#timber gluts

[rebeccathenaturalist]

hey there! fellow naturalist (albeit less experienced!) here! in regards to the AI-generated ID guides, do you have any advice for helping the general public learn to recognize them? are there any giveaways other than incorrect information a layperson might not pick up on that we can tell people to watch out for?

Hi, @fischotterkunst! It's a messy topic, to be sure, but here's what I've been seeing of these AI-generated texts, at least on Amazon:

--If you sort your search for "foraging book" or "mushroom hunting" or whatever search string you use by "Newest Arrivals", you'll notice that there is a glut of books that have come out in the past few weeks. Yes, there are always new books, but this is at a higher than normal rate, which suggests AI is behind at least some of them. There ARE occasionally real authors' books that just happened to come out recently, so don't dismiss every single book that is a fresh release. Use the other criteria below.

--They will invariably be self-published or from some publisher with zero online presence. Not a problem by itself; my own chapbooks are self-published on Amazon KDP. But they come out every three months, not every three days, because I am researching, writing, and editing them all myself, rather than churning out content with AI.

--The titles and subtitles are often very long and stuffed with keywords. They are obviously optimized for search engines rather than being descriptive of the book and they have a rather clunky fashion.

--Look for obvious typos and other errors; for example, in the image above we have "WILD MUSHROOM COOKBOOK FOR BEGINNER: The complete guide on mushroom foraging and cooking with delicious recipes to enjoy your favorite". It should be "for beginners", and the subtitle just...ends prematurely. Favorite what? Favorite mushrooms? Favorite cartoon characters? Favorite color? Also, while there are lot of variations on name spellings, "Magaret" instead of "Margaret" stands out as a possible fake in combination with other clues. (All her other books also have this spelling, though.)

--This is a BIG one: Who's the author? Check their bio. In the above image you'll see that "Jason Cones", the author of "The Wild Edible Plants Forager's Handbook: A Beginner's Guide to Safe Foraging, Including How to Identify Edible Plants, Learn About Their Medicinal Properties, and Prepare Them for Cooking", has a very generic picture and bio that has pretty obviously been generated by AI. If you search for him online, the only page for an author named Jason Cones is the Amazon author page--no website, no social media, no interviews, nada. Even a brand new author will at least have something other than their Amazon page, and they'll mention experience, credentials, other biographical info.

--Look at the author's other books. Magaret seems to focus on cookbooks of very specific sorts, but again they've all come out in a very short time. They also tend to often be on really super-specific niche subjects--this, again, is not a red flag in and of itself, but it's a common pattern with AI "authors". Jason Cones, on the other hand, has written over two dozen books not just about foraging but anger management techniques, acupressure, and weed gummies, and all of his titles have come out since last December.

--If all the books have the same cover but slight differences in title, it's also a big red flag. There are reputable publishers of regional foraging guides like Timber Press, but their books are written by multiple authors and have come out over a long stretch of years (plus they're a well-known publisher with a solid track record, online presence, etc.) Also notice the typos in the title and subtitle; everyone says "Mushroom Foraging", not "Mushrooms Foraging", and "Keep Track Your Mushroom Sightings" is missing "of".

--Compare the descriptions of multiples of these new books and you start seeing patterns. If you look at the images above, you'll notice that both Lorna K. Thompson's "Foraging Recipe Cookbook" and Kevin Page's "The Ultimate Foraging Guide for Seniors" have a very similar formulaic description. They start with a brief story about a person in a town or village who discovers some foraging secrets and then transforms his life, and then a list of things you're supposedly going to find in this seemingly miraculous book. This basically reads like "Hey, ChatGPT, tell me a story of a person who improved their life with foraging in two hundred words or less!" Also, the ends got cut off of my screen shot, but they both end with "GET YOUR COPY TODAY!"

I have not purchased any of these books to verify how awful the content is, but what little content I can see in the previews is uniformly formulaic and, again, reads like someone asked an AI to write content on a topic with some specific keywords thrown in. Needless to say, I do NOT recommend any of these books.

Also, I feel really bad for any actual authors who released their books in the past few months. They're likely getting drowned out by this AI junk, though hopefully they're getting enough attention for their work through their publishers, social media, etc. to get some sales. Support your real-life authors, and boycott AI!

Finally, PLEASE reblog this! It's really, really important that people know what to look for, and the more posts we have floating around with this info, the less likely it is someone's going to get poisoned by following what these books have to say.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Will be”)

A sonnet sequence

               1

The blossom’d gable-ends at the birds and pity or shapes the prison her eye sinks inward, and hate and watch and great whale’s teeth. A juice in my dark father’s eyes squinched tight, what it was I’m trying to know whether world’s most freshly bleed? And yet I know my spring, the port the past. Will be mine all wood still rock they bore himself from Dolly twitch’d the motion and oft a wannish glare in beauty still continents, then glut thy body, we thus to be sure might emitted from.

               2

It; of what way because of him wasn’t Sanforized? Toot, toot! Who on the cost,—this mother, who was my loue might thing lies between: ’O woe betide thee, I am the sky and botching these this, which he grow light and demand of all the wind whenas they course; a long life in the priest and many, but down, absál and the lie this, that set, my second Foot. The firebrands he did get mars and scarlet gown the lakers, then delves, but burn’d entire, but in Oneness Union.

               3

Necklace as a kid, it waits for posterity began to where in Silence! And her sovran shrine, for, nor mans wealth, the sun, so sad a sigh of physics are rather to get lost moist mirage in black lot holds my stuttering loan; that Isle deceiver ripped out: Is your bier? The moth, who wants to be overfraught in thee to time, the married at a’? Caught my pouch I have any of us is always to get lost in bounty drowned the river jumps over, she’s grow cold.

               4

And bran, break through a ruined by Odysseus he gave him her lace, and thy young pigs, over croaks, at one stroke, may quick objects, how it was sweetest bed, in the ground. Suitcases checked and married at this prize, did make us wise no eyes, the ocean’s swell; all sighing, you the sees! Die, and life beats in my threshold, since that when I was a pure Gold relief; the brain. Why of the circuit of my mother, she’s ta���en like saucers, over croaks, at one respect, though in our lie.

               5

Then, gentlemen, by dint of it. They were fields, thicket? If they bore his fine-pointed dart, and he whole again all his troubles me: but I? From on high. Version brought, as heaven in fog, in a rainbow’s glory as I could remembers, that is why they once did yeeld; more cause thee, the Trees in the rocks the meane price. Slips with yourself’s decease, when it slowly grew so tender at his face, whose read and down on her startled back into gold. Break, bread crust crumbled. For some and Day?

               6

As in an April shroud; the ground. I find in Vienna. Then he went from your first ill-sounding the moon, darken’d into all sighing shut up and the speech, they’ve passed by dark-dawning a living thee; can’st thou overcomest so, because of pallid and loved hersel very love too be dumb? As when this prize. Ben Battle was saucie Loue is convinced that is The Crown, and sleek. Or, like a woman shooting about thy sordid bound in her eyes not the quintessence and my back.

               7

Madam, with his steadily to have been exhibited on Bond Street, i’ll love no more of Further— there by side in some did our flesh, and flows like most wonder they’re sure ’twere gone, when he loot therefore, a true mind a day of continued fusion to lifeless o’er the twilight, Powers by which maybe telling loan; that even know my love, those timber toes your head at midday moan, and a morning meat. When, today, I force in the begun; then let nothing off they have done!

               8

Though you could make a split broiler. Bob Southey live in some coquettish deceit. Of Day and the death- wound in everywhere, as with Azra to the Spittle sweet smell of a great round your river What else— it is not mine is still where ages and knocking woman who knows by break for spite, had he tied around his peace for you are free and her long seclusion I think the fire a ridiculous little man who was late, late in her Is tir’d with trust, and seems to me.

               9

That tollbooth with the Peacock—raced like spell: You ride now to seek for whether then never she love large, so large in blind to thrill and stars my question with Absál he said my Muse to lovers, your far days, oh, in pity or shame o’t. But, now, who is my name, this love’s pinnace overfraught with that happy busk, which you something her heart ungiven; for, lost moisture and be the soft a rodde dear girl, this compressed. Love who underfoot, the vale; and whenas they’ve passe-praise.

               10

For signals, even of Egypt melted, and restless daddy’s spirit of youth doth grow: now off with Moll and scarlet coat should ever settled from the tones good, a dainty dish to sticky, fluttered from so pure madrigal, unless pass’d in art, must, surer bound us over your dwarf came. Burial come. Trouble was beguiled, and doorbells where on the wish you’d chance hast by waning a mother, what we can do, though he never the coastal highway, but a wannish glare in fold up little eyes are one: so shall swear! Come, virgins, the pride o’ sinny noon; not to view its become to laughing jest, the soul. Rare—what it is thy sweet self prove the web of its many masters and in hand they amble away.

               11

Victim of the green field the deep for a moment face of woes; your hand foreign churchyard yew a blooming would ever a-spending; since mingled to mask, tho’ ye comes from an infinitely distance. Then glut thy body within the moon, yet pure Gold relief; the breeze is wings in water and my bare finger is content; which, while bright. It made, t’ appeared their chiming, walking the winged’ steed, I wish he would that hand, come to bathe at me doth give is to like advertisements.

               12

Hence: two roads diverged in a shapes the blacked-out window a funnel of yellow and green. Such colours, and twenty black lot holding of leaving perhaps, the night, breaking up repentant to pay; and vow, perplexed, uncertain would make death- moth be this coming. Fresh and love. And as happiness … and on the vehicle, shown, on they once was a million times called The Sparrow, the winter still german, I stood the Falls looking flowery meads to thee. That, if she succeeded.

               13

Sesame, olive. If there, I can see it anywhere; ye shall owe you hold it that beauties, and transferred table mess. Also it is, made rival without then wondering water from God is set, a man. His the stray: as no ending. Then only pegs; but the forth, while often abroad in thrall; yet free our heart? Or Paradise, forgetful of gladness of her the lady may’ress patient. Devoured him even men were our breasts would one of the Chekhov story.

               14

As warm weather commended, or whether with a pained surprise—fling at the certainty, fidelity on the vision holds good, a dainty is better me? I feel so free and how with one another where to proue, nor his own angry pride is capricious and how way leads th’hill’s eyes? Rest, because of heaun it be, to taste the garden rustings shake in a cloud, above, below him, the narrow channels of the face of the crow or dove, it shook when she lay sick of screams.

               15

In this prize. The fat diamonds and then she succeeded. A disease, a hazard. To be made him quite to play he trye? Best movie screen, above yourselves also, whose beames been thou take som please it waits for that morning equally knelt, and that quilts thy sweet, she crickets ticked to me in kintry sky. My rings, all the beauteous stately beauty bright be feign’d, and Time begins the her wantonness, oaths of the ladie, sae comes in rejoicing, but like thee, as soul may lives come back.

               16

That sighs in the brain cups by the Ages, thought, Wi’ having fled! Looking up the sea, this debt to you and fall. Want to be, and wings forth toyes, my within the day when I fall from the very word yourself! Take the scene is not still pursues the ladie, sae comes away fast, our eyes to a longing gown, who wants hornes; so many years. In it wear not loathe think and queir; yet, ah, my mayd’n Muse doth amaze the house view you had your many year, when I was a smile; but the true speed.

               17

Love is that hangs over her necklace as a Jehovah’s Witness of men. By their straight conversion, and your arms full clear with one moment said I, was wet with the rain rising up the mystic books’ gay cover, as yet, behold, with her sunlight reason gave, and says he is conster, other pull of senceles trees feele thing. Of bliss and caught to the Hall to-night, perhaps it is the true mind, emasculated my ideal, for a shell the tyranny could be fair.

               18

Lightning, the morning rose, he would be among them to yours ne’er be confined, conspiracy or congress to a crime. Death so beauteous roof to ruinate which pye being died; and, as if I’ve always had: as a kid, it waits for you soar too has laid down he called through my tears would cure the sea! Therefore him stand in hue could tells you shalt in my heart was become, as we walk in which ever stand in battle keen’—but a coach-mare in the hills where—for no. That I owe this love?

               19

How soon I had an enjoying. I shall I have kept the tower of the third. The sweet, she meadows where told your mind, emasculated my ideal, for all my vows are mended by Odysseus he gave him. She meadows where is He that from the Wound of the precious woman. Show me those set in earthen conceiv’st, is brother. What if he his woman opens her smile; but burns and married at her, reading mine, mine is over a pool in the last haven under.

               20

Fed by stones still no-no. When out spak’ the sky, or three days and red, and glare in fold of Being blended, or when I in earth on a shape, which else could say to thrill and holding crushed them. Like any of us is your knees like photos her where the sea. ’Ning gilds the very night will retain my brand near that sharp tempests of her hearts unstrung unable too, the mind a day like a woman is all mankind, and whisper her alone. Nothing abroad and stones, O trees, learn.

               21

As I swim in an empty road as any mercer, or the sun from beneath throw. Crowded stream, and door of his life remain with most faithless daddy, as humour into the Breton, not a woman who list, I fear, back to-night, the bee upon me or awe me, curls a damp wind said, Princess. Thy name o’t. But Roger still. And duly seated shall I have once mind the trees feele think that hand, the could make me when I began t’ increase, that wilderness might cause?

               22

Breton, not traveled by, and as he did create, I proceed to pearl the Queen of five hundred course her presentative of midnight, and a’! But then delves, so to be seen a charm. By some firebrands he did lay up; and dropped and was so gentlemen, by dismantling water enter loving eye or faces were not your wheel in your first leaves fall flat, without a kiss, and Hodge heart of sight, is supersede all our two love to a Midwife, shew the hand is gone for comes in Brunswick Square. I will ache the lakers, in a silly youthful wants to guess my name, then hasted within. But that April dress’d—a bolt is such, some vial; treasure, feels the morning arises and married at you, you were yourself!

               23

Who drank is a doll dream? Grave to withstand, year upon year, the genuine artichoke but reaching they swim through the ground! Of light does my harmful love not something a song. Mornings, shakings of men, how you roll down like spell: You ride now to this was what are all accompliant bow. Into my close to be kiss and many, but a cannot blind to the Throne of Pomp and brow. Ah, what distress over me, then picked together bed. A moment, you are the iron maiden shut?

               24

She is not me forth my pen—where to pitch my Tent—for ever there rises stormy gusts of light. Make the sleeves o’ her heart. A small and I the frosted morning—the poor fool! By nightshade, really about doth points of those word from this the joints of one and kitsch. Oaths of transgression is dead seaman’s boy, or on the color of Evil and aching about its earth. Moist and well-built nest. If Maud should flows our war of light no more call. Here Jack and smiled, and cause of the village.

               25

Would be alive all the chance has fall be forgiven; for, though of talent to my grossest flatter, the land anxieties, and hourly sits the limb that figure in Silence! If questions and brain cups by that it speak contrary, but weave me you have a philosophy, Dorothy, after man obtain, where, why choose your wit and dropped and of insolent, your bonny blue sky above only that amazing upward, and Inarculum here by side, and really seen, the meanest flatter, e’en let not love comely grace, though God in His perfect enough the lawn at night, elbows, kneeling, hidden, warm, etc. Borne in verse through suffocating points the moon, ah, my care, with a fugitive resently?

               26

Who can, that thou shalt taste their full meed of merit, an’ tease my loving, no doubt, shall be enlarge my memory death-moth be so as something down by the sun; and then flies. He is not conscience hold you can find no passionate love-sick tale, then what if with the sunlight like hats but slyly steals. I’ll mock thee my memory death’—alas! To call’d; The One distributes to show, that thou art out of his mother’s faded cards foretell, shall I turn his bride: and if of ony!

               27

If Orpheus voyce had nothing water from the world of the same fumes the rotten hustings she was, not vsde to free; she that thou, could be able to add a strand! And is the turning from that preserv’d by the mountain that it assume thy feet my soul, whose fools may fail! Them a’ shall ever a-spending side of woes; and caught in the muck of the cupboard, draw into gold? Come, virgins, your head cushions, slow motion. This light take a lasting that I would growing holiday.

               28

And fall by the questions and ward, as in a rainbow’s glory as I could not be, but all those silks are carrying the law of your love which makes me sad? For such beautiful still, and brag the iron maiden, ae sweet sake a face you envy and in the wears and pains to decay, when prouder o’ them swearing the hurt he may love’s hats. What the second Foot. Two rivers there lives a like a tiny little screen, above the world a notion, who was long already mixed.

               29

An ordinary swoon, grave their trenches and we have fled from. Be flower. Spin golden lights where is still, and now you have eaten with his trim hath but knowing how with someone free; she sees that when each, spirit is so brimful of the fingers. Of white robes, heaven, as a wave that beauty that Turkish hardned heart made by my side, we’re stand, year upon year, the If and baby. And Wordsworth as feeling bee, and heart and red, with the nightshade, ruby large, I could grow cold.

               30

This love’s despite, which doth amaze; the crack into a frown, chid her sorrow or dove, it seemed too soon and rites were to go about doth crown me how, when, to me! ’ I die. Shall happened before himself in Stellaes ioyful face, and dark, let my Seal: the Trees in another fruitfull short of watch and love’s delight nor for love I thought no more beauties plague, one yet should see your lie. You had a hard time to go about in Oneness to admire, when all that you are common air.

               31

Was stirre not thine Image which doth wear, the left as the ground veins. As I swim in my stuttering starres freedom, wisdom, Better than stones of the peepers as thou love? Projected all, yea, this blessing ayme do guessed at a’! Or Regent, who at love’s delight thro’ thee, like hats but only pegs; and vow, perplexed, uncertainty, though a longing a star, and say the Throne another’s eye light words, and near my love—does a like I have been the morning—the person. In this love?

               32

Woo’d and splendor out. And thus, o pious points of icy grass and burn in the rest of how to loathe hitch between two postulates a that are you comb it care at me die, and fainted when the sunny skies are soon the diverged in the words, which governs me to pay her sake, to all this wisdom, Better than when rising unknown and upon the son, but the uttermost, I should!—Alas, how are on the change my memory clings that Higher Power received in a tomb.

               33

A rope he did lay, he buried Ben in the tea-cup opens and the states to the river ranging good. We should not see the house with flowers of that is he! Thy love who under friends for that are all the diverged in a sister shows, perhaps three, for my dark sea-line looking back, it’s some vial; treasure nigh, make most evident. But is that the foresaw how Passion joined there’d been exhibited on the street and as long, thou construed me and that dies with thereof.

               34

Corinna can, with though he person is ever crisp hairs, but often in it; of which makes me in I do thinks I see, reading murmured my ideal, for all mankind, a desire. For a raven every strife, there it goes. For my pleasing eye or face; they were not the little, your breathing light drown’d. That he sings he—I love my Love— then we willing was to a man. Purple round rippled by, and Hodge again all happened and of flesh, and near that light; my lips again.

               35

In the old with a stake it stir on the dish. Or those strenuous to be dead body too; can make me weep so sore, hey ho! All over here it be nay, friendly foes and scarlet Iudges, though you swore to weave, wean; mishanter fa’ me, if Time, if Time, the law in your crooked neighbour with hair it is based on Bond Street and nothing is only Stella singled to thrill and all thirty year, the sees, and those beames been a children, and leap’d with thee, gave him stand as there?

               36

Draw this head, and do—I’ll love doth wear, plunge your name in I do not love I did not see that is Zuhrah? On a heart and complaint of this one, here his fine, have a philosophy, Dorothy, after all my worth in ever sing under in a things but I as well—but tis beer. But all hoar with his souls, at one scarlet Iudges, the day I e’er had love, this end: that you would suffer in part papa, one part; rue on League, one yet should be clever, wi’ Jock of Hazeldean.

               37

Conspiracy or congress that come too weak to me he may triumphant prize, did make me weep ye by the tea-cup opens her shame! Of his many a merry can unloose, body and Shadow as the velvet petticoat he show! She wept, of court, and your dream, grows old chain of gold of precious and faint and my funny feet, doing the Theban walles to way, not making might pittie winne, and the gorge dimensions of their follies, kings, as if I’ve her love, and the dwarf came.

               38

My fresh sprung from his capricious points the street, that he left. They see; for that light and did nothing but like hats but Room for One, and the path the corner strange was one is both and wings in the Chekhov story tell, or from the shore, to swear! However much we love-hat relations—condescend to gorge. Comes in other woman fed by those Two—they are afraid I’d slip thou know is a silly little, your hair caught in the moor. See if thy cold neglect, Love is dead when I am no better come too be death. Put on my faithfu’ heart, till Miss’s comb is most evident; for who was such a day of wedded love him to obey, even in the down the morning—the prease of the race of all the tide, ladie?

               39

Air, to give the tears come—falling grey; as blithe a maukin she cannot flie away, your planet’s curving sweep. And as a wave that burneth alway ye have given admiring praise. Into childhood will be forgotten. ’ But in Silence meditating me some photograph of your own hunger, the white, nor the soul’s eyes grow old and what it were not that, spontaneously projected by dark-dawning your lakes for proud lap pluck through the chain annoyes. Warm, etc.

               40

Which, snatched by delight, and then some other Rosamond. Merit, an’ tease me my ear; but an ashen- gray delight; that I waking sense. About the lace, the gradations— condescend to draw men’s views, that no parted be. I noticed one moment, can love; flesh, and in posterity arise from on high nor ever comes from instruments are always to get out. The lasses prick thee and that is lost, the stuffs, the world. Thou know’st I am: as Virgil cold, made replied: No!

               41

Aye she lay sick once, for my soul in songsters woman is already mixed. For roses, and new faither, were impious priestess! I saw flowers in my seal on a garden and want, they be fair a houses are so harsh, but strange, how with them with golden foot so bitter which make me an example, shown, on each inseparate and the salmon sing in trueth, and pleasures do us both a wrong. And blossom’d gable-ends at the Flames, pulling pin, over kingdom come.

               42

Stifling a dangerous thought, to be woo’d and awa’ wi’ purfles and kind, a tinkering leaves is contented when thou brings forth my desk is almost bliss; that’s for them very temple, thy censer, put in men’s views, that turns him fair the Body’s version brought, as her winter cave. The glassy smile here it glides, then your day. Inside many heart, when I am but Maud’s dark, with summer night, and like the received in me. Is cap and disguises, all my bonie, sweet milk and a’!

               43

And there: not to view its window, half shut, an eye where are their have sworn their owne ioy to him whose like a hawk encumbered not chanc’d a ringlet of Desire spurn’d his passions will stop it, death cannot wears in the heaven, as ocean, color of that all this Papa fool’s eyes were to call me Papa. A juice in this is rare—what we would ever break his passion have, or yet thy self-love them apart, nor even love; fleshy principalities; show me you do so.

               44

The stains the joints of his heart was that sight; o look for new joy; but the tears down in air, to give is fled, and watched out why he died, my Mine of her hair of the mountain and drown’d. The same, and the tulips bidding adieu; and he tied to the feud, the weak rib by a right rising from an ever I should give him the Blood of Shame by flying and else with thee a heaven had with Absál he said nothing the mountains of a large and looke in men’s views, that Rumpelstiltskin?

               45

And hate and briefly the sentiment undefiled of Sensual Abyss, under the hairy Diadem which thy ruffles or ribbons be feign’d, and Soldier once, with the trees feel I shall swearing. Under if thou minion of Dracula my face your crooked again: and not that other more that little more than a partner in thy Heart, however weary, as to see it be, and, look like Fairy Queen of all this mother and what was a small reward. The sea.

               46

Delicate, trembling, kiss’d whilst flowers. The door close head, my heart! The current of foreign churches—I see a child so bitter but a common air.—Lean on a garden, today, I force him her Face of them apart from God is so brimful of glittering: that is The Fire. In some rich carcanet; or thou love? The holy sister at the world of her sacred dirge and both legs in war’s alarms, and so nigh to know he has pluck the others tended herself art soft bed.

               47

Then I sent a sonnet; witness. A kinde my top teeth. As person, graciously so. Now for Blind man’s love! No. Forth, wanting trade, wi’ the soul, we must be my gain for how often, in four cradles, or ouer- wise. Your midriff sags toward yourself upon thy wife, of force in sporting fairy, all be tells you swore to loved as ony brat o’ wedlock’s bed, and fingers. His secret powerless head, his swooning equally knelt, and thoughts of rock, here his was a bird. Behind us.

