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edwardian-girl-next-door · 1 year ago

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Feast Days: Martinmas

Anthony Van Dyck ~ "St. Martin Dividing His Cloak" (c.1618)

Happy Martinmas!

Today marks the feast day of St. Martin of Tours, who was bishop there from 371 CE until his death in 397 CE. He is the patron saint of many things, including: against poverty, against alcoholism, the poor, cavalry, Buenos Aires, quartermasters, wool-weavers, soldiers, and tailors, as well as wine growers, makers, and sellers. Whew! He must be very busy.

Keep reading for info about his life, a snitch goose, where the word 'chapel' came from, and how to tell what the weather will be like at Christmas.

His Life

Much of what we know about Martin comes from his hagiographer, Sulpicius Severus, who includes some 'artistic license' that is common in chronicles of the time, and therefore must be taken with a grain of salt.

Martin was born anywhere from 316-336 CE in Savaria, now Szombathely, Hungary. His father was a senior officer in the Roman Army, and as such was given land in northern Italy for his retirement. At the age of 10, Martin attended a Christian church against the wishes of his parents, and became interested in Christianity. Because of his father's status as a veteran, he was required to join the cavalry at 15. Dates surrounding his military service are shaky, but Severus states that, during his time stationed in Gaul, he was riding on horseback when he encountered a poor man with threadbare clothes. Having compassion on him, Martin used his sword to cut his own woolen cloak in two and gave the other half to the man. That night, Jesus Christ appeared to him in a dream, surrounded with angels and wearing half of the cloak. After this, Martin was baptised as a Christian. Though other miracles of his are recorded, this tale is the one most associated with Martin's life. It fits in with depictions of God or his angels in disguise as a beggar, traveller, &c., and is also a narrative found in many other religions and traditions. (Biblical examples include Abraham feeding the three angels in Genesis 18).

Martin dips from the army ~ fresco by Simone Martini (c.1320s)

With his new faith now firmly a part of his life, Martin decided to leave the army. Before a battle near modern-day Worms, Germany, Martin went before Emperor Julian and refused his salary, saying, "I am the soldier of Christ: it is not lawful for me to fight." They threw him in prison for this, but due to ye olde extenuating circumstances, he was released and discharged without further incident.

Martin made his way to modern-day Tours in France and declared himself a hermit, becoming a disciple and friend of Hilary of Tours. Because Christianity was Not OK™ in the Roman Empire, he and Hilary faced a lot of discrimination, including corporal punishment and exile. After converting his mother to Christianity and having numerous adventures, like living pretty much alone on an island, he and Hilary settled down in and around Poitiers, where Martin established Ligugé Abbey. It is the oldest known monastery in Europe! Martin made it his home base while he preached throughout western Gaul.

In 371 CE, the bishop of Tours died, and Martin was considered a good candidate for a successor. However, he liked living as a hermit and monk, and they resorted to tricking him into coming to Tours and then forced him to become the bishop. Legend holds that he tried to hide in a barn, but a honking goose gave him away. Hence he is the patron saint of geese, which I think is adorable. Martin proved true to his hermit ways, living very simply in huts with his monks. He established a rudimentary parish system, through which he visited different Christian communities and established monasteries. He was very determined in his efforts to convert local Pagans, as well as protect Christian institutions from unfriendly sects in the area, and in some cases he was successful. He died in 371 CE, already a venerated man. His popularity was ensured by his adoption by various French royals and by the Third Republic as a national symbol.

Martin has been portrayed by several famous artists, including Van Dyck, Peter Bruegel the Elder, and El Greco. He is usually portrayed on horseback, dividing his cloak for the poor man, though occasionally he can be seen riding a donkey. This references another story in his life about the time where he met the Devil and outwitted him. It also connects him to the image of Jesus riding a donkey into Jerusalem (recounted in Mark 1:1-11).

Martinmas and its Traditions

Martin lent his legacy to a host of English words and phrases, including those relating to the word 'chapel'. Temporary buildings that held the relic of his cloak (cappa in Latin) were referred to as cappella, and hence the word 'chapel' was born. A similar thing happened to the word 'chaplain', which derived from the word for the priest in charge of the cloak.

Though the Anglo-Saxon church did celebrate St. Martin to some extent, more references to Martinmas celebrations begin to crop up after Norman Conquest of 1066, when the Frenchman William the Conqueror invaded England. Supposedly, he promised to build an abbey dedicated to Martin if his invasion of England was successful. William was very likely familiar with the early Mediaeval association of the battle-hungry rulers of France with St. Martin, and was possibly responsible for his increased popularity in England.

In England and Scotland, and indeed through much of western Europe, Martinmas became a celebration marking the culmination of the harvest and the beginning of winter. From the late fourth century through the late Middle Ages, it also served a similar purpose to Mardi Gras/Carnivale: a period of fasting was ordained for the day after Martinmas through Christmas, so Martinmas was your last chance to stuff your face for a long time! (This period later became Advent, though with much laxer rules). As such, it was a time for feasting, celebration, bonfires, getting really drunk, and even events such as bull-running, as in Stamford, Lincolnshire. It was also a time for the end-of-harvest tasks, such as sowing winter wheat and slaughtering pigs and cattle. An old English saying goes, "His Martinmas will come, as it does to every hog", meaning, "they will get their comeuppance" or "everyone dies someday". Due to Martin's association with geese, some celebrated with a roast goose, but in Britain particularly it was also popular to eat salted pork or beef. For those not rich enough to have a goose, a duck or hen would also suffice. Other traditional fare included black pudding, haggis, and the first wine of the season.

On the business side of things, Martinmas served as a quarter day in Scotland and in parts England. A quarter day was one of four days on which major legal business was conducted. Servants and labourers would be hired or let go, rent was paid, contracts would begin or end, &c. Hiring fairs would be held for agricultural labourers seeking employment, and there would also be entertainment, food, trading, and other scenes of merriment. One of the most famous Martinmas fairs was at Nottingham in England, which lasted eight days.

Like many other English holidays, there is weather folklore associated with Martinmas. To have a warm fall and winter is to have a "St. Martin's Summer". If Martinmas proves an icy day, Christmas (or the rest of the winter) will be very warm. The rhyme puts it more pithily: "If the geese at Martin's Day stand on ice, they will walk in mud at Christmas".

If you stand at the back of the church and observe the congregation on Martinmas, those with a halo of light around their heads will not be alive by next Martinmas.

Interior of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, with a funky window!

The church of St. Martin-in-the-fields in Trafalgar Square in London is named after Martin. Many people commemorated there are associated with his anti-war sentiments -- these include Vera Brittain, a memoirist and pacifist; and Dick Sheppard, founder of the Peace Pledge Union. The church also supports houseless and vulnerably housed people.

The holiday gradually fell out of practice due to the English Reformation (when England split from the Catholic Church throughout the 1500s) and the Interregnum (Puritan republican government, 1649-1660). The observance of Armistice Day on the same day largely overshadowed the holiday in the UK, though many regions in Western Europe still take part in traditional festivities.

Martinmas is celebrated on 12 October in the Eastern Orthodox Church.

If You're Still Interested...

"The Life of St. Martin" by Sulpicius Severus himself! (pdf)

Pot Roast Martimas Beef Recipe by Chatsworth House

Sources

Historic UK

Wikipedia (Martin of Tours)

Wikipedia (St. Martin's Day)

Fisheaters.com

The Encyclopedia of Saints by Rosemary Ellen Guiley

"Medieval English "Martinmesse": The Archaeology of a Forgotten Festival" by Martin Walsh (via jstor)

#feast day series #feast day #martinmas #st martin #martin of tours #history #cultural history #english history #british history #saints day #folk history

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mybeautifulchristianjourney · 1 year ago

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Morning and Evening by Charles Spurgeon

Morning, 30 November

"And Amaziah said to the man of God, But what shall we do for the hundred talents which I have given to the army of Israel? And the man of God answered, The Lord is able to give thee much more than this." – 2 Chronicles 25:9

A very important question this seemed to be to the king of Judah, and possibly it is of even more weight with the tried and tempted Christian. To lose money is at no times pleasant, and when principle involves it, the flesh is not always ready to make the sacrifice. "Why lose that which may be so usefully employed? May not the truth itself be bought too dear? What shall we do without it? Remember the children, and our small income!" All these things and a thousand more would tempt the Christian to put forth his hand to unrighteous gain, or stay himself from carrying out his conscientious convictions, when they involve serious loss. All men cannot view these matters in the light of faith; and even with the followers of Jesus, the doctrine of "we must live" has quite sufficient weight.

