#tw: witch hunt

[yellowbugifs]

183/365 days of regina mills

[queen-of-god-above-jeanne]

Saving A Holy Maiden (open rp)

May 30, 1431

Jeanne was to be put to death that day. She was betrayed, being brought to be burned at the stake, being called "a witch" by many. All she did was fight for France, her home, against her enemies. She had traded her ordinary farm life away to fight. What did she get in return?

She was now chained up to the stake as she held onto the cross given to her. She closed her eyes as the flames started at the bottom of her feet. She was praying, trying to block out any noises such as the crackling flames or the priest's speech. Even though she would die here because of her belief, she had no regrets. She was glad she made her decision to protect the ones she loved, even if she got betrayed later.

There may be a chance to actually save her life, you know? Will you save her on time, or will the flames consume her? There's not a lot of time to waste.

[veshialles]

"Change is coming to the world. Many fear change, and will fight it with every fibre of their being. But sometimes, change is what they need most. Sometimes, change is what sets them free." - "My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down. But still, some hope remains for restoration. I will save the Elvhen people, even if it means this world must die."

Transcript:

LEFT COLUMN:

Warden: And is that what you want? To be free? Morrigan: What I want is... is unimportant now. Morrigan: I cannot tarry longer, the time has come for me to go. Warden: Will I see you again? Morrigan: Not if you are fortunate... Goodbye, my friend.

RIGHT COLUMN:

Inquisitor: There's still the matter of the Anchor. It's getting worse... Solas: Yes, I'm sorry. And we are almost out of time. Solas: The Mark will eventually kill you. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you. At least for now... Inquisitor: You don't need to destroy this world! I'll prove it to you! Solas: I would treasure the chance to be wrong again, my friend.

---

pov your best friend who is a mage leaves you behind and walks through an enchanted mirror.

[alilbatflies]

I took part in @thepenultimateword's song-story writing challenge. It was fun!

My assigned song was Scarborough Fair by Simon and Garfunkel, submitted by @wacko-weirdo.

...

The fire cracks and sways, warm against the cold night. The shadows of those gathered around it dance much like flowers in the wind, swaying calmly without hurry. A unique form of slow dancing.

The hunter watches from further away. They could listen in on the conversation if they wanted to, but the sounds all smudge in their head. They barely manage to thread the waters of their conflicting thoughts. They’re tired.

The tree against their back is grounding. It’s the hunter’s only comfort. They don’t think to ask for more. They couldn’t possibly.

The group seems so calm. As if they’ve forgotten that there are still soldiers hunting them. The conversation is light, flickering with laughter like the dancing flames, all-consuming.

…perhaps they wish to forget for a while.

The hunter would much like to forget, too.

“Are you going to join us?”

The hunter looks at their old friend. Old friend doesn’t quite cut it. Neither does lover. Neither does any other label that the hunter has tried over the years. Their friend is simply always there.

Their witch friend.

The witch meets their eyes. The fire reflects in the deep brown that is so familiar to the hunter. Its familiarity offers comfort—comfort, which the hunter is unable to accept.

The hunter can’t bear to look.

They turn back towards the fire. Staring into the light is a bad idea, the hunter knows, for one cannot monitor the shadows blinded. And yet, they look. The blazing flames seem to swallow their worries, to soothe. The fire gazes right into their soul and warms its darkest corners. It all feels alright for a little while.

The witch gently takes their hand. They tug the hunter along, towards the fire.

The hunter’s arm lifts to follow the movement but they do not budge. The tree they’re leaning against is their anchor then. They fear losing their ground. They fear getting lost entirely.

They want to go. They want to let themselves be pulled along, they want to join everyone, they want to belong. They want to belong, to finally, finally…

“I’ve killed too many.”

On someone else’s orders. Because of someone else’s ideals. They didn’t know better.

The blood is on their hands.

I might have killed you, too.

The witch steps closer to them, interlocking their fingers instead. They examine their hand, the knuckles, callouses and scars. Those little wounds that tell the stories, if one can read them well enough.

They run their fingers over the hunter’s bandaged forearm, a ghost of a touch. They were the one who tended to the hunter’s injury that day.