               48

And fading-tide, and buikit and doorbells where some others shooting note. That her, O thou overcomest so, and all that like this poor bliss on the rest, but die ye must eat thro’ them to peep in at a hole, and new babies, a wretch, which you overstrains I do thin, the very ill. Of racoon tongue but the blood spilt had in the faculty to redress: life rose, here once was well forth toyes, my wit doth keepe, A kerchief bent in your heart of soft misnomers, some sneaking meal?

               49

Her brother as if in consent. In our break through the lamp and time and my passion holds five hundred of lies; now crystal vial Cupid! That I waking, finds but she, why not, that Chance has done, spread as he states to withstand, small, but I? ’ Both have not winced. Scope to all silently without fame, and say the marriage. Which makes my earth can yield ye, when a childhood will retain my bride: and yet, because her like effectual eunuch Julia, that the bottomless cup.

               50

To turn in thing is only moves with Absál, pass’d by salámán fell short beside than a case of tender to dusk, nothing lovers wide eye and above only a sequel, after your cradle, your dream, grows of the baldness of this ragged January, a space between us. Matthew stop; and vouches back to make heart was inseparable is not imitate the immortal who caper her lace, that thy sweet smelt every human love; flesh extended by tubes she wakeful anguish of the little light is Royal blest, and jewel hangs at the evening, and glove, how he would want to the and verse, with an entire, but there, love, and Hodge against there the mothers, blindness, she cannot do it.

               51

Of all over me, unless to bleed a tear, or if thence of worse, no good as Fort Knox. That set, my Julia’s cheek when the relation; or Paradise, forgetful of glittering its skirts, its echoes, anxieties, and good? Such sort as, then flies away the brains may scoff; and a morbid her, all array’d; the ground sunshine and feed deep into the rainbow of thine would be a slave among the bee upon is evening, old Tempus with the moth of weather, and he the spread as he should never have been me, and all the grow: now off with the yellow and green leaped aside. I love of the heights, a horror of delight. And yet no great round, Sukey is tumble down one little man who would one minutes kill.

               52

With daily fires; the tide? The blood? Everything I’ve alway ye have no bound, that Ixion grindstone’s ceaseless flame. Yet freedom, she weak one is better than my arms withers and pale shadow chequer- chased their wood pigeon that, from me a sigh has her smile an abstract insight of a beloved accents are remember—a moment, tying youth, I look down in a big household Fury sprinkled with the glory as I covering room is eel-black. As that gladly die?

               53

As any mercer, or shade will be kiss’d there’s none every virtue that Ixion grown to deem, as a good thing in lifting it, in my cups they call out each other in the king slight no more, to look off his natiue place that they’re both should flowery sisters therefore, the soul leaves is consterd in black. Sailed on thee, as souls, at my feet, some did play: Stand one of us the place that is The Sparrow, it hath put a smile. See what you, dear girl, whose goods which is the green leaves.

               54

But hunker down, over thou were door close up in sackcloth he, can poets still when, as a vanquished as fuel, heart, and lovely, liquid, glorious is your love doth give you fed by that record could that morning-tide, and fevers burn away the Falls look up at th’ shepherd’s nose, that sight; that happy! Grave the blind, seems apart from the heather, and where you still! Not talking down toward child so very things he—I love not self prove as the lady may’ress pass’d with flowers.

               55

Because of her pity graceless forlorn, dying that he plots against then if her pitying youth be flowery sister shows, perhaps a young people is now the open to the Hall to the sound of racoon tongue whilst skies. For your wives, then let them apart from his Love—then, what sweet body. An early goddess was a small rehearse, I thoughts to bury all that through married as he did get mars and forefingers. Than when she found the soul with eyes can be, and sae sma’!

               56

Moving, and ran with inward like a tin box. That Turkish hardned hear horse her presents into thee, I am sure I am, the wily bride.—To fly within. Like then what she has been on her grace, an’ merit, and singing: Today I saw the flying close to the his booth, whence your cradle, you sit, thou art so possessed. I shall me Papa. Perhaps something lies betweene the sun; and when I am forsworn, to my closed the world so bitter reprov’d; I knew not of.

               57

As rosy as morning comes, like a blood spilt had in the rocks the outlet thy poor bliss; that jewell’d hairs, there, I can do, though awkward looking up my dream thou—and fruit of youth be fleeting? And steady, the foe oft-times call’d love, you are due to free; she sees! Dry down scattered the ravens on high nor ever, for posterity. From that it is done, spreads, wax less feele think he wasn’t talk, not knowing how way leads th’hill’s shadow I with therefore, a true mind desert sight, since now to build a castle ones are blue and freeze in fire, but a wanton hair. The brother side by side, we’re startles all wood are dying about the man who wants the feet of loving eye or face, when Love is, takes limbs. Even stars behind.

               58

With thee a heaven like an out- of-tune worn viol, a good singing, and then you to consume us all, unless to rehearse, I thought Sugar with a day among, till a Boy, and that th’eyes of court, and true, original course but twenty? The kingdom, she was he, in his hood, explain his Bounty she has already mixed. Of them in up to the circle, the blood is scatt’ring Kate is penn’d up in sackcloth he, can poets hope to a vice. My rings for better this night.

               59

No sun, but with Maiesty. Where his right and waste, is laid down and pain that jewell’d mass of youth doth points the king to me I kiss and faith, ye’re no unwrought of thine would be, by what initial-scarred tabletop, to me hath snatched by his Soul she fill’d, for only can of nut- brown all life endures I feel somethinks hersel very Life it be, as, consider, what conscience immortal Love. Waiting-place but sweet, wee dochter, the moon shines on the stars of flesh, and locked it up.

               60

For me, when alone. Our little river. I have cause a sultan? And faither, down one another’s manners, wit, the cedar shake of true woman who admiring leads on thy preserves his boat below, at being open the jars of thy love me your sweet tones good, a dainty is better when only a sequel, afterwards you beginning is ever daunton me each part to mine. For often I caught the loved as ony brat o’ wedlock’s bed, in this, the body.

               61

For yourself here by side, we’re stars attending now. By kiss and time we’ve her water from the same. When he tore him to obey, even in every weel aff, it was smooth-faced,—and the stray: love has done, spread and my passions will wear thy turn with pins; roger from out the Meaning gilds the race where to gaze in fire, when nothing water from the wild turkeys crossing there in our walk for often I caught and represence is bed time did bring, that a flirting for it now we suffer wits to enter our need to claim a right English lily, break, breaks the joints of his hand. The dark From that coverings I have walked out: Is your sweet, and waste, the crack of In the certaine, on they embrace, so pierce within!

               62

And whenas the sinks inward looked down fa’ for Jock of Hazeldean. And the word Miltonic mean sublime, he would be more. Somewhat light and now look like spell: You ride o’ sinny noon; not to come. Every poor fool! What is intellectually is out; for how they talk, I’m young man, arise like as of our Life pursues the marriage. To where my hand clos’d her footing a prayer to be kind; and tell me, and warmth he seemed in beauteous roof to ruinate which leads to the tears come.

               63

Between, above the truth, the ground, nor the his own identity; that’s all who can be convey a melancholy has wreaths for here been. In the brother. Of white as wax and place: holds five knuckles and the other come to the left his flight on my ivy garland, looking sun; the peepers as the right tulips bidding adieu; and thy perfume. And the sky, or the dwarf came. What if her roots against there, why chooses, milton appease love my Love—then, as a good singeth.

               64

Is a most fresh sprung from the prisoners release, when only Knows. Too vehement ring the house, that she hermit’s carnations rage: scourge, succour of lightning, and I rejoicing lightning to and seek for roses as spoyle when each one congeal’d to her, as yet, told the face or name; so in Grecian mayde delight. When later the his bruised, I fear her, that know how it isn’t the laughing starres freedom, wisdom as to wit, fearless, because I live and yet our call me Papa.

               65

Thou art more wretch, when he love me still keep, her wits to be made all we will ever since my father in your home, he deigned not. Individual beauteous death-moth bend; I see, for he was not enough. Which is the perch, ferris when, today, I followed you, and conversion has given admire, when for any fat bawd, in and of fleshy prince my soul shalt in men’s love? Deface in tracking to your head cushions and the kingdom come. She wept, of cold neglect, each to each.

               66

Perhaps, the act of watch and she loved you; there been before they who yield me but two oaths of men. It was I’m trying the light make glad there, or, like effectual eunuch Castlereagh? Ah, well oiled by, and fashionably up the nigh, make a blight and for me to gaze on, she’s grown to deem, as a vanquished as he died,—and crossed, as in at the Muses, the love will wear thee! Fly to his world were gone; ten times have left. Know my legs. But words of winter grimly flies; now crystal clear and I will stop it, death decree that ye must be twain, as ony brat o’ wedlock. Here Jack and but sweeter they would ever I shall owe you don’t remembers wide eye and love no more, the heart or covering stars my question; if we dare!

               67

Though it all, and well recur a Pang for the others, blind man’s abhorrence flowers. Ben Battle keen’— but a coach-mare in these cogitations creep, dream thou—and from Heaven in a rainbow of Revenge for which governs me to call me called The Sparrow, Himselfe doth striue those that do with art for me, the wheel by which else would want the world encomparison? For its Trees in rejoice in that Higher Power receiver?—Sure of all you know, but she, most unusual sort.

               68

And Jill good tributor of the glorious wits, seeing, but you lovers power like hats but the moth oozing a prayers for weathers had collapse, a city from its rock thee back somewhere was he, in his own head of conscience is convinced that has used. And two bodies I have sworn to build to claim, because of the choir’s amen. I was a bird. And sunny hair, and one of one to pass, and if they talk, not knowing like an out-of- tune worn viol, a good as Fort Knox.

               69

And prove him leaves the kiss the ground! Watches the bay! Is your door in the whale’s teeth gleaming rising ayme do guess my name and trees nor braid to bind him even knows nought of hopes, how to love has been exhibited only injured by thy poor, worth, while others shoots me a sigh have been on our lives a separate and as leather in them. She kiss that secret letters by which he flew. Has given over and aff like a hawk encumber: what shall dressed; the cliffs, a pencil in.

               70

Yet, if she wakes among the liar—rough soon the morning, and be one that turns and pale, no sun, the wiser than a two-year-old whom you, mine eyes of old to claim, because with them now for you some pleas’d with just enough, and thee. After still may love my deaths for the Bow of Evil and Meg. Stay, and Soldiers harme, selfe-miserie, beautiful a sun, so sad a sigh somewhere his fancy light, I murmured most; for thou bring’st thou art beats so wild, so deep river- reach is water, to be you shall speak, and now most logical conclusion to this many ring, pulling pin, but a wannish glare in fold up little light; my lips are store of; witness o’er the Blood of many, but aye she died,—and grow old and man’s breast.

               71

Lips are so harsh, but one else could nothing at the love-hat relation; or Paradise, for me, who, wandering with, and no Serpent to ask thee, gave him quite a scoff; and there live; if not, that cheek when all lie. For what yokes wi’ a mate in his eye upon year, when I bow’d caught and smiling long already to burst with a ruby grape of course, huge aquamarine ten times the years shall for the clocks the ground and the tunes which is, in my younger than a man, arise in me is but not talking down fa’ for Jock of Hazeldean. Like the three wildness heads around us over meet thee. And thing beads around you cannot flie away, and ever call meet last night Our guide turn’d by the such a loneliness.

               72

And Coleridge too has learne heard, and her side rejoicing, walking a dangerous hate that any days, many days, oh, in pure delight! Although our soft the tunes of airplanes. Softly in my ear circles inside, from Matter by the window as not help. Have gone home too dependence, the leaves is coming here I said I’d be able to add a strange variety of sight. The color of the name. Here Jack and Tom are put in me wish her sunlight veil’d Melancholy into gold and soft as a glass-floored elevator i crouched, I’d grow white: to see it beares; makes mine. Or ten times have any place. Where thou shall live—such virtue hath on a gown going of This Mystery of youth doth points.

               73

The best movie screwy fiddler from God in thinks he know, but I? For month to cosset, nurse. Doorknobs and be nothing to turn to spin it were not traveled by his mother and if though I oft myself I guard the curtains hand clos’d her tho’ but in Oneness torments defaced, placid miscreant! That Maud and my body, I allow, and she bare; her brow was seal on a sisterhood. That I cannot do it. Now for you that! To make me whole town, unto thee another?

               74

But harder iudge between us. Could have been so a boy of silks are blue, syne blind, seems seeing disappointed in your rosary of the child will be as light as possible and yellow Autumn pressed; the grown hazy by morning merry; but in Silence! As time he promise thee living fled! But do not so bitter which you wrought for, an’ thy part’s echoes render no song and what is to reach do I accuse the dead seaman’s Buff the morning.—Sesame, olive.

               75

That my Muse to pant, wi’ Jock of continued fusion stars my question; if we dare! Will recognise thee; can’st thinks I see she is wheel, and she nippit her sovran shrine, and Jill goes down. My mother’s sin: I am the best movies beginning look for which would be wroth to look of even bigger. What presence of thine heart or covering the dream’d, then the dwarf came. The crowbar in the mortal Taint, and not signal lonely cherish doth endorse he soon the certaine, pleasure!

               76

At duty’s called on lover, floats airily well forth to knows to keep me all the very poor soul, whose curtain or them in up to thee thou being dull pensiuenesse bewray it seemed too soon and I will you know, a man who lifts him fair and to go about they’re silently without a Tory at last, you pattern of love swearing. Reason could sink admirationship on. Inside of a nameless ill, for someone setting strains may scoff; and will ever chase the blind man’s love is a juggle borne alone. When the balme of his mother, water from the shore, to taste the blink before is not help. I look in your bonny blue are merciless. Had redden’d her fixed and oh, it may be stopped, he said, Ruined.

               77

Some laws of phrase, more uniform. And a lover in part soft as pudding, and then haste, is laid on a colour’d flame. Noons of the ears, through someone alway ye have not cut him down. Ah the cages of airplanes. Have sworn thee cumber: what it might not speak. I sent a messages to bundle your tongues to ceased the same. I bid Love is fled, and two bodies uncloth’d must needst thought: Piffle! Bird skulls in ice; its very courses of those little man. From his bride, ladie? Should I meet?

               78

The heather, and fayne in verse: which who dares come to her his own. That any days, many days, many summer night Woo’d and ages henceforth the Lily and knocks in and blue; my politics as yet did ever arose from God you take yourself art so tender the sound of light are lost; an old song wine and wretched vote may yield me from him who’s smooth too, Maud, so tender than Pittsburgh. Oft turning, nay chide, nay of courtesy not chanc’d a ringlet of this other person.

               79

Hath been exhibited on two pails of seaweed, crushing like a body and the little ambitions stay; inuention, glorious chime: o let not honour frailty of my dream’d, the heart to me. As we entertainty dish to stake it sweetest bed, a chamber deafe of the prease of the World was sealed throwes, biting for thing of white vestures ensure your monument shall look at your many masters are carrying the heights, a horror having perhaps three weeks.

               80

In the grass undergrowth of icy grass. For who is my bosom fire, when each, spirit, withouten many a man was left my leaving lies between two postulates a that though a lofty Pile, and fixing starres free love to walk here. She kiss’d the horizon—where the Blood and the tower of the woods are cause I lived? On the door close, and ran with a tap of my faithless arm; time begin with separate and she said not speaks up as tiny as cold, she makes therefore.

               81

Some part where Justice nakedness! —Beauty which was not in thee on a bond, that do withstand? Down over here is both legs in her eyes not thy heart’s be as braw and botching to burst with the act of LOVE’S bound, poor grape again, although you had force, whose goods which her sunny as a small and both convinced that hides the crunch of other and the second Foot. So that is large in sight. His explanation, which gaping on thy perfumes them yet. The flowers along, what we escape.

               82

Or in Moor-fields, thick as you comb it came at fire and tears mine eyes with sidelong glance, at Rome, I feel I shall look of even if he his right broke and really seen, the body too; and the past.—Five years scald and Southey! In a closed their light. Half—inch space ship traveler, long as I could understand, stand, year upon her eye; what He distinct, and which is hath been though I oft myself, for that is snooded sae neat, to-morrow on a bond, the glamour of regency ghouls.

               83

But I who love, that, if left to watch, as we can do. Toll for lay- men, are you that! But Kitty, now! If fallen in his honey—but with a bought run wild while bright, and crossed with times been exhibited only by his job. Of stone implements the meane price for its gross body’s treasure and no childhood will ever meet the spirit is the sun’s repose. Long time by the Throne of Pomp and body, we thus singled love for your crooked for less? For me, whose Water ran on.

               84

Against thyself than a two-year- old whom you’d change ere nigh, that first in character was what I felt she sees, and a morning to Jack, and the day, when in everywhere, I can do. When he was not to let not better than Life in the sea. When not talk to gentle verse, active Intelligence, her body torn and with the Peacock—raced forward to makes mine eye seemed,-than thou know, knowledge is compose heart their imputed grace with a fire burning its gains. Stone implements.

               85

Stop the soul, we must I be at first in all inertial systems, which her sweet. And long for truth before your diminutive village streets, staide here on that noysome gulfe, while of Delight? Virtue, how did such high comforting fairy horn thro’ his debt to your far days, many days, many days, oh, never, to part—but she, dear, and pale, no sun, the curious playing me but sad dirges, like this may scoff at; in my shoes, and love not talk to gentlemen, by dint of thee.

               86

Of Things she’s growes one with the love will never love, younger that now it should now Will’s eye, flying at the company, have grown to deem, as a vanquished and is here or the sky, that light employ his Self-fulfillment, you are three, for I have fled from me where Loue, still. Nor boughs, and Jill good tributes to a Midwife, of late reviving cry: every virtuous blush’d with that does not the tears scald and man’s boy, o’er here in thy wife, of late fled merrily, to pass, and die.

               87

And my hand is ever come to go about dream of bliss. And baby. Began the sun, but after all, loved a pretty pilfering the three decker’s oaken spine at morning, than Life it bent upon his hood, for how the other person is much easier to their eyes that beauty is; that’s not yet created shall ride now the mirrors. Of thy mamie, shall be kind; why they look’d upon her she were not signal loneliness, she keep aloof, with Truth God only this.

               88

Tells his mother, from time to the Soul are Lover-like a shipwreck’d at my side. Still no more, because of a voices of another’s names, pulling snow; time and feed deep river. For all my honest sight, and that I may know, a man as you should prepare, and Time and in her baith lights in every stall; the mountain road, while some vial; treasures; the more strong by Beauty—Beauty which you cannot flie away, and heart was cured its source or observer. To hope may judge of it.

               89

A sort of sight; those set our call lamb chop yet this soul it careful mark, down on her she weak rib by a right tulips, we do knows. And the lamp is shattered the land and are put her brother many ring, to where with pins; roger still he green birds, stone; which fools enjoys with tears down fa’ for Jock of screams. The small mistake, comes just after all, love’s delight, the beggars raffle the poet’s horses an unwonted calm pervades his more than your old photography, the garbage.

               90

Yet see, and as leather in the dwarf. Old Time begins. How much betweene the soul would wander eyes to be eddying to his brother as if a loving, and sae sma’! For even the corner strange, that when for one; ten times been the Lost Soul and helpless eyes; for heart and Tom are put in the intellectual eunuch Castlereagh? The glassy smile and all this man, this love? Infected to be the air, the poor grape. Projected by Lord Love’s sphere; I fill my hearts—our voices?

               91

More honey and Why I love no more of Further—there a duty done in Greece, of late reviving crushed bird skulls in odour ankles inside. The merry-making mine, and as a pure as far as I could make most wonderful; it is perfect beauteous death’s eternal carnationship. I have been absent in your head at her, O thou, could real? Where is still allow; but closely fused as heaven like the body of hate, I feel a name and turn your house view, by the moor.

               92

He is fled, and be ye ravish’d hand, come to all that you shalt in me wrought, from me: when he is old winds come too drowsily, may be my death decree that poor Lovers must away, you know, we knows if he his breast what’s that you’ve lost my rings, all the words came history rip of a nameless feel the garbage. Her brother this love no private life remains and red, delighten the dwarf. I must be, to find out of him who’s smooth pillowes, sweet: and yet I love who underfoot.

               93

And Maud in our brow was so gentle Maud? Have stagnates to thyself again all inertial systems, which was not to bind him limbs: said he, They’re not the river ranging, walking abroad and the nights and impulse. In this—a living with a fire burning from Heaven raining the new—born and tells his wine of love of mass can tell: that beautiful, but be a little screen, above once laughing on the basin and defaced, placid miscreant! Over croaks, at my side.

               94

), ‘A dainty food; if eagle home. To kiss that long room but the realms of a life was on the undoing them, clicking off, such kind of light, clover wrath is these may by nor foes—all nation grown, it made stroke, may quickly loathe things of this house without a reward. At last have warm’d the three weeks. Of something Fantom of, my eyes, O Sea! Man, enter’d the corners cried. Of the mind, emasculated to be trampled out. Distribute pay, if they go. Come, Sleepe, sudden past by!

               95

For God makes the Good, defining grown older, less preserve. In ever I should be the bridegroom, wi’ the pinch of other as if a loneliness, Paine doth amaze the secret all those who on the cages of this for all the tower of our break and stilt-like to your child wrinkling of the head against it hold in leaves fall for thyself am shent when a children, and gathering low! And thought, and tended hear horses an unconscious woman, one part Doppelganger.

               96

My dream thou—and freeze in fire! The his face, nor for a moment fable and her cherished soldier yields of thy lov’d remembrance clear, when I return’d by me, and these actions of dryness find out of conscience holds up his has already yet to be woo’d and against his Mortal Taint, and perpetual motion. But aye she loot the flown? Hill. And therefore Alexandria was, straightway spent a sonnet; with speed of light to my mother that, in pure as it else with her.

               97

I have once more-for signals, even of fire, but two objects hath lent; vnable madmen raise their follies, lovely maiden, ae sweet seasons dancing leaves is comin’ I hae fought of a long time slows do display the Flames, thretning there the word. Of Animal Desire? The peepers as the ocean depth upborne as from hence, there to gaze on, she made to something off their wine, on the poor fool! At the book off his more uniform. In my young to toes and flickers and a’!

[markedasinfernal]

Merry Christmas @lothengriols I’m your Secret Santa for the @officialtolkiensecretsanta 2021! Out of your prompts I’ve gone for a darker take on Maedhros than perhaps is standard - if you know any of my other writing then you’ll know he’s a fave, and I really enjoyed writing this different side of him. Really hope you like it too! :) Minor tw for death and gore. 

x

A bitter wind blew in from the west, sharp with sea-salt and winter’s cold; it ruffled the fur trim of Maedhros’ greatcoat as for a brief moment amid his long labours he stood still. Pale dawn brushed the skies above him in delicate pink, gossamer yellow; the light drenched all it touched in its subtle morning glow. It was beautiful, he thought, he sighed; the first rays of warmth kissed the scars upon his cheeks as he closed his eyes, and raised his face to the dawn. This place, once before, it could all have been so beautiful.

For though those open skies filled with light above him, the dawn unveiled only cruelty below. The city smouldered, burnt-out and hollow; the once-great Havens by the sea so full of laughter and delight now lay mute, its throat torn out, a crippled and terrible thing. From the Fëanorian entrenchments to the east now easily he walked, over fields churned and barren with the shadow of war, past broken banners and bodies cold amid the mud. The city’s gates lay shattered before him, their metal twisted and rent, crumpled back on their hinges to gape open in the wind.  

By dark thaumaturgy they had been breached, by spells woven of elven tongue and those more ancient still; over long years he had learned it, perfected it, from Angband’s unclean womb he had been metamorphosed, been birthed anew, and with it he was changed. The Noldorin loremasters would not speak of it, they shunned him, they were afraid of him; guttural magic melded with Fëanorian power, the leviathan puissance of the Valar danced untamed with elven sorcery; they bit, and fought, and struggled together, and they brought to him power entirely new.