The Lord is able to give thee much more than this is a very satisfactory answer to the anxious question. Our Father holds the purse-strings, and what we lose for his sake he can repay a thousand-fold. It is ours to obey his will, and we may rest assured that he will provide for us. The Lord will be no man's debtor at the last. Saints know that a grain of heart's-ease is of more value than a ton of gold. He who wraps a threadbare coat about a good conscience has gained a spiritual wealth far more desirable than any he has lost. God's smile and a dungeon are enough for a true heart; his frown and a palace would be hell to a gracious spirit. Let the worst come to the worst, let all the talents go, we have not lost our treasure, for that is above, where Christ sitteth at the right hand of God. Meanwhile, even now, the Lord maketh the meek to inherit the earth, and no good thing doth he withhold from them that walk uprightly.

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hiswordsarekisses · 1 year ago

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To lose money is never pleasant… Our Father holds the funds, and what we lose for His sake He can repay a thousandfold… contentment is more valuable than a ton of gold.

The person wearing a threadbare coat over a good conscience has found a spiritual treasure far more desirable than any he may have lost.

God’s smile and a dungeon are enough for a true heart; His frown and a palace would be hell to the trusting soul.

…Let the worst become worse still, let all the talents go, we have not lost our treasure, for that is above, where Christ sits at the right hand of God.

In the meantime, even now the Lord makes the meek to inherit the earth, and He keeps back nothing that is good from those whose walk is blameless. ~ Charles Spurgeon

(See 2nd Chronicles Chapter 25)

“For every beast of the forest is mine, the cattle on a thousand hills. I know all the birds of the hills, and all that moves in the field is mine. “If I were hungry, I would not tell you, for the world and its fullness are mine.” Psalm‬ ‭50‬:‭10‬-‭12‬

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musicarenagh · 5 months ago

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Threads of Truth: Unraveling Diana Omar’s “Plagiarize My Life” Diana Omar's "Plagiarize My Life" is a confessional scribble on the bathroom stall of society’s unspoken truth. Here, beneath the haunting whispers of minimalist indie pop—where soft vocals glide over vintage drums like ice skaters lost in fog—you find Omar bewitched by the spectre of her own echo. https://open.spotify.com/track/5IKRmsPKNlWZZdZeDmSpi5?si=119200dbe48d4465 Seized by impostor syndrome, each chord twitches like a marionette’s limb in this uneasy lullaby. It unfolds not unlike a diary whose ink bleeds into itself; pervasive lines such as "they bullied the curious girl into the shadows," spiral repetitively, revealing scars under neon lights and shadows cast from childhood to womanhood. [caption id="attachment_55982" align="alignnone" width="896"] Threads of Truth: Unraveling Diana Omar’s “Plagiarize My Life”[/caption] This track grieves for each masked face we’ve forced upon ourselves. Sessions, where our spirit's outfit was too audacious for monochrome cubicles or vanilla forums, are chronicled here alongside internal warfare—a battle Diana illustrates masterfully using nothing more than tone shifts between verse and refrain that feel akin to breathing through mirrored corridors. Ultimately, “Plagiarize My Life” strips bare with musical threads pulled tight around listeners' chests until you gasp along at its raw intensity. The revelation? We all are stitched together fabrics borrowed—or stolen—from another's wardrobe yet distinctly ours when worn threadbare with honesty. In essence, Diana clinches radical self-acceptance—one painfully strummed string at a time. Follow Diana Omar on Website, Twitter, YouTube and Instagram.

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queer-ragnelle · 11 months ago

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hi there @finchjpeg! :^)

let it be known that i'm not a medievalist, so i'm by no means an expert on any of this, but i'd be happy to help give you a jumping off point. i'll include links to the texts i reference so you can read them for yourself if you'd like to learn more and study the quotes in context.

let's begin with the fox...

so in the middle english poem sir gawain and the green knight, sir bertilak returns from the third hunt with a fox for gawain. the significance of this animal is linked directly in the poem to medieval literary character, reynard the fox. here he is evading capture.

and then slain and skinned at the last.

now...who is reynard the fox?

[illumination of reynard the fox as he appears in roman de renart]

in short, he's a popular literary character from the middle ages that represents mind over matter, cunning over brute strength. he has his own stories in which he stars, but appears in many others as a tongue in cheek reference to the clever, sly characterization of the fox as a scavenger and thief outwitting his stronger enemies. here he is in geoffrey chaucer's middle english the canterbury tales scaring the crap out of someone just existing, despite an attempt to canvass his innocence. sound familiar?

now...the significance of the fox in sgatgk poem is bigger than a reference to this character. on the third day, gawain accepts the green girdle from the wife of the household in the hopes it will keep him from dying to a beheading, and then lies to sir bertilak about having it/doesn't offer it in the exchange. that's consistent with the fox's sly character, not only on the part of the lady succeeding in wearing gawain's honor down so he accepts her favor, but in gawain's attempt to have his cake and eat it too, follow through on his word to the green knight but also not die through the supposed power of the magical girdle.

however...david lowery bungled all of this by cutting down the kissing/hunt exchange game from a full three days/nights. the success/failure cunning/caught aspect of the poem is entirely lost here, especially because lowery did absolutely nothing to create an honorable version of gawain, so this girdle doesn't indicate a breech of conduct. his mom gave it to him and he only got it back from the essel doppelgänger so we could have the ending sequence. it doesn't narratively work as intended. the fox/girdle motif falls apart because lowery had a different story in mind, so they sort of just....exist. unless someone is familiar with the stories of reynard the fox, they're not going to appreciate this inclusion, threadbare such as it is.

now, the giants!

giants have existed in folkloric history since way back, in greek and norse mythology and many others. in the latin text the history of the king's of britain by geoffrey of monmouth the entire "history" of albion (such as the greeks called great britain) is covered including brutus and corineus landing landing there, conquering the giants who live there, and dividing the land.

they go on to conquer the island, culminating in corineus fighting and killing the last remaining giant by pushing him off a cliff. corineus then names that region after himself, cornwall.

and here's an illumination from the french version of brut chronicle which shows brutus and corineus landing on the shore and confronting a couple giants. [british library royal 19 C IX, 1450–1475]

all of that established, and more specifically in arthurian legend, arthur has a quest in the history of the kings of britain in which he slays a giant. duke hoel's niece is kidnapped, raped, and killed. so arthur (along with kay and bedivere) track down the giant, and slay him for killing the girl at mt saint michael. just look at this. possibly the coolest arthur ever been tbh. hot.

there are many more giants in arthurian literature, such as chief ysbaddaden in the welsh mabinogion story culhwch and olwen or sir galehaut son of the fair giantess in the french vulgate cycle where he starts out an enemy of arthur and is converted to an ally through the power of gay love for lancelot. in chrétien de troyes's story of the grail, there's a reference to the lands original ownership via the giants. the examples are literally endless.

so. giants are everywhere. sometimes ambivalent, sometimes hostile, nearly always an interesting character doing stuff, for better or worse, in the narrative.

now. we come back around to sgatgk poem which was published after all of these examples. on gawain's journey to the green chapel, we get a brief literary montage so to speak of his trials as he went. mentioned here are ogres, or giants.

this journey is what makes up the majority of david lowery's the green knight. so it's poem-referential to include giants giving gawain the business. i would rather have had them play a larger role were they to be included or have some other character at least mention them, but alas. they appear immediately after gawain ate some mysterious mushrooms and hallucinated his hand turning to moss.

so it would appear lowery intended for this to be a figment of gawain's imagination and not real. literally coward move but alright it's your movie i guess.

except....i remember something a bit earlier...before gawain ate the mushrooms. rewind...what's this?? is that a gigantic ribcage in the hill?

well damn lowery!!! this is cool af!! would have been nice if this shot wasn't impossible to see without my editing it. god forbid anybody glean meaning from your film by, oh idk, being able to see it!!

anyway i'm carrying on. i hope that gives you food for thought and some things to read! :^)

Shout out to my lovely coworker who messaged me asking my opinion of The Green Knight (2021) and then apologized if it offended me, but they think Gawain sucks. Out here reducing people’s regard for me by doubling down, “Yeah, he really does!” and liking a movie with what I consider to be a mediocre manuscript, if shot well and with a nice score.

