#they camp and they sing and they travel down a safer path as a group of friends and the only magic they experience is the good helpful kind

[princessmyriad]

Some moments of a kinder story than the one our heroes got that have stuck in my brain

[thenixart]

Chapter 3: The Raid

Her Jara Hamee is smart and handsome and strong and good and handy. He was probably the best storyteller she’d ever heard. Ket Halpak loved him very much. And really there very were few of their people on this world who would probably make a better leader, regardless of his tendency to be too cautious.

But she was a much better fighter. A better sneaker as well. And that was why she was in charge of the raid.

She’d spent weeks scouting out yeerk bases. Half from memory and half from guessing based on what the two of them knew the yeerks needed. Some matching patterns that the adults discussed back when they young enough to cling to their mother’s backs.

Figuring out the best paths through these miniature forests was the fun part. As she flew she learned more about the thick Earth air and which branches could hold their weight. And which could hold thrice that which was a bit more important. How many times the alien trees could take hits at different angles before they broke or fell? She learned this. And hiding places were found. She left words on the important trees in Galard and numbers. Clawed phrases of hope for treefolk being ridden by yeerks into the bark. Deep in Mother Sky there was another tribe of free people who’d been sending messages out into the deep in the language singing trees. It took Jara many long days to work some borrowed radios to be able to listen in.

They borrowed many human things and stole some others. There were plenty of ground houses in less than a day’s travel and plenty of humans camping in the woods at any given time. Only things they’d seen used by the humans and yeerks in humans at the pools and in the ships. Metal tools, some electronics, survival gear, and a few weapons. Most valuable were things like sticky tape and sheep wool and dry straw. It was warm now, but this was an alien world who knew what the seasons were like.

The night of the raid was dark. If not for the notes etched into the path the two of them would be hopelessly lost. No moon and no electric lights. They flew as swiftly as birds, touching down only long enough to read the shapes of words with the scales. At the first spotted light they paused and nestled into the foliage, their spotted skins would hide them well. With a thwick of her tail against bark Jara took to the north.

And then Ket waited.

Soon enough the lights of yeerk nursery went out and like lightning she crossed the last band of trees. Talons on the ground she landed at the entrance of a Taxxon tunnel and slipped into it, blades folded close. Ket did not like crawling but it was useful and she thanked the people of the low tribes for teaching it. The one taxxon she encountered was not at the moment ridden by a yeerk as far as she could smell, and it was young enough that she could disarm it with a single hand.

“Little one,” She said in Tax, “Fight this day and die. Call warning and many die, maybe even you. Is understanding?”

The taxxon’s claws scrambled nervously and it deflated a bit. She released its face.

“Apologies! Apologies!” It said shrinking back. “This one grovels! This one submits!”

“Good.” She huffed. “Stay out of way.”

Ket hesitated at the exit just listening. There was a ruckus, all folks moving to where Jara was causing trouble on the other side of the compound. When she no one else near she bolted out the tunnel for the nearest door. The walls of the hall were close enough that she could scuffle up above the heads of any passing below without sinking her claws into the walls and making more noise. Then she followed her ears to find her target.

The yeerk standing guard was easy to defeat. She grabbed its human head with one of her feet and yanked it up faster than it could react. Then she snatched away its dracon beam and punched it in the chest hard enough for it to lose consciousness. With some careful maneuvering, she took a roll of sticky tape from one headblades and secured it to the wall. Then she dropped to the floor and with a good solid kick, she busted down the door.

If she and Jara had not escaped they would have been sent to this place. The nursery was for breeding more hosts for yeerks. When yeerks mate they fuse and die as they spawn grubs like glima fish. So most yeerks are not interested in forcing their hosts to mate. In fact, Ket often tormented her yeerk with memories of her matings with Jara.

It disgusted the yeerk greatly.

And also yeerks were not good at being dulas nor did they enjoy the downsides of pregnancy; the aches, the pains, the movement deep inside and the cravings. So the yeerks claimed that letting the hork-bajir have a taste of freedom was a good incentive for making of more hosts. To her knowledge, they were trying something similar for taxxons because importing ones from Hiveholm was costing them. But the yeerks could not meet the taxxon needs for baby making just like they could not figure out how to fix their hunger.

The room was the bare minimum. Bland and brutal metal. Several vertical climbing spaces and nooks like those of trees for climbing and balance all over. Some bare platforms for sleeping. Enough space to move and stay active to keep the baby healthy and give birth. It was currently occupied by a handful of females, a pretty male, and across the room may be a good solid leap away was a human body and another female guarding the other door. She tensed ready to spring as the yeerk-in-human reached for its weapon when the other female slammed her tail into it. Then the male threw a bucket at the yeerk’s stolen head as it tried to get back up and knocked it out.

