#to all my non-irish people

[sim-berry]

Zelda: "Oh my god, Niamh, I didn't know you were a guitar player! And a singer!"

Niamh: "Ha...yeah, I am. I learned to play when I was about five."

Zelda: "Oh come on, don't be embarrassed. You sounded so good. What was that song- Teardrops on my Guitar, right?"

Niamh: "T-thank you. It's just that no one's ever complimented my playing and singing before. I'm...a little shy about it, I guess."

[hella1975]

all hate to tiktok for taking 'having a space to more openly and actively talk about different cultures' to mean 'cultures are NOT to be shared and we must be vigilantly defensive of our cultures for fear of appropriation, a word that can be applied to any multicultural interaction'. like of course cultural appropriation is a very real problem but ive seen with the access to global multicultural conversation that tiktok provides it's made people TERRIFIED to even interact with cultures other than their own for fear of 'doing it wrong'. like at some point you have to acknowledge that in the real world of the great outdoors, the majority of people are eager to SHARE their cultures. yes there are ignorant questions and biases but also... how do you think those things get unlearnt? i dont understand how deciding that multiculturalism is an elephant in the room instead of a normal thing that should just be talked about and lived with is supposed to benefit anyone? and kids on tiktok are CONVINCED that it's a time bomb of a conversation to have and therefore must be avoided at all costs but like. people generally LOVE their home and their culture and are PROUD of it and want to share it. how have we made it so that showing genuine interest and a desire to understand something so integral to a person's identity is now feared and borderline demonised?

[bonaesperanza]

'But I have a plan to present you, between now and your wedding, with seven hounds with chains of silver and a golden apple between them — do I ever get them to you alive — so that when you race through the woods and fell your deer and see him undone and brittled there, you will bethink you of O'LiamRoe.' The words were wry, but the tone, with whatever effort, was one of lightest amusement. Her mood opened to him suddenly, the white brow patterned with fine, dry lines which had not been there before, and her eyes searching his. 'I have had dogs enough, O'LiamRoe; and lovers enough.' 'You have no friends,' he said, 'man or dog. I had thought to be a small bit of both.'

Queen's Play by Dorothy Dunnett

ROMANCE IS NOT DEAD (or at least it wasn't in the 16th century)

[mariemariemaria]

There are so many books I wanna read and so little time

[britishaccentcharacterpoll]

Ok imma be real it's getting to the point where I hope Demoman goes out (I love him) just so I never have to read another tag comment about how he's not British ever again

[enekorre]

Love seeing an American be racist on my years old post about racism in Europe and then block me. If I didn't have emails turned on I would never even have seen the comment. Fucking racist moron 🤪

[the-timelord-a-tardis-stole]

I posted 2,971 times in 2022

14 posts created (0%)

2,957 posts reblogged (100%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@knifepatron

@elven-child

@partywithponies

@evilphrog

@lokis-tardis-companion19

I tagged 1,020 of my posts in 2022

#lotr - 172 posts

#lotr newsletter - 128 posts

#dracula daily - 115 posts

#the magnus archives - 99 posts

#bbc ghosts - 86 posts

#rtgame - 76 posts

#the late late toy show - 52 posts

#gaeilge - 44 posts

#goncharov - 27 posts

#ofmd - 24 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#i generally go with the idea that jonah was sick of hiring stuffy academic men as archivists so he chose the angriest young woman available

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

I love the fact Sam agrees to leave the Shire like "oh yeah, I'll go with Frodo. And I'd love to see some elves". Then it's literally day 3 of travelling still in the Shire when he gets to meet them. Because it means from here on out, Sam's motivation is 100% love and loyalty

37 notes - Posted September 25, 2022

#4

I had 2 thoughts about Tom Bombadil when we were reading about him:

One of the possible in-universe explanations for Tom Bombadil is that he is God. While this is good idea with all Tom Bombadil's singing and Illuvatar's connection with music, it is way funnier is Tom Bombadil is a different being. Like imagine creating an empty world out of The Void, and you look in and theres just Some Guy Vibing

All his nonsense singing reminds me a bit of that episode of Stellar Firma where Trexel is making up riddles but they end up steadily turing into funny little nonsense rhymes.

40 notes - Posted October 6, 2022

#3

There's a couple of moments that we've read so far that will form interesting parallels later on (spoilers for the first time readers):

The hobbits feeling awkward carrying swords for the first time vs. when they return to Bree and Barliman is like "yeah, of course no one hassled you on the way here, you're all fully decked out in armour with swords" to which the hobbits are like "oh wow we forgot that was actually weird"

Strider and Merry meeting for the first time after Merry encountered a Black Rider vs. when Merry is one of the people Aragorn has to heal with his Kingly Healing Hands(TM)

Sam standing up to Strider when he first meets him vs. Sam's similar but even more defensive behaviour when they first speak to Faramir. I really love this one bc Sam is absolutely willing to challenge some Man who is almost twice his height and is skilled with a sword.

Also, this is less of a parallel and more of a common thread throughout the story but I love the frequency with which the hobbits have been meeting unexpected friends after leaving Bag End. There's a quote from Elrond when the fellowship is being formed about meeting "friends unlooked for" or something (I don't remember the exact phrase) and I love that this theme was set down immediately after the hobbits left

42 notes - Posted October 6, 2022

#2

I find it very interesting that when the hobbits were like "tell us one of the Old Tales" and Aragorn chooses a comforting one in the form of the Tale of Beren and Luthien. In isolation, it's a good choice. There's hope amid hardship and people achieving impossible tasks with the power of love. It's very comforting if you're about to be attacked by evil creatures.

However, with the context of Aragorn and Arwen, you have to ask how many times has that been Aragorn's comfort to himself? How many cold nights in the wilderness has Aragorn spent imagining Beren doing the same thing? Does the successful taking of a Silmaril turn Aragorn's task of becoming King of Gondor and Arnor from "Impossible" to only "Very Difficult"? Or does it turn it into a sort of destiny that can and will be fulfilled? That he won't be stuck roaming the world alone for all his long life?

76 notes - Posted October 7, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

That kid really committed to the munchikin bit

96 notes - Posted November 25, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[roseverdict]

it is 4 AM which means it's Desperately Claw At Hobbies In An Attempt To Make Some Form Of Money To Set Aside So I Can Go Be An Adult Instead Of The Parentals' Puppet time!

[mariacallous]

Last year, the lead singer of The 1975, Matt Healy, managed to offend a whole lot of Gaelgoirí (Irish speakers) when he appeared to mock a fan’s name – Dervla – at a meet-and-greet.

