year's Eve, locals still sporadically report seeing a burning ship pass by. Folklorist Michael Bell, investigating the legend, found that almost a year after the incident, two versions of the night's events were circulated.

The Palatine Graves

The Block Islanders insisted that their citizens had made a valiant attempt to rescue the crew, while the New England mainlanders suspected the islanders of having lured the ship to them in order to seize their cargo. Both legends agreed that a female passenger had refused to abandon ship when it sank, and those who claim to have witnessed her reappearance say that her screams were heard from the ship.

Today, a plaque at the Mohegan Bluffs where the ship is said to have run aground reads: Palatine Graves - 1738. Some claim that those who died that night are buried underground. However, Charlotte Taylor of the Rhode Island Historical Preservation and Heritage Commission has stated that no physical evidence has ever been found to support either this claim or the legend itself.

#naval history #naval mythology #princess augusta #palatine light #ghost ship #18th century #19th century #20th century #age of sail #age of steam

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thenuclearmallard · 5 months ago

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"Native smile from a Khanty girl,

Khanty Mansia, Northwest Siberia

The Khants are indigenous to north-west Siberia in the Khanty-Mansi and Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Districts that are located in the Tyumen region of the Russian Federation.

They are calling themselves Khanti, Khande, Kantek (Khanty) which is derived from the combination "Khondy-Kho" (in the Khant language "man from the river Konda") and it has also been explained as meaning "Khan (King) people" and connected with the name of the ancient Huns.

(Milittary expeditions by the Russians took place in the 16th century, so they also started to strengthen their power over the Khants' lands.

The Khant elders managed to retain their position and began to collect tribute from their subordinates. Gradual Christianization continued. The Khants have officially been regarded as 'Christians' since the year 1715 after the extensive baptisms of monk Fyodor. Nevertheless, the ancient spiritual belief of their forfathers ('shamanism') have persisted, even to this day.

The Khants were also economically subjugated. With the help of liquor the Khants were commercially exploited by Russian traders eager for cheap furs. The predatory policy of Russian merchants and officials was so efficient that by the end of the 19th century the Khants, harassed by economic difficulties, were broken and close to ruin. The colonizers had seized their best lands as well as their incomes, and had brought along dangerous diseases and destructive habits (liquor being the biggest curse). It was commonly thought that the Khants would survive for no more than a couple of decades...

The arrival of Soviet power was accompanied by great promises and expectations for the Khants and other northern peoples. In 1925 a Northern Committee was founded with the intention of leading the Khants, Mansis and Nenets along the road of progress. In 1930 the Ostyak-Vogul National District (renamed in 1940 the Khanty-Mansi National District) was formed. This new life was no less disturbing to the Khants, causing only fear and bewilderment. The establishment of collective farms followed accompanied by severe repressions. By attacking the traditions of the people the new ideology of communism incited the persecution of shamans and the destruction of sacred groves and burial grounds. Khant children were forcibly removed to boarding schools. The largest outburst of resistance, led by the elders, became known as the Kazym rebellion. The opposition was ferociously suppressed by the Soviet-Russian army;

Khant villages were burnt and much of that connected with the culture of the Khants was destroyed altogether. Cultural centres and 'red tents' were built to propagate the Soviet way of life and its accompanying customs. From then on, anyone who took part in the customary bear funeral rites could be subject to ten years' imprisonment. Bear hunting was also forbidden. (The Bear Celebration is being celebrated occasionally after a successful hunting of a bear. The bear celebration continues 5 or 6 days. Over 300 songs and performances occur during a Bear Celebration)

In the 1950s and 60s the Soviet-Russians discovered vast gas and oil reserves in western Siberia. The Khants, hardly recovered from the blows of communism, now found themselves at the mercy of technocrats. The piratic economy has been ruthless and greedy. Oil has polluted pastures and waters once filled with fish, the gas and oil lines have blocked the paths of the reindeer, wildfires have destroyed forests.

Still, every year 20,000--25,000 tons of oil pollutes the soil, spilled in technical failures (at least one accident every three days). 50 % of the natural gas is simply consumed in senseless burning brands. Industrial pollution reduces the fishing grounds by about 10,000 hectares every year. In the district of Nizhnevartovsk alone a fire destroyed 260,000 hectares of forest in 1989. At the same time there has been an explosive increase in population (mainly due to urban migration). In 1969, 289,000 inhabitants lived in the Khanty-Mansi Autonomous District, by 1979 the number of inhabitants was already 596,000 and in 1989, 1,268,000 (a growth of one million in 20 years). The frailty of the northern biosphere and its resources has been totally ignored.

The overwhelming pressures of industry and alien ways of life have cast doubt on the further existence of the Khants as a nation. As early as the 19th century, M. A. Castrén and K. F. Karjalainen were recommending that the Khants should be educated in a native spirit and in native surroundings, teaching them to respect their people and customs. In fact, the authorities have "developed and raised" the level of the Khant's economic and cultural life but taking into consideration only the authorities' own needs. This has deprived the Khants of any self-confidence of determination and furthered their decline.

Economic, cultural and linguistic discrimination of the Khants has taken the form of public harassment. They are referred to as dogs, and derisive remarks are made about their dark skin. They are not allowed to work in the mines in case "they break something" or "earn too much". The rapid regression in the living conditions of the Khants is reflected in the decline of industry and in heavy drinking which has an all too common tendency to lead to suicide...)"