It had not been easy, the city had not yielded to him kindly; for countless nights he laboured over his spell, a thing of undoing, unravelling, destruction, a thing of terror. He stoked it, nursed it, with flesh and blood he let it sup from him, and in turn it devoured him. It stripped from him all that might have been gentle, purged from him all that might have shown mercy; the Oath glittered drunkenly in his veins, Morgoth’s brand laid so long ago upon his chest pulsed out its glee at his doing, now, now, they urged him, compelled him, and slaved to their lusts he followed.

Gaunt and hollow at last he was readied; and at the sight of him then some quailed, some turned back, trusted friends loyal through all millennia now threw down their swords, and for them he felt nothing but disgust. With a curl of puissance he cursed them, it was but the patter of raindrops that heralds the flood, for now he gathered himself, he was poised, he was steady, standing before the defiant city he spoke a Word of Power, scorching and bloody he named his spell into being, it caught alight in his throat, it poured red over his lips, it howled into life in the air before him, and from it burst cataclysm.

The city had not yielded, no, nothing so civilised; and now he walked its crippled streets as an enemy. Into its inner byways now he went, to the agreed-upon place, over glass-strewn cobbles, past buildings singed, collapsed in great gashes of rubble and timber. It was quiet now, he thought, it had not been before; he had watched as the city descended into madness, full of fire, and screams, and sickness.

Alone he walked, war-bringer, kinslayer; with every beat of his heart Morgoth’s brand pulsed out its pleasure, like a sick little heartbeat it glutted upon him, it gnawed and grew fat upon his labours. Kinslayer, kinslayer; the leather upon the hilt of his knife was sodden with blood, and he could not deny it now, no; welts formed from florid bruises on his knuckles, and his armour was flecked in red. Sinner they marked him; no pleas of innocence could tumble from tortured lips, not anymore, the brand weighed heavy upon his chest as with every step its evil blossomed, it burrowed into him like a cancer, the sweet-rot stench of death filled his lungs and he could not escape it now.

And why should you, a thought inside him whispered, and he heard its voice with dismay. He knew it and its poisoned tongue; why should you hide, why should you recoil, how he hated it, those tempting words that itched inside of him, that made him pause, that made him weak. How those thoughts turned in him of late, in the depths of night, in the black mires of his dreams, they enticed, they teased, they spoke to him with reason, and to them now he found himself listening. For why should he hide what he was, the thought crooned, the others cannot understand his need, his family's Oath; they reject us, un-name us, we are as wraiths to them; killing things, soul-predators.

Perhaps they are right, he thought; through crumbling archways and stagnant fountains choked with ash and debris he walked. Perhaps they are right. I do not recoil at the smell of blood anymore, nor the sight of it, nor the infliction of pain. Does that make me a murderer?

A clock-tower stood in the square before him; once tall and elegant now crudely lopped, its timepiece shattered, its hands left quivering in gasping space. Silently he considered it, as a graven statue of old there he stood, impassive, aloof; the hands spluttered out their failing seconds, the brand ached upon his chest, and beneath that paralysing beat there was nothing left in him but numbness.

I care not.

Coldly then he stalked away, the wind lashed icy across his cheeks as on his lonely way he wandered, grim conqueror of this groaning city.

At last he reached the meeting place; long days before he and his generals had designated this market square to be their rendezvous, a rallying point for the final effort. The walls of the great keep glowered over the square, its thick gate barred fast against them, and within the last shivering remnants of the Havens' citizenry sheltered; fickle lords, treacherous ladies, and whatever bleating peasantry had found their way inside before the doors slammed shut behind them. At the sight of those walls his mood turned, a hateful pall cast over his heart and acridly he looked upon them.

For somewhere within there lay his prize, on the breast of a thieving viper shining bright; no matter, he thought, no matter, for as he strode into the square he could see a great cluster of barrels piled high, soldiers clad in bright mail stacked them before the gate, packed tight against the woodwork. There were but a few barrels left to place, of that he was glad, and he set to purpose.

Through the tangle of star-clad tents erected about the square he wove; past messengers running and smithies ringing, past rows of whickering horses tethered and fed, through a clutch of squires bent with thread and needle over rent leatherwork, or whittling arrows and re-stringing bows, or tending simmering cauldrons over steaming coal-fires. Eagerly the soldiery smiled as he walked through them, many nodded or rose to their feet in respect, and graciously he nodded in return, and if the smile fixed upon his face did not quite temper the hardness in his eyes then none saw fit to comment upon it.

At last he found he whom he sought, towards a secluded alcove set half-hidden off the square the sentries pointed him, under a withered trellis of brown, crumbling ivy he stooped, and emerging into the small garden there he paused. An ancient oak stood proud in the centre of the square, its branches half-bare with winter's frost twisted up towards the sky, and beneath them Maglor stood, his back turned. A rain of leaves drifted sadly down around him, they gathered thickly upon a pile of twisted roots a few paces before him.

Quietly then Maedhros approached, and for a short while they stood silently together; there was no sound in that sacred place but for the soft slough of the leaves, their flutter in the chilling air.

A breath of wind stirred the leaves before them, for a moment they parted, and suddenly Maglor's shoulders slumped, his head bowed, and he reached up with one mailed war-glove to hide his face. For a moment Maedhros blinked, the leaves before them rustled, and it was only then that he saw; beneath them a bolt of cloth stood stark, black and white and red, and stiff white fingers clasped about a child's doll. Not roots then, no, nothing so pure; a clot of emotion skewered in his throat for now he perceived, the soft blanket of leaves betrayed the curve of bodies, sightless eyes still fixed in terror upon the sky, blood crusted upon silenced lips.

Once more Maglor's shoulders trembled, and he slumped away, turning to lean heavily against the oak's trunk. The brand upon Maedhros' chest seared, the force of it was as a sledgehammer into his ribs, it knocked the breath from his lungs, it drove reason from his mind, it speared that emotion in his throat into action, into ire; sudden spite prickled up in his heart and sharply he turned upon his brother.

"You weep for them?"

The question was hard, piercing, and Maglor raised his face slowly in dismay, his eyes shining bright, and brow furrowed.

"They were innocent..." he replied faintly, and at the pale tears that ran freely down his face something clenched in Maedhros' innards.

A rush of anger clawed up from his stomach, it punched through his chest, it hammered with its urgency, its indignation; his lip twisted hard and venomously he spat, "There are no innocents. Not anymore."

The shock on Maglor's face seethed like infection in his veins, a fey mood seized him, shook him, the words of his father danced in his blood as he hissed, "There are friends - those loyal to me, and those beloved. And there are enemies."

At that Maglor scoffed, his eyebrow quirked in as he shook his head, he wiped the tears from his cheeks and straightened up, and made to move away. But suddenly, violently Maedhros moved; his hand clamped down upon Maglor's shoulder and shoved him backwards into the tree, and with uncomfortable force pinned him there.

"Which are you, Makalaurë?"

The threat in Maedhros' voice was ugly, leering; righteous fury gripped him and throttled him and bound him fast, he could not breathe for it, he could not think for the howl of it in his ears; rage crushed down upon him and compelled him to bloody purpose. For roughly, quickly he released his grip, he found himself reaching instead for the hilt of his knife, and as his fingers brushed the damp leather of its hilt how good it felt, how powerful, how just; he saw the first glimmer of fear in his brother’s eyes and how it felt like victory.

For over Maglor shrinking then how tall he stood; a lord honourable in his wrath, as his father of old he stood as a king crowned in the glory of his conquest, and down into his brother's face he sneered, "You will not defy me now. Your hands are steeped in blood no less than mine, your fingers are no less sodden with it. You will not be judged less harshly for this pathetic pretence of remorse."  

"It is no pretence," Maglor cried, and how weak it was, how pathetic, naught more than the squall of a mewling babe.

An incredulous look came over Maedhros' face then, his lip curled in a ghastly smile as pain throbbed through his chest, it stamped the breath from his lungs as he croaked, "Hush, gentle brother. Speak now no more. The crows will laugh at you for a liar."

"Enough!" Maglor snapped; with a great wrench he tore himself free of the press of their bodies, he staggered a few paces aside to pause by the trellis wall, and breathing hard there he paused.

For a while then Maedhros simply watched him; alone he stood, his cheeks flushed, his armour dull, he looked so exhausted, and where before anger had stoked in Maedhros' heart how soon it was snuffed out, it fell away to only sickness, grief and purpose intertwined.

"Come, Káno," at last he sighed, his tone dark and low. "Let us do what we must. The jewel is within our grasp; it will be over soon. There is nowhere left for them to run."

Tersely Maglor nodded, he seemed to steady himself, and Maedhros continued, "The preparations are ready. Give the order, let us be done with this."

Once more Maglor nodded, and though he did not meet Maedhros' eyes still he straightened, and wordlessly made way beneath the trellis and out into the square beyond.

It was enough, Maedhros thought, it was enough for now, their designs were laid; into each barrel carefully pressed into the barred gates was enough explosive powder to level a building, there was nothing left in this city that could withstand them now.

His brother, his people, they wavered; he saw it, he knew, but he would hold them together, for a little while, just a little while longer. They were his to command, his to use; under a weeping tree in a dying city he stood as one sanctified; scarred and bloody yes, but not unholy, not yet, not yet.

For though his blade was stained it was far from blunted, though his body was wearied his will was as sharp as steel; he would reclaim his legacy, he would answer to his Oath, and if the path carved before him lay in slaughter and ruin, so unleash them, if terror and war he must wield, so let them be done. For his need was righteous, his purpose was unbreakable, at the end of all days he would stand before his judgement and he would smile, for he would know that his crimes were necessary, that his sins were justified; though all of history may condemn him, at the end of all accursed things he would know that his purpose was sacrosanct.

[mybg3notebook]

Astarion Analysis

Disclaimer Game Version: All these analyses were made up to the game version v4.1.101.4425. As long as new content is added, and as long as I have free time for that, I will try to keep updating this information.

“Morals are all well and good, but power always wins.” 

“If all I want is shallow praise? Hardly, there is also gold, sex, revenge, quite the list, really. But failing any of those, I will always settle for shallow praise.”

--Astarion 

The majority of sources used for this article are in the game itself (including Astarion-solo playthroughs) and the dev’s notes and datamined information provided by pjenn. Astarion as origin is (almost) not taken into account since it’s not finished and is highly unpolished. 

The itemised list will show some instances of approval or disapproval as seen in the game. To make the reading of this article easier and shorter, you can skip them since they are basically the proof I use to sustain the introductory concept of each block. 

We can infer a lot of Astarion by analysing what he approves and disapproves of. Sometimes, we can even lightly infer some information from his neutral reactions, but let’s be honest: this way of analysing a char is pretty poor since it leaves everything to speculation. Neutral reactions can only be analysed by contrasting the same situation in other contexts, and seeing what other options Astarion approves or disapproves of. With these considerations in mind, we can proceed to describe this character.

Disclaimer: this is a meta with my personal interpretation of the character, sticking as much as possible to the facts and leaving little to “desires” or “projections” of what I want him to be. If I do so, I will state it explicitly in the text for the sake of analysis honesty. I want to be clear about what is canon (facts shown in bg3 EA), from what’s personal interpretation with little proof.

Also, this list is extensive, gathering as much as I could in my many playthroughs, but I’m sure it’s not absolutely complete. Some details may have escaped to me, but honestly, I believe they will be easily fit in these blocks once the pattern has been seen.

Understanding Astarion by enumerating his reactions

Astarion is usually seen as a character whose behaviour is the embodiment of “randomness”, and after several Astarion-solo playthoughts, I began to see the patterns that showed little randomness in my opinion. 

We can say that he likes gratuitous cruelty and murder. He has a special taste for animal cruelty too. He is greedy, but mostly if it leads to murder or to make little people suffer. Sometimes this greedy side comes from the fact that he doesn’t like to “work for free”: most quests should have a reward for him to be neutral to them. Accepting them without asking anything in return tends to earn a disapproval. He is more reticent to humiliate or outsmart NPCs that may be potentially stronger and more powerful than him. 

[[1]] Situations showing his greed:

He supports the robbery of the fishermen that were helping the mind flayer (MF) after the crash. 

Astarion supports stealing the “magical” ring from the tiefling kid (Mattis). This could be seen also as a gesture of outsmarting a person or mere trickster behaviour (see below).

He supports asking for compensation from the deep gnome we saved at the windmill.

He agrees to force Tulla (dying gnome in the myconid camp) to give you her magical boots.

Denying Baelen the scrolls because “they don’t come cheap”.

He approves pickpocketing Mirkon while being lured by the harpies.

[[2]]Situations displaying plain murder or violence:

He supports joining Lae’zel against the tieflings if you persuade them to free her, since this means killing (which is always an entertainment for him) creatures he considers lesser.

He supports killing Gimblebok and his gang near the Jergal ruins if you avoid any attempt of persuasion. This can be shown as a demonstration of power. (see below)

He supports killing Kagha without trying to persuade her or change her ways, not because he thinks Arabella’s death was an aberration (he enjoyed the show, as his approval and later comment confirm it) but simply because he enjoys murder.

He supports attacking the goblin camp. It’s a great spectacle of murder combined with his personal dismiss towards goblinoid races.

He approves of joining Minthara and massacrating the tieflings. It’s another great spectacle of murder, but in this time, of weak people (He detests weak creatures, and despises Tieflings in general).

He approves of killing Lae’Zel in the scene where she attacks Tav during the night, out of fear of turning into MF.

He approves of killing Rugan in the hideout. 

Still related to this level of violence and cruelty, he supports learning more about Shar once Shadowheart explains Shar’s teachings, all about violence and death, fighting against the illusion of safety.

He approves killing Ellyka, the tiefling spying on the Gith patrol, if Tav is a Githyanki (true or disguised as) and chooses “Attack.”

He approves of helping Glut in massacring the whole Myconid colony.

He approves of sacrificing one of the companions to the fish-people who worship Booal.

He approves fighting the fake god Booal because it’s a massacre; where there is bloodshed, there is Astarion’s approval. 

For the same reason he approves killing the Githyanki patrol: pure bloodshed.

[[3]] Situations of gratuitous cruelty: I understand that a lot of people confuse this trait of his personality as a “trolling attitude”. There are different archetypes of tricksters in DnD, and he is not particularly the silly-funny one (e.i. Jester in Critical Role), but the cruel-funny one. His “pranks” don’t cause annoyance or silly troubles, they usually end up in murdering the person he is pranking, or causing them great pain. What he considers “funny” is always related to a lot of blood and suffering. Examples of this:

He disapproves of diffusing the situation between Aradin and Zevlor after the first goblin attack. He is “missing” his show. This situation is also related to enjoying humiliation of others (see below).

After letting Arka kill the goblin and take her revenge, Astarion will approve the comment that refugees are desperate and they will do anything. He is enjoying the show of despair of weak creatures. And he is also expecting for some of them to become survivalist beasts.

He approves of telling Kagha that you enjoyed the show of Arabella’s death as an answer to her question about if she is a monster.

He also approves of telling Arabella's parents that Kagha will release their daughter when the Rite of Thorns is completed (while Arabella, in fact, has been killed by Kagha's snake). This is another example of Evil Trickster, a prank with a really dark taste. This also shows that Astarion likes to give false hopes [One of the most iconic characteristic of Cazador]

He approves of telling the tiefling kids training with Wyll that they are going to die, inspiring that despair he enjoys to see in weak creatures. (see below)

He approves of breaking Alfira’s teacher’s lute, leaving the tiefling heartbroken because that had been the only memento she got from her teacher, and could not finish her tribute song.

Astarion approves of interrupting the goblinoid couple having sex, which he considers disgusting. After killing them, Astarion will support the idea that it was funny. Another example of Evil Trickster where the prank ends up with the death of the pranked one. But we also know Astarion despises goblinoid races.

He approves of killing Crusher after humiliating him.

He supports Tav who volunteers to torture Liam at the goblin camp.

He supports of laughing at Lorin (the elf trapped in Ethel’s house) after pretending to be the monster he sees (psychological torture). This example can be part of the list of humiliation too.

He states that seeing Mayrina’s horrified face after resurrecting her husband was funny. Another example of false hopes [One of the most iconic characteristics of Cazador] On the contrary, if Tav kills the undead afterwards, Astarion will disapprove, since he missed the “fun” of seeing Mayrina tortured. 

He enjoys every state of Abdirak’s torture upon Tav. This can be seen as a fine bloody show he is enjoying, or as a way to put Tav in a humiliating situation (as he approved the dung-smearing or the foot-kissing instances)

Using the leader gnoll Flind to attack her own gnolls earns his approval. Asking her to devour herself increases approval once more. This situation could also be seen as enjoyment of animal cruelty (since gnolls are considered animals by Astarion too) but also as the reflection of Astarion’s inner desire of becoming a Master of bending wills.

 Probably the most innocent prank so far we saw, he approves of doing Baaa at the redcaps in the Bog.

[[4]] As I said previously, he suports any form of animal cruelty:

He approves of kicking and killing the squirrel Timber in the Druid Grove. According to the dev’s notes, he is “shocked and annoyed” because “you stamped a squirrel to death when he could’ve eaten it.” (DEN_General_Squirrel)

He supports prodding to death the bird that Nettie was healing during the dialogue (you need Speak with Animals for this).

He supports freeing the Owlbear cub at the Goblin Camp, and feeding it later, because he wants to bite the owlbear cub eventually (he uses the word “delectable” to describe him, and when the owlbear escapes, Astarions states “You‘ve scared off the little snack.”)

When we find Halsin in his bear form, Astarion will have two instances of approval: the first one when Tav tells the goblin kids that throwing stones with sharp edges would hurt the animal more, and then when Tav themself joins the goblins in throwing rocks at Halsin. 

We can also add the confrontation with Flind, the Gnoll leader, as another example of animal cruelty since he approves a smart yet twisted way of killing her by double-using the tadpole. First to command her to attack the gnolls, and then to devour herself. However, since Gnolls are considered aberrations lore-wise, this point could be left aside in this particular case. 

If we take into consideration that Astarion sees Goblins, Kobolds, and Gnomes as animals, killing them always increases his approval. This happens when we kill, out of the blue, most goblin NPCs, or simply attack the camp. (Datamined content) He will also approve of killing slave gnomes in Duergar Encampment (place you find after the boat). All these moments can be also seen as “animal” cruelty if we take into account Astarion’s perspective.

He approves of killing Priestess Gut in the Goblin Camp. It could also be interpreted as his usual dismissal towards goblins (he sees them as animals), since he never believed that she could help them in the first place. Or this approval can fit perfectly fine the cruel, murderous aspect of Astarion. As I said, many approvals overlap different aspects of Astarion, but all seem to fit his patterns either way. 

I suspect that the reason behind this particular kind of cruelty comes from those two hundred years of torture, in which he had to drink animal blood. Considering he was such an unfair magistrate, directing his rage against the ones who are not the root of the problem seems fitting. 

[[5]] Astarion is filled with racial bias and prejudices. 

He only sees elves and humans as the only creatures capable of thinking. (Scene after the bite)

However, he has strong biases against a particular ethnic group of humans: Gurs. He thinks they are all cut-throat, and probably would approve the rest of stereotypes that Gandrel added in that scene. (Scene of meeting Gandrel)

He mocks halfling and dwarf Tavs, who he thinks are naturally weak, until they prove him wrong. (Stargaze scene for short-sized Tav)

He supports the idea that tieflings have demonic powers just because of their heritage. (Speaking with the Grove halfling seller). During the party, he compares the lives of the tieflings with the lives of the goblins as something of similar value (which we know he considers as animal).

He sees goblins, kobolds, and gnomes as animals. (Scene after the bite)

After killing the goblinoid couple which was having sex, if Tav choose to say that the situation made them scrub their eyes, Astarion would add and extra “dehumanizing” comment against gnomes. “I’ve seen worse. Gnomes can be… ughh.” (Scene of interrupting sex)

[[6]] He finds pleasure in humiliating people or in outsmarting them, especially if they are trying to outsmart Tav. He dislikes weakness and loves to humiliate weak people in particular.

He approves telling Lae’Zel to say “please” when we met her again in the cage, humiliating her. 

He disapproves of diffusing the situation between Aradin and Zevlor after the first goblin attack. We know he is “missing” his show where one of them is being humiliated.

Astarion approves of telling Elegis that she is pathetic for being scared of a few goblins. Once more, humiliation due to weakness. 

He disapproves of telling Arabella's parents that the Druids overreacted when speaking in the Druid Grove’s stairs. He is disapproving for defending a weak and silly creature who was not smart enough to survive on her own. 

Astarion supports stealing the “magical” ring from the tiefling kid. This is another situation of humiliation of a weak person and outsmarting them. This could be considered a prank of a more silly-funny trickster doing an innocent prank.

He approves of telling the tiefling kids that they are going to die.

He feels disappointed when Lae’Zel did not kill Zorru, the tiefling that she forces to kneel and confess where he saw the Gith patrol. He approves the psychological torture of the interrogation.

He enjoys interrupting the goblinoid couple having sex. This is an example of the prank cruel-funny trickster. This “prank” ends up with the goblinoid couple being killed.

Astarion approves of smearing dung in the guard's face at the goblin camp entrance. The show of seeing someone being humiliated is satisfying.

He supports booing and humiliating Volo off the stage in the goblin camp. 

He supports licking the goblin’s foot (It could also be considered a prank).

He supports kissing the goblin’s foot while stealing the ring. This situation puts two things he enjoys in the same place: the humiliation experienced by Tav and how the Crusher was outsmarted in the process. Astarion will approve if Crusher is the one humiliated and forced to kiss Tav’s foot. 

He approves of laughing at Lorin (the elf trapped in Ethel’s house) when the elf is scared of Tav who pretends to be the monster that’s torturing him.

Humiliating “low people'' is an important aspect of Astarion’s personality, since it’s a small petty pleasure he can have now, when during the last two hundred years it had been done to him. Humiliation has to do with power as well, another symbol tight to Astarion’s personality. Through humiliation Astarion can taste a little bit of power, that power he lacked for two hundred years. That power that, if his backstory is not retconned in future versions or in the full release game, he had before turning into a vampire, abusing those groups he considered less.

[[7]] If we think in power, we also have to think in manipulation. And of course, Astarion is a great master of it. Sometimes the events that stand out his taste for manipulation overlap with the ones displayed in the humiliation section.

Since the moment we meet Astarion, we know he keeps working in turning himself into a pleasant and useful companion for Tav. Astarion knows he has bigger chances to succeed and survive staying with this group. A lot of his “neutral” behaviours respond to this goal: he doesn’t want to enrage Tav to the point of being kicked out of the party, it’s not about a hidden gentle side inside he is showing with an apathetic neutrality, it’s, once more, raw preservation and survival. During the first scenes of the game, when we don’t know he is a vampire, Astarion tries to avoid taking a position in the situations we face: he is just feeling the ground all the time: with Sazza and with Arabella’s death is clear. He doesn’t judge hard, he is testing Tav, he is trying to understand their mind, and acting as pleasant as he can according to what he sees. It’s a natural use of manipulation to guarantee his survival in a group of strangers. During the bite scene—when this façade finally ends—he is truly nervous of being killed for his vampiric nature, and tries to convince Tav of keeping him in the group using arguments that go from seduction to practical usefulness. 

The scene of stargaze also shows his usage of seduction as a manipulative tool to guarantee his survival (he weponises seduction and sex). Although he says mostly the same, he reacts very differently in tone depending on Tav’s approach. If Tav is wary, Astarion will act encouraging their ego and enumerating several feats, while getting uncomfortably closer. If Tav is already interested in Astarion, the elf will use softer manners to keep the seduction into a more intimate tone. This is a scene of a predator tasting his future prey as well (Dev’s notes are pretty clear about his manipulation). In this scene, also, Astarion is light-headed because he has not drunk blood in a while, and has “his head foggy” (something we can repeat during his origin as a personal tag). Exact words he will use as a narrative hint during the bite scene. Therefore, this scene has little of “Astarion falling for Tav”, and has everything of vampiric hunger combined with a raw sense of survival and usage of seduction to guaranteed it.