Healy isn’t alone, though, when it comes to anglophone bafflement at Irish names. A recent study based on an analysis of Google searches revealed the words that British people have the most difficulty pronouncing. The names Aoife, Saoirse, Niamh and Siobhán occupy places in the top 10.

And it’s not exclusively a British problem: I always cringe watching US talkshows where the host quizzes their Irish guest (usually Saoirse Ronan) on the pronunciation of their and other Irish names.

I’ve heard every possible variation of my own name from non-Irish people. It’s not uncommon in Ireland; in secondary school, there were four Niamhs in my class. But I rarely come across an English person who is familiar with it, despite the proximity of our two countries.

In case you don’t know, it’s pronounced “Neev” or “Nee-av”, either is perfectly acceptable. The prefix Ní means “daughter of”. My surname is trickier, and has even tripped up a few Irish people; it can be translated as Herbert, and is pronounced “her-a-vard”.

When I was living in London, I quickly learned that saying Niamh at the counter in a coffee shop or over the phone to make a booking simply wouldn’t fly. This led to the invention of what I call my “Starbucks name”. Anything easily pronounceable with a simple spelling would do. Mia, Sophie and Rose were among my common aliases.

Speaking to others reveals a litany of similar experiences. Aoibhe Ní Shúilleabháin, a designer and teacher, spent two years at college in England having her name mispronounced and disrespected. (Her first name is pronounced “Ay-vah”.) More than one lecturer resorted to calling her “blondie”.

She tells me: “I was asked to say, ‘Three hundred and thirty three trees’” – a tongue-twister that does the rounds on TikTok – “more often than I was asked to repeat my name.” She recalls the lack of interest when she attempted to explain that Irish and English are different languages with different pronunciation rules.

Clearly, the sensitivities at play here are rooted in history: Ireland was colonised by the English and our national language was all but wiped out. A language revival began in earnest in the 19th century, but it’s never quite recovered. Ireland’s most recent census shows that about 40% of Ireland’s population can speak Irish. The English destroyed our language once before, so every little throwaway comment and scoff at our names hurts a little bit more – and ultimately becomes just tiresome. A handful of people even remark, “Oh! I didn’t know Ireland had its own language,” when I tell them about my name.

Writer Darach Ó Séaghdha is all too familiar with these difficulties. (The “rach” in Darach is pronounced like “Bach”, he says.)He hosted a podcast called Motherfoclóir, a podcast about the Irish language and culture, and whenever there were guests on with Irish names, “inevitably the episode would turn into group therapy”. There was one bad experience, he recalls, when he was told that his surname “looked like a wifi password”. But he decided to give his children Irish names, too. It’s a common trend, he says, “because parents with Irish names have been battle-hardened”.

Like the others I spoke to for this piece, writer and director Rioghnach (think “Ree-nock”)Ní Ghrioghair believes that a sense of superiority among English speakers is to blame for the constant mistreatment of Irish names. But she’s defiant. “We are going to scrutinise the British for any transgression regarding the pronunciation of our names,” and other things, she tells me, like British media claiming Irish actors as their own during awards seasons.

There is no easy crash-course I can give to you on the pronunciation of Irish names, but you can always try out “how to pronounce”-style websites (which themselves can be contested). But the simplest and most reliable solution is perhaps just to politely ask an Irish person – and listen attentively to what they say. I may have accepted that English people are very rarely going to get my name right on the first go, but I appreciate a well-intentioned effort. Just don’t laugh at it, please.

[rebelcosmonaut]

No, I am pretty sure this is to reflect Dutch's character very effectively. Otherwise I dont think Bill of all people would react the way he does. Bill sleeps next to Charles, so I am pretty sure theyre closer than they appear in some underlying way. But no, Charles being in the chair does not seem like a mistake at all. Charles, who has native and african lineage, is the perfect character to be sitting in the chair. Dutch is not a good man, despite his big words and insistence that he is. I dont think this makes people who like him bad people, but this makes perfect sense for Dutch's character.

Dutch does not treat other people in general very well. He sees others as tools. For his time, it might seem progressive for him to allow poc into his gang, but he's not actually viewing them as equal. He infantalizes Lenny, framing it as Lenny being young, but Lenny is also known to be a very smart and a well read person, even more so than people like Arthur. I think the fact that Charles is sitting in the chair is on purpose. None of the other gang ask Charles to move. Everyone else is leaning against the wall or sitting on the floor. Even Arthur, who is arguably more disabled by TB does not ask Charles to move so he can sit in a chair. The reason its Dutch who does is not just a display of power, but meant to hint more explicitly the cracks in his venere of being a good man.

Dutch uses the Waipiti conflict to his benefit, not carring how many Waipiti die. His progressiveness is all a facade, he wears the skin of a good person without acting like one. Unlike "high honor" Arthur, who does not think of himself as being a good person, but his intentions and his actions are usually for the benefit of OTHERS. He's the one who is actually concerned about the lives of those in the gang.

I intially put this all in the tags but it was too short to be coherent. I want to say again, if you like Dutch, I dont think its a bad thing or reflective of any aspect of your character. Hes a GOOD character, but he is not a good person. And I dont think yall should have to hand wave this action away as a fluke. His true values that come out in these little ways are what make him a good character. Dutch is racist, sexist and also pretty classist, not in the way he speaks, but in his actions.

I know Dutch meant nothing by it, and he's the boss, but god dammit let my man have the chair

[wosoamazing]

Newest Signing

Part 1 - Fire on Fire Series A/N: This is the first part of my new Leah Series, I have already started writing and planing parts of it but if you have any ideas let me know and I will try and include them.

Leah sat on her phone scrolling through various social media platforms, it hurt to see so many other people happy, with their partners when she wasn't, she had never had a successful relationship, to her no one was right, no one was the right match, she didn't feel like they clicked. So many of her exes told her that she had 'too high standards' or that 'soulmates don't exist' or something along the lines of 'you aren't perfect so why do you expect someone else to be perfect'. However she wasn't looking for a soulmate, she wasn't looking for someone perfect, she was just looking for the someone who was perfect for her.

She had started to think that maybe she was just asking for too much, and that her standards were too high, but that was until the day Jonas introduced the team to Arsenal's newest signing.

"Girls this is Y/N Y/L/N, she is our newest signing, and yes she did sign outside of the transfer window as approved by the FA due to issues at her old club, but no further questions on that please. She isn't going to be fully joining training until our Portugal training camp, just so she has some time to settle in but also a well deserved break, but you will see her in the gym and around the place, so please make her feel welcome. I think she is going to be really great for the team."