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serpentface · 6 months ago

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Do you have anything already set or thought out for sea-travel in the setting? Is it common, kept mostly in coastal regions or are longer voyages on larger vessels also a thing? Bonus question, and I know that it may be difficult inland especially during a drought, but can any of the characters of the white calf story swim (well or poorly)?

Yeah the majority of interconnected world powers rely on sea trade

The core continental mass in this world is about the combined size of Eurasia + Africa (though laid out very differently (sorry for still no map)) but much of its central-eastern interior is divided by a network of seaways formed by the movements of the continents (picture the Mediterranean - Red Sea but More) on which the majority of travel and trade relies. Other tradeways exist in the open ocean, though mostly close to the coasts and mostly routes to and from the entrances to the Inner Seaways.

Most long distance merchant ships will rely exclusively on sailing, without rowers. I don't really have exact sizes for common merchant ships pinned down, but it's not going to surpass the size of anything widely used in the 'ancient world' (certainly smaller than the biggest found in ancient Rome, as there is no single world power here big enough to necessitate that much imported grain to sustain itself).

Broadly speaking, there are VERY few voyages performed out into the open ocean, outside of fishing/'whaling' ventures and journeys to known inhabited islands connected via trade. As far as the vast majority of peoples know, there's nothing of much interest out there- a continent in the far north is known by most seafaring peoples but is rarely interacted with, and another exists on pretty much the opposite side of the globe from everything else and is virtually unknown (has caelin peoples as its sole sophont inhabitants, dispersed by flight).

Few people have reason to travel great distance outside of the context of trade. Long distance immigration is rare (with the exception of caelin peoples, again due to flight), the vast majority of mass movements of people are done on smaller distance scales or via gradual dispersal, the furthest common travel distances still being relatively close along sea routes.

Like as an example: Imperial Wardin's ethnic makeup (in terms of established populations) is: Wardi (themselves a collection of dozens of tribes largely assimilated into a national identity), Wogan, Cholemdinae, Jazait, the Hill Tribes (<<< all these are native to the region for at least a millenia), Burri, Titen, Kos (contemporary immigrants, or descendants of Imperial Burri occupiers, originating from across a narrow sea to the west), Yuroma, Ummo, Yanti (people from the coastal Lowlands just to the southeast along the White Sea), Ulelilwa (a people from the largest island chain in the White Sea, to the southwest) South Finns, Askosh, Ubiyans (some people from around the Viper seaway). There's a great variety of people here, but those that exist in significant established populations stem from around the three seas that directly border the region.

AS FOR SWIMMING:

Tigran isn't a strong swimmer per se but he's good at holding his breath and floating around, he grew up next to a river and would play in it as a kid. Doesn't have many opportunities to swim these days but likes being around water.

Brakul is a pretty strong swimmer, also grew up around rivers and learned to swim at a young age and enjoys it. He fails at a piss-drunk attempt to drown himself at one point because his treading water and floating instincts kick in (though moreso because the water is like 2 ft deep and mostly mud)

Etsushir is a VERY strong swimmer, most Jazait practicing traditional subsistence methods are taught to swim from a very young age, and he spent most of his life as a fisherman and several years specifically as a pearl diver.

Faiza made a conscious choice to learn to swim and sometimes would swim in the sea as a pastime back home. She loves the ocean and is a very strong swimmer, will go out much farther than would be considered safe or recommended.

Palo avoids open bodies of water (with sunlight sparkling on water one of the very few specific seizure triggers he can identify) and is also too skinny to float effectively, probably could not swim.

Hibrides finds bodies of water that you can't see the bottom of gross and creepy and avoids even touching them, much less swimming. Definitely can't.

Janeys hates being wet in anything harsher than a warm bath and would die on contact before he could even get around to death by drowning.

Couya is under the impression that if she ever had to swim she would simply Know How, but definitely wouldn't.

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mesetacadre · 7 months ago

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Hello! This probably isnt the type of anon ask you were looking for but in case it is: Is there anything you would recommend for someone interested in the history of maps and atlases? Especially for navigating the sea

finally an ask about geography! god I love cartography.

Sadly I haven't had the time yet to accumulate bibliography, so far I've read Maps and Civilization, by N. J. Thrower (2002), it's a pretty good summary of the history of Cartography, and it isn't that eurocentric either which is great. I've also heard Cartography by E. Raisz is good. [Open those links with an adblocker please, I recommend ublock origin, because I don't know if they redirect to somewhere else without it]

Probably the earliest maps made for navigation were those of the nautical charts from the current day Marshall Islands. They were created using a grid of sticks alongside curved sticks for the ocean currents/winds and beads for the individual islands. It took a long time for colonizers to figure out exactly how to read these charts since their interpretation was an important secret to keep. These charts covered from just a few islands to thousands of kilometers of ocean and currents

Next, I'll take a big leap in time to the portolan charts. These maps were mainly made for navigation between ports in the Mediterranean between the 14th and 15th century, though they were used in other places sometimes, and they had an influence on the earliest maps depicting the Americas. Portolans are characterized by the windrose lines, which are a series of lines representing directions which all emanate from a compass rose. These maps had multiple compass roses.