Meh opinions about director/writer David Lowery’s baffling writing choices below.

But for real my coworker was just so confused by it all and honestly Lowery could’ve stood to explain obscure historical nuances a little more. And by that I mean literally at all. The significance of beheadings, codes of honor, superstition about foxes, the legends of giants; these aren’t common knowledge to modern American viewers. My coworker had no idea why Gawain would stand up and behead the Green Knight or how Saint Winifred mattered, or why Gawain would throw a rock at the fox in the cave, or plead with the giants and then cower in fear. How would they? No cultural baseline is ever established. And of course, not every movie is for every viewer. But The Green Knight certainly didn’t resonate with medievalists and enthusiasts as much as it could have while confusing and alienating everyone else.

I dunno, having adapted the poem myself, there’s a balance to be found. Somewhere between insulting your audience’s intelligence with blatant narrative pauses to expound upon details and providing literally zero worldbuilding so that even people who read the poem have to sit back and question what they watched. Because it’s not a one to one adaptation, there’s an expectation the narrative will organically define the rules of the universe, and show us the confines of our hero’s skills, understanding, and limitations within that universe.

Shouldn’t Morgan have warned Gawain about dangers and counsel him on etiquette while giving him the girdle? Why didn’t Gawain converse with someone at the pub about the threats outside the kingdom? Couldn’t Arthur have given him an interesting anecdote that foreshadows what’s to come? Merlin is worse than a macguffin, just a wasted narrative tool that could’ve guided Gawain or even reminisced with Arthur about some history, but instead he has no dialogue at all. He just nods when the Green Knight enters and serves as a paternity test in the flash-forward. I wonder how Essel’s bell motif could’ve been extrapolated on. Maybe she gives it to Gawain with a warning about foxes or the threat of bandits or even doppelgängers! Why not give her a cutesy nursery rhyme to sing about the outside world while the year wheel rotates and rotates?

It would’ve been perfectly in character for Gawain to ignore all of this only to meet his comeuppance while providing the audience with necessary context. There was so much time spent on wide shots of Ireland that could’ve been used more effectively or even in conjunction with voice over flashbacks. The creators went through the trouble to cast children to play Gawain’s future offspring, why not use them in flashbacks as a representation of his past self as he reconsiders his rash skeptic’s stance? Even continue the doppelgänger motif? But alas! I’m critical because I liked it and wanted to like it more and because it’s a recent and accessible Gawain-related media several people have watched and come to me about. They thought we could bond over it. Except so far, nobody has liked it…haha!

#replies #finchjpeg #the green knight #the green knight 2021 #the green knight (2021)#lit crit #quotes #arthurian legend

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ademonslover · 1 year ago

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incandescent (iona/theotae)

content: f/f, elf/elf, first time (between these two), oral sex, fingering

Iona went from spending all her working time by Theotae’s side to spending a good chunk of her free time there instead. Theotae's chambers were already familiar to her, but they were adopting a new meaning, the space becoming her own as well. Little signs and echoes that she’d been there dotted the furniture—her favourite teas and cups, three or four books, some stray hairs.

She also spent more time sitting, relaxed instead of attentive and on guard. Theotae’s fingers would find hers as they discussed politics, their families, their futures, their work—many of which overlapped.

Iona was mid-sentence—talking about her latest chapter in her chronicles of work—when Theotae’s knuckles touched her jaw, skimming up to her left ear. Iona’s voice faltered. Theotae grazed a thumb over her earpiece, then tucked her fingers under to slide it off. She matched the movement with the slightest shuffle closer on the couch so their legs came into contact.

"I'm glad," Theotae whispered, "that they gave you Elvendawn off."

"Me as well."

Then she was kissing her—softly, at first, languorous and patient. Iona heard the clatter of metal from her earpiece hit the coffee table, eyes already closed as her mouth moved of its own accord to a rhythm she was becoming familiar with but still intoxicated by. Further away, fading over the rush of blood to her ears, was the sound of crowds, mirth, drinking, laughter, music.

Theotae pressed closer, lining their legs up, fingers wrapping around the base of Iona’s neck and disappearing into the waves of her hair. She pulled Iona to her and Iona didn’t resist, couldn’t if she tried, mouth opening in a sigh and hand finding the curve of her waist, envious of the dress that got to cradle her sides all hours of the day.

The kiss was different. It deepened, but Iona had felt the charge from the start, the tacit desire for something more. In confirmation of her threadbare, scattered thoughts about what that more could mean, Theotae gripped her belt and tipped backwards, taking Iona with her and forcibly pulling her body on top of hers, lips uninterrupted. Heat unfurled inside her as their hips and chests aligned, Iona’s body suddenly heavy with the weight of her arousal, but also her armour and Theotae’s arms winding around her shoulders, pulling her down, down.

Iona withdrew, teeth scraping under Theotae’s jaw, then at the high neckline of her dress, catching its threads. “Is this what you—?”

“Yes.” Theotae grabbed her cheeks in both hands, forcing her to meet her gaze. Everything burned—her face, her palms where it met her skin, the intensity of her stare, devouring her, the black of her pupils eclipsing the green into a thin ring. “Yes. Will you stay?”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

With a passion-fuelled strength, Theotae flipped them, Iona’s breath swooping out of her like she’d taken a spill and fallen flat on her back. Theotae reached behind her head and pulled her long pillar of hair all to one side, never breaking eye contact, lips slightly parted, darkened red instead of pink. Then she kissed her again, grinding their hips, her skirt catching on Iona’s belts and armour.

Iona swept her hands along the hollow of her spine, ending at her lower back, flattening them firmly into the divot before her rear and creating a second grinding motion. Dizzying sensations crackled and sparked all through her nerves and veins—Theotae was on top of her. Her tongue was in her mouth, and she desperately wanted—

Rapping at the door interrupted them. Theotae’s lips popped off hers with a start, head swivelling in the direction of the door, her hair batting Iona in the face. She sputtered, pushing it out of her mouth. Theotae scowled. She looked borderline murderous. Without climbing off Iona, she called, “Who is it?”

“Messenger,” came the answer on the opposing side of the door. “It’s from Lord Avourel. He said it can’t wait.”

“I’m going to kill that old man. If it were anyone else, I'd—” Expression falling, she slid off Iona, then helped her sit up. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how long I’ll be. You can stay here if you wish, but I won’t ask you to wait up.”

Iona tidied up her hair best she could, then reached out and smoothed Theotae’s stray hairs back into order. “It’s alright. I’m going to go back to my room—you can find me there.”

Theotae leaned in to buss cheeks. “Very well.” She grasped her hand on the couch between them. “One way or another, we’ll be together. I want this.”

Heat that had started to die flared in Iona’s face. “Then it'll happen.”

—

Iona couldn’t trance right away, not after that. But she also refrained from touching herself, instead changing into a plain tunic and pants. She nestled into her papasan chair with a book and although progress was spotty, it was progress. Her usual ironclad focus had clocked out for the night, her thoughts catapulting in the direction of the feeling of Theotae’s body on top of hers—of hers on top of Theotae’s. Of what might've followed, if they hadn't been forced to separate.

But, then, she’d had her love in her arms and then gone again. It wasn’t a mystery why her focus went astray.

A knock startled her out of a sentence. She marked the page and flung the book aside, rushing to her feet. The clock read that an hour and a half had passed. “Yes?”