Her eye's immediately connected with the brunettes, she was tall and muscular, her face held the dreamiest blue eyes, and her smile was perfect, she continued watching the girl as she hugged Stina, the way her hair flowed, her body flowed, it was safe to say Leah was mesmerised.

"Stop staring, you creep" McCabe whispered in Leah's ear, causing her to break from her trance, giving the Irish women a playful smack on the shoulder. "I'm going to the gym," she said as she stood up and headed out, everyone around her making eyes at each other.

_____

You walked into the locker room behind Jonas and as he introduced you to the team, a certain blonde's eyes connected with yours, you couldn't help but notice the small smile her lips created when she saw you, but you quickly diverted your gaze to your best friend. Walking up to her and hugging her.

"I'm glad they let you sign out of the transfer window," Stina said, sounding relieved as she released the hug, "yeah I was worried they wouldn't but once I explained to the FA what was happening they were horrified and told me they would reach out to whatever club I wanted to, within reason, and see if they would sign me. Apparently there are going to be investigations."

"Good, they shouldn't be doing that. But where are you staying? You can crash at mine until you find a place if you need."

"Thank you, but I'm all good, Moster and Tante said I could stay with them, as they are in Paris for the next however long, however it was more a non-negotiable, I think they also meant I was going to be staying when they came back, again non-negotiable, but I'll see."

You and Stina continued talking until it was time for the girls to go to their meeting. You had an appointment with one of the physios just so they could check your range of motion and get some base lines in case you were to injure yourself before your first fitness testing session. As you walked into the gym, you saw a certain blonde in the corner, working away at some exercises which must've been set for her. As you worked with the physio completing the activities and exercises he wanted you to do you couldn't help but notice the way the blonde kept glancing over to you, almost as if she wanted to talk to you.

_____

You sat down at a table with Stina and Frida, Caitlin joined you and wanted to catch up with you and also trying to help you integrate with the team more easily, Caitlin's presence meant that Katie and then consequently Beth sat with you too. You knew the Aussies already due to having spent most of your childhood and your very early twenties in Australia, due to your Tante's work.

"Steph," you called out as you saw the very flustered Aussie walk into the dinning hall, she turned her head around to you, just about every emotion passing through her face.

"Y/N?" she questioned as she walked towards you, "what are you doing here?"

"Well if you weren't late you would've been here when Jonas said I was transferring here," you weren't normally one to say anything about your teammates being late, especially new teammates, however you are Steph had been teammates a long time ago, making your senior team debut for Melbourne Victory exactly a year after she made hers, and she also had a mark on her neck, so you were waiting to see how bad her excuse was.

"Sorry yeah I slept in, Calvin was up barking most of the night. It's so nice to see you again though," she explained as she pulled you in for a hug.

"That mark of your neck would indicate otherwise," you whispered in her ear, she just groaned knowing everyone would've already seen it.

You spend the rest of the lunch talking to mainly Steph or Stina and Frida but occasionally others would make some small talk with you.

After lunch you said your goodbyes to the team, and started to make your way out, when you heard someone call out your name, you turned around to see Leah moving towards you. "Would you like to join me and some of the team for dinner tonight? We are just going to a local pub," she questioned.

"Umm," you filled the air as you hesitated not sure what the goal of her invitation was, "if you don't want to, that's totally okay, I mean you're probably busy anyway," she quickly spat out trying to backtrack.

"Oh no, I would love to, it's just that I don't currently have a car," you told her as you fiddled with the ring on your finger.

"Oh, I can drive you if you want, you can just message me your address later," you nodded and mumbled a quiet thanks before you both went your separate ways.

____

You were just about to put your shoes one when you received a message.

From Leah: I'm just out the front in the car, no rush though. I know I'm early.

To Leah: Hey, all good, I'm actually just putting my shoes on now, I'll be out in a second.

You're pretty sure Leah's eyes widened as you walked out of the house and to her car. You opened the door of her car and saw her eyes run over your body before she said "You look nice," "Oh, thank you, it's nothing," you blushed slightly climbing into the passenger seat, but in truth it was nothing. You had a pair of light blue skinny jeans on, with a cropped country road rugby jumper on. You also have a black puffer vest in case you needed it but you placed that on the floor as you got in.

"You look nice too," you said as an afterthought, almost regretting it instantly, it probably wouldn't been better to say nothing at all than say that.

"Thanks," she smiled at you softly before she began to drive.

---

It was safe to say by the end of the night you hadn't once regretted your decision to come, all the girls there were super nice and it was a really great way to get to know them all, outside of soccer.

"Um, we're about to head home and we just thought to offer to take you home, since, um," Beth gestured over to where Leah was a the bar, you couldn't help but feel a small wave of warmth travel through your body at the fact that the team already seemed to care about you.

"Oh um, yes please that would be great," you followed Beth and Viv to their car, making small talk with them on the way home, when the car pulled up outside your home you didn't miss the look the couple sent each other, you quickly hopped out and thanked the two women profusely, before walking up the stairs of your home and collapsing onto your couch, noticing a message from Stina.

From Stina: Hey, I hope the night out with the girls went well. What would you say to a movie night at yours tomorrow night? In the theatre?

To Stina: Hey yeah it went well, Beth and Viv took me home, will explain why tomorrow night at movie night in the lounge room, you can invite Frida if you want too.

From Stina: Okay. I'll be over around 5. From Stina: Wait, why the lounge room?

To Stina: See you then, I'll make pasta.

[heavenlymorals]

This started out as a list for me for fanfiction purposes, but then I decided I should just post it cuz why the hell not?

These are my observations for what religions some RDR characters may follow. These assumptions are going to be based off cultural details and dialogue.

Again, they're only assumptions, so I'm very much aware that they can be wrong.

Dutch: Dutch is really interesting in the sense that he believes in a higher power. The three main components of Romantacism were the relationship between man and man, man and nature, and man and god. Dutch is a romantic. He also has many lines where he talks about heaven, with one being: "Be a man who knows that there is a heaven above or scurry off like some god forsaken monkeys." We know Dutch isn't Catholic considering his negative views towards Catholicism ("Here we are in this strange land of Papists and rapists."), so he is most likely from some sort of protestant background who then rejected it for the romantic tradition as many of the newspapers in RDR1 would say things about Dutch not getting saved. John says the same thing. Dutch is a diest but not a Christian.