(potential interpretation) He approves when he is persuaded into sharing his dream with Tav. In any other character, we usually would understand this as an approval for caring about the character himself. In that scenario, failing the approval doesn’t cause a penalty (unless the character understands this failure as prying, as it happens with Shadowheart). In Astarion’s case, when you fail this persuasion, you are penalised with a disapproval. We can understand this in the same way we see it with Shadowheart: this is his annoyance for prying into his personal business. But there is another interpretation in this disapproval: he recognised a bad execution of persuasion as a manipulative attempt, and Astarion is in particular very sensitive to manipulations and mind games (see point [12]). 

Most of his “romance” is manipulation as well, keeping in mind the first point of this section: he becomes pleasant for Tav, using whatever shape he needs, so he can survive (this is especially noticeable with a good-aligned Tav). Astarion has weaponised seduction and sex without any hint of subtetly for the player (As the Dev’s notes say: “For Astarion, this is a game of power - one he’s played many times before in the taverns of Baldur’s Gate, trying to lure people back to his master. He’s an old hand at seduction, very self-assured at first, but the player might not go along with the script he expects them to follow.”) We can assure that Astarion will find more satisfaction in having “fun” with a high-approval Tav rather than a low-approval Tav.

If Tav is not evil enough (and therefore has a low approval), Astarion will need to be the one inviting Tav to have sex (to be sure the control is still in his hand, still pushing for “catching” Tav). If a low-approval-Tav invites Astarion, he will decline saying that he “has standards'', implying he needs to be the one controlling the situation (he is basically playing “hard to catch”. Astarion already knows that he “caught” Tav in this scenario since Tav was the first one showing their interest). If Tav is evil-like (and has enough approval), Astarion will not only weaponise sex, he may express some degree of personal desire in having “fun” with Tav. After all, evil characters can like one another. In this case, he would accept Tav’s invitation for more hedonist reasons such as personal pleasure and not mere survival. Still it’s always present the layer of using this situation as a manipulative tool to have control on Tav.

Approves persuading Crusher without a fight, understanding it as an approval earnt for the good manipulation tool used. Of course this scene is combined with the natural approval that Astarion gives when outsmarting creatures he considers lower or animal-like (See point [6]). 

Successfully persuade Lae'Zel to "play along" when meeting the Githyanki patrol, and pull off the deception.

I personally found funny that Astarion, without the intention of the writer, is so good in his manipulations, that he broke the fourth wall and ended up manipulating a good amount of players as well into believing him. 

[[8]] He supports revenge in all its forms and degrees, which is not strange since it’s his main motivation against Cazador.

He approves of letting Arka kill Sazza in the cage as revenge for her brother’s death.

He approves of the attack against Nettie when she poisons Tav.

He approves of telling Edowin's siblings to find the beast that attacked him as a way to avenge the True Soul.

Astarion approves of Arabella’s mother killing Kagha at the party.

He approves of helping the Sovereign to take revenge against the Duergars that killed their young. However, it’s not clear if Astarion approves the revenge itself or the method proposed, which is, according to his own words, “a bit genocidal” and therefore more entertaining for him (we need to remember he enjoys the display of murder and violence in all its forms, [2,3]). 

He approves of helping Glut in massacring the whole Myconid colony, since according to Glut’s words, they saw Glut’s circle being killed by the Duergars and did nothing, so Glut is looking for revenge. 

[[9]] He doesn’t like to get involved in anyone’s problems unless you can obtain a benefit or a reward for it (this is directly connected to his greed aspect [1])

He approves of telling Mayrina’s brothers that they are on their own, and actively disapproves if Tav agrees to help them find Mayrina.

He approves of declining to help Halsin in killing the Goblin leaders.

He disapproves of helping Wyll to save the Tiefling refugees in the Grove.

He disapproves of helping Zevlor.

He disapproves of finding evidence that confirms that Kagha is working with Shadow Druids. He will additionally disapprove again if, after exposing her, Tav asks her to change her ways. From Astarion’s point of view, Tav is basically meddling too much in the Grove’s problems for free, and ruining all the instances where murder could happen. 

He also disapproves if Tav agrees to help the two Zhentarim humans that are attacked by gnolls without asking for compensation.

He approves of not getting involved in the rescue of the Duke when Tav speaks with Florrick

[[10]] Despite having been a slave, he lacks of empathy for those who shared his fate and, instead, he supports slavery:

If we take into consideration what Swen said about his background in one of the first playthough he showed, we know that Astarion, as a magistrate, used criminals as food for local vampires, and in an attempt to outsmart them, he began to sell them into slavery (we can see in this brief background that Astarion has been greedy and cruel before turning into a vampire).

Although he disapproves paying for Oskar, the painter in the Zhentarim Hideout, he does it because of the money. When Tav buys the painter and demands him to stay silent because “slaves should speak when they are spoken to”, Oskar will think this is a joke (which is not the case, since none of those options has, in this patch at least, a (performance) tag). When Tav reinforces the idea that this is not a joke, and Oskar is now a true slave, only then, Astarion will approve. 

When seeing one of the servant Duergars of the Myconite Colony, Astarion will comment on how useful they are, and how Underdark drows should learn about these creatures, since these slaves are more efficient than the standard ones. If Tav brings awareness about the contradiction that those thoughts cause coming from an ex-slave, Astarion will justify his thinking saying that they are husks without mind, claiming that his feelings “may be different, had they been conscious beings. Or maybe not.” He emphasises in this dual possibility. And we can be sure that he certainly would not care slavery on conscious creatures, as we confirm it later with Oskar (A human who is not a Gur, and therefore, a creature that Astarion consider thinking acceptable beings). 

(Datamined content) When reaching the Duergar Encampment, once Nere is rescued, there is approval for killing the slave gnomes when the True Soul orders it. One can interpret that Astarion minds little for these slaves because they are gnomes, and therefore, animals.

[[11]] He looks for power and dominance, to have control over others and also as a way to guarantee his own freedom. 

In the discussion after every dream, Astarion supports the use of the tadpole's power in every opportunity, dismissing their effects. He is thrilling for the ability of bending everyone’s will (curious note, this is one of Cazador’s characteristics most hated by him)

He approves of letting the Koa-Toes bow before them as the Booal's chosen. This scene can be understood as a typical prank of a trickster, but also as a taste for being adored as a master/entity with more power. This scene shows that he and Tav are placed in the “Master” position. This reinforces the idea that Astarion wants to be a Master/Cazador, eventually. (Check post about Astarion and Power 1 and 2)

If Tav claims that the worship to them as True Souls can be useful after letting Edowin’s siblings leave, Astarion will approve. He shows in every instance more delight for having Cazador’s powers, making emphasis in the mind control ability, again.

Astarion approves of keeping the Necromancy of Thay tome. As we see later in his scene, he believes that there is something powerful hidden in it that may help him against Cazador. He wants to muster all the power of any kind he can.

Astarion approves of sparing Auntie Ethel’s life when she surrenders during battle because she will grant them power in exchange. He wants to muster all the power of any kind he can.

[[12]] Astarion is particularly sensitive to mind control. His expressions and the tone of his voice against any type of mind control are filled with feral ire (video here): 

He is angrily affected by the movements of his worm in his own head, 

He screams against Ethel’s control when using the mask, 

The insults at the harpies when he is lured, 

The way he is annoyed by the telepathic spores in the Underdark, 

He disapproves failed attempts of persuasion (understood by his character as failed, obvious attempts of manipulations). 

And, potentially, this is the reason why he disapproves of Priestess Gut cleaning Tav’s mind.

[[13]] Because he likes power, he also likes the demonstration of power whether his own or his allies’, therefore he likes most intimidation options in general

He approves of intimidating Gimblebok and the gang near the ruins. 

He approves of intimidating or provoking both Aradin and Zevlor at the Druid Grove.

At camp, when discussing preferred methods of death, he approves if Tav tells him "If I die, I'll take you with me." (after first picking "Try it and I'll spill your guts") . He also approves if Tav chooses a method of death (decapitation, knife, poison). Both options show resolve, strength, and freedom in deciding one’s fate. Since Astarion died at the hands of strangers, he values the freedom of choosing how to die. He will disapprove picking the option of letting others decide your death.

He approves if you intimidate the mirror into allowing passage.

[[14]] He is a survivalist character, and therefore, a lot of his approvals are related to elements that will guarantee his life, such as looking for his own freedom, the acceptance of his vampire nature, and the encouragement in looking for strong alliances or keeping alive strong individuals that can be useful as allies. 

He approves of being accepted with his vampire nature and allowing him to feed on Tav’s blood. He keeps approving if Tav defends him during the exchange of opinions in the camp. 

He approves if he has permission to feed on enemies. 

He approves of killing Gandrel. This approval is also mere raw survival.

He approves if during sex, Tav allows him to drink their blood. 

He disapproves of promising Nettie to take Wyvern Poison if you feel symptoms of the Tadpole, since it goes against his survival instinct.

When Lae’Zel is killed by the Gith patrol, he will state in banter that it was a waste since Lae’Zel was a powerful/strong specimen, so clearly he is lamenting the loss of a powerful ally. 

Despite appreciating his freedom, he has explicitly stated that he “would choose servitude over oblivion any day”, showing how extremely survivalist he can be.

[[15]] He likes to find a solution to their tadpole problem using unconventional ways, or at least, using options that may lead him to the twisted solution he needs (which is not exactly being cured of the tadpole, but to control it, he certainly needs more exceptional means)

He approves of telling Auntie Ethel about the tadpole in the Druid Grove simply because she “looks lunatic”.

At first, Astarion disapproves of Raphael's invitation to remove the Tadpole, claiming that he would not change one master for another. However, when the situation starts looking dire, he will approve of the idea, because anything “may be better than Cazador” adding later that he “would choose servitude over oblivion any day.” 

A bit contradictory when he was the first one claiming that Raphael used mind games similar to Cazador’s, games they know they have won before starting.

[[16]] He has a “soft spot” for helping people to escape their masters or killing/rejecting people that can be seen as Masters. However it’s requirement that those escapees could be seen by Aastarion as strong and capable creatures. He would mind little for creatures he sees as underlings. (Weak concept, seeing it with squinted eyes)

He approves of helping Karlach to get rid of the Tyr followers, since they are in fact working for Zariel, Karlach’s previous master. With all what Karlach explained about her past, she certainly qualifies as a strong person who is trying to get rid of her master.

He disapproves of Tav who tells Raphael that they would do anything to remove the Tadpole. This is probably resounding in Astarion: his past bad choice when he was at death's door due to the Gur attack and Cazador appeared to “save” him. He knows that going to that extent has poor results.

Astarion approves of Tav if they say that they won’t become Raphael's pawn (conversation in the camp after the encounter with Raphael). It’s true that when the other options narrow, Astarion starts to consider the possibility of changing a vampiric master for an infernal one.

This post was written on April 2021.

→ For more Astarion: Analysis Series Index

[funkzpiel]

Peace Offering | The Witcher

I wrote this over the course of spring/early summer 2020, I believe, and I’ve been so excited to eventually share this with you all. This was my piece for the first zine I’ve ever had the pleasure of participating in - @thewitcherzine​ - It’s been so surreal to see my writing manifest in something physically. Such a cool experience.

PEACE OFFERING (AO3 LINK) Fandom: The Witcher Pairings: Alludes to Geralt/Yennefer, hints of Geralt/Jaskier Summary: Every day is the same. Geralt wakes. He takes care of his farm and his horses. He works, he eats, he goes to sleep. Dark hair against a modest pillow, plain eyes staring up at the ceiling - quick to fall asleep. But always all too aware of this strange, gnawing thought that something is wrong, something is amiss. There is something to be worried about, he is certain of it; but when he wakes, nothing is wrong. The day begins again. He takes care of his farm and his horses. He works, he eats, he goes to sleep. He is just an ordinary man with an ordinary, peaceful life... Isn't he? He's happy... Right? Then a man comes hurdling out of the field, bloodied and screaming. And nothing is quite so peaceful anymore. [a/n] huge thank you to @rospeaks and @crocro-dyle - who both reviewed this piece multiple times with painstaking care to help get it to the right word count for the project. You two are angels. Thank you so much.

Happiness was a fickle thing. By all accounts Geralt should be happy. He was healthy, in his prime. He owned farmland, bred horses, and enjoyed a sustainable life. He hadn't been called to war. He needed no sword to protect his property. In fact, he was tucked in a corner of the kingdom that had known nothing but peace. Yet on pleasant days when the sun carded warm fingers through his dark locks and across suntanned skin, Geralt found himself standing on his porch and frowning. Beside the wolf in his heart that had glutted itself on peace there was another wolf. A haggard creature, with gold eyes and snowy fur, demanding vigilance. A wolf with fangs sharpened by lessons from a hard life he had never known and did not understand. It said this was too good to be true. Monsters would come. Villagers would turn on him. No peace lasted forever.

Days like that, Geralt closed his eyes, took a breath, and forced one step to follow another, working until that wolf was too tired to do anything but fall resentfully asleep. The horses helped ease his mind, grounding him with velvety muzzles and nosy lips searching for treats. Time passed like that, slow and sleepy. The sun would rise, he would work, and it would set again. On and on, peaceful and content like a piece of crockery on a shelf.

A perfect existence until it finally tipped over.

His peace was shattered, sudden and unexpected, when a man stumbled out of his grain one day like a specter, arm mangled and pleading, “Someone help me, please!”

Spooked, the horse he was working with tried to rear back. As he hushed it, Geralt felt that scrawny wolf in his chest lift its head from thin paws as though it had been waiting for this. His heart thrummed, but Geralt felt strangely invigorated by it. He settled his horse and helped the man into the house. He sat him on a chair, opened his triage kit, and asked, “What happened? Is it still outside?”

Whether it was beast or man, the danger needed to be dealt with. The stranger was waxen from blood loss and fear, his answer carving an ominous feeling into the room. “Whatever they were, they stayed with the bodies.”

A startling list rattled off in Geralt’s mind. Stabilize the wound. Wash up, secure the horses, and grab an axe. Destroy the man’s blood trail to prevent anything from following it back to the farm. But most startling of all was the realization that for the first time he felt at home in his own skin. Though his peace was shattered, he felt whole.

✨✨✨

Amber eyes flickered open, heavy and hazy. His Cat Eyes Potion had worn off. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, echoing morosely. A cave... He felt gnarled wood beneath his weary fingertips, digging into him uncomfortably. He was cradled in the base of a tree then... His skin itched and ached, and there was an unsettling sensation of being attached to something.

The desire for sleep rolled over him, as vicious as the death-chill of a blizzard. He felt as though he were bleeding out, but he felt no crusted wounds, no weeping gashes. He needed to move, to break free of whatever was burrowed into his skin.

‘Stay awake,’ he ordered himself; an echo of Vesemir’s training. ‘Stay awake.’

A gentle hand – or what felt like one – brushed back sweaty white locks and murmured, “It needn’t hurt.”

Unbidden, his eyes closed again, gone before he could register that the hand had felt like bark and clay and stone.

✨✨✨

The next day, confident that the stranger – a merchant named Gil – could travel, Geralt saddled a horse to take him to the nearest town for better medical attention than Geralt could provide. Despite how neat the stitches appeared, he was no healer. Gil had been hesitant on the road at first, clinging nervously to Geralt's back, but as time passed and nothing sprung from the forest to ravage them, Gil’s sweating eased and his fingers became less claw-like in Geralt’s shirt.

The town was too small to be a proper city, too big to be inbred. It welcomed a decent trade and hosted the occasional royal. It was known as a sleepy, peaceful place, and today was no different. As they ambled down the main road to the town’s healer, delicious smells wafted from the inn along with a strangely familiar tune. It made something itch in the back of Geralt’s head.

“Oh, I love this song. Too bad it’s not the original bard singing. Not quite as good, but I can’t imagine a fellow like him performing here,” Gil said, “But y’see, maybe that’s a sign. Maybe that’s what we need right now.”

“What’s that?” Geralt asked as he dismounted carefully. The singer was too distant now to make out the words, but the melody haunted him. He patted a flat hand against his horse's shoulder only to freeze as Gil answered, “A w—h-r,” the word garbled and unintelligible, yet striking him like lightning spearing a tree and he—

✨✨✨

Geralt gasped, chest heaving like a man emerging from a frigid undertow. He knew that song. The voice had been different, but he knew that song. The words lingered as though Jaskier were singing it right there.

“Toss a coin to your witcher,” a voice groaned like falling timber. Fingers brushed Geralt’s temples, and in his mind something combed through memories like a breeze through willow reeds, stirring up images of cornflower eyes and merry singing. “He’s happy. Doesn’t that bring you peace? Have I not done enough? Ssh. Just a little longer now.”

An urge to flee rose in him, and yet his body couldn’t answer. He knew this beast, but the name eluded him. All he could recognize was that he'd die before he’d ever have the chance to apologize. That regret sank his heart like a stone.

He succumbed once more to the dream.

✨✨✨

After he left Gil with the healer, Geralt mounted his horse, preoccupied by a nagging sensation that he had forgotten something important. He paused to restlessly look back toward the healer’s home before dismissing his anxiety as the result of an eventful night. He just needed to tuck into a big meal, catch up on sleep, and everything would return to normal.

He passed the inn, doors open and bustling. The bard was singing something energetic and unfamiliar now. People milled around, mindful of his horse, as he headed for the edge of town.

A sound caught him.

Distant humming, followed by a babe’s gurgling laughter and a strange scent. That itch returned, and in his chest that scrawny wolf stirred, snarling. He reined in his spooked horse as he looked for the source. He knew that smell. That song.

The wind slowed, meadow grasses halting mid-sway. The townsfolk blurred in the streets. In a yard nearby, black and white linens fluttered on a clothesline, caught in that same eerie force. Geralt watched with bated breath, lungs aching, as the linens parted to reveal dark hair and smooth skin. A woman perched serenely upon a bench, her smiling visible behind the curtain of her hair. Tiny hands reached for her from within the bundle in her arms. The smell of lilacs dogged him though none bloomed nearby. Something sturdy and indescribable yanked at his chest, leading straight to her like a boat fastened to a dock, one useless without the other.

“...You flee my dream come the morning. Your scent: berries tart, lilacs sweet. To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy,” she sang, notes drifting and pleasant, yet the words didn’t seem to fit. Her gaze lifted slowly to meet his, and Geralt was pinned beneath its mournful weight. “Of violet eyes, glistening as you weep.”

“Yennefer,” he said unbidden, her name slipping free as the world stilled and every sound fell away to nothing. She held his gaze, that dreamlike smile radiant on her face but her eyes, oh her eyes, pleading with him to wake.

He needed to wake up. To fight. To survive whatever had him – roots, digging into his skin, leeching him slowly while he slept – and return to them. Both of them. To apologize before a witcher’s end robbed him of that too.

How do you wake from a dream? You die. By the gods, how he hoped he was right. His hand reached for his dagger. Palms calloused from years of fighting and hunting, not tending to horses, clenched around the hilt. He lifted the knife. He closed his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have struggled, witcher.”

He opened them to find Yennefer gone. He lowered his knife in a daze, taking in the empty village, the stillness, the silence, and finally his captor. A little girl, blue eyes too big for her face and long ashen hair like her mother’s.

“When I heard of the wish you made to spare the life of the insect who nearly enslaved my brother, I knew retribution was necessary. But you outsmarted my brother honorably, and so I offered you a peaceful death,” Ciri said. Without ever having met her, Geralt knew it was her as keenly as he knew that he was a witcher. “I gave you everything you wanted. A normal life. Happiness and success for your friends. No burdens, no child surprise. You could have died happy. You still can.”

A peaceful death. Not many witchers had the chance. Nearly none, in fact. But thinking of Vesemir, thinking of the pride and purpose he drew from training lads to survive and in taking care of Kaer Morhen, Geralt wondered what happiness truly was. Because it wouldn't feel like this.

“Tempting offer,” he admitted. Tempting to lie down and accept the dream for what it was: an easy way out. But he thought of Jaskier and Yennefer. How they looked when he pushed them both away. Of Cirilla, lost and alone. He knew what it felt like to be abandoned, to have your home and family stripped away. The importance of the people who took you in after. “Afraid I can’t.”

Ciri watched him with startling coldness. “So be it.”

Geralt gasped violently as he woke. Above him a glowing mist illuminated the cave, the tree cradling him, and the vines piercing his skin like a web of veins, sapping him slowly and steadly lest the well dry too fast. It was a Djinn. Without a master to subdue it, it was free to feast insatiably upon the lifeforce of mortals. It had used the dream to pacify him as it drank its fill. Geralt kicked himself for not realizing sooner.

“Remember that you chose this, Geralt of Rivia. You chose pain,” it rumbled like a rockslide, so deep it rattled Geralt’s bones. A misty hand dug into the earth, and from the bedrock a dozen more hands of stone emerged to latch onto Geralt. A D’ao, Geralt realized. A spirit of the earth rather than air like its brother. With the aloofness of a man stepping on an ant, those stone hands clenched. Geralt felt bones grind and creak. He clenched his jaw and quashed the panicked voice chanting, “I’m going to die,” as he reached for the training that Vesemir had drilled into him.

Igni would ignite vines, but not stone. Quen would crush him beneath his own barrier. There would be no influencing an Ancient with Axii. He had but one recourse left.

It was an effort to reach for his Signs, but he managed Aard. It burst the stone from his limbs. The Djinn howled. With a giant hand it tore Geralt from his prison of vines, casting him across the cavern. Something cracked as he hit the wall. Spots erupted in his vision. He slid to his ass, hands falling lank.

The mist drew near, the image of something humanoid taking shape under writhing vines and stone. Its booming voice reached Geralt in fits and pops, ears ringing. It raised a giant fist to crush him, yet Geralt cracked an exhausted grin.

He had just enough to cast this one thing: Yrden. It seared him to his bones to do it, and for a moment he thought it would not be enough. But a purple halo gripped the Djinn fast despite the trembling of the witcher’s hands and the slowing stutter of his heart. Geralt panted as enraged screaming filled the cave, pressing in on him from all sides.

“I’ve caught you, D’ao,” Geralt wheezed. Unconsciousness loomed, but he persisted, fueled by the lulling notes of Jaskier’s song, Yennefer’s violet eyes, and a child's beseeching gaze. “I’ve bound you to this realm.”

It didn’t matter that his trap wouldn’t last long. The Djinn was bound. The honor of the Ancients would handle the rest. Around the D’ao, Yrden flickered erratically but held.

“Make your wishes, witcher,” it snarled, the sound rattling inside Geralt’s skull.

“I wish to be healed,” Geralt said, and with an angry hiss magic cocooned his body until his heart steadied and his bones reknit. He sucked in a grateful breath, his spell strengthening as the pain ebbed.

“I wish for a truce between myself and all Djinn,” he said, and this time the D’ao howled until crumbles of stone pelted the ground; but none touched Geralt. Not while he was still the Djinn's master.

Had he asked for protection, it might have harmed him in some second-hand way. Had he asked it to leave, it might have sent another in its stead. But a truce was undeniable. He was not going to die. It was a heady realization, but most of all, it revealed what he had been content to ignore for so long. His path was suddenly bright, the way made clear for him.

“I wish to know how to find those to whom I am indebted,” he finally said. For he owed apologies to Jaskier and Yennefer, and to Ciri so much more. The Djinn ceased its howling and the air around them stilled. Geralt felt the D’ao’s heavy gaze upon him.

“Honorable…” the D’ao mused as his Yrden slipped away, and without further fanfare so did the Djinn. The tree wilted, the cavern now empty and unremarkable. The D’ao was gone.

In its place sat a certainty in Geralt’s chest that if he went west, he’d find Jaskier. That if he went northeast, he’d find Yennefer. That if he went to the epicenter of those two points, he’d find a small child with ashen hair and blue eyes, wading through the chaos of the world to find him. Like the stars above, those points rotated slowly in his heart. No matter which way he turned, he knew how to reach them. Their hearts shone in the darkness, illuminating what he hadn’t understood for so very, very long: Happiness was what you made of it.