The purpose of this type of map was to help mostly merchants to find their bearings and to chart efficient routes between ports, they could trace a line between whichever two ports, find the closest parallel windrose line, and they knew which compass direction they had to follow. These maps assume a flat earth, so they were only suitable for regional travels, like the various trade routes within the Mediterranean, and got less accurate the further you wanted to travel. This also made them unsuitable for the open sea.

This is a portolan made in 1466 by Petrus Roselli. It has this shape because maps made for navegation were drawn on animal hides, not paper, so the neck of the animal was preserved and sometimes used to hang or tie the map down, sometimes the scale was placed there, or another compass rose. Notice how it's decorated, there is a snake/lizard in the north of Africa, the Red Sea is literally red, and it's generally filled with drawings. This is because the portolan charts that have survived are predominantly those that were taken from real charts used in navegation and then decorated to give as gifts. This particular copy was probably gifted to some noble or rich person to hang on their wall, with decorations. Some of these maps that survive even have gold leaf on them.

Also notice how the coast's shape is very spot on, especially compared to maps from only a couple hundred years earlier:

This is Al Idryssi's General World Map, from 1154. It has been flipped N-S for comparison's sake, Arabic maps were generally drawn with south on top, sometimes with the east on top. Don't get me wrong, it's still a very good map for the time, but the coastlines don't hold a candle to any portolan.

Going back to the portolan, the coasts were very accurate because that was their purpose, to navigate from coast to coast. But you'll notice that there's basically no real useful information in the interior. The rivers are mostly guesswork, and the only consistently correct thing is the place where they meet the sea. And that's all I can talk about the interior, because these maps did not have an interior. This was part of the reason they were so heavily decorated when used as gifts, because they only showed windrose lines and port locations. Scotland is missing!.

This style of decoration was carried over from T-O maps, which I won't get into here but they are still a very interesting stage in map history.

There were a couple of very important schools when it comes to portolans: The Italian school(s), the Portuguese school, and the Mallorquine/Catalan school. The portolan I've shown above is from this last school, which also produced the most representative portolan of this time, the Catalan Atlas, by (possibly) Abraham Cresques (a Jewish person too!!) in 1375

It showed the world between the Atlantic and the far east, with a lot of compromises in detail the further east it goes.

This is the portion that shows the Mediterranean, stitched together so it's continuous. Notice the similarities with the 1466 portolan: The red sea, the north african snake (it's actually supposed to be the Atlas mountain range), the loss of detail in the North Atlantic and North Sea, and the very opulent decoration. It has gold leaf which I mentioned earlier, the sea is colored in, it has blocks of text describing either the region or some history, each city has a flag representing the political entity it belonged to, and much more. Also notice how, at the top, the drawings and letters are upside down. This is because this atlas was designed to be placed flat atop a table, so you could look at it from all sides.

Side note, this map contains a portrait of Mansa Musa, the ruler of the Mali Empire in the 14th century, who was probably one of the richest people to have ever lived. The portrait from this map is the one you've probably seen if you've ever learnt about him

It also has this flag for the Golden Horde, which you will definitely know if you've played any map game set in this period

Anyway, back on topic

The first map to properly show the Americas was Juan de la Cosa's, made in 1500. It is important not only for being the first, but it was also made by someone who was present in Columbus' first 2 voyages

(the Americas are in green)

It's very clear how it not only still uses the portolan style of windrose lines, it also carries over those maps' decorations. By now, however, the world that was to be represented was getting too big for portolan maps, which as we've discussed assumed a flat earth, so it began to be ditched for actual projections, like Waldseemüller's from 1507, which used the same concept as Ptolomey's projection from all the way in the 2nd century

Which is when we get to the misunderstood Mercator projection. It was not made to exaggerate the northern hemisphere over the equator. In fact, the land it exaggerates the most was the one inside the arctic circle, where almost nobody lived except for the native peoples to those regions. The fact that the southern hemisphere seems to be disfavored is because there is simply less southern land in that hemisphere, so there is no land to exaggerate where the Mercator projection would exaggerate. In fact, Antarctica (at this time they did not know about Antarctica, and the mass of land was the theorized Terra Australis, a supposed landmass that would balance the bigger amount of land in the northern hemisphere) is very much exaggerated in modern maps. This projection was created for navigation at sea, since any straight line drawn on this projection is also a straight line in the actual globe

Mercator's Mapae Mundi from 1569 still had the portolan windrose lines, a clear nod to the navigational tradition this map was continuing. The fact that this projection became so popular and the "standard" way to represent the earth has shaped most people's perception of the earth, but that's not the projection's fault, it's the people who decide to use an unfit map instead of actually proper projections like Robinson's. A big reason why Mercator's projection is so overused is because it's rectangular, no doubt.

#ask #anon #geo

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sunny-porridge · 9 months ago

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Around a Cooking Pot

The first thing that Link learned after coming out of the Shrine of Resurrection was how alive the world was. Rolling hills and winding rivers greeted him, beating to the beat of his own heart as he adjusted to the blinding light outside the cave.

The second thing he learned was how to roast an apple over an open fire.

Quickly after that, cooking became second nature. He could coax a smile out of a sad friend with a fragrant mix of fish and butter, conspire with his friends in Kakariko Village after offering a couple pieces of honey candy, or boost his strength before a fight with the help of a meaty skewer.

He often got weary travelers to open up and share their stories over the soothing refrain of a simmering hearty soup, quietly delighting in the satisfied sighs of his unsuspecting guests as they tried a warm meal for the first time in days.