Hosea: Hosea is some sort of protestant Christian and we get this through cultural background and dialogue. We learn that when he was younger, he wanted to be a priest but let go of that because he needed to be Catholic. America was and still is a majority protestant nation but even moreso back then. We also hear him talk about heaven and hell a couple of times, lamenting about how when he does, he won't see Bessie because she'll be in heaven. He is angry at his faith, yes, with the line of "And we're supposed to believe in judgement" when ranting about Bessie's death, but then apologizes, admitting that he can't understand it, not that he doesn't believe.

Arthur is agnostic, but he's open to the idea of faith. In one of this journal entries, he says something about whether he can achieve salvation or heaven or whether that's all fairy tales, as he's not sure what to believe when he dies, even though to the nun, he says he doesn't believe in anything. Arthur also seems to have a distaste for the church as an organization, evidenced by his dialogue with the grave digger debtor, but he seems to like religious people, or at the very least he is open to them. He never knocks down Brother Dorkins and he feels at peace when he speaks to the nun in their final meeting at the train station. Very interesting that he feels better after he talks to the nun, a character who is supposed to embody positive religion and what it can do for people.

John is a non practicing Christian, which makes sense considering his background and the work he has to put in to keep his family safe. It keeps him from actively practicing. Though he's a realist and isn't practically concerned about religion in his everyday life, shown by his father dismissive attitude towards religious people in the game, God is still an active force in his life. Throughout the story, John has lines about God as an active force in his life. When he marries Abigail, he says he wants to marry her "in front of God." A preacher authenticates the wedding. John owns a Bible in his house, makes references about Dutch not getting saved, and talks to Jack about the possibility of redemption as something the "good book" says, despite not reading it with him.

Abigail seems to also be a more practicing Christian, given that she does ask Jack a couple of times throughout the story to read verses for her, but beyond that, I feel like she is also pretty lukewarm in regards to her faith, but she is still a Christian.

Sean and Javier are all most likely cultural Catholics. Sean is an Irish man and is proud of his Irish heritage, which also includes Irish Catholicism and he mentions being a child of God a couple times throughout background dialogue. Javier is a Mexican man and Mexico is very Catholic and though he doesn't really speak of it, he has done the symbol of the cross in game, so it's likely that he still holds some religious thoughts.

Molly is most likely an Irish Protestant due to her conflicts with Sean as well as her family's connections with the English.

Charles is tricky because we know that despite being proud of his native heritage, he is still very much displaced from his culture. What this means is that while he might follow native religion, it equally as likely that he follows some sort of protestantism because of his lack of time with his tribe, forced assimilation, and his relationship with his black father, who would culturally most likely be a Christian. There are really no clues or hints about Charles' beliefs besides his cultural backgrounds so take that as you will.

Micah is a reddit atheist. He doesn't believe in divinity at all and he uses that to shape his worldview as well. No such thing as heaven and hell, only winners and losers. He bullies Swanson a lot for his faith and constantly belittles the idea of religion.

Karen, Tilly, Marybeth, Grimshaw, Pearson, Lenny, Leopald, Josiah, and Kieran don't really have any clues as to what they personally believe. The only idea that we have is the setting that they lived in and the culture that they frequented which makes it most likely that they are some sort of Christian, but what denomination? Don't know.

Sadie is a Christian, but most likely non practicing. We have multiple lines with her referencing God as an active force. "Everyone's got to choose who they're loyal to. God, the state, themselves. If a bounty hunter wants to last, his loyalty has got to be with the one issuing the bounty, plain and simple." "Guess he began to believe he was God or something."

Uncle is nonreligious, most likely agnostic due to his very lax tone in regards to faith, which is also evidenced by his rather wild lifestyle in multiple stories of his. "Do you believe in reincarnation?" "I hope and pray to whatever is out there-" "It's like rooming with the King James Bible."

Swanson is a protestant. Need I say more?

I'll post more later if I feel like it 🫶🏼

[myownwholewildworld]

acta, non verba - i. a badge of honour

series masterlist | main masterlist | chapter 2 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. synopsis: scotland, 83 AD after the battle of mons graupius. the romans have come up to the boundaries of their empire with a relentless desire to conquer the savages that inhabit the highlands. they won't rest until the Caledonian tribes are subjugated. Marcus Acacius is in charge of your clansmen's fate, but if such fate is similar to your family's, you know you need to do something about it. as the only living daughter of the tribe chief, your people look to you for leadership. power plays, treason, deception, rebellion, war, love, heartbreak, betrayal. and two souls, destined to despise each other, trying to navigate it all. a/n: well, here it is! the first chapter of my new series, set in what is now scotland, during the romans' conquest of the british isles in the 1st century. hope you guys like it! as always, all interactions welcome. thank you so much for reading! <3 warnings: 18+, mdni. death, aftermath of a battle, burial of family members. reader is an original character - female, has a name (callie) and a physical description, family history, etc. i'll try to keep the references to a minimum though. age gap (callie is 26, marcus is 48). mention of infidelity and becoming a widow. marcus’ and reader’s pov. i have taken some historical licenses for ease of writing (use of "clan" as synonym for "tribe", references to irish/celtic gods, the caledonian people speak modern scottish gaelic instead of a (proto-)brittonic language). w/c: ~4.2k. dividers by @saradika-graphics i'll be tagging some people at the end of the chapter who interacted with this post. dw, i won't tag you in the next chapters unless you ask me to! also, if you want to be removed from this post, please send me a dm.

A light breeze whistled through the nearby standing stones. The dying sun provided no heat, and the ethereal landscape was cold with hues of blue and grey. Despite the shimmering wildlife that came with the first hints of spring, the meadow was uncannily silent.

The crows cackling in the distance broke such tranquil peace and woke you from your slumber.

Slowly you blinked, something wet and warm covering your eyelids. You felt it slide down your skin, pooling in the dip of your collarbone. Your limbs felt so heavy, you couldn’t lift a hand to rub your eyes clean. In fact, you were so tired that even taking a deep breath hurt.

Your orbs fluttered shut, shattered and defeated.

Dhuosnos, God of the Dead, was calling you to His side. His presence was soothing, so inviting, the most melodic sounds guiding you to Him. With the eyes of your dying imagination, He extended a welcoming hand towards you, a soft smile on His mythical features.

“Come with me, sweet child of the tribes.” A guttural voice escaped His lips, so dark and sombre it enveloped you.

You nodded, gaze down, submitted to Him.

“You can’t just take her, Dhuosnos. Callie is yet to avenge them — her purpose must be fulfilled first before she can greet you as an equal.” A second voice, feminine, otherworldly and reassuring, interrupted your exchange.