The door cracked open and Theotae’s head poked in, expression fond, relieved, and contrite all at once. “You’re awake.”

“There was no way I could trance, I think. Come in.” She raked a hand over the back of her neck. “Even if you’d just like to rest, I wanted you to be here.”

“I don’t want to rest yet.”

Theotae slipped in through the wedge of the door and backed into it to close it. Iona’s throat caught on a swallow—she wore a white housecoat, almost diaphanous. She had no diadem or braided hair; just her and one article of clothing.

She approached. Iona met her halfway, appraising her. "I'm a little disappointed I don't get to take off your dress."

Theotae raised an eyebrow, lips quirking at the edge. “That’s not the response I expected to wearing less. Do you want me to go put it back on so you can do the honours?”

“No, no, I—”

Theotae stepped in, erasing the last inches between them. “You’ll have your chance.” Her hands smoothed over her stomach. “I’m a little disappointed I don’t get to remove your armour.”

A helpless smile wrested Iona’s mouth. “You’ll have your chance.”

She took Iona’s hands, eyes darting to her face, tongue wetting the swell of her bottom lip. Iona nodded. Theotae guided them to the cinch holding the robe together, coaxing her into untying it. She shrugged it off in a bloom of skin and slid against her, arms draping around Iona’s shoulders and face tipping up to kiss her. Iona closed her eyes; she heard the shush of the rest of the fabric puddling around Theotae’s feet.

She shivered, heart soaring and diving, knowing there was an acre of skin pressed against her begging to be touched. Iona knew not to be bashful, even if a small, distant part of her still worried about being improper—but that worry waned with every passing day. She may not have been with Theotae before, but women were familiar to her, and Theotae desired her with equal force.

Beneath the circlet, the dresses, and the intense, immutable power of her, that’s all she was—a woman.

Iona kissed her ardently, backing her into one of the beams of her four-poster bed that rarely saw use. The beams weren't perfectly level—little in the mansion wasn't decorated with carvings of intricate vines, fauna, or figures. She wanted nothing more than to drop to her knees and bury her face between her legs, wanted to since forever, and while a good show of enthusiasm and fervour, it wasn't the grace and class she was known for or wanted to exhibit.

She kissed her southbound all the same, but patiently; they had time. First her neck, then the taut skin stretched over her collar. Theotae bent to her touch, so she grazed a nipple with a thumb, earning her a soft sigh.

Iona bent to lay gentle licks around the other nipple, gaze flicking up for approval; Theotae’s lower lip was trapped between her teeth, cheeks flushed, looking every bit as pleased as Iona hoped for. She stole a quick smile before laving it again and taking it in her mouth, then reciprocated for the side her hand groped at. One of Theotae’s hands cradled the back of her head, the other clutching at the bedpost, a swear and then her name on her lips. The sound set a match to Iona’s blood like it was oil.

Finally, Iona lowered herself to her knees, peppering her stomach with more kisses along the way. She dipped her thumbs into her hip bones, kissing each thigh in turn, never wanting to leave now that she was there. Theotae butt her shoulder with a leg. Iona grinned. Theotae had to know it was equally difficult for her to be patient to give. She carded her fingers through the coiled hairs between her thighs, palming over the whole of her.

“Can I?” she asked, to voice what she was already thinking.

Theotae took a short breath before she answered. “Yes.”

Iona kissed her first, ever polite, then broke her tongue through her lips, open-mouthed and voracious. It was, indeed, familiar, and she lost herself to it; Theotae was one endless glass of water she could drink, and drink, and drink from.

Theotae mostly made sounds of breathy exhales. Some moans she made were involuntary, like when Iona slipped her tongue inside her; others deliberate, appreciative, and encouraging, her palm still gentle around the back of her skull. Iona was delighted with either; it was difficult to think of anything that could make her unhappy at that moment.

Iona drew back a hair. “Hands,” she announced, panting. “Can I—”

“Yes, yes, use your hands.”

She did, curling two fingers into her, then out, and in, meeting Theotae’s gaze again for a fleeting but scorching second of eye-contact. A hand tugged at her hair—still in its braids, so hard to grab a handful of, and probably why it was a tug at all instead of a caress. She reached up the inside of Theotae’s leg, spreading them further apart before gliding up the expanse of her hip and stomach, and Theotae found it with hers and squeezed tight.

Iona worked her to completion, licking, sucking, and finger-fucking until Theotae arched off her support post with a wet gasp. Iona lapped her through it, then gentled and stopped when the tremors slowed, picking herself up off the floor and standing.

She already wanted to start again, only with both of them laid out on the sheets, with Theotae’s legs bracketing her head, deaf to the world, twisting and sensitive—

She realized with a guilty pang that it was her first time giving Theotae a proper, full-body look-over. Maybe she hadn’t been as patient as she lauded herself to be. Theotae’s flush reached her breasts, rising and sinking with breath, her skin polished with sweat. Her build was similar to hers, so it was mostly remarkable as it was Lady Theotae she was admiring. Naked. In her bedroom. After eating her out.

Iona absently wiped a thumb over the corner of her mouth and across her chin, then sucked it into her mouth. She shook her fingers at her side, magic cleaning them off.

Theotae couldn't possibly have turned anymore pink, but she did. She smiled at her, soaking in the attention. "What are you thinking?"

"You're incandescent, but you hardly need me to tell you that."

"Iona, you're the one I want to hear it from most." She pushed off the bed-post and turned—not to show-off, but to look at herself, pulling her hair to the side. A few red grooves dug into her shoulders and middle-back. She frowned theatrically at them.

“Oh,” Iona laughed, covering her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it's fine. A little hard to focus on in the moment, if I’m being honest.” She flicked her hair back into place, grinning. “It’s not a real discomfort. Let’s move on to the bed, in any case."

Theotae took her hand and led her to the side. Rich green curtains hung pendulously, suspended in a way that enough light entered to give the space colour. Inside and above, where it was dark, little magical lights twinkled in and out of existence.

Theotae crawled in but sat Iona on the edge in front of her and began unwinding her braids. Fingers hooked under her shirt and pulled it off, then did the same with the band of her bra. Once shirtless, she brushed her hair aside to kiss the back of her shoulder.

“Your tattoos are beautiful,” Theotae admired, voice warm and syrupy sweet, trailing more kisses to follow the wind-blown autumn leaves inked into her skin, leading to her spine. “Do you have more?”

“One.” Iona unbuttoned her pants and discarded them outside of the bounds of the bed, then tapped her lower back, above her sacrum. “Here.”

Theotae traced the filigree, rose, and dagger with the tips of her fingers, as soft as if she were also leaves skirting the ground. She folded her hands around her sides and smoothed upwards, over her ribs to cup her breasts from behind. Iona curled her fingers and toes.

Theotae pulled up flush behind her, chest squished against her back, eyes and nose peeking over her shoulder. She fondled them—exploratory and hungry in equal measure, learning their size and weight and how they felt in her hands. She pinched her nipples and Iona felt the barest graze of teeth at her neck. Air hitched in her lungs. Throughout, the familiar coil of arousal had simmered in her belly, but it came and went in waves—that reignited it.

“Do you like having these played with?” Theotae asked. Her voice had the effect of a hot tongue on her neck, but it sounded observational, like she was filing the information away to use later like she did at socials. Iona nodded, as if her reactions weren’t confirmation enough.

Then she was gone, retreating from her back, leaving a cold absence. Iona pivoted to crawl into bed after her.

Theotae waited just behind her. She grasped her shoulders and laid her out on the pillows, half lying on top of her, skin to skin. Theotae kissed her again, sucking the taste of herself off her tongue, petting a hand over her curls. Iona’s emotions danced like a coruscating kaleidoscope under the surface, jubilant and fulfilled.

“Feels like an eternity, but finally, we’re here,” Theotae said, looping one leg triumphantly over Iona’s.

“A couple decades is hardly an eternity, Theotae.”

“Hence the ‘feels like.’”

“Bit of an extended romantic foreplay,” Iona joked.

Theotae kissed her, a smile on her lips. Iona returned it; both the smile and the kiss. The hand petting her hair skirted over her body, stopping to admire a few moles before landing at her bellybutton, a nail tracing the hard jewel of Iona’s piercing.