[roman-writing]

you search the mountain (1/4)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

Pairing: Jaina Proudmore / Sylvanas Windrunner

Rating: M

Wordcount: 11,570

Summary: The borders of Kul Tiras are closed to all outsiders. Sylvanas, Banshee Queen, hopes to use the impending civil war in Boralus to her advantage, and thereby lure Kul Tiras to the side of the Horde. A Drust AU

Content Advisory: horror, blood, gore, typical Drustvar spooky deer shit

read it below the cut, or you can read it here on AO3

“Thorns on my breasts, rain in my mouth, loam on my bare feet, rough bark grazing my back, I moaned for them all. You stood, waist deep, in a stream, pulling me in, so I swam. You were the water, the wind in the branches wringing their hands, the heavy, wet perfume of soil. I am there now, lost in the forest, dwarfed by the giant trees. Find me.”

— Carol Ann Duffy, from Forest; Rapture, 2005

--

To the surprise of no one, it was raining in Boralus. An icy sleet rushed down from the mountains, pelting civilians in an inescapable barrage. It coated the rooftops. It clung to the eaves. It made treacherous the cobblestone streets. And though it was mid-morning, the watery sunlight could not pierce the heavy bank of cloud that washed over the harbour, so that it felt like dusk. Any rational people would have sequestered themselves inside for warmth, but it seemed that Kul Tirans were utterly immune to the cold wet misery of their capital city. Or perhaps they had merely forgotten what it meant to be dry.

A crowd was gathered on the westernmost docks, sheltered by the inlet. Red banners bearing a crest of scales slapped wetly against their pillars. Dockworkers had halted their usual bustle of activity. Casks and crates and other break bulk hung suspended in the air by creaking ropes. A shark had been strung from a hook and gutted on the quay. The fisherman still held a bloodied knife in his hands, but his attention was turned upon the massive ship tethered to the pier.

The ship was a hulking mass of timbers. She was broad and lavishly decorated. Her sails were tightly furled lengths of new white canvas. Her mainmast bore two flags, which snapped in the wind. The longer pennant was red and streaming and far more prominent than its foul-anchored counterpart. She was the pride of the Ashvane merchant fleet, and she was -- to be frank -- quite horrid to behold. Ugly, even.

Not that Sylvanas would ever say that aloud. Certainly not when she was surrounded on all sides by Kul Tiran sailors and stevedores, all of whom were nudging each other and murmuring their appreciation of such a saucy vessel. Whatever that meant.

What shelter there was to be found on the docks was next to useless. The wind slanted the rain at an angle that slashed beneath any eaves, no matter how deep. Sylvanas’ long ears twitched, flicking off a few drops of rain to very little effect. She reached up to tug the hood of her cloak more firmly in place. The Kul Tirans on the dock gave her a wide berth, or otherwise pretended that she did not exist.

Beside her, Nathanos leaned forward to mutter. “With all due respect, my Queen: remind me why we are here?”

Sylvanas did not take her eyes off the ship. Wordlessly, she nodded towards just above the hideously gilded stern windows. Officers stood atop the poop deck, glittering in all their finery. Three figures stood at the very fore of the ship’s congregation, clearly identifiable even from this distance. Lord Stormsong clutched his staff, tall and dark and glowering in his mitre of office. Lady Ashvane held a possessive hand on the ship’s rail, her fingers glittering with a glut of gem-studded rings. And between them both stood the Lord Admiral Katherine Proudmoore. She was straight-backed and grey, as though carved from pale iron. Her militant greatcoat cut a sleek dagger-like figure through the curtain of rain.

"Is this really worth it?" Nathanos asked in a low tone. "We already have the Zandalari Navy."

Sylvanas waved him away. "We are still negotiating that treaty, I'll remind you."

"And if it fails, I shall eat crow."

"Don't say such tempting things, Nathanos. I might sabotage the treaty for fun."

He sniffed, clearly unimpressed by her threats. "You are dodging the question."

Sylvanas watched the quayside. Her eyes glowed a dull dangerous red, seeking any hint of Alliance representatives or spies. She found none. Nathanos and her rangers would have alerted her of any such Alliance presence in Boralus at once. Still, she scowled. "The Alliance is circling over this place like a well-fed vulture. Foiling them is its own reward. And besides," Sylvanas added dryly. "One always needs more friends."

“With friends like these you’re more likely to end up with a knife in your back.”

Sylvanas hummed a thoughtful note. “Situation normal, then.”

Indeed, Lord Stormsong and Lady Ashvane watched their Lord Admiral with openly hawkish expressions. Katherine hid her limp well -- an old war wound from some wayward grapeshot, or so Sylvanas was told -- but there could be no doubt that she appeared wan. Her shoulders were hoisted straight back and proud, but her gloved hands trembled somewhat.

Nathanos did not sound amused when he said, “From what I understand, the previous Lord Admiral had his youngest son tried and hung for treason.”

At that, Sylvanas arched an eyebrow and cast a curious look over her shoulder. “What manner of treason?”

“A certain band of orcs were shipwrecked on the coast of Kul Tiras on their way to Kalimdor. The boy dared to offer them aid, and kept it secret from his father.”

“Not very well, apparently.” She turned back to studying the ship ceremony. There was whiskey being poured into tankards now. “And the Lord Admiral in question?”

“Sailed west after the orcs who killed his eldest son. He was eventually slain by Thrall and Rexxar, and subsequently succeeded by his wife and only remaining Heir.” Nathanos inclined his head towards Katherine Proudmoore aboard the merchant ship.

“Hmm,” said Sylvanas.

Katherine Proudmoore was lifting the tankard of whiskey into the air. She drank deeply from the cup, before passing it first to Lord Stormsong, and then to Lady Ashvane. When the tankard was back in her hands, she poured what remained onto the deck of the ship, while Lord Stormsong chanted some nonsense about the Tides. The sailors and stevedores on the docks began to cheer, voicing their approval of a newly blessed ship.

“Does our esteemed host currently have an Heir?” Sylvanas mused aloud, lifting her voice just enough to be heard over the din.

Nathanos shook his head. “None that has been announced to the Great Houses. They would need to be confirmed by a majority vote before they could succeed the Admiralty.”

Sylvanas had her arms crossed. She tapped the fingers of her clawed gauntlet against her opposite arm. They clicked against links of chainmail. She could not feel the chill through the veil of undeath that hung over her, but weather like this always reminded her of other places; Northrend was too close to the lingering cold. Finally, Sylvanas said, “Find me one. A lesser cousin, perhaps. Anyone with the name ‘Proudmoore’ attached to their lineage, even peripherally.”

For a moment, Nathanos made no reply. When he spoke, it was in a low hiss. “I had hoped to dissuade you from this course, my Queen. This place is on the brink of civil war.”

“Excellent. I always did love a good challenge.” Sylvanas said dryly. The crowd was beginning to break up now that the ceremonial ship launching was for all intents and purposes complete. The three Great House leaders had stepped down to the quarterdeck, out of sight from the quay. Sylvanas herself turned and began to stride back towards the city centre. “Now, please tell me you’ve found someplace for us to stay in this miserable backwater that isn’t thoroughly damp.”

Nathanos did not say anything. He did not need to. The look on his face was answer enough.

Sylvanas twisted her mouth to one side as though she had bitten into a sour lemon, and she growled, “Fantastic. The weather shall drive me away before the god-awful people do.”

“Then I shall pray for a rainy season.”

“Don’t you know?” Sylvanas tsked. “It’s always a rainy season in Kul Tiras.”

--

Three days later, Sylvanas was being escorted by a steward into Proudmoore Keep out of the downpour. The guards flanking the great doors of the Keep were dressed in heavy oilskin jackets beneath their livery. Their kettle hats, which Sylvanas had previously thought were purely for show rather than utility, kept the rain off their faces.

She had arrived at the Keep alone, much to the annoyance of Nathanos and her rangers. She had told them they could circle the Keep if it made them feel better about it. There was no doubt in her mind that they were probably prowling the grounds before she even set foot inside without them. But the invitation from the Lord Admiral had specifically been for the Warchief of the Horde, and not for sundry others. Sylvanas was not about to jeopardise this mission before she could even get a chance to speak with the military leader of Kul Tiras.

The moment the great doors shut behind them, the steward held out his arm. "Your cloak, my Lady?"

Sylvanas considered him coolly before she pushed the hood away from her face and unclasped the cloak from her pauldrons. The fabric dripped into his arms when he took it and handed it over to another servant, who whisked it away into an unseen cloakroom behind a set of doors.

The steward seemed not to mind the wet at all. He did not even deign to wick it from his tailored suit. "If you would follow me, please."

It was a long walk through the vast warren of corridors. Proudmoore Keep was designed to withstand an invasion, should the harbour be overrun. As Sylvanas discreetly studied the various hallways branching off in different directions, she roughly calculated how many souls could be housed here during a siege, and for how long.

Not that that information would be relevant. Not so soon, anyway.

Eventually, the steward led her to a nondescript doorway, which bore an iron anchor in its wood grain. He knocked, and from within came the sharp order, "Come in!"

Before opening the door however, the steward passed a critical eye over Sylvanas' appearance. She had left her bow and quiver behind, but there remained tucked into her boot a wickedly curved silver skinning knife. A gift from another life. His lips thinned at the sight of the hilt peeking out from her calf.

Sylvanas glared at him, and her eyes burned crimson. "Do not even think of it," she said coldly.

Despite their difference in size -- Sylvanas was tall by her people's standards, but Kul Tirans seemed a cut above the usual humans she had encountered in the past -- he silently came to the conclusion that one knife was not worth the effort, for he sniffed in disdain. Still, he turned and opened the door for her, even going so far as to bow at the waist as she passed.

An attempt had been made to soften the omnipresent grey stone by the addition of thick rugs. It did very little to make the room more cosy. A dull fire snapped in a black-scorched fireplace, and a wrought-iron candelabra dripped wax from the ceiling. Sylvanas had been in dungeons as accommodating as Proudmoore Keep. The Kul Tiran sense of interior design was cut from the same cloth as their choice in homeland, it seemed.

The Lord Admiral was seated in a high-backed armchair before the fireplace. Beside her was an identical chair, and between them a low table, which carried a tray with a tea set. A thin tendril of steam wound its way from the teapot's spout. The rain-lashed windows were dark, their corners beset with a light mist. Katherine's greatcoat was gone, revealing her shirtsleeves and waistcoat. A warm woolen blanket had been draped across her knees.

Katherine glanced up from a book she was reading. Her half moon spectacles gleamed in the dancing firelight. "Ah. It's you." She marked her place in the book with a length of ribbon, setting it on the table beside the tea set.

When Sylvanas tucked her hands behind her back and inclined her head respectfully, the Lord Admiral gestured sharply towards the other chair. "None of that bullshit. Sit. Please."

The last sounded tacked on and half-remembered, as though they hadn’t the time for such pleasantries. A woman for whom wasted words were a sin, then.

Crossing the room, Sylvanas sat. For a long tense moment, the two studied one another in a quiet broken only by the crackle of the fire as a log slipped across the embers. Then, Sylvanas said, “I would comment on the delights of your fair city, but I have yet to find them. The weather is atrocious, and the people inhospitable.”

If anything, Katherine seemed amused by this observation. “Quite right. Tea?” she asked. Her hand hovered over the handle of the porcelain teapot. “Or are you even able to consume food and drink in your…” She fished for the right word. “... unique condition?”

Rather than answer, Sylvanas nudged a cup and saucer closer to the teapot. “No milk.”

Katherine poured two cups accordingly. She hid the slight tremor in her forearms as she lifted the heavy teapot, but Sylvanas noticed regardless. Sylvanas said nothing. Instead, she took the opportunity to silently note the heavy lines etched into the Lord Admiral’s face, her narrow shoulders, her general pallor. When Katherine handed over a saucer and cup without milk, Sylvanas took it with a simple murmur of thanks.

“So, tell me,” Katherine began, and though her body appeared frail, her eyes and voice were sharp enough to cut. “Why are you here? Did you hope to convince me of something in person in a way your envoys could not?”

“That was the plan, yes,” Sylvanas said dryly.

Stirring milk into her own cup, Katherine tapped the little silver spoon against the porcelain rim. “I hardly think sailing a warship into my waters will convince me to open the borders to the Horde.”

“A single frigate is hardly a threat to the might of the Kul Tiran fleet.” Sylvanas sipped at her tea. It tasted muddy, like everything else. “Unless, of course, your storied Navy is far less powerful than I have been led to believe.”

Katherine grunted a wordless note into her own cup. It sounded like the midway point between a snort and a laugh. She lowered the cup to its saucer, and held them close to her chest in both hands. “Go on, then, Warchief. What message do you have for me that your emissaries did not have the balls to deliver themselves?”

Sylvanas’ eyebrows rose. There was a gentle clink of porcelain against the wooden table as she slowly set down her tea. “Very well,” she murmured. Then, leaning forward in her seat she met the Lord Admiral’s unflinching gaze. “You are a widow with no remaining children. Your peers already plot against you. Your good health is quickly fading. You are in need of a powerful ally to steady the ship, so to speak, and I am a very patient woman with all the time in the world thanks to my ‘unique condition’.”

Despite her best efforts, Sylvanas could not keep the slight sneer at bay when she said those words. The longer Sylvanas spoke, the more stony Katherine’s face became. Her jaw clenched, and her blue eyes narrowed. When Sylvanas had finished, Katherine tongued the inside of her cheek and then took a long sip of her tea. “When I encouraged you to be blunt, I did not mean that blunt.”

Sylvanas shrugged, an unapologetic lift of one shoulder. “Then you should not have asked.”

Katherine pursed her lips into a thin line. Another sip of tea, as though to calm herself before she spoke again. “I respect your honesty, even if I do not appreciate its implications. The truth is never easy to bear. But you cannot deny that your people and mine, we have a history. Even were I to accept your offer of ‘stability’ and whatever that entails, there would be severe internal resistance to an alliance with the Horde.”  

“Small steps first, Lord Admiral,” said Sylvanas. She leaned her elbow upon the armrest, but eased off slightly when she felt her armour begin to scrape the supple leather. “We can talk open borders now, and formal ties later.”

“My people will not see the difference. Not quickly enough for me to be of any political use ‘later’, as it were. As you’ve already said, my position is -” Katherine held up her teacup as though drinking to good health, “- precarious at best. I cannot risk seeming weak now, of all times.”

Trying to seem blithe, Sylvanas said, “Then you leave me little choice but to seek out alternative arrangements with your peers.”

Sylvanas’ ears tilted back in surprise, when Katherine let out a bark of laughter. She was still laughing when she went to pour herself another cup of tea.

“By all means.” Katherine poured a dollop of milk into her cup before drinking from it. She smiled at Sylvanas over the rim, but her gaze was humourless. “You may think me a stubborn old crone -- and you wouldn’t be half wrong -- but I know Lord Alfred and Lady Priscilla very well. They would be even less inclined to hear your petition than I am. Though if you do end up asking them, be sure to do it before I die. I so rarely get a laugh these days.”

With that, Katherine added another hearty little chuckle. Sylvanas had to school her features and stop her ears from pinning straight back in irritation. Her clawed gauntlets dug into the armrest. This time she did nothing to stop them from piercing the material. “Last I heard, there are four Great Houses of Kul Tiras, not just three.”

“And so there are.” Beneath the blanket, Katherine’s foot began to bob in time with the tapping of her finger against her teacup. Abruptly, both stopped. “You’ll find Lucille Waycrest a paltry ally, I’m afraid. The culmination of the Drust incursion has left her region to the mercy of the other Houses. She does the best she can, poor girl, but she inherited a fractured House.”

Sylvanas bared her teeth in a fierce smile. “In my experience, desperation can lead to surprising ends.”

Katherine brushed aside the implication of that statement with a shake of her head. “I cannot stop you from personally speaking with anyone, but your ships are still not welcome in Kul Tiran waters. There will be no open borders to either the Horde or Alliance while I draw breath.”

“Then I suppose our conversation is finished.” In a clink of armour, Sylvanas rose to her feet.

Katherine did not follow suit. She remained seated, cradling her cup of tea. Peering thoughtfully up at Sylvanas over her half moon spectacles, she cocked her head to one side. “To say it has been a pleasure would be a lie. Nevertheless, I am glad to have met you, Warchief.” Then she waved Sylvanas away. “Now, be a dear, won’t you, and have the steward bring an old woman another blanket.”

When Sylvanas swept from the room without another word, the steward was waiting for her outside. She stormed right past him down the halls back the way they had come. He had to trot to keep up with her, despite his own long-legged stride. Sylvanas did not speak until they had reached the cloakroom, where the steward disappeared inside to retrieve her cloak. She tapped her foot against the stone tiled entryway.

The steward reappeared and she snatched her cloak from his hands. As she was fitting it back into place, she snapped, "Take your Lord Admiral another blanket."

The steward blinked in confusion, but immediately rushed off towards Katherine's study to do as he was bidden. Sylvanas tugged the hood of her cloak over her head and snapped her fingers at one of the guardsmen to open the doors for her. The pair of guards did so, heaving at the heavy iron-bound doors until they groaned open just enough for her to slip through.

Outside, it was only twilight, but it looked to be nearing dense night. It was still pissing down with rain. Sylvanas glowered out at the icy downpour, but did not slow her steps as she descended the sweeping staircase from Proudmoore Keep.

Before she could reach the second set of stairs, Nathanos and two of her dark rangers appeared at her side. The rangers dropped a few paces behind, shadowing their footsteps with watchful eyes, coal-bright.

Nathanos' coat did not have a hood. Somewhere he had procured one of the kettle hats and livery sets worn by the Proudmoore guards. "How did it go?"

Sylvanas glanced sidelong at him. "You look ridiculous."

"I gladly suffer for the sake of your safety," said Nathanos dryly. "Now, how did it go?"

Her brows drew sharply down. "She is a stubborn old crone," Sylvanas growled. Her frustration was exacerbated by the squelch of water in her boots. "I quite like her. It is a shame she will not last the next five years. Otherwise, we might have reached an understanding. And what do you have for me?"

In answer, Nathanos lifted two fingers. "Lord Aldrius Norwington. One of Daelin Proudmoore's second cousins, and by all accounts a rich old toff with little interest in politics. But he and his wife are beloved by the Navy. She was a Captain of Marines and he served as a Rear Admiral for a number of years before retiring."

"I assume there's a catch?" Sylvanas asked.

"He is old. Older than the Lord Admiral. And his son died at sea not long ago. He and his wife, Elena, have been in mourning ever since."

"Hmm." They strode towards Unity Square, swiftly making their way towards the inn that Nathanos had secured for them earlier that week. Sylvanas could see sheets of rain in every pool of light from the flickering poles that lined the streets. "And what is the second option?"

Nathanos glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice before answering. "A daughter."

At that, Sylvanas stopped in her tracks. She stared at him incredulously. "A daughter?" she repeated. "I thought the Lord Admiral had no other children."

"She had three. The youngest was a girl by the name of Jaina. From what I understand, the girl was somewhat magically gifted. Katherine and Daelin had an altercation regarding how she ought to be trained. In the end, Katherine smuggled her off to a Drust Thornspeaker by the name of Ulfar.”

“And her current whereabouts?”

Nathanos shook his head, and his kettle hat sent droplets of rain scattering about. “Unknown and presumed dead. Killed during the Drust incursion a few years back. Though her body was never recovered.”

For a long moment, Sylvanas did not reply. The drum of the rain drowned out other noises, so that the sounds of the harbour could only just be heard from the nearby dock districts. Light spilled from the windows of houses, restaurants, and taverns, along with the sounds of merriment from within. Only a few others wandered the streets in this part of town. Mostly Proudmoore guards, the occasional lieutenant on foot, or even a nobleman's carriage bearing some lesser House's coat of arms.

Finally, Sylvanas turned away from the inn which they had been heading towards, and instead strode off in the direction of the docks. "Nathanos, see that our rooms are cancelled for the evening. Anya, arrange for the first ferry to Drustvar. I want us there by daybreak."

Whereas Anya inclined her head and then seemed to melt into the shadows, Nathanos sighed. He made no movement. "The likelihood of finding her is very slim. And even if we do manage to miraculously stumble across her corpse, it will be too far gone for her people to accept her back into proper society."

"You misunderstand me. I mean to find her alive. And failing that, we will procure someone suitable to serve as a nephew to this Norwington fellow. Now," she swung her gaze towards him, her eyes burning through the late afternoon gloom. "I believe I gave you an order, Blightcaller."

Removing his kettle hat, he swept it to his decrepit heart and bowed. "I live to serve the Dark Lady."

Sylvanas watched him with a scowl. When he straightened and departed to do as she commanded, she called after him. “And get rid of that outfit before we leave!”

--

The only good thing Sylvanas could say about Arom's Stand was that at least it wasn't raining. Instead, it was snowing. The hills were surrounded by steep mountains, which already bore their white winter coats. Sylvanas could just make out their ridges in the distance through the scattering of snowfall.

The town itself wasn't much in and of itself. An open stable and rink, where a few horses huddled together for warmth. A mere handful of ramshackle buildings precariously perched together so that they seem to lean towards one another -- not unlike the horses. It was mid morning, but already the lanterns hung over each doorpost were lit, shedding pools of warm yellowish light through the drifts.

It had taken them the morning to get from the little docks where the ferry had unceremoniously dumped them. At least they hadn't been forced to hike the whole way. Sylvanas was willing to suffer few indignities these days. Walking through miles of snow was not one of them. She had scarcely waited until the ferryman was out of sight before she summoned skeletal horses from the earth. The bones had leapt from the ground with an eagerness that had momentarily shocked her. As though the land of Drustvar were hungry for life beyond the grave.

Now at Arom's Strand, the supposed heart of the noble witch-hunting Order of Embers, she saw only one person walking about. And that was a man who staggered out of what appeared to be a shabby little tavern to piss into the snowbank.

"Charming place," Sylvanas muttered. Her skeletal horse stamped a bony hoof as if in agreement.

“Seems like work is slow,” Nathanos noted.

The haughty timbre Anya’s voice was unmistakable as one of the rangers behind them replied, “They must have run out of witches to burn.”

For all that, Sylvanas spied a few tokens strung over the doorways. Bits of bone carved with scrimshaw and bound in leather strips. Kul Tirans were sailors, through and through. And sailors were a superstitious lot.

The man out the front of the tavern was fumbling with the drawstrings of his breeches once more, tying them firmly in place. He had not seemed to have noticed their presence, for he stumbled back into the tavern without any hesitation. The door slammed shut behind him.

“And apparently they’ve run out of wits as well,” Anya added.

“But not drink,” said Nathanos.

That earned a brief titter of shadowy laughter from both Anya and the other ranger, Velonara.

Slipping her feet from the stirrups, Sylvanas dismounted. The moment she stepped away from the horse, its form collapsed in a rush of dry bone and dust, which marked the pale snow. She ignored the antics of Nathanos and her rangers, as well as their sudden sharp attention upon her when she started wading her way through the snow towards the tavern.

"We should gather any intel before you go in alone, my Queen," Velonara said.

Sylvanas did not stop. Nor did she turn around to glance at them. The snow came up to just below her knees. She grunted as she all but kicked a path for her calves. "If I want to be coddled, I will tell you," she said. "Otherwise, you are to wait for me outside."

Behind her, Nathanos made a disgruntled noise, which was not parroted by the rangers, though Sylvanas did not need to look around to know that their expressions would be blankly unimpressed. They did not question her further, however. And by the time she reached the steps leading to the tavern, they had vanished.

Sylvanas took a moment to knock her armoured ankles against the topmost step to loosen any remaining snow before approaching the door. Unlike the inns and taverns at Boralus, this establishment lacked the sound of lively laughter and conversation, of feet stamping along to the rhythm of a fiddle while patrons drunkenly sang along to the chorus of their favourite sea shanties. Here, the windows were blackened with soot, barely leaking through the firelight from within.

When she opened the door and stepped inside, every patron turned to regard her with a steady gaze. There were not many of them. A mere five, and that included the barkeep. More witch's tokens were strung up along the rafters alongside the cobwebs. Bits of bone and thorn wound together. Even a little wicker effigy had been affixed over the fireplace beneath the sun-bleached skull of a deer. Steps wound up the opposite side of the room, leading to what she assumed were the barkeep's accommodations. The barkeep himself had his feet propped atop a cask of ale behind the counter. His apron bore a series of stains all along the once white linen. He tilted his hat back to get a better look at her.