Morrígan, Goddess of War, placed Her hand on Dhuosnos’ forearm as to stop Him from reaching you. A stone of relief, but also of disappointment, sat low in your stomach when He took a step back, head bowed towards Her.

Steadily you undid your curtsy, your green eyes locking on Hers. They were black as the night sky, Her pupils and irises indistinguishable from one another. You looked into the abyss of Her sight and felt a deep-rooted longing, one you never experienced before.

“You are not done yet, mo leanabh (my child). Your people await your return.” Morrígan palmed your trembling hand, escorting you back to the earthly plane.

“But…”, you turned around to look at Her, ask for Her advice.

But She had already vanished, a sweet scent of lavander left behind.

You gasped awake, your eyes so widened, the cloudy, sunset sky above felt like it was crashing down on you. You were laying down on a pool of mud. A deep, raspy grunt escaped your lungs as you tried to move your arms. When you couldn’t, you looked down, confused.

Aengus’ lifeless body was resting on top of yours. Your father’s henchman had made the ultimate sacrifice by hiding you underneath him, away from the prying eyes of the Romans. The dense liquid caressing the skin on your face was none other than his blood. A trickle of thick red dripped from the gnarly wound in his neck on to your cheek. His eyes were staring at you emptily, his soul had already left this world when you regained consciousness.

Your father, Murdoch of Inbhir Nis, the Caledonian Overlord, had come to the aid of the Taexalian Overlord, whose territory was succumbing to the legions of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, a Roman governor with a high desire to impress his Emperor, Titus Flavius Domitianus.

Your father had gathered as many fighers as the Caledonian lands could give him. Both men and women were called to arms when the tribes were threatened. Being the daughter of the Chieftain would not spare you. You would not have chosen differently anyway, had you been given the opportunity. Fighting for land, clan and honour was your duty as much as your brothers’ and sister’s.

The journey from Inbhir Nis (Inverness) to Cala na Creige (Stonehaven) had been unforgiving, with illness and evil lying in wait. But you all had been warmly welcomed by the Taexali tribe and were fed copiously, the uisge-beatha (whisky) being served like water.

Your combined armies, shy of fifteen thousand folk, had been ambushed at Raedykes during a repositioning exercise by the Roman troops led by Agricola’s most trusted man.

General Marcus Acacius.

His mere name made you sick, anger crawling under your skin.

Fighting off your own opponents, you had seen the Roman General charge against your father like a beast, wielding a gladius over his head. The metallic impact of their swords rang loud across the landscape. The men looked into each other’s souls, an exchange of words shared between them. You were too far to listen, too far to fully see what was really happening as warriors from both sides danced through the grass.

Then you foresaw it before it happened: the heavy Roman sword fell on your father, who was struck to his knees with the General’s blade lodged in his belly.

You tried to get to him, screaming “Athair (father)!” at the top of your lungs. His eyes locked on yours before he fell sideways. You lunged forward but didn’t get to him, Aengus stopping you in your tracks.

“No, Callie, it’s too late now”, he had sorrowfully whispered in your ear before throwing you off to one side to fend off an attacker.

And then blackness swallowed you, an enemy hit you in the head so hard you lost consciousness.

That was how you came to be where you were — with your back flat on the silt and Aengus’ body blanketing yours. The grey sky above you sensed your pain, and, at Taranis’ command, it parted in the middle. The God of Thunder released a downpour to clean the blood, soot and woad’s blue dye off your face and hair.

You cried your sadness away, rainy tears sliding off the corners of your eyes — your anger, your loss, your torment, you purged it all, sobbing until you were devoid of all emotion. Taking a deep breath, which caused a needling pain on your ribs, you pushed Aengus to one side to free yourself from his weight.

The thudding sound he made almost brought more tears to your eyes.

“Sorry, uncail (uncle)”, you muttered, hovering your fingertips over his eyelids to shut them for him. Now he could finally rest.

You stood up, your knees trembling like a newborn calf. A searing pain stabbed your skull, dried blood and dirt gathering on the wound on your scalp. With a straight back, you dared to look around you. The bodies of your own men and women were scattered around the hills of Raedykes. So many lives lost, you heard all your ancestors screaming from above, their cries falling upon you in the way of rain. The green, long grass was reddened with blood, but the weeping sky had started to wash away the atrocities committed by the Romans.

Then you saw him. Your athair.

“No, no, please, no...”, you whispered as your sight became blurry again, dragging your feet towards the fallen body of your dad.

Your soul tried to tear itself apart, become its own entity. You had to summon the last drop of the royal blood that ran through your veins to keep yourself in one piece. You knelt before him, craddling his bloody hand between yours. Unconciously your body rocked back and forth until you hugged him, laying flat on top of him.

Time stood still, like a thread on the expert hands of a wool weaver. It could have been minutes, hours or days, your pain too great to bear, to comprehend.

And then you felt a hand lightly tap your shoulder.

You startled, your mind and body jumping back into survival mode, gripping your sgian-dubh (small knife) close to your chest.

“It’s okay, mo phiuthar (my sister). It’s me, Torcall”, a raspy, masculine voice forced you to focus on the man in front of you.

He was your father’s most important tacksman and also husband to your older sister Mairead — your sweet Maisie, as you always called her. She was the eldest of the four siblings while you were the youngest. Always so witty and quick with a joke, Maisie kept up the spirits even when the circumstances were dire — in fact, before your paths had parted during the battle, she jested about your H-shaped shield being larger than you.

When you turned around, Torcall flattened his hands on your shoulders, slightly shaking you so you would come back to reality.

His blue eyes pierced through you, the situation becoming clearer in your mind. Thousands of your tribesmen were dead. Your father too.

“Maisie?”, you asked in a hush. Your heart clenched when your brother-in-law shook his head no. You were afraid to speak, but you did nonetheless. “Aodh and Somhairle?”

Torcall stared at you, his silence speaking loudly. “They are all dead.”

The air evacuated your lungs, feeling as if a spear had run through you. Learning about the death of Maisie and your twin brothers broke something within you, something fundamental and primal. They were your everything, your most trusted confidants. Despite being of different ages, you all were so tight-knit it was difficult to find one of you alone.

A heart-shattering wail escaped your lips as you bent over yourself, your chest snug against your knees.

Morrígan had unashamedly claimed most of your family that day, except for your beautiful mother. Now Her words made sense: you were yet to avenge them, to fulfil your purpose. She had spared you for a reason, not so you could pity yourself, knees deep in the mud.

To avenge them, you had to kill the hand who showered this tragedy upon you.

General Marcus Acacius.