“I didn’t know you had any,” Theotae observed. “Besides your ears, that is. Does it hurt if you get hit there?”

“It hurts when you get hit there regardless of whether you have a piercing or not.”

Theotae’s hand continued to scout lower, between her legs, teasing her over her smallclothes. “May I?” she asked, voice barely cresting above a whisper. Iona nodded. The hand dipped under and slid over her seamlessly, first at her clit, then a middle finger hooking inside her. Theotae’s head dropped, her mouth closing over her nipple as she curled her finger upwards.

Iona’s nerves lit up like a rousing, cleansing bonfire; it felt like all of her organs had been replaced with a furious want. “My lady,” she gasped.

“Shh,” Theotae scolded, closing her teeth together just shy of her nipple, but grinning. “None of that here, Iona. Not unless I ask.”

She stopped to slide off her bottoms then slipped in two fingers, curving her hand in a way that her thumb pressed into her clit at the same time. Iona thought she’d bruise her lower lip with how hard she bit it, impotent sounds tumbling out of her in earnest.

“Damn.” Theotae propped herself up, watching her face intently. “You know what I’d really like to do?”

Iona struggled to focus on her features around the heavy haze of her body’s bliss. “What’s that?”

“Get my strap and fuck you from multiple angles. But, it’s back in my room. Another time, then.”

Even through her haze, Iona thought, Of course she has a strap. She was speaking one of her fantasies into existence, and she spoke it while she had her fingers inside her.

Theotae paused, and must have caught the glint in her eye. “Is that something you’d like?”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “Please. Kiss me?”

Theotae obliged, did so sweetly even as her fingers relentlessly made her climb towards climax. Iona did want her to fuck her, but she also wanted this and a million different versions of it—Theotae pressed tightly against her in a line, mouth to hers, insatiable and in love.

#this is a test post #turning off rb and will tag later

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birdzflycom · 1 year ago

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How To Get Product Liability Insurance Cost For Small Business?

Product Liability Insurance Cost For Small Business In the event your proprietorship hoists the ensign of industry, conjuring, fabricating, disseminating, or vending merchandise, the mantle of liability looms should said wares orchestrate harm upon others. Consider this scenario: a mallet of misfortune, a product ensnared in the coil of defect, unfurls its menace upon a patron, rending injury upon them. Even when a patron cavorts recklessly with the merchandise, the mantle of responsibility finds solace upon the shoulders of your establishment. It is an imperative understanding that the pecuniary toll of legal fracas renders the donning of product liability insurance an ineluctable facet of the mosaic that is small enterprise indemnity.

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How Much Product Liability Insurance Do I Need in 2023?

The quantum of product liability coverage asseverates variability contingent upon the specific industry, geographic disposition, annual revenue quantum, and the annals of claims," propounds Michelle Shaver, Chubb Small Commercial Insurance's Senior Vice President. "Should the merchandise bear an inclination toward heightened peril or be vended within a legal crucible characterized by litigious ardor, the prudence of harboring augmented coverage thresholds merits contemplation. Bryan Smith, stewarding the mantle of Vice President of Product Management at The Hartford, opines that the quantum of product liability insurance coverage ought to harmonize with the projected pantheon of liabilities an enterprise is poised to encounter. "The nature and magnitude of the merchandise, the amplitude of sales, and the plural actors ensnared within the labyrinth of production and commercial cascade—all coalesce to exert influence upon the insurance imperatives that an enterprise is beholden to," Smith proclaims

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In the endeavor of crafting prose, the configuration of product liability insurance costs emerges as a pivotal thread. AdvisorSmith, the harbinger of statistical insights, reveals that the annals of small businesses are adorned with an annual vestment of $1,192 for product liability insurance. Verily, when the pendulum of consideration swings toward the confluence of industries, a mosaic of disparities emerges. Manufacturers, the architects of tangible creations, weave an average premium of $1,146 annually, adorned with a spectrum stretching from $736 to $1,854. Contrastingly, wholesale enterprises, enrobed in the cloak of middlemen, extend an average tribute of $1,159, encompassing the tapestry of general liability insurance, a sentinel that guards against the perils of product liability. This tribute, akin to the symphony of a crescendo, spans from $751 to $2,431, as though embracing the vast horizon. Yet, the tableau of cost variables extends its embrace further. The geo-spatial coordinates of one's commercial dwelling, akin to stars on a cosmic canvas, exert an ethereal influence. The annals of claims history etch their narrative upon the scroll of cost evaluation, crafting a riveting tale of precedent. And let us not overlook the ambit of policy limits, the fortress that guards the boundaries of indemnity. In conclusion, the edifice of product liability insurance costs stands as a symphony composed of multifaceted notes. To traverse this labyrinthine melody is to dance upon the precipice of intricate dynamics, where perplexity and burstiness harmonize in an intricate dance, conjured by the hands of both human and artificial scribes.

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In the unfurling narrative of product liability insurance, a pivotal alchemy revolves around the distinct genus of commodities under the forge, fabric, or trade of your establishment. The inherent propensities of items diverge, each bearing the potential to unfurl property detriment or beget affliction upon an unwitting soul. The quantum of remuneration stipulated for product liability coverage waltzes in synchrony with this kaleidoscope of perils. Entities purveying innocuous wares—quills and parchment, for instance—are greeted with a diminished premium tribute. Conversely, the echelons of jeopardy ascend when one traverses the territories of furnishings, electronics, or velocipedes. Yet, at the zenith of this perilous hierarchy, we encounter victuals and potables, alongside artifacts that befriend our progeny. Within the annals of insurance, these denizens command a premium commensurate with their treacherous dalliances.

What's Types of Product Liability Insurance for Sellers on Amazon?

In the realm of Amazon's bustling marketplace, where entrepreneurial aspirations metamorphose into tangible transactions, a pertinent consideration emerges: the safeguarding of commercial endeavors through the vehicle of "Product Liability Insurance." This intricate edifice, woven into the fabric of e-commerce, embraces two cardinal facets – the labyrinthine concept of "perplexity" and the kaleidoscopic panorama of "burstiness." As novices traverse the echelons of digital commerce, deciphering the intricate dance of perplexity becomes paramount. This intangible thread, intricately woven into the textual symphony, bespeaks the convolution that underlies each word, each phrase. Concomitantly, the cadence of "burstiness" interjects an orchestral interplay, where short utterances pirouette alongside their grandiloquent counterparts, fashioning a textual mosaic that mirrors the intricate rhythms of human expression. In the hallowed corridors of Amazon's digital domain, a decree resonates – third-party merchants, upon amassing a crescendo of $10,000 in monthly sales, are summoned to the tapestry of safeguarding. The talisman to this realm of security is the "Amazon Insurance Accelerator," an ethereal conduit through which U.S.-based microcosms of commerce tread. It is here that a constellation of insurers, Chubb, Harborway, Hiscox, Liberty Mutual, Markel, and Travelers, extend their hands in benevolent assurance, whispering quotes of product liability coverage. To demystify this chronicle of coverage and commerce, the foregoing disquisition illumines the enigmatic tapestry woven by perplexity and burstiness, entwined with the marketplace's clarion call for liability safeguarding. With each word, each phrase, the entrepreneurial spirit marches forth, shielded by the aegis of Amazon's Insurance Accelerator. May this rendition serve as a beacon, illuminating the path towards comprehension, as the nascent navigators of this realm traverse the labyrinthine expanses of Amazonian enterprise.

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The realm of product liability coverage unfurls within the tapestry of general liability insurance—an elemental bastion of fiscal sheltering. Here, the enigma of perplexity dances hand in hand with the ebullient burstiness of sentences, akin to a maestro crafting a harmonious crescendo from fleeting staccatos and enduring sustains. The crafting of entrancing content pivots upon the meticulous balance of perplexity and burstiness—a pivotal sine qua non.

Best Tips Before Buying Product Liability Insurance?