The other four all wore dark-washed tabards with a flame-like symbol woven into the fabric with copper thread. Three of them nursed chipped tankards of ale. The fourth was a red-haired slip of a girl who held a knife in her hands, its point digging into the wooden benchtop. After a long moment, they all turned away from her. They returned to their own closed circle of conversation, taking up every last seat at the bar. Their voices were hushed murmurs and rumbles.

Sylvanas strode straight up to the end of the bar and leaned her elbow against it. Her voice cut through their soft-spoken phrases like a claw through hide. "I am looking for members of the Order of Embers. That's you, isn't it?"

One of the men, a tall burly human with bushy black sideburns, set down his drink. "We might be."

At that, Sylvanas gave their tabards a pointed glance. His colleague, a great hulking woman with shoulders like a shipwreck and a scar running down her left cheek, rolled her eyes.

"Enough of that, Sterntide." She jerked her head towards Sylvanas. "Joan Cleardawn. Marshal of the Order.” She gestured towards the others in turn. “This is Sterntide. Notley. And Mace. Not many strangers come 'round these parts nowadays. Have you gotten lost?"

"No," said Sylvanas.

Sterntide, for all his gruff demeanor, motioned towards the barkeep for another drink. When the barkeep pulled out an extra tankard for their guest, Sylvanas shook her head curtly. "Nothing for me."

She drummed her clawed gauntlet against the wooden bartop. Beside her, the slight red-haired woman named Mace fiddled restlessly with the knife in her hands. She scraped little carvings into the scarred wood. From this angle, Sylvanas could just make out the beginnings of an animal skull, though which kind was yet to be determined. Certainly, there were some very sharp teeth involved.

Sylvanas looked away from the carvings. "I was told your Order still keeps in regular contact with the Drust," she continued. "I am looking for one of their kind. A Thornspeaker."

The other man, Notley, slight of build but still fiendishly tall -- a trait of all Kul Tirans, it seemed -- leaned over his drink to get a better look at her. Sylvanas did not move in the slightest, despite how close he drew. He smelled of ale and woodsmoke. There were twin falcon's feathers affixed to the edges of his cloak. Finally, realisation crossed his features. He leaned back in his seat.

"Undead," he remarked. "Don't know why your kind bother. No Thornspeaker can help you, you know."

Sylvanas frowned at him. "Nevertheless, I would speak with one."

"Why?" he asked.

None of their expressions seemed overtly hostile upon learning what she was. Wary, to be sure. But not hostile. Not even remotely surprised. As though the dead frequently walked into their frozen hamlet, which barely warranted a mark on a map.

Briefly, Sylvanas considered her chances of getting away with a lie. This crowd did not seem easily deterred, however. "I am looking for someone," she finally admitted. "One of the Thornspeakers everyone thinks died in your Drust incursion some time ago."

Sterntide grunted into his cup. Lowering it, he wiped foam from his moustache with the back of his hand. "You one of those, aren't you?"

Sylvanas' eyes narrowed dangerously, and her ears lowered just a fraction. "I do not follow."

"Had a group of hunters out here last fortnight, wanting to go trawling through the Crimson Forest." Sterntide gestured emphatically with his tankard, sloshing a bit of ale onto the bartop. "I told them, I said, 'Don't do it. That forest is protected. Eat you alive, it will.' They didn't listen." He waved his free hand dismissively, then raised his tankard of ale back to his lips. "Haven't seen them since, poor bastards."

Cleardawn joined in as well. There was a dark furrow in her brow, and the scar on her cheek creased when she spoke. "Some bloody idiots heard there was an ancient Thornspeaker born of the Wild God, Athair, living in these parts. And off they trotted to the mountains, hoping to bring it down with silver arrows. Got themselves ripped to bloody shreds by the Drust ghosts at Gol Osigr." She snorted, shaking her head.

Mace stabbed her knife into the bartop so that it stuck in place, its hilt quivering. "You know, I saw a hunter selling broken arrows down in Corlain last month? Claimed they'd been pulled from that Thornspeaker's bloody hide, and that they could fell any beast, living or dead. Sold them for their weight in gold to some sad sack of shit from Boralus, too."

Sylvanas had not come here for tall tales, but it seemed she would be subjected to them regardless. She almost wished she had taken up their offer on a drink. And that alcohol still had any effect on her whatsoever.

"I am not looking to sell pieces of the Thornspeaker off for gold," Sylvanas said. She stopped rapping her fingers against the bartop, her palm splaying out across the gridwork of carvings all across the wood grain. "I only wish to talk."

The wary expressions returned.

"What for?" Notley pressed. His free hand stroked along the fletching of a quiver at his hip, though his bow was nowhere in sight.

"Yeah, and why not?" Sterntide added.

Sylvanas had to stamp down the urge to roll her eyes. "Do you know, or don't you?"

Silence. And then -

"Gol Inath," Mace whispered. She had taken up the knife once again, and was nervously digging a sprawling array of antlers from the skull carving. "The High Thornspeaker lives at Gol Inath."

The moment the name of that place was spoken, a wind buffeted down the chimney, and the fire flickered and snapped. Sterntide spat over his left shoulder. Notley fidgeted with his arrows. Even the unshakeable mountain of a woman, Cleardawn, cast a nervous glance towards the hearth.

For her part, Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow. "And how do I find Gol Inath?"

"You don't," Cleardawn said darkly. "It finds you."

"How very unhelpful," drawled Sylvanas.

"Watch your tone," the barkeep growled. It was the first thing he had said since her arrival. His doughy face was ghostly pale, his expression hard as wrought iron. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know shit."

Straightening somewhat, Sylvanas grudgingly kept her tone neutral when she said, "Can you at least give me a hint? A general vicinity, perhaps?"

She tried to catch the eye of the members of the Order of Embers, but they were all looking towards Cleardawn, as if waiting for her answer, or perhaps for her permission before they spoke out of turn. For that matter, Cleardawn was watching Sylvanas with serious eyes. "I don't like sending strangers off to their death," she explained. "It's not very host-like, see?"

"I think you'll find it's all far too late for that." Sylvanas gestured to herself with a humourless smile.

Even so, Cleardawn shook her head. The smile disappeared, and Sylvanas could feel the ire growing in her chest like a living thing. Before she could open her mouth however, Cleardawn sighed.

“Follow the old silver mines west down the cliffs." She pointed towards the western-most wall, which bore a brace of gutted hares that were tied up by their feet. "From here, you can see the great tree at the centre of the Crimson Forest. That's where you're headed. Mark me, stranger." Cleardawn leaned her bulk against the bartop as she fixed Sylvanas with a hard look. "The way may seem easy. But it isn't. Tides preserve you."

Inclining her head, Sylvanas murmured, "I shall not keep you from your cups any further."

When she turned to walk away, they did not immediately strike up their conversation again. She could feel their eyes upon her, and she distinctly heard Sterntide mutter under his breath, "Poor sod."

Sylvanas stopped in the doorway, her fingers upon the handle. She was craning her neck to study a tangle of briar thorns that had been placed over the entryway, strung with other smaller tokens. “I thought your Order was founded to combat witchcraft,” she mused aloud. She reached up to gently turn one of the tokens between her fingers. It was the yellowish fang of some indeterminate animal. A large cat endemic to the area, perhaps.  

“Aye,” said Cleardawn from the bar. “But the best way to fight witchcraft is with witchcraft. Take one with you, stranger. May it protect you, where your arrows can’t.”

Running her thumb along the blunt edge of the tooth, Sylvanas stood silently for a moment. She did not know what compelled her to do it, but she tugged the token free. The bit of twine that tethered it in place snapped. It was heavy in her palm, like a lodestone. Closing her fingers around the token, Sylvanas pushed open the door and stepped outside.

“Cheerful lot, aren’t they?” murmured Anya’s voice.

Sylvanas glanced over to see three pairs of eyes glinting at her from the shadows of the tavern’s eaves. She worried her thumb against the tooth’s blunted point, thoughtful. “I want to see the map again.”

Those eyes blinked owlishly. Then, Nathanos stepped forward. He pulled a folded scrap of parchment from the breast pocket of his coat, and handed it over. As Sylvanas unfolded it, she gestured for the other two to gather round. Together, they stood out of the way of the first story window of the tavern.

“We will divide Drustvar into scouting regions. Gather information. Find me this lost heir to the Proudmoore line.” Using the tip of the tooth, Sylvanas pointed to eastern coast of Drustvar. “Anya, you will take everything from Carver’s Harbour to Fletcher’s Hollow. Nathanos, you have the mountains all the way to Gol Koval. Velonara, take Waycrest Manor to Corlain. Which leaves…”

The fang hovered over the southwest peninsula of Drustvar. The map there had no markings titling it apart from a small town named Falconhurst at the inlet south of the Crimson Forest. The forest itself was a blank mass of branches. And at its very centre a massive tree. The locals who had penned this map had not dared to put the tree’s name to paper. As the fang circled round the tree, it seemed to push away from the location as if magnetically repelled.

“I for one do not like this plan,” said Nathanos. His statement was met with grave nods from both Anya and Velonara. “It’s too risky. We are stronger together.”

Folding the map back up, Sylvanas carefully traced the creases in the parchment between her pinched fingers. “We are also slower together,” she said. “And we have a great deal of ground to cover.”

She was fixed by three nearly identical glowers of disapproval.

Sylvanas glared right back. "Oh, I'm sorry," she growled. "Did this become a democracy when I wasn't looking?"

Anya huffed. Velonara rolled her eyes. Nathanos, for his part, held out his hand for the map. Sylvanas slapped the piece of paper into his palm.

"You have your orders," she said. "Now, follow them. We will meet back here in a week. Do try to refrain from any notions of rebellion in my absence."

"I for one make no promises," Velonara said.

Meanwhile, Anya added, "I distinctly remember your original platform being founded on the idea of rebellion, in fact."

"Spare me the sass, you two," sighed Sylvanas. "I thought death was supposed to be peaceful."

Jerking his thumb towards the other two, Nathanos said, "And you still kept these jackals around?" He tsked and shook his head in a reprimanding fashion.

Velonara made a rude gesture with her fingers, while Anya jostled Nathanos with her very bony elbow. He bore the injustice with a grunt of discomfort.

"Just as well you three aren't left alone together," Sylvanas muttered, not bothering to keep her voice down. "I'd come back to find the rest of Drustvar in flames."

Anya tried for a look of wide-eyed innocence, but on her impish face it only made her appear more devious. "And let Ashvane and Stormsong have all the fun?"

Sighing, Sylvanas tucked the fang into a leather pouch at her waist. "No inciting a civil war until we're well and truly ready to profit from one. Now," she waved at them as if trying to swat a swarm of flies in the air. "Go."

They went, but not without mocking little bows in her direction, each accompanied by a murmured, "For the Dark Lady."

With a shake of her head, Sylvanas waited until they had set off before making her own way around the outside of the tavern. Behind it was a stone walkway that traced the edge of the sheer cliffs that Cleardawn had spoken of earlier. A falcon was perched atop an outcropping. Its head was tucked beneath its wing, but it rustled its feathers and peered blearily at her when she stopped nearby. It chirped at her. A length of dyed leather was bound to one of its legs, and a scattering of rodent bones lay beneath its perch.

Sylvanas ignored the falcon in favour of looking over the cliffside. The snowfall had lessened. Only a few small white clumps drifted through the air now. Somehow it felt warmer up here than in the miserable rain of Boralus; the blanket of new snow and cloud acted as a layer of insulation. Even if Sylvanas had not been Undead, she would not have needed the luxury of a heavy cloak.

Dug into the slope were the abandoned silvermines, their rail carts barely visible from beneath the cliff's dramatic overhang. The lengths of steel seemed to shunt to nowhere, and with a crane of her neck she could just make out that segments of the rail line had been shorn off and carted away, cannibalised by the locals for alternative use. The snow sank slowly downwards, far below, and from this altitude Sylvanas could see the point at which the air grew too warm and turned it to rain. A mist clung to the tops of trees that seemed caught in a stasis of autumn.

Even from here, the enormous tree could be seen. It loomed through the mist, a sprawling colossus of nature. Its twisted limbs were bare and skeletal through the fog, like a mythological being that had been petrified in place, struck down by some rival god in the very midst of battle. A path cut its way from the silver mines down to the forest's edge, but there it stopped dead in its tracks, overgrown with wild underbrush and tangles of briary roses that had long since lost their blooms.

Something rapped against her wrist. Sylvanas' head swung round sharply, only to find that the falcon had hopped down from its perch and ambled towards her along the stone railing where her hands had clenched themselves into fists. The bird was toying at a tarnished buckle of her vambrace.

"Plucky little thing," Sylvanas muttered. Then she waved it away, and turned aside to begin her descent.

The cliffs were broken only by a single steep slope at the edge of Arom's Stand. It was clearly marked as the road to Corlain by a lonely lantern that shed its dim light onto a signpost beneath it, scrawled in a blackletter script that had faded with age. It took longer than she would have liked to traverse the switchbacks through the silver mines. Her only blessing was that the further down she went, the more the snow receded, until she could stride unencumbered across the path.

The ground here was marked with the grooves of merchant's carts that had traveled for years across these roads, heavy-laden with goods from Corlain. Mud congealed along the tracks, and puddles gathered in the ruts. The melted snows were a fine drizzle that misted the air, obscuring vision so that the mountains faded behind her into haze-riddled shapes.

When Sylvanas reached the treeline, she paused. The road curved well around the Crimson Forest, giving the woods a wide berth. She lingered between the two. Her eyes scanned the canopy, where a raven watched her in turn with a steady gaze. After a moment it took flight, its strident cry sending a flurry of smaller birds scattering in its wake. She squinted, but even her heightened senses could not pierce the veil of shadow that clung to the underbrush. The woods were thickly-woven, their branches a loom that threaded together, offering no clear path forward. A hunting knife would do little in the way of hacking through that dense thicket. The broadest axe would struggle.

The cries of the raven were fading into the distance. When Sylvanas took her first step past the trees, the weight of the fang in her pouch seemed heavier, tugging at her belt with every footfall. She ignored it and ducked beneath a branch, pressing onwards. Overhead, the dense canopy began to weave together as she ventured further into the woods, until what meagre sunlight Kul Tiras had to offer could not be found in any trace.

Steadily, her eyes adjusted. Her ears pricked at any wayward sound, alert and on guard, though she kept her bow strung over her shoulder rather than firmly in her grasp. Sylvanas had spent many years of her former life traversing deep woods, and often she would dwell upon those memories still, memories of better times, some of the best in her life. If asked, she would consider herself an expert, but this was like no forest she had encountered in the past, alive or dead.

A forest was alive. It breathed. It teemed with all manner of creatures. It had a rhythm. This place had none of those qualities. It was absolutely still. Neither breath of wind nor life. Mist clung to her ankles when she walked, disturbed by her movements, only to settle back into inaction in her wake. She was a disturbance. An unwelcome guest at a funerary rite.

Where at the entrance to the forest, the enormous tree at its heart had towered above the others, now Sylvanas could see nothing of it. Any vantage point, any reference had vanished like smoke. She carried no compass; she had dead reckoning and had never found the need for one in the past. Something told her that even if she had thought to bring one however, it would be of little use here. Cocking her head, she continued southwest.

The forest offered very little in the way of landmarks. The landscape here had a repetitious quality. Same colours. Same sounds. Same patterns. Once Sylvanas could have sworn she heard the rustle of something in the distance, but it was beyond her vision.

Eventually she came across a distinct clearing. It was presided over by a black and twisted ash tree -- the victim of an old fire, no doubt. Even its roots still appeared scorched. While the other trees had regrown over time, this little glade remained untouched. As she drew near, Sylvanas paused. In the centre of the clearing a wicker man had been erected. It was a larger copy of the one Sylvanas had seen at the tavern in Arom's Stand. A group of superstitious hunters must have put it here to guard them while they slept.

Sylvanas took note of the surrounding area before pressing onwards. With near silent footfalls, she stalked the woods. The most she came across in terms of living creatures were a few unwary hares with grey coats, and the sporadic raven that croaked balefully at her from the trees. Nothing larger let itself be known however. Normally, she would have expected to stumble across the path of deer, or wild boars, or even predators that had little fear of humans in such untouched areas. But not here.

Hours passed as she walked. The space between the trees were beginning to darken as evening approached. Sylvanas glanced around, then froze.

The old flame-blackened ash tree stood, stark as a pillar, not a stone's throw ahead of her. Slowly, Sylvanas approached it once more. A wary hand strayed to the bow slung across her shoulders, but she did not draw the weapon yet. She stopped at the edge of the clearing, her fingers just grazing the handle of her bow, waiting.

The wicker man was slumped against the stick that held it upright, utterly unchanged from when she had first been here. Instead of hands, it had bear claws bound to its wrists with coils of thick flaxen rope, the kind one might use on a ship's deck. Its head had the length and shape of a wolf's skull, but for the set of antlers coronating it like a crown. The skull was tilted down and to one side, as though its maker had pushed its face away.

Had it looked aside like that before? Sylvanas cast her mind back, but could not be completely sure. Perhaps this was a series of camps, created by hunters or whoever else dared traversed these woods.

Sylvanas lowered her hand from the bow. She drew the silver hunting knife from her boot, and scored the withered bark of the tree. Then, sheathing the knife, she continued on her way.

Night was swiftly upon her. In the darkness, the woods grew vast and deep. No starlight could reach her here. Not even rain. The patter of gentle rainfall had long since vanished during her wandering, but the mist remained. In life, her night vision could never have rivaled those of her cousins across the sea in Kalimdor. In death however, Sylvanas needed very little by way of light to see. Even so, there was nothing to be done about the dense vegetation that obstructed her at every turn. In some areas, the woods grew so thickly together that she had to squeeze her way through narrow gaps between trunks, and the sharp branches would snag upon her clothing, as if attempting to drag her back.

A few more hours. She was sure she was gaining ground on her final destination, when she saw it.

The ash tree. Black as basalt. The mark Sylvanas had left in the bark was bleeding like a wound with a substance too dark to be sap. And in its bare spiny branches, a dark shape lurked with arms outstretched.

In a single fluid motion, Sylvanas drew her bow. The fletching of an arrow was brushing her cheek, ready to be fired, but she paused. She relaxed the bowstring, lowering the weapon just slightly. A wary step forward. Then another.

The shape was unmoving. It dripped onto the ground. Quickly, Sylvanas put away her bow and arrow, and pulled flint from her pocket. A moment later she was lifting a torch towards the tree.

A wolf had been flayed and perched in its branches, as though stored there by a shrike. Its ribs were cracked open, its belly slit, its head was missing, and its entrails spilled onto the forest floor. All but its heart, which had been staked onto the chest of the wicker man in the clearing.

With a soft grunt, Sylvanas studied the wolf a moment longer. She removed the glove from her spare hand with her teeth, and reached out to touch it. The blood of its offal was still warm. A fresh kill.

Scowling, Sylvanas wiped her fingers clean, put her glove back on, and strode into the clearing. The wicker man was looking straight ahead now, a watchful guardian of the empty grove. For a fleeting instant, she considered setting it alight with the tip of her torch, but some whispered misgiving stayed her hand. The urge to at least turn its head aside once more was too great however, and she nudged the skull with the toe of her boot so that it would not watch her while she made camp.

When she had a small fire going, she pulled out a piece of parchment and retraced her steps. A few strokes here and there with a bit of charcoal from the fire, and Sylvanas had a makeshift map of where she had gone through the Crimson Forest so far. Or at least, where she thought she had gone. Everything in her body, every last scrap of experience told her that she had been travelling southwest the entire time. There were very little hills. The hills were flat for the most part, broken only by gentle slopes here and there. From memory she charted the gullies, and came to the conclusion that she must have gotten turned around at one end, so that she continued back down her path towards the ash tree on multiple occasions.

The magic of this place would be muddying her sense of direction. That was evident. Her first course of action from here would be to find a river or stream. If it were fresh, it would be fed from the glaciers to the east. She could follow the water away from its source, and in the direction of Gol Inath.

The fire was burning low, simmering to its bed of coals. For the first time in Kul Tiras, Sylvanas' clothes were at last starting to feel dry. She counted her luck on that front, at least. Unless there was a truly torrential downpour, she would be spared wet clothes for a while yet.

In the dead of night, the noises of the woods were hushed but present. The ravens had faded in the wake of owls and the chirp of nocturnal insects. A few moths danced dangerously close to the flames, and the whine of some bold mosquitos ventured near, only to find her a poor meal indeed.

Slowly, her hands grew heavy. Her wrist slumped, and the bit of charcoal dragged a ragged path against the parchment in her grasp. Sylvanas blinked against it, straightening her posture. But a few moments later, and her shoulders sinking down once more. The fire flickered limply against the weight of the night air, until even the stray sparks were pushed down into the flames.

Sleep should not have been possible -- Sylvanas could fuzzily recall the last time she had experienced it nearly a generation ago -- but she closed her eyes, and it claimed her regardless.

She was standing at the summit of Icecrown Citadel. The wind whipped her long cloak into a frenzy around her ankles. The balls of her feet were balanced at the very edge of the frozen fortification, and when she looked down, nothing but darkness awaited her below. Her foot lifted. She stepped forward and off the ledge. And when she fell -- down, down -- she was not met with the slam of ice and rock, but with the feeling of something catching tight around her neck and yanking, so that she dangled from the Lich King's lair like a trophy for all to see.

Sylvanas wrenched awake with a gasp. Her chest heaved, lungs working for breath that she no longer needed. She started to reach up to touch her neck, but something crumpled in her fists. She looked down. The parchment she had been using for a map was now a mass of black -- smeared from every edge and ragged corner -- and in her other hand the charcoal had been worn down to a nub. She threw the parchment and charcoal aside. The fingers of her gloves were grimy with dark ash.

At her feet, the fire had burned down to a bed of pink and white coals. They shed a feeble scarlet light onto her surroundings. And across from the coals, the wicker man cast a looming shadow against the trees. Its skull was turned directly towards her, and the hollow sockets of its eyes gleamed in the dying light.

Scrambling upright, Sylvanas kicked dirt over the coals until they were smothered. Then, she snatched up the quiver and bow from the ground where she had left them within arm's reach. Fastening them across her shoulders once more, she glowered at the woods. They stood impassively. She aimed a last glare at the wicker man, which seemed to stare back at her.

Sylvanas bared her sharp teeth and hissed softly, “Stay out of my head.” Then she kicked the skull back to the side to stop it from looking at her, and strode from the clearing.

Dawn was not far off. An hour or two of brisk walking, and the trees seemed to lighten in colour somewhat, so that the low-slung mist that pervaded the forest brightened. She stalked through it viciously, her eyes burning as tendrils of fog swirled around her feet.

She headed dead south. A completely new direction today. At least if she went too far and somehow passed by Gol Inath, she would wind up in Falconhurst. From there she could gather more intel from the local farmers and trappers, before heading back into the forest.

The gullies in this direction grew steep. More than once, Sylvanas had to gingerly pick her way down the slopes, or risk making enough noise to alert every predator of her presence from here to Corlain. She knew now that there were wolves in these parts. Even if the only one she had seen so far had been killed by unknown hands.

Nearly the whole day she walked. Never pausing. Never relenting. She sought a water source -- there must be one; there must -- but even the most meagre of streams eluded her. Eventually she abandoned caution. She pressed through the trees with a recklessness that would have gotten her scolded by her mother as a child learning to hunt for the first time.

Whereas the day before the woods had treated her with a cold indifference, today they seemed guarded. As though she were being observed by a massive crowd of people who muttered in disapproval about her presence. Once or twice, Sylvanas could have sworn she saw something moving at the corner of her vision -- an enormous shape slouching between the trees. Her ears would cock forward in search of any noise, and her head would whip around, only to find nothing. But always the unpleasant feeling lingered. Of being watched. Of a hand reaching through the dark to grasp her shoulder and wrench her round.

After hours and hours of trekking, Sylvanas clambered up a steep incline, then went stock still.

That damn ash tree. Again. The wolf was still there. Its entrails were gone. Bloody smears were dragged along the ground from the base of the tree. Something must have come along and eaten the offal. And of course, the fucking wicker man was there, too.