A raven’s strident, gurgling croak forced you to look up to the skies — a subtle reminder that Morrígan was watching closely. The massive bird was circling above your heads, like a vulture waiting to feast on a carcass. With resolution, you wiped away your tears, your sobs now silent, and nodded at Torcall.

“I understand. How many…?”, your voice faltered before you could finish your question.

“A couple of thousands. We have found cover in the Dunnottar Woods while we regroup and… bury our dead.” Torcall replied, his eyes averted with the last sentence.

You had lost a sister, but he had lost a wife, the mother to his now half-orphaned children. “I’m sorry”, you muttered, your lips pouting once more.

“She died fighting, the death of a warrior.” His proud voice did not waver. “And your father?”

Your heart wept at his mention but managed to control the anxious fluttering.

“The General killed him.” Your teeth gritted with hatred.

“Mo bana-phrionnsa (my princess)”, one of your father’s retinue members bowed his head to you once you walked into the circle they had formed in a meadow between the trees.

A few dozen men were scattered around the area, fires lighting the dark night while shades of red and orange flickered, creating fiery, dancing shades. You held a torch and carefully waved it in front of you, looking at the faces who watched you back eagerly.

You saw in your men what was brewing inside you: despair, defeat, sorrow. All your souls grieving in unison — all of you had lost someone that day.

At six and twenty, you did not expect to be in this position. You were the youngest daughter of the Overlord — you were never meant to lead your people. The task ahead of you felt titanic, unachievable.

But you had no other option. General Marcus Acacius had forced your hand.

He came, he saw, he conquered.

And now you had to deal with the gut-wrenching outcome of his departure.

“We’ll go back home to Inbhir Nis. But before that, we must give burial to our people.” You had to make a herculean effort to infuse your tone with steadiness.

Torcall first, and then the rest, bowed their heads to you.

“As you command, mo bana-phrionnsa”, he replied, and quickly barked orders around in your stead.

Your chest felt heavy with responsibility and grief. What pained you the most was not being able to carry your brothers and sister with you back home. They would not be buried under the cairns near you family home with the rest of your ancestors.

And what was worst — thousands of lives now depended on you. The weight of your tribe's destiny heavily rested on your shoulders now, like Atlas carrying the heavens.

Maisie, Aodh and Somhairle had been lined up on a patch of wildflowers that you had picked yourself the night prior — their arms were threaded together with your sister in the middle. Your clansmen had also surrounded the makeshift burial pit with wood to aid the combustion.

As you placed the last stone on top of them, you also deposited a bright, bloomed thistle. The flower that blossomed in every nook and cranny of your beautiful motherland, despite the harsh winter or conditions it faced. Like the phoenix rising from the ashes, it would always come back, stronger and more brightful than ever.

Devotion, bravery, determination, and strength — the thistle was a badge of honour for the Caledonians.

With a renewed brawn unbeknownst to you, you threw the lighted torch and watched as the fire consumed the bodies underneath the stones.

There were no tears left within you. Only purpose and resolution.

The way back to Inbhir Nis was tiring and soul-crushing. Hiking through the Cairngorms had been a difficult task with so many people behind you, but luckily you all managed to make it through without any losses.

With each mile covered, you saw the devastation left behind by the Romans. If this was any indication of what awaited ahead, you should start bracing yourself for what you would see. It seemed that the Romans were set towards the northwest — Inbhir Nis was right in their path.

You quickly recognised the landscape as you walked towards Loch Moy. A thick, dark column of smoke towered above the pine trees. Your heart raced as you picked up your dark green skirt and ran towards the loch, ignoring the calls of your brother-in-law.

You could run through those woods blindly — this was the land where you were born, the land you were named after. Your name was an unusual one — Caledonia, in honour of the earth beneath your rushing feet. Just a few people called you Callie, mainly your family and closest friends. With your bright, fiery red hair, green almond eyes and a face dotted with freckles, you were the epitome of your people. That was probably why when someone new learned your name, they always said it suited you.

Dodging the last few trees, you made it to the edge of the loch. In the shallows, the crannog of Naimh, your community’s healer, was burning down to its foundation. You covered your mouth with a sombre expression, your eyes itchy because of the dense smoke and unspent tears.

The Romans had gotten to your settlement before you did.

“Callie, wait up”, said Torcall behind you, struggling to catch up with you.

He halted right behind you, the silence between you was almost tangible.

“The rangers have returned from their reconnaissance mission.” His voice was plain, contained. You turned your heard towards him, slowly, hardening yourself for his next words. “Your mother is dead.”

The last glimmer of hope within you vanished. A single tear skidded through your cheek — angrily, you wiped it off.

You were alone in this world. Everyone you cared for had been taken from you.

“Is everything to your liking, Dominus (Master)?”, the male roman servant asked in a low hush, head bowed, eyes fixed on the cobblestone.

“Yes, now leave”, Marcus dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

The General looked around him with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. He was accustomed to much more elegant surroundings. Although the barbarians did try, their architecture was nothing in comparison to Rome’s.

The castle he was in was small and it only had two floors. It was mainly made of sturdy, grey rocks and dark wood. The design was not very sophisticated, all square and rugged edges. It had two towers and a barbican. The decoration inside was bare, with just enough furniture and no luxuries.

The only warmth was brought by the colourful tapestries adorning the cold, thick walls — one had caught Marcus' attention at his arrival when he first entered the dais. It told a story he had not heard before.

A dragon-like figure lurked beneath the rippling surface of a lake, attracting the attention of the villagers. At dusk it would emerge, a guttural sound echoing in the dead of night, as if it was calling another. Any bìrlinns (wooden vessel) left on the shore would appear destroyed the next morning. Fishermen were worried and called upon the town's druids, afraid of the Loch Ness monster. To appease the beast, every full moon, the druids would whorship the creature, bringing oblations and sacrificies to quench its thirst.

Marcus made a mental note of keeping his distance from that Loch Ness. As a devoted Roman, he was wary of the mystic creatures that skulked in the depths of human fear.

Although he missed his home, he had several debts to pay. The Emperor would not accept no for an answer, so he had to be a reluctant participant in this incursion — in fact, neither Domitian nor Agricola had really asked him to tame the highlanders up in Caledonia. They knew his skills would be most needed in combat, having been praised by bards and poets alike after his many years in the battlefield.

At eight and forty, Marcus Acacius had had his good share of tragedy and death, both personal and in war. His life had not been easy, having to forge a name of his own since childbirth and then having been recently betrayed by his own spouse.

The thought of Livia still angered him — she had had the audacity of blaming him for her infidelity, accusing him of always being away, of loving Rome more than his own family. Her cheating had been going on for as many years as their arranged marriage, throwing a doubtful shade on his paternity to both his children.