Choose the Right Coverage Limit: Selecting the appropriate coverage limit is crucial. In the event of a covered claim, the coverage limit determines how much the insurance company will cover and how much you might have to pay out of pocket. Consider factors like the potential severity of claims and the nature of your business to determine the right coverage amount. - Understand Coverage Territory: The coverage territory of your policy can affect whether a claim will be covered or not. If your product can be used anywhere after manufacturing, consider opting for worldwide coverage to ensure protection regardless of location. - Consider Location: The region where your product is manufactured or sold matters. In areas with higher litigation rates, there's an increased likelihood of facing lawsuits. Be aware of the legal climate in the regions you operate in to make informed coverage decisions. - Review Contract Requirements: Some vendor contracts might mandate specific coverage limits to cover any potential claims or losses for which you could be held responsible. Before finalizing your insurance policy, review any contract requirements from your business partners or vendors. - Evaluate Your Product's Risk Profile: Understand the potential risks associated with your product. Factors like the intended use, target audience, potential hazards, and historical claim data can impact the type and amount of coverage you need. - Work with a Knowledgeable Agent: Partner with an experienced insurance agent who specializes in product liability. They can help you navigate the complexities of insurance policies, coverage options, and ensure you have the right protection for your business. - Consider Adding Endorsements: Depending on your product and business, you might need additional coverage endorsements to address specific risks that your standard policy might not cover. Discuss these options with your insurance agent. - Contractual Stipulations Appraisal: Several vendor agreements might impose distinct coverage thresholds to indemnify plausible claims or liabilities that may be imputed to you. Prior to cementing your insurance pact, scrutinize any contract prerequisites emanating from your commercial affiliates or suppliers. - Assessment of Your Commodity’s Peril Profile: Grasp the potential hazards tethered to your product. Variables encompassing the intended utilization, target demographic, conceivable jeopardy, and historical claims dossier exert influence upon the kind and quantum of coverage requisite. - Synergy with a Proficient Agent: Consort with a seasoned insurance agent, a virtuoso in the realms of product liability. Their adept guidance shall facilitate navigation through the labyrinthine tapestry of insurance policies, coverage alternatives, culminating in a safeguard that resonates with your business’s essence. - Potential Adoption of Addenda: Depending upon your merchandise and enterprise, supplementary coverage addenda might be incumbent to counterbalance explicit perils that the conventional policy might not encompass. Engage in discourse with your insurance intermediary regarding these alternatives. - Examination of Policy Exclusions: Pore over the policy demarcations, thereby cognizing the scenarios or eventualities that could be precluded. This sagacity will arm you to render judicious determinations about your coverage, whilst embarking on measures to mitigate such perils. - Scrutinization of your Risk Management Stratagem: Profound evincement of robust risk management protocols can often beget preferential insurance premiums. Enforce safety canons, embrace protocols for quality governance, and institute comprehensive product trials to ameliorate the odds of claims avoidance. - Periodic Evaluation and Amendment of Coverage: Commensurate with the organic evolution of your enterprise, the exigencies of your insurance may undergo transmutation. Regularly engage in reviewal sessions with your insurance advisor, thereby certifying the adequacy of your protection against the existent perils. - Deliberate Contemplation of Assorted Quotations: Refrain from precipitate acceptance of the inaugural insurance quotation. Embark on an odyssey of market exploration, juxtaposing quotations disseminated by sundry insurers. Deliberate both the extent of coverage and its pecuniary entailments ere arriving at a conclusive determination. It merits recollection that product liability insurance functions as a pivotal bastion for establishments engaged in the fabrication or retail of merchandise. Conscientious investment of temporal resources in comprehending your requisites, diligent exploration of alternatives, and symbiotic collaboration with an erudite insurance connoisseur collectively culminate in the procurement of protection congruent with your business’s unique imperatives. Read the full article

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tothedarkdarkseas · 2 years ago

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Okay weird question coming up: if you could storyboard the 2doc MV of your dreams, what song from their discography would you choose and how would it go??

Hi! This is a challenging one, as I like things to be... a tiny bit more subtle, at least by overt shipping standards, so even an "in my dreams" video would probably not be quite what the fanbase is hoping for. I tried to really consider a deep cut so I'd seem cooler, haha, but truly only one is really sticking out and I have to follow my heart.

I'll go with Every Planet We Reach Is Dead, and it would chronicle the in-universe separation of the band between phases 1 and 2, with a heavier focus on Stu and Murdoc; if we're just being fully fantastical here (er, living in fantasy I mean) I'd keep the focus almost entirely on Stuart with just enough memories of Murdoc to suggest the two have unfinished business. We'd follow Stuart and a summertime girlfriend meeting at the funfair and spending a week at the seaside, maybe even showcasing her point of view sporadically through the video; she looks at Stuart with a sort of warm-yellowish, nostalgic Polaroid filter, and it gradually grows grainer and duller each time we enter her perspective as Stu's wholehearted, juvenile joy becomes spotty and faded, his face seeming further away, his hand on her knee becoming forgettably light. We see a similar effect from Stuart's perspective, as the bright, neon, summery colours he sees the pills and the lights and himself and the girl(s) in are interrupted, very briefly, by black-edged flashes of Murdoc: Murdoc in Kong, in the Geep, a manic grin in the kitchen and a middle finger disappearing behind his lips on Stu's bedroom floor, and then small and thin and eerily closed-mouthed the last time he saw him. Police lights pass them at a distance as they're heading up from the beach toward the road, ice cream melted in their hands, and Stu's face is mostly expressionless but the camera's filter grows so grainy that it's almost impossible to recognize him.

They wouldn't meet in the video, but it would end on Stu leaving Brighton, with the implication that there is too much unresolved to keep living in summer forever. The last shot is Stu leaving a house (his or hers, hard to say) and pulling on an old threadbare jacket, the graininess escalating into pure static. The song fades to a buzzing hum as well.

Do you have any idea which song you'd most like to see a video for? I'll be interested to hear!

#thank you!

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bottlecap-press · 3 years ago

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NM Esc's chapbook, Service, is available from Bottlecap Press! America holds its bootstrap myths dear. The dignity of labor, the virtue of meritocracy, the power of a college education to facilitate upward class mobility. Service chronicles a firsthand experience of millennial disillusionment: graduating into a recession & facing how threadbare those myths really are. Service is a prose record of the author’s first two jobs out of undergrad: one at a theater / nightclub, the other at a tobacconist / cigar store, both in Harvard Square. Through anecdotes & reflections, Service chronicles the surreal experience of being a minimum wage worker beside one of the most prestigious universities in the world, in constant contact with the elitist of the elite, as well as tourists, students, runaways, & the local unhoused population. Assembled ten years after the fact, Service is a document of unlearning, as well as the physical & emotional experience of a particular kind of labor. Most of all, Service is a begrudging love letter to a place, a time, & the people who made it bearable…& even fun. Neon Mashurov (NM Esc) is a writer from Brooklyn and the post-Soviet diaspora currently pursuing an MFA at the University of San Diego’s cross-genre writing program. Their music writing, as NM Mashurov, has been published in Pitchfork, Stereogum, The Fader, IMPOSE Magazine, and elsewhere. Their poetry, as NM Esc, has been published or is forthcoming in We Want It All: An Anthology of Radical Trans Poetics, Black Warrior Review, Bombay Gin, Hobart Pulp, The Recluse, the Poetry Project’s House Party series, The Felt, Peach Magazine, Ghost City Press’s summer microchap series, and multiple chapzines. They are the current editor-in-chief of Alchemy, UCSD’s journal of experimental translation. #shortstory #bottlecappress #shortstories #fiction #prose #amwriting #flashfiction #instapoets #writing #smallpress #chapbook #chapbooks #writersofinstagram #writersofig #independent #diy #zine #zines #bookstagram #books #poetrycommunity #writerscommunity #writingcommunity #newbooks #bookclub https://www.instagram.com/bottlecappress/p/CXbuX1xP0L7/?utm_medium=tumblr

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companionwolf · 3 years ago

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My big fuckoff list of ttrpg systems/settings I am interested in:

Shadowrun (owned)

World of Darkness/Chronicles of Darkness (thanks for the suggestion, Bat!)