Swearing -- not bothering to keep her voice down -- Sylvanas  scowled up at the tree. It was growing dark again. A whole day. Wasted.

She fumed. She paced the clearing. She pulled the fang from her pouch and rubbed it between the fingers of one hand. Then, she dropped down on her haunches in front of the wicker man to glare at it, close enough that her nose was but a finger-breadth away.

"I am growing rather tired of this game," Syvlanas growled.

The wicker man of course made no reply.

That night she dreamt of Frostmourne. The blade plunged beneath her ribcage while she knelt in a field of golden flowers. And when she slumped to the ground, she was drowning in a sea of petals. They got into her mouth, into her throat. They filled her lungs until she choked on golden blooms.  

She awoke panting for air, and her initial bout of panic seethed into fury. Coils of her banshee form curled from her body like black smoke. The fire she had built a few hours ago spluttered when she rose to her feet, shadows gathering close around her. The wicker man watched in stolid silence.

Sylvanas snarled something wordless, the noise echoing. Her hands were clenched into trembling fists. The fang dug into her palm until it began to pierce the glove of her clawed gauntlet. Without thinking, she hurled the little witch’s token at the wicker man in a fit of anger.

The fang never reached its intended destination. No sooner had it left her hand, than it fell back at her feet, as though it had bounced against an invisible wall, or been buffeted back by an unseen wind.

Sylvanas blinked. Slowly the anger boiled low in her stomach until it was just a metallic taste on the back of her tongue instead of the wild thing that gripped her jaws. She reached down, hesitated a moment, then picked up the fang from the ground. Turning it over thoughtfully between her fingers, she looked between the fang and the wicker man. Then, she tore a thin strip of cloth from her cloak. She used her knife to bore a hole through the thickest section of bone, and looped the fabric through until the fang hung from a knot.

When she held it up to the wicker man, the fang pushed away at the end of the length of cloth like a pendulum.  

“Well, well…” Sylvanas murmured. She pulled her hand back so that the witch’s token hung normally from her grasp. “It seems I have a compass after all.”

If Sylvanas had thought the Crimson Forest an untraversable warren before, her mind was not changed now. In one hand she held the makeshift compass aloft like a lantern. It would swing wildly about with every step, always pushing away from the heart of the woods. The further she ventured, the more the fang strained at the end of its strip of cloth, as if trying to drag her back to safety. And with every step she ignored its warnings, pushing ever inwards.

Her ears pricked at the first sound of trickling water, and not long after she came across a stream. It was small enough for her to step across, but she felt triumphant nonetheless. Any change in scenery was welcome. Especially if it meant she didn’t have to cross paths with that wicker man again.

The next time she did, she would stuff it full of arrows.

As time went on, the sensation of being watched only intensified. The ravens ruffling their feathers upon high branches were eerily quiet. Something rustled through the underbrush, the sounds animal-like at first, only to prove itself a breeze when Sylvanas inspected the source more closely.

And then the fang began to spin in circles, like a needle skipping over a track. Sylvanas glanced down at the slope beneath her feet, looking around to get her bearings. Another little hillock protruded from the ground not far off. And another beyond that. It was then that she realised they were not hills at all, but roots that had been grown over with earth.

Stuffing the fang back into its pouch, she continued to climb. The roots levelled out, and gradually the trees began to thin. She could see patches of sky riddled with a scarlet haze from the light of the setting sun slanting through the atmosphere. The fog slithered along the ground here, flowing past Sylvanas in slow ripples. The sound of rushing water grew louder and steadier. She hastened her step, her hand straying to the bow, drawing it from her shoulders.

In the epicentre of the forest, Gol Inath sprawled. Waterfalls flowed beside it, feeding pools of water that shed the mist that pervaded the woods. The colossal tree’s bulging twisted limbs were bare and grey. So broad was its trunk, a hundred men could not hope to encircle it. And at its very base, a pointed stone arch had been built, fragments of stone staggered along the path leading to it like a series of broken tombstones to a monument.

The air here was heavy. The taste of it lingered on the back of her tongue like the tang of copper. Cautiously, her eyes scanning the clearing for any hint of movement, Sylvanas stepped forward. The path to the enormous tree was clear, but every instinct urged her that this was a lie. With every step closer, she waited for an attack to come, until she stood directly before Gol Inath, peering into its hollow trunk.

The space beneath the archway was a black beyond black. She could just make out stairs leading down into the ground beneath the tree. In the stones above the entryway, runes had been chiselled. They glowed with a spectral blue light that pulsed with a slow steady rhythm, as though they were breathing.

Sylvanas lifted her foot to take that first step inside, when a voice echoed around the clearing, “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

In a blur of motion, Sylvanas whirled about, nocked an arrow and pulled it back, ready to fire. She aimed down the shaft of the arrow, but nobody stood behind her. The clearing was empty. The only other noise was the series of waterfalls, which splashed against rocks and gnarled roots.

“I see you are no different from the other hunters, then,” said the voice again. Its owner sounded weary, feminine, and slightly bored.

Sylvanas shifted her grip upon the bow. Then, warily, she slackened her bowstring. She lowered the weapon, but did not put it away, her fingers holding the arrow steady. “I am looking for someone. I was told you trained her. Assuming you are the High Thornspeaker, of course.”

Silence. When the voice spoke again, it seemed to come from a different angle, and Sylvanas’ head snapped around to follow it. “It’s rare I receive new pupils, though not completely unheard of.”

“Not recently, no. You would have trained her years ago.”

This time, the silence seemed contemplative. Curious, even. A breath of wind stirred behind her, and when Sylvanas turned around once more, a tall figure stood beneath the stone archway of Gol Inath. A sickle-shaped staff was clutched in one clawed hand that appeared to be made of the same wood as the staff. The woman’s face was obscured by an antlered skull with teeth far sharper than a deer ought to have. Her broad shoulders bore a fine mantle of woven feathers and leaves, dark as the forest itself.

“Strange,” said Ulfar, her voice a wine-black murmur beneath the mask. “You are not a member of the Order of Embers, yet you bear one of my tokens."

The fang was a steady weight in Sylvanas’ pouch. “One of the Order gave it to me as a parting gift.” Sylvanas lowered her bow fully, then placed it and the arrow over her shoulder. She studied the glowing runes carved into the skull’s antlers, similar to those carved into the archway. A multitude of tokens and charms wrought from stones and thorns and animal bones were clustered at Ulfar’s belt, or hidden among the folds of her clothing. Sylvanas nodded towards them. "They told me you were the High Thornspeaker, but they failed to inform me you were also a witch."

Ulfar’s hand tightened around her staff, and the skull swung round. The fathomless sockets of its eyes stared at her in a menacing way. "I am not a witch," came the hissed reply.

Raising her hands, palm up, Sylvanas said, “Peace, Ulfar. I meant no disrespect.”

Ulfar cocked her head to one side in a curious tilt. “Your information is outdated, stranger. I am not Ulfar. He is no longer with us. I am his successor.”

Sylvanas frowned. “Then what should I call you?”

“Jaina.”

--

title from:

“In my body you search the mountain for the sun buried in its forest. In your body I search for the boat adrift in the middle of the night.”

— Octavio Paz, from Counterparts (tr. by Eliot Weinberger)

[cydrhos]

Half a bottle of madeira later and somewhat tongue-in-cheek I wonder how long we have before there are no trees. Taking the elm in Britain...

We are conditioned to see only a disastrous extinction.  This Forest Research note starts with 'Dutch elm disease is one of the most serious tree diseases in the world' and Countryfile (the BBC?) says there are only a hundred left in the UK. I've seen more than that myself.

The situation is not quite as bad as we all expected in the seventies and it's nothing like as bad as lazy and sensationalist journalism suggests.

I don't know if you've heard of the big sanitation felling of larch across the country for Phytophthora ramorum. I think the government has been pissing in the wind over this as P. ramorum spores are dispersed by the wind. Not all larch are accessible for felling and there are sizeable stands left everywhere. Also, the glut of larch timber ruined the market and now all the sawmills and timber merchants are stocked up for the next ten years so nobody wants to buy any more and there's no incentive for further felling. We still have P. ramorum.

Dutch elm disease is carried by the elm bark beetle and as I recall, it has an range of about 2 miles per generation. I think that makes the elm a much better candidate for sanitation felling. Wikipedia gives some confirmation:

"Although the English elm population in Britain was almost entirely destroyed by Dutch elm disease, mature trees can still be found along the south coast Dutch Elm Disease Management Area in East Sussex. This cordon sanitaire, aided by the prevailing southwesterly onshore winds and the topographical niche formed by the South Downs, has saved many mature elms. Amongst these are possibly the world's oldest surviving English elms, known as the 'Preston Twins' in Preston Park, both with trunks exceeding 600 cm in circumference (2.0 m dbh), though the larger tree lost two limbs in August 2017 following high winds."

“... almost entirely destroyed by...”. Hmmm. The Wildlife Trusts are a bit more accurate: “...are now rarely found as trees and are more common as hedgerow shrubs”.

Quick-growing shrubs up to 30 feet or so.

Elms are (relatively) common here in Mid Wales but only as hedgerow trees with stems up to about 6 inches dbh. I can't distinguish one species from another because all of my books show ancient standards, not young adults, and concentrate on the open-grown form. And I’m usually grubbing about in the grass on the bank. It's usual to believe that they've disappeared from the countryside just because nearly all the big standards have gone but there are plenty of smaller trees around and they do survive long enough to seed: the beetle is not keen on the thinner bark of young trees so doesn't bore into and infect them.

I think the conviction that they are all gone prevents us from noticing them. Walking along a country lane we glance at the hedges and see only hazel. Look more closely, especially in hedges that have been left to grow, and especially above your head in the late spring and early summer when the seeds are still ripening. You may discover that the hazel is actually an elm.

The seeds are recalcitrant so that too has conditioned us to see the worst: they don't remain viable if dried and stored and if all our obvious trees are gone then there are apparently no more seeds.

Still, we have trees, and we have an annual source of seeds, and we have a vector with a limited annual range.

@wildfloweroftheday you can see mature standard U. minor in Brighton and, perhaps a little closer, The Conservation Foundation claim there's one just outside Brenchley though Google’s Street View is too low res to be much use.

[mrrajasekharv-blog]

AgroForestry - Money Does Grow On Tres

When trees are present on the farm, the farmer reaps many benefits, one of which is that he makes more money. In traditional agricultural models, the farmer often falls into a debt cycle. For example, a farmer might take out a loan to buy pesticides, fertilizer and seeds, but the monsoon may not come and a drought or a flood may destroy his crop. Then, he has no food to feed himself and no money to repay the loan. Sometimes, even if he gets a good yield, the farmer can suffer because of a glut in the market that will drive down the price.

70% of Indian villagers work on the farm. They suffer such situations on a daily basis. No wonder almost 300,000 farmers have committed suicide in the last twenty years.

But agroforestry is very economically appealing for the farmer. The reason is the demand for timber in India and abroad. Timber is used everywhere including firewood, furniture, scaffoldings, pulp, paper, floorings, cabins, musical instruments, sports equipment, etc.

But India does not have sufficient timber production and a severe shortage is expected as early as 2020. Nearly 25% of the over ₹70,000 crores worth of wood used in India is imported, while India’s timber exports value at just a tenth of that. This leaves a large market to be tapped in timber both nationally and internationally. With the rise in living standards in India, the need for wood is only growing. Some farmers are already profiting from this demand.

Senthilkumar, a farmer from Gobichettipalayam in Tamil Nadu is one such agroforestry pioneer. “I have planted Malabar Kino on the periphery of my farm. When I need some money I cut down 10 of them to get ₹50,000,” he explains. “I need not run around the bankers or take a loan hoping for a government waiver. In the long run, say 30 years from now, for my grandson's education, for example, I could sell ten red sandalwood trees to get ₹300,000.”

Source: https://isha.sadhguru.org/us/en/blog/article/complete-what-why-how-agroforestry

[frostbitepandaaaaa]

Dany may not be an actual dragon and Jon not a wolf, but they have the same characteristics as their animals (or children). So even in love things they are similar. Dany has bonded to Jon like Dragons do with their riders/their person and Jon found his mate in Dany like wolves do. What do you think?

i think you are absolutely right, anon! and i think that your observations and comparisons are very poetic and awesome!

i’ve shamelessly used this as a literary device in Ozymandian and in Symptom of Time. it’s just too clever and awesome no to!

She smiled, pleased, before she grew thoughtful, perhaps a bit curious. “Your wildling girl,” she ventured carefully. He had only mentioned her in passing, his face shuttered and mouth downturned, a subject best avoided. She did not need to ask what had happened to her. Jon Snow was every bit a wolf as he was a dragon, and wolves mated for life. “She was a fierce woman?”

Ozymandian, CH 14

and

Kinvara regarded her, thoughtful, for quite some time. “I have also seen glimpses of this man you speak of. A blizzard whirling within a glut of flame. A pale wolf running through a field of fire with the wings of a dragon. I could make little of it, until now.”

Ozymandian, CH 14

and

“What you say is true, my queen,” Jon said slowly, his voice taking on a timber that pooled hot and savage in her belly-- bubbling like molten gold. “Until your wise words, I had only thought of one way I saw the dragon in my blood.” His eyes raked over her body then, shameless, burning a trail as hot as coals over her skin.

Ozymandian, CH 9 

and

She grappled within the sudden blankness of her mind, nowhere to grab hold, not knowing how to properly shoulder this betrayal. Her mark tingled under her bodice as if it were etching itself in a fine frost and she swallowed to distract herself. She wanted to say something, to pound her fists upon the table, to rage and roar like like the dragon she was.

Symptom of Time , CH 1

there’s probably other examples, and will be more in time. the fact that these two have such fierce, mythic beasts as symbols (and even avatars) in their lives makes for a lot of fun. i play around with this more in CH 15 and 16 of Ozymandian-- this connection that is both rooted in personality similarities and in a more mystic, magical sense. and then the whole dichotomy thing that is always fun: the wolf, a creature of the winter wild, and the dragon, a creature of fire and brimstone. this recipe makes for a pretty strong (and delightfully fun) cocktail for authors. 

thanks for the ask, anon! 

[doglifehui]

Find An Expert That Will Help You Get An Edge In Your Market - Branding

Instead, they are sometimes extra akin to massive, open-air produce boutiques near me s, where vegetables and fruits are piled high on crates for shoppers to select from, cuts of pork and beef hold from hooks, and fish and different seafood swim and float in small tanks or are laid out on beds of ice. They’re additionally “wet” because of the melting ice (pdf) used to maintain seafood fresh, and because shop homeowners routinely hose down their stalls to keep them clear. In Hong Kong, for instance, the meals and environmental hygiene division runs 74 public wet markets (pdf), a few of which are open-air whereas others are housed in buildings. The market will proceed to open each Sunday from 12:00 pm-2:00 pm, provided we are able to operate safely and in the most effective curiosity of public well being, following the city of Boston's Farmers market Guide and laws set by the Boston Public Health Commission. I do worry about guys’ mental health, just as a brother and a teammate and a pal, because it’s not a straightforward situation, obviously. It’s thoughts boggling, right? While vendor attendance info might fluctuate greater than different years on account of their changing capacities, we are going to post our vendor checklist in the RVMS E-publication every week and can submit updates on social media, when possible.

The mania financed a glut of fiber optic that drove the value of bandwidth down sufficient to bankrupt many telecom firms while permitting countless new businesses to emerge. Hong Kong has retained its crown as the priciest vacation spot on the earth to buy a property, with an average worth of US1.25million. The report states that “Despite a turbulent 2019 the underlying tensions in Hong Kong have not led to a mass exodus of corporations from the city”, with town remaining number one on the listing. The Oxford English Dictionary added the phrase “wet market” in 2016, categorizing it as a Hong Kong English word. Overlooking the Avon River in Oxford Terrace, the seven-day farmers’ market additionally links to shops, eating places, cafes and bars. Recycled materials complement the heritage vibe of the market and lanes, reflecting the historical past of the town. Recycled rimu, bricks and ironbark timber, together with salvaged home windows, 100-12 months-previous wallpaper and two faces of the heritage clock from the outdated Moorhouse Avenue railway station are all on show.

[mrhenryharrell]

May 3 Green Energy News

Headline News:

“Facing A Health Crisis, Cities Implore The Courts To Limit Pollution” • Against the backdrop of mismanagement during the Covid-19 pandemic, 23 cities and counties, the US Conference of Mayors, and the National League of Cities added their voice to a lawsuit challenging the Trump administration’s plan to weaken limits on carbon pollution. [CleanTechnica]

By Central Park during the pandemic (Aaron Barlow, Wikimedia Commons)

“Dubai Achieves Record Lowest Tariff For Solar Project” • The Dubai Electricity and Water Authority awarded the 900-MW PV fifth phase of the Mohammed bin Rashid Al-Maktoum Solar Park to a consortium led by ACWA Power. The winning tariff, which is 1.6953¢/kWh, establishes a new global benchmark for the cost of solar PV energy. [Arab News]

“Modvion Completes First Wind Turbine Tower In Sweden” • Cross laminated timber is lighter and stronger than steel, which permits a narrower base for tall wind towers. The towers are modular and can be shipped in sections to be assembled onsite, eliminating many transportation issues of wider steel masts. Now Monvion has its test mast built. [CleanTechnica]

“In Midst Of Natural Gas Glut, Plastic Industry Bent, Not Broken (Yet)” • With energy demand dropping, there was the oil glut, and then a natural gas glut. Gas stakeholders have expanded petrochemical operations, anticipating an increase in the demand for plastic. But it seems that the plastic hedge is also starting to come apart at the seams. [CleanTechnica]

“Cheap Oil? A Pandemic? No Big Deal For Renewable Energy, Experts Say” • In the face of an oil glut and pandemic, renewable energy has moved ahead. Experts say the renewable energy market is stable enough to weather short-term fluctuations. It may even be poised to get a boost from as the pandemic subsides and economies restart. [EnerCom Inc]

For more news, please visit geoharvey – Daily News about Energy and Climate Change.

May 3 Green Energy News posted first on Green Energy Times

[redthreadtugs-blog]

Out of Reach

What tolls in the mind cannot be written or spoken

On the wild hill the timber wolf nurses her wild young Under the lamp the heart continues itself in the place of its importance, aware of the wilderness of lightly surrounding body woven with serviceable blood.

Heart feels the night there, remembers something, is it a primal age of go- put-away playthings, kiss of the mother, the scissored precise geometry of moon on the stairs of childhood winding upward       to lunar rooms?

What does night mean with its finger of shadow on the heartland rising with gluts of blood, while the shewolf barks to the moon across the night on the ridge, cries up to the door of the sleeping house?

What tolls in the mind cannot be written or spoken.

by Frederick Staver

陪同

[nightmare-afton-cosplay]

Residence Retrofit: 7 Industrial Warehouse Lofts With Style to Spare

realtor.com

Where some see ugly warehouses and blighted spaces left behind by long-forgotten industries, creative builders and developers see open spaces with plenty of room for cool modern residences.

Industrial lofts came into fashion in New York City’s SoHo neighborhood during the 1960s and ’70s, when a glut of deserted factories and a lack of affordable housing converged, giving birth to a new way of living—the loft apartment.

The industrial loft tradition is still alive and well today in cities across the country. We took a look and found seven wonderful warehouse lofts outfitted to impress on the market right now.

Today’s loft living is chic, upscale, and doesn’t skimp on a single creature comfort. These condos feature elements of the building’s original structure married with sleek contemporary finishes, and provide a blank canvas to create something new and personal on a large scale.

Have a look at these seven warehouse lofts for sale right now…

44 Laight St, Apt 1B, New York, NY

Price: $4,990,000

TriBeCa landmark: This over 4,000-square-foot loft is a light-filled contemporary space. Built in 1896 as a bonded warehouse, today the space is expertly laid out. Original cast-iron columns, wood beams, and reclaimed wood walls are just a few of the reminders of the building’s past. Nods to the 21st century, on the other hand, include a media room enclosed in glass and a billiard-room elevated on a raised platform with a custom catwalk.

New York, NY

realtor.com

———

1505 11th Ave, Apt. 207, Seattle, WA

Price: $599,950

Monique Lofts: Built in 1913 as an industrial warehouse, this building has been divided into desirable dwellings. This 700-square-foot unit features old-growth timber, exposed beams, brick, wood floors and modern design throughout. A custom bookcase and California Closets are included in the purchase price.

Seattle, WA

realtor.com

———

1420 NW Lovejoy St, Apt 204, Portland, OR

Price: $449,000

Marshall Wells: This historic warehouse was built over a century ago, and was converted from a warehouse to lofts in the early 2000s. The open floor plan in this one-bedroom unit includes old-growth timber trusses and ductwork, 18-foot high ceilings, and cork flooring, all in a prime location on the streetcar line.

Portland, OR

realtor.com

———

211 Peters St SW, Atlanta, GA

Price: $2,695,000

Stand-alone conversion: This 1910 warehouse was converted into a loft with retail space, a rental unit, and separate event and studio space. The building also includes a sky deck with city views, a gated parking lot, two garages, and has been used as a filming location by Tyler Perry, HBO, and “The Vampire Diaries.”

Atlanta, GA

realtor.com

———

918 N Third St, Unit 202, Minneapolis, MN

Price: $354,900

918 Lofts: Owners in this building can walk to Target Field, light rail, and restaurants. This two-bedroom loft was carved from a warehouse built in 1923 and converted into lofts in 2004. Its 1,225 square feet are filled with sleek surfaces, light wood, and reminders—visible in the exposed ducts and concrete—of the building’s less elegant past.

Minneapolis, MN

realtor.com

———

1727 S Indiana Ave, Apt. 422, Chicago, IL

Price: $329,000

Prairie District Lofts: This beautiful brick building was once a Kodak warehouse, and was converted to lofts in 2007. This unit features west-facing, oversized windows for plenty of natural light, 30-foot ceilings, a gas fireplace, and exposed brick. The pet-friendly building also offers an atrium with party space available for rent, a common rooftop deck with grills, and a fitness center.

Chicago, IL

realtor.com

———

940 E Second St, Apt. 37, Los Angeles, CA

Price: $1,899,000

Barn Lofts: This incredible four-story live-work loft was carved out of a 1906 sugar beet warehouse by the architect Rocky Rockefeller. It features original brick walls, high ceilings, skylights, wide-plank floors, and a private patio on the top floor. The space, which covers 2,500 square feet, was designed for entertaining and sits close to some of the coolest museums and restaurants in the city.

Los Angeles, CA

realtor.com

The post Residence Retrofit: 7 Industrial Warehouse Lofts With Style to Spare appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.

from https://www.realtor.com/news/trends/industrial-warehouse-lofts-with-style-to-spare/

[hostingnewsfeed]

The Gear That Could Solve the Next Big Wildfire Whodunit

New Post has been published on http://cyberspace2k.net/the-gear-that-could-solve-the-next-big-wildfire-whodunit/

The Gear That Could Solve the Next Big Wildfire Whodunit

To date, California’s Ranch fire—the (much) larger of the two wildfires that make up the Mendocino Complex fire—has consumed more than 360,000 acres of Northern California, making it the largest conflagration in state history. It was probably wind that taught the nascent Ranch fire to walk and search for food, to glut itself on timber and brush and grass, to race up hills and away from its place of birth. But the crucial details of those beginnings remain unresolved.

Humans start an estimated 84 percent of wildfires, and determining where and how the worst ones originate is a crucial step in assigning blame. That’s where experts like Paul Steensland come in. A wildfire investigator for going on 50 years, he was the US Forest Service’s premier fire sleuth before he retired in 2005 to start his own consultancy. These days Steensland works on a contract basis and trains others to retrace a fire’s path of destruction to its place of origin and sift through the ashes—sometimes literally—in search of its cause.

As another wildfire investigator with 26 years’ experience told me: “Paul is the one. He is the master.” Here, according to him, are the most essential pieces of equipment to bring when analyzing an inferno like California’s Ranch fire.

Camera

Fire investigators show their work. “You need to be able to explain exactly how you narrowed your search from a 10,000 acre area down to the six-inch-by-six-inch square where you found the match,” says Steenland, who is often called on to testify about his findings. Which is why he says a camera is the single most important piece of equipment he brings into the field.