“You’ve helped us get away.” The witch meets the hunter’s gaze. “You’ll help us still, won’t you?”

“Of course.” For you.

The witch keeps staring into their eyes. They might be trying to look right past, into the hunter’s mind and soul. They might just be able to read each and every of the hunter’s thoughts.

The hunter has thoughts. The hunter has many thoughts, flying around in their head, possibly causing more harm than good. The hunter can’t seem to stop them.

The hunter knows nothing of herbs. They know nothing of healing. With each moment passing by, they learn that they know nothing of witches, either. They try to learn.

They were told witches are dangerous. They were told they were vicious, vile creatures, evil beings beyond salvation. They were told death was a witch’s only comfort.

It used to be their only truth. The only thing that could help them carry the weight of their sword somewhat, when all of the life seeped out of another pair of silver eyes. It was their shield when the weight of taking a life threatened to slit them open.

It has all shattered so easily.

The hunter vividly recalls the moment their friend’s eyes flashed silver. Their friend was pushed to the edge, looking to them for help. The pieces fit together perfectly. The soldier next to them lunged forward. Their blow never landed.

The hunter met the others a little later on. The other not so evil creatures, who just want to live.

The hunter knows a little better now.

Witches are curious about the world much like their friend has always been. They bear their own weight, the magic running silver in their blood. They desire to live. To be safe. To be understood. The hunter can relate perfectly.

They try to learn.

“Thank you,” the hunter says.

“For what?”

Thank you for opening my eyes. For trusting me. For not letting me stay in the clutches of their truth.

“Being such a pain in my ass.”

The witch laughs. The sound wraps over the hunter like a soft blanket. Nobody ever told them that a witch’s laugh could heal.

The witch lifts the hunter’s hand. They press a kiss to it, holding their gaze.

The hunter shivers.

“I should thank you,” the witch whispers, “for protecting us.”

“Always.”

The witch pulls them along again. Towards the fire. Towards their family.

This time, the hunter lets them.

[lostbrazilian]

Ok so, apologies in advance for ranting, this isnt supposed to be a callout post or shit like that, it's just that this kind of racist bullshit really, REALLY grinds my gears

Because I feel like in general the prevalent view of Brazil outside of South America is of this stereotyped, tropical hellhole of crime and poverty with a thin layer of Samba on top, and I shouldn't have to say that it's really fucking NOT

Yeah, my country has many problems: violence, massive inequality, underfunded and overwhelmed public services, etc. But it's also a place of incredible natural beauty, of warm and good-natured people and of massive cultural diversity much beyond just Samba and Favelas, and I'm frankly tired of seeing all that reduced to just jokes about oh-how-awful it must be to live here

The drawing above is particularly grating because, at its core, the Brazillian Miku trend is all about showcasing and appreciating the cultures of Brazil and of countless other countries/regions through the downright universal symbol that Miku is. It's a funny and wholesome meme that OP twisted into a downright hateful message

As if there wasn't enough bigotry out there already

Edit: I have a small but important update so I'm editing this post instead of reblogging. Earlier I had left an admittedly rather mean comment on the original post, and OP (which I'm not identifying) did respond and apologize as they just worded their post badly and didn't intend to come off as racist, so kudos to them for apologizing and being a good sport about the whole thing even though I got rather heated with them

That said, I think my point still stands. There's nothing wrong with poking fun at real-world issues, but seeing your place of birth be majorly mentioned only in mocking or mindlessly negative ways does get to you after a while

[princesssarisa]

I am honestly surprised that nobody thought of using the German fairy tale Hänsel und Gretel today to talk about the real historical violence caused by Witch Hunts and Witch Trials.

I suppose any fairy tale with an evil witch could be used to talk about historic witch hunts and witch trials. But maybe Hansel and Gretel would suit that purpose especially well. Accusations of harming children were always a powerful tool against "witches" (and Jews and other minorities, for that matter), and the witch in the story dies by burning, which was the common method of execution.

Still, people probably don't want to look at Hansel and Gretel that way because they love the story. It's a nostalgic childhood favorite and they don't want to think of how it might perpetuate tropes that historically killed people.