He once even made a cake for a Princess, who refused to share a piece even as she sniffled and stubbornly wiped tears from her eyes at the familiar taste of sweet berries mixed in a luscious rich cream in between layers of fluffy white sponge.

It was no surprise then, that when he set off on a journey with eight heroes of courage, he became the group’s official cook at the sight of the simple stew he made on their first evening together, camping on the forest of the Hero of Time’s era. Link often wondered how his brothers had survived their own adventures going on little else than hardtack, milk, and the occassional friendly monster teaching them the recipe for an unexpectedly delicious soup (which was more likely than one would think).

Sure, most of them had some frequent access to towns, merchants, or their own homes, but adventuring meant spending days at a time on their own, fighting hordes of monsters, exploring the most untouched parts of the land and crawling through long forgotten dungeons, and yet his brothers had been rather helpless around a cooking pot except for the most basic of recipes.

Now, the act of cooking was almost as nourishing as the food he prepared. The rancher had told him once, with a grin and a bump of his shoulders, that it looked like he was in a trance. And sure enough, once he really got into it, he felt as if he merely had to toss ingredients into a pot and watch them bounce, becoming meals in an instant as he hummed a little made-up song and lost track of everything around him. Of course, in reality cooking takes a lot more patience and care, and he likes to take the time to make every detail just right.

It had been almost three years since he separated from his brothers and stopped using the name “Wild”. As he sat around the fire making his new favorite recipe - one he hoped he could one day share with the men who had become his brothers - Link once again lost track of his surroundings, this time to the soft hum of a now familiar tune he had learned from the youngest hero on the team.

He sat on a trunk in a nameless island in the North Akkala Sky Archipelago - whoever named the Sky Islands had clearly gotten bored after the masterpiece of Lightcast Island - preparing a pizza, a brand new recipe he created with Koyin after helping her recover the recipe for cheese. The rancher had introduced him to cheese before, and he sometimes missed the soft, pillowy Ordon Goat Cheese, but the more fragrant version they made in Hateno melted perfectly over the disk of soft bread and thick, herby tomato sauce.

He had already tested a few different toppings to place on top of the pizza, trying to find the perfect companion for the savory cheese. Strips of roasted vegetables where a sensible option and offered a fair variety, but Link didn’t get to where he was by playing it safe. Today, he was testing thin slices of cured meat, and although the result was quite satisfying, he found himself wishing he had saved more of the sweet-and-tangy fruit that grew in the warm islands of the sailor’s world. The pineapples would complement nicely with the rich, fatty tones of the meat.

#listen #look at me in the eyes #there is no point to this #just my rambling thoughts #through Wild’s lens #linked universe #lu wild #totk #totk zelda #totk light dragon #pineapple pizza supremacy #fight me #ramblings #cw pineapple pizza

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townsenddecades · 24 days ago

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1328 – Day 4 – Chevalier Home

In the Chevalier home, Elisaria is heavily pregnant with her fifth? sixth? child. She doesn’t even remember how many births she has been through by now. All she hopes is that this one will finally be a thriving son to carry on their family name.

She loves her daughters, she really does, and Robert adores them. But she can’t help feeling like she will fail in her duties as a wife if she does not provide him with an heir. Her only consolation is that they are still young; Robert is not thirty yet, and she is only twenty-four.

She does her best to drown those anxieties, especially whenever she is with her daughters, which is most of the time she doesn’t spend in town. They shouldn’t know how much she wishes for a brother for them, or why. And she is proud of them; Marguerite is a healthy, inquisitive child, and Jehanne is thriving just like her sister.

Soon, the day her younger daughter turns eighteen months old dawns, which they celebrate with a cake baked with the honey Robert’s peasant relatives have brought them. When she blows out the candles for little Jehanne, Elisaria prays to the Watcher with all her heart that the little girl will be as healthy as she is now for many years to come. Even if she never has any surviving sons, she wants to see her daughters grow and have their own lives.

Robert is not yet back from Praaven when they start celebrating this milestone in Jehanne’s life, but steadfast young Hawise is there with Marguerite. Over the months she has worked for her, Elisaria has grown fond of the girl. She isn’t the demurest creature, but kind in her honesty, a hard worker, and very gentle with the girls. And more than that, her presence is a comfort whenever Robert leaves Elisaria and the girls behind to fulfil his duties to the earl. Ever since their youngest son died, he has been careful not to risk her health, especially when she is pregnant. And she is pregnant all the time.

But as much as Elisaria likes her young maid, she suspects that the girl might not stay with them much longer, if the wistful gazes beyond the river she has caught her stealing now and again are anything to go by.

Jehanne, for her part, is fascinated by the sputtering of the flames. But it is probably the cheering that elicits her joyful squeal, her blue eyes – Robert’s eyes – wide and full of life. Elisaria laughs with her, happy to have her in her arms. Even should Hawise leave, she will still have her beautiful daughters.

She is startled by the sound of the door to their courtyard being opened, but when Hawise opens the door to peer outside, she smiles widely. “It’s Sir Robert, m’lady! He’s home early!”

“Indeed I am”, Robert says, stepping inside past Hawise, a grin on his face. They haven’t seen each other in days, but at his sight, Elisaria’s heart still skips a beat. “I heard that there is to be cake?”