In the case of fires, the primary form of evidence are “indicators”—physical objects carrying traces of an inferno’s spread. A skilled investigator can use them to determine which way a fire was traveling and the direction from which it came, like a hunter backtracking the prints of quarry that just happens to be 1400° Fahrenheit.

An example of foliage freeze in the needles of a pine tree. Fire investigators use indicators like this to map a fire’s spread and retrace its path to its point of origin.

National Wildlife Coordinating Group

So-called “protection indicators” form when part of an object is shielded from the heat of advancing flames. The result is an object with more damage on one of its sides than the other. Another telltale indicator is “foliage freeze.” Like a strand of blow-dried hair, leaves and stems and pine needles can become pliant in the presence of heat and bend in the direction of prevailing winds, only to remain pointed, fingerlike, in the direction of an inferno’s travel as they cool and stiffen. A camera allows investigators like Steensland to catalogue these and other indicators as they map and retrace a fire’s spread.

Color-Coded Surveyor Flags

Fires, in their early stages, tend to burn in a V shape. Leading the charge is what fire investigators call the advancing area. It burns hotter and the more intensely than any other portion of the fire. The apex of the V, also known as the heel, burns slowest and coolest. The flanks, which run outward from the fire’s sides at angles between 45 and 90 degrees, burn at a rate and temperature somewhere in the middle.

Wildfire investigators use color-coded surveyor flags to mark directional fire indicators: Red flags correspond to the advancing area, yellow to the flanks, and blue to the heel. Steensland developed the system in the early aughts as a training tool, but it turned out to be a great way to visualize a fire’s spread on the fly. Now they’re an essential feature of wildfire investigation kits. One by one the flags go up, and pretty soon, generally in the direction of the blue flags near the base of the V, you begin to develop an idea of where the fire began (investigators call this the ignition area), and what it looked like as it moved across the landscape.

Evidence Tents

The yucca base at the center of this photo is an example of a protection fire indicator. It’s been labeled with a red flag, to indicate its presence in an advancing fire area. The yellow evidence tents denote that the indicator was photographed and its positioned measured. The red arrow points in the direction of fire progression at that point.

Paul Steensland

This LIDAR map depicts the indicators that Steensland and his team flagged in the General Origin Area, or GOA, of the Oil Creek Fire a wildfire that burned some 60,000 acres of northeast Wyoming in 2012. The color coding reflects how the fire spread, based on the evidence they found.

Paul Steensland

Investigators scrutinizing a large fire can find on the order of 1,000 indicators. Of those, a team might only mark a couple hundred. “And out of those, we typically only document 30, 40, or 50,” Steensland says.

What indicators they document they’ll mark with evidence tents—little yellow triangles marked with bold, black numbers. The point is to select a representative sampling of the indicators that they found. Documenting all of them would be overkill, but when you’re presenting your evidence to a lay audience—a judge and jury, for example—it’s important to have a good visual examples of what you discovered in the field. “So you can say, yeah, we found and marked 50 charred rocks. We only photographed three of them, but this is what the other 47 looked like,” Steensland says.

100-Foot Steel Tape Measure (x2)

Another purpose of documentation is reproducibility. That means photographs alone are insufficient; to ensure that anyone can visit the scene at a later date, check your work, and retrace your steps, you need to specify precisely where you found each piece of evidence.

Handheld GPS units can be off by more than 20 feet. Not good enough. Instead, Steensland recommends the right angle transect method: Run a 100-foot tape measure along a north-south or east-west axis, between two markers placed somewhere near a cluster of evidence. (Two pieces of rebar, painted orange, usually does the trick.) Then run a second tape measure from each piece of evidence back to the first measuring tape, such that the two tapes overlap at a 90 degree angle. Record the distances and bearings between the point of intersection, your rebar, and the pieces of evidence you’re documenting.

Steensland says GPS units are typically good enough to get someone to your reference points, and might soon become accurate enough to abandon the transect method. But for now, evidence at most fires is still measured and documented with tape.

Stakes and String

A fire investigation team uses stakes and string to perform a grid search.

National Wildlife Coordinating Group

Wildfires are common enough that investigators sometimes evaluate several per day. When you’re working that quickly, there’s no time to be meticulous. “Most fires are small, and there’s never going to be civil collection for damages, so there’s no incentive to determine who’s responsible,” Steensland says.

Stakes and string (A), a magnifying glass (B), and steel measuring tape (C), are just some of the essential fire investigation tools featured in this kit.

Deaton Investigations

But when a fire becomes big, expensive, or deadly, investigators will take time to plot out the suspected ignition area with stakes and string, dividing the ground into parallel lanes no more than a foot wide. When the fire is particularly bad—if multiple people have died, or the investigators suspect arson—they’ll run additional string perpendicular to the search lanes to form a grid, just like an archaeological site. Dividing the ignition area into small squares serves to systematize the search and guide the eye, both of which are crucial for the steps that follow.

Magnifying Glass

The search of the ignition area proceeds in four stages. Stage one involves scouring the ground visually, unaided. For the second stage, investigators make another pass with the help of magnification. To keep his hands free, Steensland uses four-power reading glasses, but many investigators opt for a magnifying glass.

Patience and diligence are key. To quote the Guide to Wildland Fire Origin and Cause Determination, a 337-page field guide published by the National Wildfire Coordinating Group that Steensland helped develop, the cause of the fire is “usually very small, and black, and is located in the middle of a lot of other black material.”

Magnet

After their visual search, investigators proceed to stage three: Passing over the ignition area with a magnet or metal detector. Steensland prefers to use a magnet, as many of the metal objects that start fires are ferrous. Brake-shoe particles. Splinters from a bulldozer’s cleats. Fragments of a spinning saw head. Even the staple from a book of matches. A powerful magnet can attract all of them through several inches of ash and soil (an important consideration, Steensland says, since hot metal tends to burrow).

“Sometimes you find stuff,” Steensland says. “Most of the time you don’t. But by running over the area with a magnet, you can eliminate ferrous sources of ignition.”

Evidence Collection Kit

Trowels and cans for collecting and storing evidence.

Deaton Investigations

Evidence storage containers and tags

Deaton Investigations

Once they’ve scoured the ignition area by eye and by magnet, investigators will proceed to stage four: Collecting debris and sifting it. “If there’s anything in there big enough to start a fire, you’ll typically catch it,” Steensland says. “I once found a match by sifting—just the head and about a quarter inch of stem.”

Investigators will deposit sifted evidence—and any other clues collected up to this point—into a variety of containers, from paper and plastic bags to old film canisters and pill bottles. These are part of an investigator’s evidence collection kit. “Technically that kit contains more than one item, but I’m going to cheat here,” says Steensland, who carries things like nitrile gloves, tweezers, a small trowel for exhuming fragile objects, and evidence tags to label what he finds. It could be as incriminating as a match or as incidental as an empty beer can (“it might have fingerprints,” Steensland says); if it has evidentiary value, an investigator will bag it and tag it, taking care to note what the object is, who collected it, and where and when it was found.

Perhaps one of the investigators working the Ranch fire will bag a tiny match, or a shard of metal, that ignited California’s biggest blaze ever.

More Great WIRED Stories

[lazilysillyprince]

The Gear That Could Solve the Next Big Wildfire Whodunit

New Post has been published on http://cyberspace2k.net/the-gear-that-could-solve-the-next-big-wildfire-whodunit/

The Gear That Could Solve the Next Big Wildfire Whodunit

To date, California’s Ranch fire—the (much) larger of the two wildfires that make up the Mendocino Complex fire—has consumed more than 360,000 acres of Northern California, making it the largest conflagration in state history. It was probably wind that taught the nascent Ranch fire to walk and search for food, to glut itself on timber and brush and grass, to race up hills and away from its place of birth. But the crucial details of those beginnings remain unresolved.

Humans start an estimated 84 percent of wildfires, and determining where and how the worst ones originate is a crucial step in assigning blame. That’s where experts like Paul Steensland come in. A wildfire investigator for going on 50 years, he was the US Forest Service’s premier fire sleuth before he retired in 2005 to start his own consultancy. These days Steensland works on a contract basis and trains others to retrace a fire’s path of destruction to its place of origin and sift through the ashes—sometimes literally—in search of its cause.

As another wildfire investigator with 26 years’ experience told me: “Paul is the one. He is the master.” Here, according to him, are the most essential pieces of equipment to bring when analyzing an inferno like California’s Ranch fire.

Camera

Fire investigators show their work. “You need to be able to explain exactly how you narrowed your search from a 10,000 acre area down to the six-inch-by-six-inch square where you found the match,” says Steenland, who is often called on to testify about his findings. Which is why he says a camera is the single most important piece of equipment he brings into the field.

In the case of fires, the primary form of evidence are “indicators”—physical objects carrying traces of an inferno’s spread. A skilled investigator can use them to determine which way a fire was traveling and the direction from which it came, like a hunter backtracking the prints of quarry that just happens to be 1400° Fahrenheit.

An example of foliage freeze in the needles of a pine tree. Fire investigators use indicators like this to map a fire’s spread and retrace its path to its point of origin.

National Wildlife Coordinating Group

So-called “protection indicators” form when part of an object is shielded from the heat of advancing flames. The result is an object with more damage on one of its sides than the other. Another telltale indicator is “foliage freeze.” Like a strand of blow-dried hair, leaves and stems and pine needles can become pliant in the presence of heat and bend in the direction of prevailing winds, only to remain pointed, fingerlike, in the direction of an inferno’s travel as they cool and stiffen. A camera allows investigators like Steensland to catalogue these and other indicators as they map and retrace a fire’s spread.

Color-Coded Surveyor Flags

Fires, in their early stages, tend to burn in a V shape. Leading the charge is what fire investigators call the advancing area. It burns hotter and the more intensely than any other portion of the fire. The apex of the V, also known as the heel, burns slowest and coolest. The flanks, which run outward from the fire’s sides at angles between 45 and 90 degrees, burn at a rate and temperature somewhere in the middle.

Wildfire investigators use color-coded surveyor flags to mark directional fire indicators: Red flags correspond to the advancing area, yellow to the flanks, and blue to the heel. Steensland developed the system in the early aughts as a training tool, but it turned out to be a great way to visualize a fire’s spread on the fly. Now they’re an essential feature of wildfire investigation kits. One by one the flags go up, and pretty soon, generally in the direction of the blue flags near the base of the V, you begin to develop an idea of where the fire began (investigators call this the ignition area), and what it looked like as it moved across the landscape.

Evidence Tents

The yucca base at the center of this photo is an example of a protection fire indicator. It’s been labeled with a red flag, to indicate its presence in an advancing fire area. The yellow evidence tents denote that the indicator was photographed and its positioned measured. The red arrow points in the direction of fire progression at that point.

Paul Steensland

This LIDAR map depicts the indicators that Steensland and his team flagged in the General Origin Area, or GOA, of the Oil Creek Fire a wildfire that burned some 60,000 acres of northeast Wyoming in 2012. The color coding reflects how the fire spread, based on the evidence they found.

Paul Steensland

Investigators scrutinizing a large fire can find on the order of 1,000 indicators. Of those, a team might only mark a couple hundred. “And out of those, we typically only document 30, 40, or 50,” Steensland says.

What indicators they document they’ll mark with evidence tents—little yellow triangles marked with bold, black numbers. The point is to select a representative sampling of the indicators that they found. Documenting all of them would be overkill, but when you’re presenting your evidence to a lay audience—a judge and jury, for example—it’s important to have a good visual examples of what you discovered in the field. “So you can say, yeah, we found and marked 50 charred rocks. We only photographed three of them, but this is what the other 47 looked like,” Steensland says.

100-Foot Steel Tape Measure (x2)

Another purpose of documentation is reproducibility. That means photographs alone are insufficient; to ensure that anyone can visit the scene at a later date, check your work, and retrace your steps, you need to specify precisely where you found each piece of evidence.

Handheld GPS units can be off by more than 20 feet. Not good enough. Instead, Steensland recommends the right angle transect method: Run a 100-foot tape measure along a north-south or east-west axis, between two markers placed somewhere near a cluster of evidence. (Two pieces of rebar, painted orange, usually does the trick.) Then run a second tape measure from each piece of evidence back to the first measuring tape, such that the two tapes overlap at a 90 degree angle. Record the distances and bearings between the point of intersection, your rebar, and the pieces of evidence you’re documenting.

Steensland says GPS units are typically good enough to get someone to your reference points, and might soon become accurate enough to abandon the transect method. But for now, evidence at most fires is still measured and documented with tape.

Stakes and String

A fire investigation team uses stakes and string to perform a grid search.

National Wildlife Coordinating Group

Wildfires are common enough that investigators sometimes evaluate several per day. When you’re working that quickly, there’s no time to be meticulous. “Most fires are small, and there’s never going to be civil collection for damages, so there’s no incentive to determine who’s responsible,” Steensland says.

Stakes and string (A), a magnifying glass (B), and steel measuring tape (C), are just some of the essential fire investigation tools featured in this kit.

Deaton Investigations

But when a fire becomes big, expensive, or deadly, investigators will take time to plot out the suspected ignition area with stakes and string, dividing the ground into parallel lanes no more than a foot wide. When the fire is particularly bad—if multiple people have died, or the investigators suspect arson—they’ll run additional string perpendicular to the search lanes to form a grid, just like an archaeological site. Dividing the ignition area into small squares serves to systematize the search and guide the eye, both of which are crucial for the steps that follow.

Magnifying Glass

The search of the ignition area proceeds in four stages. Stage one involves scouring the ground visually, unaided. For the second stage, investigators make another pass with the help of magnification. To keep his hands free, Steensland uses four-power reading glasses, but many investigators opt for a magnifying glass.

Patience and diligence are key. To quote the Guide to Wildland Fire Origin and Cause Determination, a 337-page field guide published by the National Wildfire Coordinating Group that Steensland helped develop, the cause of the fire is “usually very small, and black, and is located in the middle of a lot of other black material.”

Magnet

After their visual search, investigators proceed to stage three: Passing over the ignition area with a magnet or metal detector. Steensland prefers to use a magnet, as many of the metal objects that start fires are ferrous. Brake-shoe particles. Splinters from a bulldozer’s cleats. Fragments of a spinning saw head. Even the staple from a book of matches. A powerful magnet can attract all of them through several inches of ash and soil (an important consideration, Steensland says, since hot metal tends to burrow).

“Sometimes you find stuff,” Steensland says. “Most of the time you don’t. But by running over the area with a magnet, you can eliminate ferrous sources of ignition.”

Evidence Collection Kit

Trowels and cans for collecting and storing evidence.

Deaton Investigations

Evidence storage containers and tags

Deaton Investigations

Once they’ve scoured the ignition area by eye and by magnet, investigators will proceed to stage four: Collecting debris and sifting it. “If there’s anything in there big enough to start a fire, you’ll typically catch it,” Steensland says. “I once found a match by sifting—just the head and about a quarter inch of stem.”

Investigators will deposit sifted evidence—and any other clues collected up to this point—into a variety of containers, from paper and plastic bags to old film canisters and pill bottles. These are part of an investigator’s evidence collection kit. “Technically that kit contains more than one item, but I’m going to cheat here,” says Steensland, who carries things like nitrile gloves, tweezers, a small trowel for exhuming fragile objects, and evidence tags to label what he finds. It could be as incriminating as a match or as incidental as an empty beer can (“it might have fingerprints,” Steensland says); if it has evidentiary value, an investigator will bag it and tag it, taking care to note what the object is, who collected it, and where and when it was found.

Perhaps one of the investigators working the Ranch fire will bag a tiny match, or a shard of metal, that ignited California’s biggest blaze ever.

More Great WIRED Stories

[smartwebhostingblog]

The Gear That Could Solve the Next Big Wildfire Whodunit

New Post has been published on http://cyberspace2k.net/the-gear-that-could-solve-the-next-big-wildfire-whodunit/

The Gear That Could Solve the Next Big Wildfire Whodunit

To date, California’s Ranch fire—the (much) larger of the two wildfires that make up the Mendocino Complex fire—has consumed more than 360,000 acres of Northern California, making it the largest conflagration in state history. It was probably wind that taught the nascent Ranch fire to walk and search for food, to glut itself on timber and brush and grass, to race up hills and away from its place of birth. But the crucial details of those beginnings remain unresolved.

Humans start an estimated 84 percent of wildfires, and determining where and how the worst ones originate is a crucial step in assigning blame. That’s where experts like Paul Steensland come in. A wildfire investigator for going on 50 years, he was the US Forest Service’s premier fire sleuth before he retired in 2005 to start his own consultancy. These days Steensland works on a contract basis and trains others to retrace a fire’s path of destruction to its place of origin and sift through the ashes—sometimes literally—in search of its cause.

As another wildfire investigator with 26 years’ experience told me: “Paul is the one. He is the master.” Here, according to him, are the most essential pieces of equipment to bring when analyzing an inferno like California’s Ranch fire.

Camera

Fire investigators show their work. “You need to be able to explain exactly how you narrowed your search from a 10,000 acre area down to the six-inch-by-six-inch square where you found the match,” says Steenland, who is often called on to testify about his findings. Which is why he says a camera is the single most important piece of equipment he brings into the field.

In the case of fires, the primary form of evidence are “indicators”—physical objects carrying traces of an inferno’s spread. A skilled investigator can use them to determine which way a fire was traveling and the direction from which it came, like a hunter backtracking the prints of quarry that just happens to be 1400° Fahrenheit.

An example of foliage freeze in the needles of a pine tree. Fire investigators use indicators like this to map a fire’s spread and retrace its path to its point of origin.

National Wildlife Coordinating Group

So-called “protection indicators” form when part of an object is shielded from the heat of advancing flames. The result is an object with more damage on one of its sides than the other. Another telltale indicator is “foliage freeze.” Like a strand of blow-dried hair, leaves and stems and pine needles can become pliant in the presence of heat and bend in the direction of prevailing winds, only to remain pointed, fingerlike, in the direction of an inferno’s travel as they cool and stiffen. A camera allows investigators like Steensland to catalogue these and other indicators as they map and retrace a fire’s spread.

Color-Coded Surveyor Flags

Fires, in their early stages, tend to burn in a V shape. Leading the charge is what fire investigators call the advancing area. It burns hotter and the more intensely than any other portion of the fire. The apex of the V, also known as the heel, burns slowest and coolest. The flanks, which run outward from the fire’s sides at angles between 45 and 90 degrees, burn at a rate and temperature somewhere in the middle.

Wildfire investigators use color-coded surveyor flags to mark directional fire indicators: Red flags correspond to the advancing area, yellow to the flanks, and blue to the heel. Steensland developed the system in the early aughts as a training tool, but it turned out to be a great way to visualize a fire’s spread on the fly. Now they’re an essential feature of wildfire investigation kits. One by one the flags go up, and pretty soon, generally in the direction of the blue flags near the base of the V, you begin to develop an idea of where the fire began (investigators call this the ignition area), and what it looked like as it moved across the landscape.

Evidence Tents

The yucca base at the center of this photo is an example of a protection fire indicator. It’s been labeled with a red flag, to indicate its presence in an advancing fire area. The yellow evidence tents denote that the indicator was photographed and its positioned measured. The red arrow points in the direction of fire progression at that point.

Paul Steensland

This LIDAR map depicts the indicators that Steensland and his team flagged in the General Origin Area, or GOA, of the Oil Creek Fire a wildfire that burned some 60,000 acres of northeast Wyoming in 2012. The color coding reflects how the fire spread, based on the evidence they found.

Paul Steensland

Investigators scrutinizing a large fire can find on the order of 1,000 indicators. Of those, a team might only mark a couple hundred. “And out of those, we typically only document 30, 40, or 50,” Steensland says.

What indicators they document they’ll mark with evidence tents—little yellow triangles marked with bold, black numbers. The point is to select a representative sampling of the indicators that they found. Documenting all of them would be overkill, but when you’re presenting your evidence to a lay audience—a judge and jury, for example—it’s important to have a good visual examples of what you discovered in the field. “So you can say, yeah, we found and marked 50 charred rocks. We only photographed three of them, but this is what the other 47 looked like,” Steensland says.

100-Foot Steel Tape Measure (x2)

Another purpose of documentation is reproducibility. That means photographs alone are insufficient; to ensure that anyone can visit the scene at a later date, check your work, and retrace your steps, you need to specify precisely where you found each piece of evidence.

Handheld GPS units can be off by more than 20 feet. Not good enough. Instead, Steensland recommends the right angle transect method: Run a 100-foot tape measure along a north-south or east-west axis, between two markers placed somewhere near a cluster of evidence. (Two pieces of rebar, painted orange, usually does the trick.) Then run a second tape measure from each piece of evidence back to the first measuring tape, such that the two tapes overlap at a 90 degree angle. Record the distances and bearings between the point of intersection, your rebar, and the pieces of evidence you’re documenting.

Steensland says GPS units are typically good enough to get someone to your reference points, and might soon become accurate enough to abandon the transect method. But for now, evidence at most fires is still measured and documented with tape.

Stakes and String

A fire investigation team uses stakes and string to perform a grid search.

National Wildlife Coordinating Group

Wildfires are common enough that investigators sometimes evaluate several per day. When you’re working that quickly, there’s no time to be meticulous. “Most fires are small, and there’s never going to be civil collection for damages, so there’s no incentive to determine who’s responsible,” Steensland says.

Stakes and string (A), a magnifying glass (B), and steel measuring tape (C), are just some of the essential fire investigation tools featured in this kit.

Deaton Investigations

But when a fire becomes big, expensive, or deadly, investigators will take time to plot out the suspected ignition area with stakes and string, dividing the ground into parallel lanes no more than a foot wide. When the fire is particularly bad—if multiple people have died, or the investigators suspect arson—they’ll run additional string perpendicular to the search lanes to form a grid, just like an archaeological site. Dividing the ignition area into small squares serves to systematize the search and guide the eye, both of which are crucial for the steps that follow.

Magnifying Glass

The search of the ignition area proceeds in four stages. Stage one involves scouring the ground visually, unaided. For the second stage, investigators make another pass with the help of magnification. To keep his hands free, Steensland uses four-power reading glasses, but many investigators opt for a magnifying glass.

Patience and diligence are key. To quote the Guide to Wildland Fire Origin and Cause Determination, a 337-page field guide published by the National Wildfire Coordinating Group that Steensland helped develop, the cause of the fire is “usually very small, and black, and is located in the middle of a lot of other black material.”

Magnet

After their visual search, investigators proceed to stage three: Passing over the ignition area with a magnet or metal detector. Steensland prefers to use a magnet, as many of the metal objects that start fires are ferrous. Brake-shoe particles. Splinters from a bulldozer’s cleats. Fragments of a spinning saw head. Even the staple from a book of matches. A powerful magnet can attract all of them through several inches of ash and soil (an important consideration, Steensland says, since hot metal tends to burrow).

“Sometimes you find stuff,” Steensland says. “Most of the time you don’t. But by running over the area with a magnet, you can eliminate ferrous sources of ignition.”

Evidence Collection Kit

Trowels and cans for collecting and storing evidence.

Deaton Investigations

Evidence storage containers and tags

Deaton Investigations

Once they’ve scoured the ignition area by eye and by magnet, investigators will proceed to stage four: Collecting debris and sifting it. “If there’s anything in there big enough to start a fire, you’ll typically catch it,” Steensland says. “I once found a match by sifting—just the head and about a quarter inch of stem.”

Investigators will deposit sifted evidence—and any other clues collected up to this point—into a variety of containers, from paper and plastic bags to old film canisters and pill bottles. These are part of an investigator’s evidence collection kit. “Technically that kit contains more than one item, but I’m going to cheat here,” says Steensland, who carries things like nitrile gloves, tweezers, a small trowel for exhuming fragile objects, and evidence tags to label what he finds. It could be as incriminating as a match or as incidental as an empty beer can (“it might have fingerprints,” Steensland says); if it has evidentiary value, an investigator will bag it and tag it, taking care to note what the object is, who collected it, and where and when it was found.

Perhaps one of the investigators working the Ranch fire will bag a tiny match, or a shard of metal, that ignited California’s biggest blaze ever.

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