[bodhrancomedy]

So, uh. I don’t know how up Tumblr is up on The Dreaded Place (Tiktok), but every couple of months (usually 3) a new openly, usually flamboyantly queer person is singled out and pursued as a “groomer” and every time there’s no real evidence, just out of context ten seconds clips and then people start screaming “would you prefer to wait until something happens?!?” and, I’d prefer to wait until you have evidence. Like, I’d prefer to wait until you have evidence and go to the authorities with said evidence because trying to incite mob justice on Tiktok because you don’t like someone’s vibes since that actually does nothing to “protect” the people you think need protecting.

“Would you prefer to wait until something happens.” You do know that trying to get someone hurt/arrested/killed because you think they’re icky without any actual evidence is fascist, right? You do know you’re just repeating Nazi propaganda?

“Would you prefer to wait until something happens.” I would prefer to wait until something exists? Until there is an actual reason to act because otherwise would be the Thought Police you’re so fond of throwing out.

If there is actual evidence that this person is a threat to children, take it to the police. They’re queer. The police will investigate in the way they won’t investigate conservative politicians, conservative beloved entertainers, and priests. Or the police themselves.

[emuanon34]

[emeraldofparis]

Even way before the witch craze engulfed Paris, in the late 1480s, Esmeralda was on the radar by the authorities and the so called "Malefiques", a loose and very amateurish association of men who pledged their support to persecute the "witches", evil spirited women that place spells and hexes on the good people, especially men. The group was headspirited by a younger but very ambitious Claude Frollo. One day, Esmeralda was was caught by soldiers. because she disturbed the "public peace" - by dancing in a small side street. As he roughly grabbed the young woman, one of the men, looking lasciviously at her exposed body, discovered a mark on her left breast. "That must be a Devil's mark."

To make sure that Esmeralda was not "in league with the devil", she was to be thrown into the local prison and subjected to painful interrogation - torture and torment, both physical and mentally.

However, this happened before the witch hunts were spread and legitimized. Claude Frollo was branded for his exceptionall cruelty by the crowd, and especially by the bishop of the time, as a "delusional fanatic" who was strictly admonished to stop the witch hunts and to leave the Parisian population in peace. Unfortunately, this defeat and disgrace only spurred the future Archdeacon on to initiate a cruel and merciless hunt for all "witches" in the near future.

[newtafterdark]

Hmmm... what if it's 2023 and I make another VTM OC but it's a Nos' this time? 👀

[quecksilvereyes]

An Introduction to Medieval History - Prof. Dr. R. Gadling, 8 A.M. (or: a ruinous love in three scenes)

AO3

This is how a conversation goes, between something endless and something that refuses to end, cradled in between dreaming and waking:

-    You’re not leaving again, are you?

-    I will be your ruin. I will destroy you and take from you until you have nothing left to give.

-    So what? There is nothing inside of me that I haven’t already given.

-    You will love yourself to death. There are blades for these things.

-    Cut me open, then. I’m not so fragile that I cannot be pieced together again.

-    You’ve a class to teach.

-    So come watch me. There is nothing left to ruin.

*

Professor Gadling stands at the overhead projector cradling his guts. He teaches an eight am class – medieval history, today – that sees one-hundred pairs of half-open eyes and cheap instant coffee gathering in little groups. It is silent, still, this early, and only the first row has their backs pulled taut, and their shoulders dropped. From his arms, something dark and warm drips into the carpet that was glued on antique hardwood floor in 1979. It has not been changed since.

When he opens his mouth, his words flood from him, slow and viscous.

“Good morning everyone”, says Professor Gadling. “Sorry about the mess.”

A student in the first row leans forwards. Their fingers tremble around the cardboard cup. Something careful lingers in their eyes. “I think you need an ambulance”, they say. Over them, the fluorescent light that was installed sometime in the 1950s flickers, and drips yellow light on their cheeks. It licks at their skin, and at the shadows sitting just under their cheekbones.

“Huh”, says Professor Gadling. “No, thank you.” When he speaks, something pulls at the skin of his jaw and at the stubble that is just forming. Dark, it falls from his fingertips, and wicks, ever slow, into the fabric at the bend of his elbows. His stomach.