Usually, a maid wouldn’t eat with her employers, but it is such a joyous occasion – and the household so small – that Elisaria and Robert invite Hawise to sit down and eat some cake with them. She mostly doesn’t say much and lets her master and mistress do the talking but takes part in the conversation when asked to.

A good part of it is taken up by politics. Up in the north where they live, news often takes a while to make its way to them, but they are better connected than most people in the area, except perhaps tavern owners and merchants. The news is…interesting. England has officially recognized Scotland as an independent kingdom months ago, but both of them doubt that this will lead to lasting peace. Too much blood has been spilled for that. But that is not the only important news.

At the beginning of the year, after the king of France’s death without living sons, King Edward – or rather his mother – actually tried pressing his claim to the French throne. The matter has been resolved by the French crowning a nephew of their late king, but the idea of a joint kingdom of England and France…

“My father says that the French would never agree to that”, Elisaria says, shaking her head. “They are uneasy enough about the fiefs the English kings do have.”

“As they have made clear”, Robert responds with a nod. “Well, hopefully, with a less erratic king, all of that is resolved now.”

Elisaria can only nod, one hand on her stomach. If she has a son, he will certainly be sent away to be a squire somewhere and become a knight in due time, like his father. She knows that knights make their fortune by fighting, but selfishly, she doesn’t want her child to be involved in such bloodshed. It is what any mother would feel, she supposes.

Such is a part of their conversation. But they discuss more domestic matters too. Robert has much to say about the goings-on in Praaven, while she talks about their girls and their household.

There is one other question – concerning Hawise – that has been burning under Elisaria’s skin. “Malcolm Townsend has been here a lot”, she says in attempted – but not very successful – nonchalance. She instantly sees the maid stiffen. “I’d say he wants to use our archery targets, but he has spent much more time talking to you, I noticed.”

She pales. “I promise I didn’t neglect my chores, m’lady.”

“I didn’t think you did.” Honestly, the thought had never even crossed her mind. The children have been well-cared for, the house is tidy and clean and their food has always been punctual. “I was merely curious. You two seem to like each other.”

“We do.” As she suspected, the girl can’t help but smile. Elisaria even catches a dreamy look that she knows only too well from her own courtship. “He has told me a lot about life on a farm in a big family. It’s so different from what I grew up knowing.”

“I hope he doesn’t ask for anything improper from you.” Robert’s interjection is surprisingly gruff. The girl quickly shakes her head.

“I would never do anything that offends the Watcher.”

“Then I’m glad. I doubt my brother would raise his son to behave improperly towards a young woman, especially one in my care, but one can never be careful enough with young men.”

Elisaria clears her throat, throwing a warning look at her husband. It was not her intention to corrupt the young girl by talking to her about matters that she shouldn’t even think about until marriage. And as a knight, the symbol of chivalry, he should know better.

No, what concerns her are matters of the heart. “I am glad you have found a friend”, she tells her maid. “And if you wish, you can tell young Malcolm that he needn’t make up a pretext every time he wishes to visit you. We don’t want to risk his staying away because he runs short of ideas, do we?”

Previous: 1328, Day 3, Part 3/3 <--> Next: 1328, Day 4, Part 2/2

#i'm in love with Elisaria's new look #ultimate decades challenge #the ultimate decades challenge #the sims 3 #ts3 #townsend legacy #udc: chevalier family #udc: gen 1 #1320s

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one-of-many-journeys · 24 days ago

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Day 33 (1/2)

Song's Edge

The Banuk were all heading for a pyre on the edge of the camp, looking out toward the fire and smoke pouring from a distant mountain. I met an Oseram trader called Burgrend, who was willing to explain the situation where other Banuk were sombre and aloof. Outlanders stick together I suppose. He's a trader, like Ohtur, but I suppose he's still determined to make some shards out of his doomed enterprise.

He told me about the Banuk's expedition to Thunder's Drum—the mountain now spitting fire. A Werak (a sort of roaming hunting party, but bonded by tribal law) led by its Cheiftan Aratak and Shaman Ourea took their best hunters into the mountain to fight off a 'Daemon', the being responsible for strengthening the machines in the area. Not demon, then. Either way, a word for some bodiless evil they don't understand, just like Hades. The Daemon fought back, and most of the expedition was lost.

Their bodies couldn't be recovered, so the Shamans of Song's Edge built metal avatars for the fallen and posted them up on the cliff's edge, calling in a flock of Glinthawks to take away the scrap. Along with the souls of the dead, I guess.

According to Burgrend, Ourea has disappeared, gone off to some mountain retreat to seek guidance from shamanic spirits. The expedition was her idea, and from the rousing, if bleak speech Aratak gave at the funeral pyre, they mean to try again.

I also asked Burgrend about Sylens. He said he'd heard the name before, always whispered, as if he were some phantom of ill-fortune that the Banuk would rather forget. Something happened between him and the Conclave of Shamans in Ban-Ur. Given his disregard for what he called the tribe's 'mysticisms', it was probably some form of sacrilege. Not that that will deter me from trusting him. Where lives and hidden truths are concerned, sacrilege is fair game.

I spoke to Aratak after the ritual was done. He was predictably stand-offish toward me, an outlander interfering in the tribe's affairs. He couldn't tell me any more about the Daemon, only more of the same: new, deadlier machines. He told me to stay away from Ourea, whose arts were not for the eyes of outlanders.