“Visser 3 says Ket Halpak dead.” The guard female said in folk speak. Ket recognized the voice as Grath Sha. A nearly grown child who was one of the ‘voluntaries’, hosts that made deals with yeerks to avoid the cages. Grath who’d come from the free space tribe by way of the nahara who were allies of the yeerks. The nahara fang she wore around her neck glinted in the light of the yeerk’s flashlight and confirmed this.

Ket Halpak shrugged her blades. “Visser 3 should dig deeper graves.”

The grown females descended from the fake trees and watched tensely. Their blades quivering in agitation. Grath Sha was a very good fighter, she learned from the nahara and the nahara have clashed with the dust demons and won dodging deadly lightning-quick tail strikes. But Ket Halpak had more experience and the others would fight on her side if it came to it for their freedom. Grath Sha flattened her blades and bowed.

“Then we be ghosts soon too.”

They left the same way Ket had come in. Her people were quick learners. As they exited the tunnel the young taxxon followed them out. It was hesitant and still groveling so they did not attack it. No one much wanted to be killing children if it could be helped.

“May this one go with too?” It whispered. “This one is useful to the hive if wanted.”

They all looked to Ket for her decision. Well Deep, she and Jara came to free people. Taxxons are different people but they are people. They don’t suffer the same as her people but they suffer.

In Tax she said, “Little one will not bite or betray. No returning to yeerk hive.”

“This one flees a rotten hive that has bitten its own and refuses reason,” The taxxon swore. “To sanctuary does this one’s life and teeth belong.”

“Very well. We open hive to you.”

Grath Sha volunteered to carry the taxxon. They knew each other, not friends but friendly.

Ket led the way and the pretty male made the tail of the line. It was slow going, most of the group were not used to the pace and needed to stop frequently to catch their breath. Twice they had to hide from loud ships with searching lights. Eventually, their path lined up with her Jara Hamee. He’d been spotted and chased but he beat his chasers. And using sticky tape tied one, a big male hork-bajir, up and carried him away with him.

Everyone was brought to one of the minor valleys that Jara and Ket discovered together. In it trees packed tightly together and the walls were steeper but it was good enough for hiding. Later when everyone could be trusted and Ket became very fat with child they would all move to the morphers’ valley where it was safer.

Till then they came to know each other. The pretty male was Kit Naab who knew medicine. Then there was Tak Ran, who’s husband and sister were killed by the morphers and who’s grudge did not lessen after meeting them. Loro Lok who was Kit Naab’s wife and was friendly and made good candies from honey and worms that Ket craved as she got heavier. Sil Renya who thought that Ket’s Jara was nicer looking than Kit and asked to borrow him because she still wanted a child. And Mern Tron who was good at being sneaky and who figured out that they could use eggs to improve the poor bark of Earth trees. The taxxon’s call-name was Sssirin and Sssirin liked to dig and could help build with all of his many claws. Three days after the rescue they learned that the big male Jara caught was named Aad Wanlo and he was a good fighter and thinker.

And all of them became tribe.

[dragon-age-rpg]

Session 5

Day 8

The party awakens within the Planasene Forest, the separation between the Free Marshes and Nevarra. Eager to cross the border, the group embarks on their journey as soon as morning breaks.

Pristine trees twist around each other and form a lush canopy overhead that provides shade as the sun continues to rise. Small shrubs outline natural walking paths while moss softens the blows of heels. A single gravestone sits within these woods.

Ledger is the first to approach the stone, which reads, “The blood of man fills the porcelain bowl; the sweat of effort rewards the man.” Atop the grave sits a single piece of broken porcelain with a subtle curve to it. As the majority of the party inspects the porcelain and the surrounding area, Ashaad, who doesn’t understand the connotation of a tombstone, uses the grave as a seat. This action is met with multiple cries of protest and prompts an educational moment. Meanwhile, Clay gathers flowers and places them at the base of the headstone and Ledger splits open his thumb to bleed on the porcelain. When nothing happens, Ledger begins doing push-ups in front of the grave. Again, nothing happens. Eventually, the group determines that perhaps they need to remake a bowl using the piece they found before they can fulfil the epitaph. While not giving up their resolve, they decide to move on for the time being.