Under the soles of his shoes, the carpet makes a sound.

The student grinds their teeth. Stone against stone against corn, amongst the roaring of water, something somewhere grinds things to dust.

“You’re bleeding”, they say. Their voice is quiet, almost too soft against the humming of the light and yet –

Professor Gadling grins.

His teeth are crooked in his mouth in a way they have never been. Like shrapnel, splintered things stuck in his gums, they drip all over the collar of his shirt. For a moment, his hair is a long, unkempt thing, tangled at his neck. For a moment, his hands are split open and his trousers are dripping wet.

For a moment, Professor Gadling’s eyes are white, and his mouth yawns open wide.

Someone screams. Someone else makes a sound at the back of their throat that might have once been a gasp.

Professor Gadling blinks. His hair is brushed. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are still as brown as they have ever been. His fingers are curled tightly around his dripping bowels.

“I’m fine”, he says.

“Hob, you’re gutted like a fish”, says the student in the first row.

Professor Gadling laughs. The corners of his eyes crinkle under the pull of it and his eyes shine in the flickering of the fluorescent light. With a flourish, he turns on his heels.

The carpet squelches.

“I have ne’er met a fish what could walk, frend.” The lamp still flickers, and Professor Gadling still stands upright. His heart must beat, still, a steady rhythm as it pours and pours itself into the carpet and the floor underneath it.

Then, he tilts his head. “Now”, he says. “Hob. Interesting choice of nickname, isn’t it?” There is an accent in his voice, something sticky almost. As though he’s dragging his feet through soil, too wet to give halt, and too dry to give way.

“It fell out of use-“, a breath. In his arms, bowels twitch. “-A long time ago.”

A step. His shoes scrape against the carpet, drunk full.

Professor Gadling is still smiling. “We forget, I think”, he says, and looks at someone in the last row. His teeth are yellowed. His laughter sits in the fine wrinkles around his mouth where it has long since etched its place. “We forget, don’t we, that people back then were people, too. They had nicknames and they had lives. It is easy to open a history book and read about the kings. About the queens, even, or the nobility. We forget about the people who made the clothes, or the food.”

He opens his arms.

His guts drop, bleeding and alive still, to the carpeted floor. Professor Gadling’s mouth is smeared red. His stomach is cut, from the join of his ribs to the hard cup of his hips, and the shirt sticks to twitching muscle. To gaping flesh.

“We forget”, says Professor Gadling, and he is all teeth, somehow, all hollowed. Underneath his ribs, his belly caves in. “About the people who died for them.”

“Hob”, says the student in the first row. Their hair is a wild thing, standing from their hairline as if in the eye of a storm. They don’t move.

Professor Gadling slips his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and leans back against his desk. “Witch hunts are easy to put into an essay, too.” The light flickers. The carpet that has long since eaten up the antique flooring browns at the edges. “Easy to write about. Interesting, too. Have any of you ever sat with the thought of the drowning, though?”

A shrug. Someone mumbles something. Someone else draw a breath that is more salt than air. Professor Gadling unspools his smile, for a moment. A breath, really. “It takes about 3 minutes to lose consciousness if you can’t breathe, sitting in that thing. Takes about three times as long to die. Your brain just shuts off, really. Your lungs aren’t meant to breathe water. Which, of course, takes us back to the fish.”

He draws his hands from his pockets to the top of the table. Then, with a tilt of his head, the smile comes back. “The worst thing is the starving, though. Nothing worse than your stomach trying to eat itself.” Around the gash, his muscles twitch.

By now, the shirt is more liquid than cloth, and it drips from him heavily. With a shrug, Professor Gadling reaches for it, and starts twisting it between his palms. A slow thing, something red wells up between his fingers.

“Hunger hollows you out. It eats away at you. The things you are willing to eat if you’re hungry enough would haunt your dreams.” He doesn’t sway. The colour in his cheeks doesn’t drain. His smile is just as it has always been, dimpled and wrinkling the corners of his brown eyes. The overhead projector behind him hums softly. “Nothing lays a man bare like hunger.”