His life had come crumbling down in the last few months, so maybe coming to Britannia had not been such a bad idea. Female adultery was a crime penalised with death and that was a decision that Marcus had yet to make — outing Livia’s unfaithfulness would condemn her to Pluto's realm. Did he really want that for who had been his wife for more than thirty years?

Pinching the bridge of his hooked nose, Marcus walked towards the only window in the room. The roman took a deep breath and exhaled steadily — he needed to think of something else.

His mind went back to the battle of Mons Graupius. The spilling of blood never became easier with time — if anything, it had become harder, splintering his soul further. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the piercing, pained shriek of a woman as he imparted death on Murdoch of Inbhir Nis.

Her hair was dyed with black soot and tied back, her face covered in a blue paste and ash. He was too far to catch the colour of her eyes, but he thought them dark azure. The fierceness of her expression took him aback, her voice shouting a word he did not recognise. But his eyes did not have time to linger on the feral woman a few yards away, because a savage attacked him.

His hand stilled on the rocky window’s sill. The barbarians called this place Inbhir Nis. The stone castle was that of the chief’s family, atop of a hill with views to the scenery underneath. It was rudimentary and lacked many commodities — nothing comparable to his villa in Rome. The tribal settlement was formed of huts made of stone, timber and hay.

Agricola had decided to burn down the outskirts of the town and killed the wife of the clan chief making a macabre example of her, so the people would submit to the Roman’s yoke quickly, crushing any opportunity of rebellion. The message was clear: Rome would not tolerate being challenged. Anyone who did, would face the most painful of deaths. The governor left to go northward, leaving Marcus behind to rebuild the area to Rome’s standards. The emperor had deemed the location an important enclave for his empire, being the main town in the Moray Firth.

Marcus was standing in what he thought was the bedchamber of Murdoch. With the Overlord and his family alienated, the primitive people of the highlands needed educating and he had been given the task of doing so. Not a welcomed one, but he had a duty to Rome that had to be fulfilled.

With a heavy sigh, he undid the brooch at the base of his neck, relieving himself of the heavy, white sagum (cape) that was part of his attire. He threw it on the uncomfortable bed. He unfastened the golden, laurel-shaped bracelets around his wrists, and then proceeded to undo the tight knots that held his armour in place.

Then a knock on the thick, wooden door broke the silence of the room.

“Come in”, thinking it would be his male servant, he didn’t turn around.

“Dominus, dinner is ready”, a very soft voice with a very marked accent made him look over his shoulder.

A pair of very bright, almond-shaped, emerald-green eyes locked on his, framed by what he would describe as fire hair — so red it looked like a hellish aura crowning your head.

So bright were your eyes, he almost felt his soul being examined by your hypnotising gaze. Marcus had never seen eyes like those.

How dared he stand where your father did? Anger shimmered under your skin, but you kept it in check. When you realised you were holding his gaze for longer than what was appropriate for a servant girl, you averted your eyes, inspecting the stones under your feet.

Torcall called you mad for doing this, but you had made up your mind. If you really wanted to overthrow the Roman General and win back your family’s castle and land, you would need to sew yourself into his everyday life. Gain his trust, learn his secrets and use that information against him. Your people were counting on you for freedom, and you would not allow yourself to disappoint them. Even if it was the last thing you did.

“Who are you?”, his raspy voice filled the atmosphere as he resumed the task of undoing the ties on his armour.

Did he have no shame, undressing himself in front of a maid? Mind you, you were not an innocent servant, having been widowed recently. But still. The romans had no modesty, you assumed.

You had to think quickly. You had learnt that the governor and the general both thought the whole chief’s family dead, so you could not out yourself. A very few, selected people called you Callie, almost always in the intimacy of your home, when strangers were not around. Your nickname was precious to you because it was only used by those you loved.

“My name is Callie, Dominus”, you offered your nickname in a rusty Latin. It had been a while since you had to use a language that was not your native one.

“Callie.” The way your name rolled off his tongue gave you goosebumps. You didn’t like the way he pronounced it — it lingered in his mouth for too long, dragging each letter. You wished your words back, but you couldn't change it now.

Instead of clenching your jaw, you nodded. “Yes, my lord, I’m one of the servant girls who tended to the clan chief’s family before you.” You explained, your head still bowed.

You ventured your eyes up for a second, catching a glimpse of his naked torso. Unconsciously, you pursed your lips. The way your heart pounded loud for that one second made you furrow your brows in confusion.

He might be a gorgeous man, but he was a killer. And you had no taste for soulless murderers, that much you knew about yourself.

“Call my attendant, Atticus, to help me get ready for supper. I have no need of you. And ask the kitchen staff to heat some water and bring it up here.” His tone was emphatic, unwavering.

His rejection, in other circumstances, would have been most welcomed, but you needed him to trust you, to confide in you so you could plot his demise — to destroy him. This was not a good start to your plan, but you needed to play the long game.

“I could certainly help you with a bath now, Dominus, but your wish is my command.” You forced the words out, when in reality you wanted to spit them to his murderous face.

He just nodded in your direction, his movements stiff and measured. “Just my attendant will suffice, now go.”

With your fingers laced on your back, you curtsied, walking backwards towards the door of your father’s bedchamber. You could not seem too eager, or he would become suspicious.

When you were in the corridor with the door closed behind you, you took a deep breath and straightened your back.

You would not take no for an answer. Marcus Acacius would yield to you, whatever the cost.

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[ad-ciu]

Guth: Reading Irish Myths & Legends

Now that I am a Real Grown-Up Academic (tm), I have been trying to find a way to support my students and the general public by making medieval Irish literature more accessible to people who, be it a lack of time, disability, or any other factor, find sitting down and reading the original texts challenging.

What I settled on was creating a Podcast where I sit down and read out of copyright translations of Irish legends which I have called Guth: Reading Irish Myths and Legends.

If that's all you need to hear, you can go check it out right now! It is on Spotify (here), Podbean (here), and YouTube (here), and should be on Apple Music in the coming weeks. Alternatively, it is embedded here:

For those of you who need a harder sell, or want to know more about it, check out below!

So, why Guth? Well, I have encountered several different Podcasts and YouTube Channels out there which are doing something similar, recording audio of them reading medieval Irish legends. While several of these are quite cool, there are issues.