He says he prefers deeds to words. Good thing I'm better with deeds anyway.

Burgrend told me of Naltuk, Ourea's apprentice, who was scouting north along the river's path. He'll know where she is. Whether he'll tell me or not is another question.

Rested in the settlement for a while. I went to buy myself some warmer clothes for the trek north, only to discover that my healthy stash of shards is worthless here. The Banuk merchants trade exclusively in something called 'Bluegleam'. No wonder Ohtur and Burgrend have had problems opening up commerce.

A Shaman was giving a performance, telling the origin myth of the Banuk, casting fire and salts and scraping machine sounds from strange instruments. They say a woman named Banukai was chased into these lands by the 'Ravenous Tribe', and the wild machines saved her and imbued her with the spirit of the blue light, but the process tore her apart from the inside. The machines patched her up with cables and metal, making her part machine herself, until she died in the snow and her people gathered to the machines' mournful song.

There's partial truth in the Nora's myth of All-Mother and the Metal Devil, even the Faithless ones could be some warped idea of the Old Ones and their war machines. That makes me wonder if there's some truth in this tale as well. Maybe a person, changed by machines, their codes running through her head, making her...part of a network, as Sylens would call it. Is that the shared machine song that the Banuk speak of?

I soon met Laulai, who I heard lamenting the loss of a place called Deep Din. She told me of it—an Old World ruin and musical instrument, capable of carrying resonant sound through its pipes below the basin. She said the place had been flooded after a sudden deluge caused the river to overflow. No rain, but the water must have come from somewhere. I'm doubtful that the place was intended to be an instrument. If the building is beneath a river it could have served as irrigation of some kind. I should take a look; might be some useful data or parts down there. I'd like to hear Laulai play the pipes, too. The place seems to mean everything to her, across generations of her family.

Next I climbed the scaffolding against a flat cliff side, shielding the village from the worst of the elements. Paintings stamped the rock face in yellows, reds and blues. At the top, working on her latest piece, I met Sekuli.

She told me about Banuk artistry. The paintings are calls to the machine spirits, sort of like prayers. Sekuli grew tired of tracing over the same old marks in Ban-Ur, wanted to create something of her own—a call to the tribe, a new story for a shifting, dangerous age. Something that the snows would wash away someday when its time was past, not something to be retraced for the sake of tradition. She was seeking new pigments to set her pieces apart. I agreed to help. I'll keep a lookout for deposits clinging to the salt pools of the Cut.

There was one such place just north of the village, Banuk gathered at its edges to scrape the pigments free and grind them into dye. A Shaman there called me over to him, remarking on my override module. He recognised the 'blue light' within it. I suppose he's not too far off—the device allows me to alter the...harmony of the machine song, as the Shamans say. He told me of a ruin to the far north holding the bodies of metal birds, each with a rail to strengthen my spear. Whatever he's planning, he didn't want to give any details. I've got no reason to believe he's set me a trap or anything—seems that most Shamans are secretive so as to protect the myth of their 'unique' powers. I can see where Sylens got it from.

If he can improve my spear, I'm willing to salvage the part. Might even be worth the trip.

Mountains looming ahead. It's only getting colder. The wildlife in this region is strange—I guess its blocked from the southern lands by the tall ridge I climbed. White goats, badgers, squirrels, owls—all creatures my Focus could identify without having to learn the names from elsewhere. I suppose they had the same names back in ancient times.

I came across a Carja encampment along the trail. There was even a Sun Priest with them, though none of the outlanders seemed eager to speak to me. Why are they here? Maybe to express apologies and grant reparations to the Banuk, as Irid did for the Nora? If so, I don't rate their chances highly. From what I've learnt of the Banuk so far, they'll do worse than throw fruit.

I came across Naltuk by following the river north, just as Burgrend said. He was watching a huge mechanical tower, shaped almost like a flower spewing violent pollen into the air that clung to the machines, its waves of light rippling outward. The machines patrolled the area, protecting the tower like a Cauldron. They were stronger, their armour scored dark, as if coated in something. This is worse than the Scarabs' corruption. I need to get to the bottom of it before it spreads.

Naltuk wouldn't tell me where to find Ourea. Typical. If words wouldn't do it, deeds it was. I crept past the machines to survey the tower. Sure enough, I could override it. Same language, same source; I joined it to my Focus network. I'm getting the hang of these strange new terms. Once overridden, the tower let out a pulse of blue shock, much like a Tallneck. I took out the Longleg and its league of Scrappers, first tying down the larger machine and settings off its power cells, then picking off the Scrappers from above, turning them brittle with my frost sling.

Naltuk was far more forthcoming after that, directing me northwards to the Shaman's path, some sort of rite of passage for aspirant Shamans of the tribe. Ourea was at the very peak, beyond the trial path, inside some sort of ruin on the mountain. Since it's a rite of passage, there were certain rules and rituals surrounding the ordeal, Naltuk said. Rules I would have to adhere to. There must be some other way up the mountain, but it wouldn't do to get on the Banuk's bad side, particularly Ourea's. Seems she's the only one who can give me answers. So, that's how I ended up running the trial of an prospective Shaman.

I got myself a mount and rode on, meeting the path's keeper at the gates of the climb. I was given the garb of a Shaman and the paint of an aspirant.