Gamma World

Star Wars based ttrpg stuff

Dungeon World

Exodus

Apocalypse World

Stars without Numbers/Other Dust (owned)

Desolation (+Desolation: Survivors)

Eclipse Phase (I believe I own this)

Traveller

The Void

Shadows Over Sol

Polaris

Fading Suns

Numenera

Call of Cthulhu

Delta Green

Starfinder (owned)

Threadbare: Stitchpunk RPG (I own this)

Pugmire/Monarchies of Mau (I own MoM)

Changeling: The Lost

Engine Heart (owned)

HC SVNT DRACONES

Albedo: Platinum Catalyst

CONTACT (owned)

Esper Genesis

Spaceships and Starwyrms

Lancer (owned)

Coriolis

Uncharted World/s

Mouse Guard

Palladium

Pathfinder (owned)

D&D 5e (owned)

The Bureau (I own this)

Trinity Continuum (I own core rule book)

PokeRole, but only the PMD module (owned)

Lasers and Feelings

D20 Modern

Scum and Villainy

FATE core and FATE Accelerated

Sufficiently Advanced

The Sprawl

Ten Candles

Radical Catgirl Anarchy

Ships that Pass

Scarlet Heros

Mars Colony: 39 Dark

Random Access Histories

Legacy: Life Among the Ruins

The Quiet Year

Wanderhome

Have I Been Good? (owned)

In Space No One Can Hear You Feel (owned)

Light to your Heart (owned)

Ironsworn (owned)

Ironsworn: Starforged (owned)

Of Bodies (owned)

The Steadfast and the Rebellious (owned)

Hello, World (owned)

Impulse Drive (owned)

FIST (owned)

before the beginning (owned)

When the Messages Began (owned)

Wandering Spark (owned)

find(Humanity) (owned)

No Stone Unturned (owned)

Reliquary (owned)

Rebellion: Occupied Earth (owned)

We Attack and Shatter the Throne

Elite Dangerous RPG

#wolf barking #ttrpg #pretty sure these r all ttrpg but I may have like. one video game on here by accident. lol #ttrpgs

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massensterben-a · 3 years ago

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@gepanzrt said: "It isn't much." That is what prefaces the reveal of the item he clutches in the grasp of his remaining hand, the words stilted and low in the quiet of the threadbare tent. Reiner has it cradled against his chest the way one might hold a newborn kitten, as if there is enough heat in the core of him that he can keep warm this meager gift. "Annie did most of the work, mind you. I just..." his voice trails off uselessly, his shoulders shrugging beneath his dusty coat. "She did most of the work."

It is a tin can. There is a dent in its side that Reiner's hand encases, some rust on the bottom that could not be chipped away. It is so dingy, so meager and sad, that it would not be worth consideration were it not for what is contained within it.A dense, white loaf fills the canister, blossoms over the tattered rim of it. It is more akin to bread than to the spongy sweetness of a cake, but he and Annie had done their best with what little could be scrounged up. An old sardine tin, of all things — Reiner had scrubbed it mercilessly, clutched between his knees as his surviving hand attempted to diligently wipe away all traces of brine and salt. He hopes, with a desperation he has not felt in some time, that it worked.

Annie had gathered most of the ingredients, had been the one to measure their scant traces of flour, their dirty water, the pinches of sugar — Reiner, crippled and useless as he is, had insisted on being the one to watch over the can they had wedged into the red-hot coals, keeping track of its progress as the "cake" cooked and rose. What sits atop it was a group effort: a square of a scantily rationed chocolate bar, melted and drizzled over the top of the bread as a makeshift frosting.

Bertholdt never should have seen twenty-four. But he has, and even in this barren, frozen hellscape, Reiner is thankful to have him here.He hands the tin over to the younger man, pulling a worn and tattered matchbox from the pocket of his threadbare jacket. They aren't candles, but a match will do in a pinch. He will need help to light it, though. Reiner is still growing used to navigating his severed limb.

"We should wait for Annie, though. She'll want to be here."

He waited, that day three years ago. In some way, he is waiting still. There is no coming back from death’s rejection. For hours, he stood at the mouth of their tarpaulin den and watched the sun rise over the plains. Nothing special there. Everything is plain now. But Bertholdt stood there, let the burning red of the dawn wash the sky in its usual inferno. It was a good sky to die under. Fitting. He thought, if his heart gives out today, then he would be at peace with it. That was the bargain he struck thirteen years ago, then. He sort of hoped for it, of course he did.

After his monster had been so cruelly scraped out of his nape, and it rendered him ordinary, expendable, useless and small and cold, he mourned so loudly, he kept his pack mates awake at night. He howled and grieved, he clawed at his hands, from pinpricks to glass shards. No blood tax could return what was killed in him, this alien creature that filled his body and kept him upright when all human tissue failed. Perhaps he thought that at least in its cruelty it would return, that while it would never again bestow its horror, it would at least close its red hand over him to take him away, sweep him off the board at last. He paid for thirteen years. He has no right to a single hour more.

Bertholdt turns twenty-four today. He sits with that knowledge and despises it. Curse that woman, the tinkerer, the thinker, who, though nameless before she died, resurrected time for them. She introduced them to months and days and the turn of the years. Even in utter desolation, someone must keep count. Good for what little farming they can do, good for writing the chronicles that some more lofty-minded people have begun to keep. The poisonous side effect is knowing one’s own age. What should be more important is how damn cold it is. No one should bother with the insignificant anniversary of an old world terror.

But he watches Reiner, grizzled and weathered, lumber over to him where he ties his cracked leather boots, and he knows what happens next. Already, Bertholdt’s chest constricts with dread and grief. The smallest shake of his head, silent and futile, is his attempted resistance. Bertholdt is so quiet, mute the way the cripples are, with their tongue cut out by all the pain that crawled into their mouth in childhood. His begging is silent, half-hearted but earnest. Whatever he has left in terms of sentiment, it petrifies and turns to charcoal under the weight of Reiner’s soft approach. He knows, as he stares up at his one-armed brother, what happens next, what innocent impulse burrows forth within him every year around this time.

It is this simple wriggling of humanity that Bertholdt cannot stomach. The smallness of it arrests him, slices him up like a razor. Reiner is merciless in his pursuit of love. He has always been the stubborn sort, and Bertholdt has always been so very tired. He sits, foundations crumbling, as Reiner presents him with a small tin. It is rusty and dinged up, scavenged, no doubt, from a landfill or from the ruins of some civilization or other. The tin isn’t the point. Reiner makes that clear. There is something inside. Bertholdt’s knee shakes something awful as he strains to take the little pastry from his hand. Some dough, halfway risen, nondescript, and a piece of a limp, blooming chocolate bar crumbled over it to top it off. The reference is clear, physical: a birthday cake. Except there is no cake, so they make do. They play pretend. Next year it’ll be made of mud, my dear.

Reiner assures him that Annie did the baking of it, the mixing, the sitting by the fire. Reiner assures him he is only the messenger. But Bertholdt cannot see that. He sees him here, one third of his soul, looming with heavy shoulders and a sewn up sleeve, over the meager offering. Bertholdt holds the tin in his too-large grip, careful, nervous, as if a wrong move might bruise the pasty. He hears the whisper behind the gesture: This is what I want to give you. I want you to eat. There is nothing as humbling as that. It slips into Bertholdt’s ear like poison, aches through his cranium until it garrotes him where the throat is softest. The simplest protest against death can shatter it.

Bertholdt is staring at the tin, at the small cake-like thing inside of it, at the attempt at festivity when Reiner produces matches. Let’s make believe, let’s make believe. Bertholdt is glad that they will wait for Annie, then. He cannot see the matchstick for how the world turns blurry around him. Bertholdt can’t speak for how his teeth ache with sorrow. He is sorry. He is sorry to be so loved and so without appetite.