In terms of more benign issues, to get around the issues of copyright, people in these alternatives tend to retell stories, and while that is very cool as an example of something like an oral tradition, it means the stories are often being altered and changed by a non-expert audience. Elements that are not very important are being given great importance, areas that are very important are cut, and sometimes things are incorporated from other texts to make an unspoken composite (or, alternatively, sometimes people cut a section of a text out and retell it independent of its broader context).

These aren't bad, but, it means these other Podcasts and Videos aren't really suitable for my purposes of supporting my students and giving people access to the actual stories.

In terms of the big problems, there is at least one Podcast on a similar topic being presented by someone who I have reason to suspect is faking having a PhD. Further, there are at least two people putting out content like this that are actively forging content and passing it off as authentic who just so happen to also be Fascists. So, not ideal.

I hope Guth can serve my students and interested members of the public by providing a solid academic perspective on a text. Each episode I open with a discussion of our manuscript sources and the date of the text (a lot of other pieces out there will describe tales as 'ancient', when in actuality they're a 14th century scribe just vibin'). I then read the text exactly as it is translated, including using reconstructed Old Irish pronunciation for all the names that appear in the text. Lastly, I conclude with a brief discussion of secondary scholarship I think is particularly relevant for the interests of the public.

All of that to say, I hope people enjoy Guth, and that it can serve people who are interested in the actual medieval tales rather than the various retellings that are circulating out there.

[blackownersseekingsuccess]

Remembering Bayard Rustin: The Unsung Hero of the Civil Rights Movement

written by Levi Wise Kenneth Catoe Jr.

August 1, 2024 - Growing up as a Black boy in Paterson, NJ, and attending Roman and Irish Catholic Parochial schools, Black history was not very familiar to me. I grew up in a religious Southern Baptist family and participated in the church choir. In this context, Martin Luther King, Jr., was all that I knew about Black history until I became a teenage Madonna fanatic. Ironically, Madonna made me aware of Black activists and radicals such as Nina Simone, Jean-Michel Basquiat, James Baldwin, and Bayard Rustin. Bayard Rustin was an African American activist who believed in civil disobedience. Rustin felt that Black people should deliberately break unjust laws but do it non-violently to bring about change and this would play a key role in the Civil Rights movement. He also advocated for LGBTQ rights. Rustin moved to Harlem in 1937 and began studying at City College of New York. It’s interesting to note that at the time CCNY was an all-male college once regarded as ‘Jewish Harvard’ which did not accept Black men—Rustin was an unusual exception. While Rustin was at CCNY he became involved in efforts to defend and free the Scottsboro Boys, nine young black men in Alabama who were accused of raping two white women. Activism for Rustin was something that came naturally. He later became a mentor to Martin Luther King.

Rustin is one of my all-time idols. I have been enamored of him since I learned about him, so I was excited to attend an event dedicated to his life and legacy at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, “Between the Lines: Bayard Rustin, A Legacy of Protest and Politics.” The event was a conversation between Michael G. Long and Jafari Allen, who edited the book of the same name. Their exchange sparked many revelations and I left the event more aware than when I entered. I felt so much pity for the life that Rustin had to live, including the attack on his character that was rallied against him by other Black people and the distance that Martin Luther King placed between himself and Rustin out of fear of people assuming that he was also gay. I also learned that it was Coretta Scott King who introduced King to Rustin. Scott-King met Rustin during her college years as a fellow activist who practiced civil disobedience. She would ultimately introduce her husband King to civil disobedience tactics. Rustin recalled that his first time meeting King he was strapped with a handgun and that he never traveled without his gun. It was Rustin who told King that if he represented civil disobedience he would have to be willing to put away his firearm, which eventually he did. Nevertheless, this raises the question, who was King really? The “I Have A Dream” pacifist or the “Beyond Vietnam” radical? We will never truly know.

All in all what I did learn was that according to Rustin, King had no idea how to organize an event. Instead, it was Rustin who developed the blueprint for King’s early Civil Rights movement, at least until the day that King removed Rustin from his inner circle.

Nevertheless, Rustin returned to organize the March on Washington, despite everything leveled against him by Adam Clayton Powel and Roy Wilkins. Someone noted during the discussion that “it’s funny how karma works given the fact that nobody remembers Wilkins's legacy in comparison to the sudden interest in Rustin.'' If I remember correctly, the comment was made by the moderator, NYU professor Dr. Jarafi Allen, based on the fact that the venue was standing room only, or that the Hollywood lens is now fixated on Rustin’s story, with an Academy Award-nominated movie based upon his life currently in theaters. Wilkins has not received the same interest from Hollywood, perhaps indicating that he is less marketable in the mainstream. Meanwhile, Rustin’s role as an activist for the LGTBQ community is also important for newer generations. Until recently, this legacy and all that he accomplished was invisible, but he has since become a symbol of the “others” and most notably the “forgotten others”. While in his lifetime he was shunned, rallied against, and betrayed by those that he benefitted, history has allowed his legacy the final word.

[nthspecialll]

do you think many members of dutch’s gang were religious? was dutch even religious?

There are some characters that we cant tell other than "oh they grew up in this place in this age" but there are also some where we know their religions! I am quickly going to go over them but HeavenlyMorals made a really good post on this which I recommend looking at!

Dutch is not a catholic, he verbally talks about his dislikes for them, meaning he probably grew up protestant, however he does act more in romantisism, which is based on the relationship between man, god and nature.

Hosea is protestant. He talks about wanting to become a priest however he gave up on it because he needed to be a catholic and he wasn't fond of that idea. He talks about heaven and salvation and about his relationship with god being rocky due to Bessie's death.

Arthur is agnostic. He is open to the idea of faith, talking about whether or not he can get salvation however he tells the nun he does not believe in anything at all. That said, he dislikes the church but not the people. He doesnt really care what people believe in, he respects it, but he hates how the church takes and takes.

John is a non-practicing christian. He makes reference to god, like marrying Abigail in front of her, Dutch not being saved and so on, but he is rather passive when it comes to religion itself and is rather realistic.

Abigail is a praciticing Christian. She asks Jack to read verses for her.

Sean is likely cultual catholic. He talks about being a Child Of God, and is proud of his irish heritage which is known for catholis.

Javier is too cultural catholic. He doesn't speak of it but he makes the cross sign.

Molly is probably a protestant due to her troubles with Sean.

Micah is atheist. He uses himself as a god, he bullies Swanson for being religious and talks it down.

Sadie is christian, though not practicing. She mentions god as a force but doesn't practice.

Swanson is protestant, though he has swayed a little. He talks about how "maybe catholics are right" when he is completely down and doubting in chapter 2.

These are very shortly explaining, but I REALLY recommend the post above!!