The clothes were scant in the cold and the paint was thick over my lips, kept getting it on my teeth. The things I do for truth. I took the mountain path on foot and entered a frozen cavern blazing with blue.

Lanterns and chimes marked the way through as the cavern twisted off into many ice-slick dead ends and spiral passages.

A couple of Stalkers patrolled further on, infected by the Daemon. I doubt they were an intended part of the trial, or this Shaman's path would be a death sentence for most who attempted it. I took them out by tearing off their canons, tying them down, barraging each with frost and finishing them with spear and bow. Then I broke out into the afternoon light.

Lots of climbing and running under streams of water so cold it burned. It's a beautiful area though. Lots of long, glacial lakes and waterfalls of half slush, half glass shards.

Starting to struggle in the cold. As I slipped on a ledge, the falling stones attracted a machine—something new, huge, and teeming with the Daemon's purple rot. It, and the tower bolstering its strength, stood between me and the next pass of the climb. The snow was falling thick. I knew I wouldn't last long out here.

I managed to override the tower before the machine saw me, but the shock pulse didn't damage it much. I slew hardpoints as fast as I could nock them, first targeting the frost unit on its belly, then piercing it as much as I could while it was brittle—though the frost didn't bother it much. My usual strategy wouldn't help me here. I took out the sacks on its shoulders next, dodging its swiping claws and shards of ice slung at me like spears. As soon as it was down, the danger wasn't over, as the sweat froze on my skin and each breath rasped out dragging hot barbs in my throat. I pressed on.

Thankfully, the end was soon in sight, and I harvested a shard of Bluegleam from the frozen Stormbird at the trail's end. I suppose I could've salvaged as much as I could carry, enough to buy warm furs, but again, best to respect the tribe's laws until I have what I need.

My climb wasn't quite over—a few more risky jumps between rusted metal platforms before I made it to the door to Ourea's secret mountain retreat.

Some warmth to be found inside, but not much of it. Time to press on...and hope Ourea has a fire burning.

#horizon zero dawn #hzd #aloy sobeck #aloysjournal #hzd remastered #photomode #aloy #virtual photography #horizon #the frozen wilds

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thoughtportal · 2 months ago

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Mulrooney’s success, as a woman and an Irish immigrant with little education, was as improbable as the Fair View’s remote glamour. Only 26 when she opened the hotel in July of 1898, in two short years she’d come to be known as the richest woman in the Klondike, overseeing an empire that extended from hotels, restaurants and real estate development to mining companies, banks, even utilities. It’s a swashbuckling story, one marked by constant self-reinvention that saw Mulrooney help build a city, make and lose several fortunes, and leave a lasting legacy as a Yukon pioneer.

Yet Mulrooney’s legacy remains little known outside the frozen north. “I think she’s certainly up there with significant women who had an impact on Alaska, and she hasn’t been given the prominence that she deserves,” says Jo Antonson, executive director of the Alaska Historical Society. A true reckoning of Mulrooney’s life reveals her as a hero of the frontier—and perhaps its canniest business owner.

Born in 1872 in County Sligo, Ireland, Mulrooney stayed behind when her parents emigrated to America and spent her childhood on her maternal grandparents’ farm, surrounded by boys. That experience shaped her and inspired her legendary drive. “I never expected any favors,” Mulrooney told writer Helen Lyon Hawkins, who conducted a series of interviews in the late 1920s for a biography that was never published. “I knew a woman around men who couldn’t do her share is a nuisance and is left behind, so I tried to be in the front always, to lead.”

Thirteen when she finally joined her parents in the U.S., Mulrooney was unimpressed by life in the coal town of Archbald, Pennsylvania, and soon took a position as a nanny for a wealthy Philadelphia family. After the economic crash of 1891, Mulrooney took her savings to Chicago, sensing opportunity in the city’s preparations for the 1893 World’s Fair.

Mulrooney purchased a lot just outside the fair’s carnival strip and built on it, renting and then selling the property at considerable profit, which she used to buy a popular restaurant nearby. As the fair closed, Mulrooney learned that San Francisco was planning its own exposition and took her profits westward, where she repeated her real estate speculations. But when an 1895 fire in an uninsured building left her penniless, it was time to start over.

This time she found success in merchant ventures, bootlegging whiskey and other coveted supplies aboard the steamship City of Topeka between Seattle and southern Alaska—then reselling goods at frontier prices. She opened a store in Juneau and was scanning the landscape for opportunity when a prospector strolled into town, showing off some of the gold nuggets he’d found in what seemed like a promising strike in the Klondike. Instantly, Mulrooney began outfitting for an expedition that would change her life, and the frozen frontier, forever.

Getting to the Klondike gold fields in 1897 required astonishing mettle. The majority of stampeders, as new arrivals were known, came via a brutal overland trek, each explorer hauling gear by sled over the icy, 3,550-foot Chilkoot Pass. Mulrooney’s supplies required 30 such trips. Then came the two-week journey down the turbulent Yukon River to Dawson, for which travelers had to build their own boats.

Mulrooney landed in Dawson in April 1897, one of the first entrepreneurs on the scene. In an often-told anecdote, Mulrooney describes tossing her one remaining coin in the river for luck, announcing with breezy confidence: “I’ll start clean.”