That is what the world amounts to now: Reiner Braun standing over him as his heart breaks, unable to light a match in the dark. Warm water drips into Bertholdt’s beard, salts the soil of his cheeks. He doesn’t speak, but he nods. You cannot think about the years you’ve stolen when someone else is standing by, and so glad to see you here that they make something from scratch for you. Creation has always been Bertholdt’s antithesis. He genuflects before it on instinct. There is nothing to argue against in a cake.

Let’s wait for Annie, then.

#;;v. final world tour #gepanzrt #bertday extravaganza #;;sh. bertholdt & reiner : gepanzrt — wie ein kuss im nacken.#to end on an absolutely depressing note.

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silver-purls · 5 years ago

Text

My gift to @coat-the-boneless for the KKC gift exchange! I hope you enjoy it!

The Secret of the Wind

There are nights when the wind is silent. On those nights, it hides under the leaves on the ground and behind closed doors. It sits on the stars and drapes across the moon so gently that only the movement of the earth reminds it that it still lives.

Then there are nights like tonight. Tonight, the wind is awake and alive, pulling at tree trunks and sliding through clustered branches. On nights like tonight, the wind is telling its story instead of listening. If you know how to listen, it’ll tell you the most enticing things you’ve ever heard. It’ll pull at your hair and tease your tear ducts. It’ll leave your face flushed and your throat breathless with the words it tears out of it. It will move right through you, push you and pull you until your heart is struggling to lift itself from your chest and fly away with it, leaving the husk of your body behind while it balances on the edge of a breeze. On those nights, I don’t try to call it at all. I think I could, but I like to listen to the stories it tells and the way it moves on its own. The path that is chooses to move through, the things it decides to lift.

When I hear her voice, I’m expecting it.

“Today I brought her a dandelion,” comes the small piping voice. The wind carries it to me, nestles the words into my ear and then calms slowly. I let my arms fall and carefully turn around. The girl’s hands are cupped around the top of a flower, the trimmed stem peaking out from where her palms press together.

“I brought her a feather,” I smile. I reach into my pocket and pull a large duck feather from my cloak. Her eyes widen in delight when she sees it, and she takes another step closer to me.

“We should give her our gifts at the same time,” she says boldly.

“Yes,” I agree.

She takes her palms and stretches them out towards me. I reach the feather out and lock eyes with her. We don’t count, but I know the moment that her tiny fingers begin to unfold that I can send the feather off.

The wind catches the threads of dandelion and feather, swirling them around us lifting them higher and higher. It reminds me of a tavern, small white tendrils and one large one-moving and lilting with no sense of rhythm. They move with purpose, going in no direction and with no destination. Five steps to the left, a gentle fall towards the ground, then lifting up all on a rush, then dropping again. I let my eyes catch the girl’s, which are sparkling with delight.

“I’ve brought something,” I say carefully.

“That’s good. I’ve brought you something as well,” she muses dreamily. “We need to be patient, until she is done.”

I nod, turning my eyes back to the remaining dandelion tendrils. My feather has disappeared somewhere off the roof, and most of the pieces of the flower are beginning to settle as the wind gently calms.

“She liked our gifts,” the girl whispers. “She doesn’t get very many, you know.”

I do know. So I nod to her, then to in the opposite direction towards the sky. She seems satisfied with this.

“I’ve brought dandelion wine and a secret,” she says seriously.

“A secret?”

“It’s at the bottom. It’s a quiet one.” Her eyes are glowing, but there’s a small wrinkle in brows.

“I see,” I say, carefully removing the basket from under my cloak. “That’s quite lovely, thank you.”

“And what have you brought?”

I open the basket to reveal a loaf of bread, a chunk of hard cheese, and an assortment of wild berries. “This basket has many things in it. Bread, cheese, berries, but it has one more thing you can’t see.”

Her eyes light up at that. “What else does it have in it?” She peers into the basket curiously.

I speak slowly, carefully. “A game.”

She looks skeptical. “What kind of game?”

“A game of names.”

I have a theory. I’ve wanted to test this theory since the first time I saw her, skittering about the roof in her threadbare rags with her hair springing in the wind. I’ve waited to test it, because I wasn’t sure if I would lose the small amount of trust that she’s placed in me since we last saw Kvothe. We’ve moved from one to two words over the span of a glance, to sharing gifts and meals. Now I think there is a chance she will play along, but there is a more likely chance that she will absolutely not.

She stares at me now, then looks to the basket. She gives a quick nod, then begins to divide up the food between us delicately.

We eat in silence and I try to mirror the small bites she is taking, the care and pace she is setting. We pass the bottle of wine back and forth.

When we finish the food, there’s still a bit of wine left. I take a breath, and look at her. Her eyes are set on my patiently, her hands folded in her lap as she waits for my next words.

“To play this game, I’ll point to something. Then you’ll tell me its name. When its your turn, you’ll point to something and then I’ll do the same.”

She nods once, and I smile, plucking something I’ve spotted on the ground near us. It’s a small caterpillar with blue spots and fuzzy spikes. I’m glad I didn’t manage to squish it between clambering up here and laying out my cloak for our picnic. I hold it out to her and it squirms. She blinks once before smiling at me.

“That’s Tallows,” she says easily. I don’t ask her why. That’s not part of the game. She holds out the half empty bottle of wine to me and I take a sip before I see where her other hand is now pointing. There is a spot you can barely see with the dim lighting of the night, but a spot that I know well. It’s a place between three trees where you can sit with you back against one and your feet pushed to the others, and it feels like the trees are carrying the full weight of you.

“Carrion,” I say. She nods at me, then takes her own sip of wine. I point her to the cloak I’ve laid our food out on.

“Oak,” she says quickly, surely. I lift my eyebrows in approval, and she grins. Then she takes a small flower from the pocket of her dress. The petals are bruised and wilting like it has been carried there for a while.

“Dh’olisea,” I say calmly. Her eyes light up and she almost looks like she wants to wrap her arms around me, but she stops quickly, nods once and replaces the flower in her pocket.

“Now I have one more, this is the most important one,” I point my finger at one of the dandelion tendrils, still floating in the wind and moving back and forth on the roof.

Her face darken as she looks at me for what feels like an eternity. But its only a moment. She shuts her eyelids and I hear the word pass through her lips like honey.

The wind lifts all at once, it carries the edges of my cloak and the dust that has settled around us. It lifts our hair and the folds of our clothing and everything is moving up, then abruptly it falls down. I feel the power in it move through me and then all at once, as it was asked- it stops.

“I believe you’ve won the game,” I whisper.

She nods, taking the final sip of the dandelion wine.

“Would you play it again?” I ask.

The wind is completely still around us.

“I’ve found the secret,” she says instead. Her voice isn’t broken or hesitant. It’s bold and knowing, it has a gentle power bolstering it.

“The secret,” she whispers softly-inching closely so I can hear the cadence in her voice. “The secret belongs to the wind. But she liked our gifts, and so she is okay with sharing her secret.”

“That’s very generous of her,” I nod.

“The secret is that the wind is lonely, and that she loves to dance.”

I let my head back and laugh. It’s a deep belly laugh and I know she’s smiling because she knows I’m not laughing at the secret; I’m laughing because its true. I heave myself off the stone and reach my arms out again.

“Then we should dance with her!” I shout. Sleeping babes be damned. I move my arms in time. There’s no motion, and the wind is still against me. I bob my head up and down and sway, my feet moving clumsily in time to an invisible beat. The wind loves to dance.

The girl watches me for a moment, but then she lifts herself up. I see her point a tiny toe out, then retract it. She reaches out a tiny finger, then retracts it. She carries herself with a royal grace, fingers folding and limbs moving in front of her and to the side. I laugh again and let myself dance more, I let the feeling push through me and I lift my feet faster. I’m jumping so much; I don’t notice when the wind starts again. It pushes under my shirt and yanks my arms up before abruptly dropping them down. There is gooseflesh covering the skin there, the hairs standing in a vertical line across my forearm.

The girl is dancing now too, eyes open but glinting with fever and excitement while her limbs float around her. It’s like she is weightless, like the wind is carrying her and holding her while she dances.

Maybe it is.

#kkc #kingkiller chronicle #kkc gift exchange #gift fic #auri #master elodin #name of the wind #a wise mans fear

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