After a long day of walking, the party reaches the end of the forest. Cumberland is not far away now and the gold domed buildings glisten in the twilight. That night, the group sets up camp and goes hunting. Ashaad and Ledger take down an impressive ram and Knicki finds and kills a fennec. The survival skills Knicki possesses prove to be invaluable as she butchers and skins the meat, providing enough meals for everyone to eat that night and the next morning. Additionally, two pristine furs are produced and Ledger makes two drinking horns, giving one to Knicki to show his appreciation.

Day 9

The next morning, the party enters Cumberland just as the markets are opening for the day. Here, Ledger and Knicki sell the furs for impressive prices and Ledger attempts to make an instrument by cutting a hole in the bottom of his drinking horn. The atrocious sound it produces does little to attract the interest of a merchant, who suggests he take it to a tavern bard. Knicki buys a poisonous coating for her weapon, Justinia purchases potion ingredients, and Ashaad hails down passersby for information. Figuring they’re probably looking for a mage, he asks where the Circle is and he and Clay head there. 

Uneasy about potentially giving out information about one of their residents, the templars are hesitant to answer questions. However, they decide to turn to the discretion of the first enchanter, who informs the two that there is no one by the name of Iora in any Nevarran Circle. Discouraged, Ashaad and Clay return to the market to inform their friends what they have learned. Realizing that a mage could be anywhere in Nevarra and that they know virtually nothing about Iora, their hopes drop. Terri tugs on Ashaad’s sleeve.

“What is it, Terri?“ Ashaad asks.

Terri answers, “I think I can help. You’ve been kind to me so I want to tell you something. That name, Iora? It’s a common Dalish name.“

With that one sentence, the eyes of the group light up.

“Where can we find the Dalish?“ Ashaad prods.

“Since we’re transient and prefer the safety of wilderness, they’ll probably be in a forest outside a city or town.“ Terri explains.

With a new target in mind, they find a nearby tavern to rest for the night and prepare for the next day.

Upon entering, they are faced with a joyous scene with people drinking, dancing, and singing. Justinia, Clay, and Ledger head to the bar and Ledger fills his now broken drinking horn, quickly drinking from it before all his beer drains to the floor. The rest of the party push through the crowd, looking for hunters who may know the nearby woods. Those they speak to inform the group that the western areas are troubled only by wild beasts and that no Dalish have been spotted there in recent years.

Satisfied with the information they have gathered in Cumberland, they resolved to enjoy the night in comfort then continue northward to Nevarra city the next morning.

Day 10

Thanks to the imperial roads, travelling across Nevarra is fairly easy and the party arrives at the capital city within the day. Aesthetically, Cumberland and Nevarra city share a similar circular shape and gold accents. However, the capital is surrounded by expansive stone buildings and arches forming ghost towns. Upon entering the city, Ashaad immediately begins asking where one could find skilled elven mages. The response they receive is that being a member of the Mortalitasi is the greatest reward for a mage. With directions to the Mortalitasium, the group venture further into the city, but are stopped when a voice from an alleyway beckons them over.

While Mag, Justinia, and Ledger remain in the safety of the public street, Ashaad, Knicki, and Clay follow the shadow.

“Why are you asking about the Mortalitasi?” The stranger inquires.

“Why do you want to know?” Knicki asks.

“I’m trying to save your life.” They sternly respond.

The three think for a moment.

“We’re looking for someone, a mage.” Clay explains

The stranger ponders this, “That’s well and all, though I recommend not prodding too much. The Mortalitasi don’t like people asking questions.”

“Is there somewhere else we can find a powerful mage?” Clay asks.

“No, they’re your best bet,” agrees the stranger, “but do you really want powerful mages suspicious of you?”

Thinking more on this, the group understands the concern and thanks the person for their warning before returning to the rest of the party. Deciding it best to check the eastern forest themselves then continue north-west to the smaller towns, they rent out two rooms for the night and sleep until the next morning.

Day 11

After two nights of comfortable beds, the party prepares to venture back into uncivilized territory for another two. Scouring the dense forest for signs of Dalish activity, their hunt is suddenly interrupted as tree branches descend from above their heads and wrap around Mag, pulling her several feet above the ground. A second tree sends out a wave of roots, trapping Justinia in place. Using their enchanted wood-axes acquired before they began their adventure, the group hacks away at the trees, releasing their friends and taking a defensive position. The immobile threats manage to keep them locked in combat, and when one tree falls, the other retaliates by sending a swarm of bees at Knicki. After felling both trees and the bees, the party makes camp for the night in a safer area and fall in exhaustion.

[biofunmy]

Jewish Summer Camp With Campfires, Crafts and No Lights Out

As if on cue, the first camper I meet is a guy named Josh: a nice, 27-year-old Jewish boy with kind eyes, a subtle smile and the same name as my husband, another nice Jewish boy, back home.