Professor Gadling stands at the front of his class on a Monday morning at eight am and teaches until he has bled out.

He keeps going, after.

“Hob”, says the student. Professor Gadling smiles at them, and there is something alight in his eyes.

“Are you hungry?”, he asks.

*

Dream needs no food. Dream needs no touch. He needs no mortal, cut open and bleeding still, with his hands on the expanse of his spine. Needs not the mouth on his throat or the teeth in his flesh. The warmth against his chest. The brown of mortal eyes, spilled over the steps of his throne room.

But something sits deep in his stomach, eating away at him.

Something scrapes against bones he does not possess, something takes pieces from lungs that need not move. Something somewhere in the hollow of this endless body whets its teeth on every soft part of Hob Gadling’s body.

The blood on his skin is warm, and Hob Gadling is alive, yet.

“Break me”, he says, with that same voice. With those same eyes. With his laughter etched into his face, and stubbornness sitting in the hollow of his teeth, he reaches for Dream.

Dream, who is more than gods. Dream, whose lips are full of iron. Whose hands are full of human, coming apart at the seams.

“Hob”, he says.

“Ruin me”, says Hob. “I will live. I always live.”

He’s beautiful, says Despair – Desire – Delirium. Eyes shining, fingers sharpened at the tips, Desire’s lips sit on Hob’s throat. Despair’s palms fit into the crack of his bones. Delirium’s arms barely weigh down Hob’s shoulders.

Leave, says Dream. He’s mine.

“Nothing good can come from this”, he says flush against that body brimming with blood, and Hob laughs. It echoes, soft, a span of 600 years, callouses from swords long rotten pressed against endless ribs.

“Who cares?” His lips move, slow, against skin that is more dreaming than it is waking. “There is so much to live for, frend. Come live it with me. Sew me up and take me whole.”

“Hob Gadling-“

A hand on his jaw. Brown eyes. A smile, heavy with fondness. “I have known hunger in ways you cannot understand. Six centuries of hunger, sweeting”, says that mouth. Soft, and flush with life. Sticky with blood. ���I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Dream kisses that mouth. And Hob Gadling doesn’t taste like iron at all. There is only the bubble of laughter that always sits in the corner of his eyes, given breath by that voice.

“Dream”, says something that refuses to end against endless lips. And in endless eyes sits the universe, bright as the north star.

__

Hob almost gets himself fired btw. Somehow, he manages to convince his boss that it was a very elaborate rpg thing. Very pedagogically worthwhile. Very realistic, too. And it was just the eight am class, most of those kids were probably still asleep.

He does teach medieval history and period accurate swords aren’t really safe to handle in class, you see.

[art-culture-philosophy-and-media]

You don't have to agree with me with this meme, but in my opinion , Rama isn't only one to blame…

It's funny how we make him a scapegoat instead of attacking on that man who made the whole human society doubted on both Rama and Sita. What a shame!

Humanity doesn't change at all, I guess…

[keiranda]

each and every day i hate the intl kp/op community more and more.

[t4tstarvingdog]

terfs will be like owowow i am oppressed for the way i spread hate and genocidal bigotry, woe is me 🥺

[moonlightcreek]

I don’t think anyone should be attacked though depending on what you did I don’t think it’s your place to say what smone can and cannot say about your actions. Especially the people you hurt. One of the things you have to accept when you make a mistake or hurt someone is that they don’t have to forgive you. That’s apart of the atonement.

[itokunii-a]

(( Thinking about Radek’s sword and his abilities: how it’s only a dagger, easy to strap to his hip and hide behind his clothes but still within his reach if he needs it. And it’s not the worst weapon to fight with ( considering Radek is quite quick and agile on his feet ) but it does not have the best reach and only works in close combat. So what does he do? He uses his own blood to elongate it. Because dark, magical vampire blood. Depending on how much blood he uses/where he stabs himself ( mainly his thighs, his sides and, as the most powerful source, his heart ), the sword will grow bigger, be more accurate and much more deadly but it also weakens him immensely the more blood he loses. It’s both his biggest strength and also his biggest weakness. ))