But it wasn’t luck that made Belinda Mulrooney rich; it was her unerring ability to anticipate what people would most need. Her goods, including hot water bottles for miners enduring the frigid winter in tents, netted a 600 percent profit from that first trip. She also saw the miners were desperate for a good meal and opened an all-hours restaurant serving hearty homestyle fare.

Mulrooney also had a canny instinct for location. During that first Yukon spring, she scouted ground on which to open her first hotel and chose the junction of the two busiest gold-mining creeks, 16 miles outside of Dawson. The Grand Forks quickly became the miners’ primary gathering place and soon doubled as an official collection office for royalties demanded by the Canadian government. At night Mulrooney put the floor sweepings through a sluice, gleaning an extra $100 or so in gold dust daily. Perfectly positioned for intelligence-gathering, she invested accordingly and by the end of 1897 owned five gold claims—plus almost 20 percent of one of the region’s wealthiest mining companies.

Ever the expansionist, Mulrooney set out to build the finest hotel in Dawson City, one modeled on the elegant hotels she’d seen in Chicago and San Francisco. Calling it the Fair View, Mulrooney was meticulous in choosing the lace curtains, plush carpets, brass bedsteads and other finery that would make her new hotel the envy of the region’s other hoteliers, who housed most guests in rough dormitories. When explorer Mary E. Hitchcock arrived in Dawson in June 1898, she was deeply impressed and detailed her reaction in her 1899 memoir, Two Women in the Klondike: “The menu, beginning with ‘oyster cocktails,’ caused us to open our eyes wide with astonishment, after all that the papers have told us of the starvation about Dawson.”

The Fair View was the first property in town to have electricity. When miners bet Mulrooney $5,000 that she couldn’t keep the three-story building warm, she bought an old steamboat boiler, attaching a sawmill to provide the fuel. Mulrooney modernized the town in other ways, too, helping bring Dawson its first telephone and telegraph, housing the switchboard in the Fair View, and forming the Hygeia Water Supply Company to provide safe drinking water. It was less than two years since she arrived in Dawson, and already she was one of its foremost citizens.

“She really loomed large in the history of Dawson City,” says Angharad Wenz, director of the Dawson City Museum, adding that if we were to credit a single person with bringing the Klondike into the 20th century, Mulrooney would be the prime candidate.

As sharp-eyed as she was in business, Mulrooney proved less so in matters of the heart. Disaster came courting in the form of a sham European nobleman, “Count” Charles Eugene Carbonneau—actually a French Canadian barber from Montreal—whom Mulrooney wed in Dawson City on October 1, 1900.

Newspapers around the country published rhapsodic descriptions of the lavish wedding and followed the Carbonneaus on their honeymoon tour of Europe, running photographs of Mulrooney wearing furs and jewels in a mansion the couple rented in Nice. The next few years found the Carbonneaus wintering in Paris, in an apartment near the Champs-Élysées with a bevy of servants.

But Carbonneau’s profligate spending, dubious investments and mismanagement of Mulrooney’s mining companies emptied the couple’s bank accounts. Leaving the con man in France, where he was soon to be convicted of swindling and embezzlement, Mulrooney returned to Dawson alone in 1904.

Forced to start over yet again, she regathered her energies and in the spring of 1905 followed the next gold strike to Fairbanks, some 400 miles west of Dawson City, buying up claims in partnership with fellow investors. She also purchased several building lots and opened a bank in nearby Dome City. By the time Mulrooney filed for divorce from Carbonneau in July 1906, she was flush once again.

“She just did not give up, that woman,” says Melanie Mayer, author of the 2000 Mulrooney biography Staking Her Claim. “If she was down, well, she knew how she had gotten up before, and she went at it again from a different angle.”

Perhaps foreseeing the inevitable bust of the Alaskan claims, Mulrooney decamped to Washington State’s fertile Yakima Valley, where she ran a 20-acre farm and orchard, built an imposing stone castle, and reigned there into the 1920s. Locals came to refer to her as the Countess Carbonneau. But this attempt at a bucolic life didn’t prove profitable: She sold the acreage at a loss, leased the castle and moved to a modest cottage in Seattle, where she ended her career in humble fashion, de-rusting minesweepers in the shipyards during and after World War II. Though no longer commanding an empire, Mulrooney continued to prize her self-reliance and practical skill; in a photo taken in her 60s, she stands proudly in front of the seafaring equipment she maintained.

Still, it was her memories of the Klondike that Mulrooney most prized. Of her fondness for that wild country, she recalled poignantly: “I was young when I went there full of hope.” Later in life, Mulrooney took special pleasure in her membership in the male-only Yukon Order of Pioneers, which made an exception for her mining achievements and civic service.

In 1957, her money mostly gone, Mulrooney moved to a senior care facility in Seattle, where she died in 1967 at the age of 95. The obituary of the most daring self-made woman of the period read simply: “Born in Ireland, she came to Seattle in 1925. Mrs. Carbonneau was in the Klondike in 1898.” Her small footstone in the city’s Holyrood Cemetery bears only dates, and a name: B.A. Carbonneau.

Editors' note, November 4, 2024: A previous version of this article misstated the location of Fairbanks, Alaska; it is west of Dawson City. The article has been updated to correct this error.

Editors’ note, November 8, 2024: This article was updated with additional information from Melanie Mayer, co-author of the Mulrooney biography Staking Her Claim.

#article #smithsonian #alaska #gold rush #economics #19th century #20th century #women in history #women's hi #history

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