“Do you know where Malbec is?” asks this Josh, Josh Blake, rolling his eyes, and then his suitcase, over a wide dirt path flanked by rickety cabins that have been renamed for the weekend. (Malbec and Cabernet, for the men; Pinot Grigio and Rosé for the women; Raisins for all.) “I don’t want to walk all the way over there, if it’s back there …” he says, sounding not unlike Woody Allen.

I don’t blame him. The camp is desert-hot and dusty. And he’s ultimately here, he later admits over bagels, because his parents paid the all-inclusive $525 for him to be. They met on this very land, albeit half a mile away. “Talk about pressure!” he says, laughing.

Ilana Rosenberg, 31, sitting nearby, agrees. “My mother said, ‘Have fun! Go meet your Jewish husband!’ My sister was like, ‘Mom, she could find a Jewish wife, too, you know’.”

American Jewish University owns these 2,800 acres in Southern California’s Simi Valley, which is home to rolling hills and herds of cows, the university’s Brandeis-Bardin Campus and Camp Alonim. Over the next three nights and four days, this 66-year-old summer camp for Jewish kids has been commandeered by a new kind of summer camp — Trybal Gatherings, for Jewish adults.

Trybal Gatherings was founded by Carine Warsawski, 34, a buoyant, Boston-bred M.B.A., with the goal of fostering lasting community among Jews in their 20s and 30s, and, ahem, a few in their 40s.

She held her first Gathering at Camp Eisner in the Berkshires in 2017, roping in mostly friends of friends. Over Labor Day weekend, it sold out, with 125 campers and a wait-list dozens’ deep. Last year, she added Wisconsin; next summer Atlanta, and has plans to expand from Seattle to Austin to Toronto.

Whereas traditions like Birthright Israel offer free trips to the homeland, Ms. Warsawski’s aim is to offer an immersive, low-commitment experience closer to home — one rooted not in Zionism or religious doctrine, but in the shared nostalgia of a Jewish-American rite of passage, complete with archery and horseback riding, and a roster that reads like it’s from the Old Testament. (At one point, I’d forgotten my name-necklace. “That’s O.K.!” someone joked. “It’s probably either Sarah or Rachel.”)

There are two main differences between Jewish kids’ camp and Jewish adults’ camp: No bedtime, and booze, lots of it. Kiddie-pools brimming with hard seltzer at Bubbe’s Beer Garden. Bottles of cheap wine at supper. Compostable flutes of bubbly at Arts & Crafts.

Also, adult campers have careers, though no one talks about them. Web developers and screenwriters, wedding planners and wardrobe stylists. And yes, a few doctors and lawyers. The majority came solo; others hand-in-hand and interfaith or happily married in matching outfits, like Emily and Rachel Leavitt — my Secret Santa, er, Mystery Moses.

It’s a mix of die-hard camp people reliving their glory days, once-homesick campers redoing their awkward years, and first-timers wondering what all the fuss is about. “My parents were immigrants from Iran! They didn’t know about camp!” says Baha Aghajani, 30. Neither did Saraf Shmutz, 39, who moved from Tel Aviv to San Diego. “My summers were ‘go play soccer and bug off.’”

As a writer who hasn’t been back to her camp, Young Judaea, in New Hampshire, in 25 years, I signed up to learn what’s moving Jews to opt for uncomfortable bunk beds and kosher-style mess halls, in lieu of a real vacation.

Trybal isn’t the only over-21 camp cropping up these days. Nor is it the only Jewish one. Camp Nai Nai Nai, which also operates on both coasts, and attracts a post-college, more conservative crowd. And “55+” Orthodox Jews have been davening at summer retreats for decades at places like Isabella Freedman where campers crochet kippahs and take day trips to Tanglewood, in the Berkshires.

Trybal is arguably the only camp, though, that starts the day with an “Abe Weissman Workout,” a calisthenics routine straight out of “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.” (Tomato juice refreshers included, but no rompers.)

It’s also, explains Ms. Warsawski, “a place for people who are more -ish than Jew.” Like Molly Shapiro, 28, of Berkeley. ““This is my jam!” she says. “Synagogues today aren’t really designed for us. We want something less traditional, more affordable, more fun. I mean, playing cornhole isn’t Jewish, but we’re playing cornhole together!”

Togetherness is what Trybal is all about. The schedule is packed from early morning to midnight with get-to-know-you-games and group activities like partner massage and mah-jongg, pickling and pool time.

The next morning, I pass up dreamcatcher-making for challah baking. “Oh yeah, this is what I’m here for,” says Abel Horwitz, a young Robert Downey Jr., kneading dough we’ll later braid and adorn with toppings beyond the traditional sesame. Rainbow sprinkles. Peaches. Jalapeños. “Will 20 loaves be enough for all 60 of us tonight,” some Jews worry.

Next, it’s a tossup between the relationship workshop and the ropes course. I decide I like humans more than heights and head over to hear what the visiting Rabbi Sherre Hirsch, has to say. She reads a passage from the 20th-century philosopher Emmanuel Levinas and tells us to partner up. A 26-year-old named Sam and I stare into each other’s faces for a full five minutes. “Sit with the discomfort,” the rabbi urges. Reluctantly, I do. I smile. He winks. I wiggle, examining his wrinkle-free forehead and bushy eyebrows bound to grow bushier in old age, until my awkwardness turns to calm. I’m overwhelmed by a deep feeling of curiosity and compassion for this man, for myself, for humanity.

“That was a good reminder,” Ms. Aghajani says afterward. “To give people more of a chance. To not swipe so fast.”

After a grilled cheese buffet, there’s solar art and yoga and Slip-n-Slide kickball. I head for the hammocks, where a guy with long red hair is lounging in a tie-dyed Helvetica T-shirt that reads “Falafel & Sabich & Hummus & Schwarma.” It’s his third Trybal. He is the camp guitarist, and a rocket scientist in real life.

“I come to be a kid again,” Jeremy Hollander, 34, says. He pauses. “And to, you know, be with my people.” In real life, he doesn’t bring up the fact he’s Jewish. “‘Hollander’ isn’t ‘Schwartzenbaum’. People see me and usually think I’m Scottish or something.” He feels safer that way. Especially today, he says, with rising anti-Semitism. “The flame is being fanned. You never know who has what opinions. Here, I can let my hair down.” (Although, technically, it’s in a ponytail.)

“The only one thing I have to worry about at camp,” he says, “is when am I going to squeeze in a shower?”

Still, before sundown, we all emerge from our bunks neat and clean and dressed in white. “Can you believe I got this for $2.99 at Saks Off Fifth!” exclaims Lauren Katz, a volunteer staffer wearing lace. (We can’t.)

Picture time. “Say Cheese!” the camp photographer instructs. “But we’re lactose intolerant!” someone cries from the crowd.

We gather in a stone-lined grove, to sing and sway and cheek-kiss “Shabbat Shalom,” before making our way to the dining hall for a sit-down dinner of roast chicken. And, of course, plenty of challah.

It’s all so familiar to me. The tunes are different, but the Hebrew words are the same. The trees are eucalyptus, not pine, and Mr. Hollander is not the longhaired, tie-dye-clad musician from my old camp, and yet — he could be.

I agree with what he said earlier. There is something easy and assuring about spending a summer weekend like I used to (albeit for eight whole weeks): with my people. Or, at least with people who remind me of my people. New friends bonded by old memories.

Trybal is like a modern millennial shtetl, where gesundheits fly. And “Hava Nagila” plays at a Hawaiian luau. And campfire stories include, “How I Became a ‘Nice Jewish Guys’ Calendar Model.”

It’s an alternate, insular world where I find myself running through a field, streaked in war paint, chanting: “We have spirit, because we’re Blues! We have spirit because we’re Jews!”

It’s a universe where conversation flows from the Netflix show “Shtisel” to the lack of Jews in Santa Barbara to the universal disdain for online dating (despite the fact that Trybal is sponsored by JSwipe), to whether Ms. Rosenberg indeed met her future husband.

“We’ll see,” she says, smiling. She did make-out at Arts & Crafts with the Trybal barista: a boy she barely remembers being at her bat mitzvah.

On the last night, I slip quietly out of the luau, where the D.J. is rocking “Lean On Me.” I leave the Leavitt ladies in their twin Hawaiian shirts and my Rosé bunkmates dancing the macarena. Mr. Shmutz and the Cabernets are making reunion plans. Mr. Blake is flirting with one of his crushes.

I have an early flight to catch. Back to my husband and kids and, in a way, the future. In the morning, I’ll miss the friendship bracelets and the compliment circle and, like a true last day of camp: tears. For a moment I have FOMO. And then I realize, it’s fine. Sometimes an Irish goodbye is just as good as a Jewish one.

Rachel Levin is a contributor to the Travel section and the author, with Wise Sons Deli, of “EAT SOMETHING,” to be published in March, by Chronicle Books.

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