#you go back far enough in any culture and you will find war and cruelty etc.

[transfaguette]

i see some people very fixated on the idea that everyone should seek out their "ancestors" and connect with their "roots" and that will unlock some secret purpose or something. and obviously I think thats fine but . my roots are here, there's nothing for me to go and find. My great grandparents were immigrants and I was very close with them while they were alive but they lived here for most of their lives, too! They were more American than they weren't! I'm kind of over being told to look back because there's nothing there!!!

[scripttorture]

I have no idea if you can help me, but I am working on a short story that starts after a Sami girl is recovering from being tortured by Christian police after her father is put on trial for witchcraft. This is during the witch trials in Norway. I wanted to focus on recovery in the community and her animistic religion. However, I don’t know what kind of torture she could realistically be recovering from and if, aside from punishment, it should religiously motivated. Do you have any English links?

I put this one off for a long time hoping that the virus situation would improve enough for me to a) have less stress at work and b) be able to access the university library in my town. It doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.

 Norwegian history in the 1600s isn’t my strong suit. So my focus here is going to be advice on how to research this. I’ll also include the bits I found and some tortures so common that you can throw them in to virtually any setting without it standing out or being inaccurate.

 Before I get any further I don’t know anything about Sami culture. I’d strongly recommend trying to find Sami sensitivity readers if you haven’t already. Because it can be bloody hard to get accurate information on some of Europe’s oppressed minorities and I’d say the Sami fall squarely into that category.

 Historical research is fraught with pitfalls and when you’re starting out it can be really difficult to figure out which sources to trust. This only becomes worse when you’re working across a language barrier. And when the focus is torture it gets even more difficult.

 Torture has always been a hot button issue.

 The fact that virtually every culture has a history of torture doesn’t change that. Cultural ideas about what was ‘more painful’ or ‘more brutal’ or ‘shaming’ have all played a role in what was deemed ‘acceptable’ cruelty. So has the idea of who is an ‘acceptable’ or ‘deserving’ victim.

 And that means that misrepresenting the typical tortures of different countries, cultures, religious groups or past regimes has been part of political practice for literally hundreds of years. It is a very easy way to direct people’s hate and elicit an emotional response.

 I can’t stress enough how important it is to consider an author’s motivations, biases and abilities when you read historical sources.

 Think about whether an author was actually there for the events they describe. Think about their political and religious positions and what they may have to gain by pushing a particular message.

 Apologies if some of this comes across as teaching you how to suck eggs, but I know a lot of people don’t get this lesson in their history classes. So sources-

 Historical sources can be broadly categorised into primary and secondary sources. A primary source is something produced at the time. A secondary source is something produced later.

 Both can be untrustworthy/biased but a primary source gives you information about how events/practices were interpreted at the time, while a secondary sources tells you how they were remembered later.

 Primary sources can be things like diaries, court records of witch trials and objects produced in areas like Finnmark (northern Norway where most of the witch trials took place) at the time. Secondary sources might be things like how the witch trials are discussed in Norwegian history books and local history or stories about the witch trials that are told today.

 By reading about this in English you’re mostly being limited to secondary sources. The danger here is that secondary sources can misrepresent the time period they’re describing, deliberately or not. Authors make assumptions about how historical people lived, thought, what their actions meant and how their beliefs influenced their actions.

 Primary sources can also misrepresent what happened (deliberately or not) but with primary sources they are at least displaying the biases and concerns of the time.

 Generally historical research is about the collation and interpretation of primary sources. Which is a lot of work, requires a degree of expertise and often demands fluency in several languages.

 That level of work and knowledge appeals to some authors of historical fiction. But it isn’t for everyone. There’s nothing wrong with choosing to rely on history textbooks and the like instead of digging through transcriptions of things written back in the 1600s.

 Here’s the problem when you’re doing that for another country: English language sources are often very very biased in favour of other English language sources.

 This means if some bored academic in the 1930s made up a bunch of fan theories based on very little evidence it will probably still be used as a source today.

 And without having another language (with access to other sources it provides) it can be really difficult to spot that kind of fuckery.

 I am not saying that you need to learn Norwegian and believe me as someone with only one spoken language I understand how tackling a new one can be crazy intimidating.

 But I think you do need to know Norwegians. Particularly Norwegians with an interest in history.

 That’s all general stuff about researching historical periods in different countries.

 For torture in particular… I’m not gonna lie it’s a sack of angry snakes.

 Both primary and secondary often have considerable motivation for lying about torture. Historical accounts routinely downplay or outright lie about the damage different tortures cause. They are heavily judgemental about victims.

 And they run in to exactly the same issues we have trying to study use of different tortures today with the added difficulty that accounts from torturers are preserved far more frequently then accounts from survivors.

 It’s only once you start getting to the 1900s that you really start to see multiple survivor accounts of events. For the 1600s as a general period I can think of witness accounts and multiple accounts from torturers or their bosses in various countries. But the testimony of survivors is very very rare.

 This is an issue because we know from modern research that torturers routinely lie about what they do.

 There were laws in most European countries in this period that cover torture. They tend to define a sort of ‘accepted practice’: what torturers were supposed to do and for how long. And don’t get me wrong these are useful historical sources.

 But we know from comparing similar torture manuals used in the 1930s (and indeed more recently) to multiple accounts from torture survivors that torturers do not follow their own rules. I see no reason why torturers today would be less likely to follow ‘the rules’ then their historical predecessors.

 Looking up the laws of the land at the historical time period you’re interested in is a good place to start. But it won’t actually tell you everything that torturers did and it may not represent the most common tortures.

 It will give you a list of things that were definitely used at the time in that place though. Which isn’t a bad place to start.

 Look for history books that cover crime and punishment. If you can’t find one broad enough to do that (or give you a helpful summary of laws at the time) then I’ve found that accounts of specific historical figures in the relevant area/time often contain some of that information.

 The next major pitfall when researching historical torture is the bane of my existence: euphemisms.

 A lot of historical sources use vague or euphemistic terms for different tortures and then leave it up to the reader to figure out what they mean. This was probably perfectly clear at the time but now… less so.

 To use an example from something I’ve been trying to research for a while now I can tell you that the Ancient Egyptians definitely used torture. They say as much in surviving accounts of their justice system. They used it to punish, force confessions and attempt to gain information.

 They definitely beat people with sticks. They say they did, in multiple accounts. There are also wall carvings and paintings that show prisoners of war and enslaved people being menaced with sticks.

 However, I can’t find any definite suggestion that they used falaka, ie beating the soles of the feet with those sticks.

 Did they just hit people at random? This seems unlikely from a practical viewpoint as that’s a very easy way to kill someone. Did they ignore the feet and concentrate on other areas of the body? Did they use falaka and also beat other areas? Do I bring too much bias into this question because I’d love to find a historical point of origin for a torture that’s common throughout the Middle East today?

 Historical sources often just don’t contain the details we need to be certain about what torture they’re describing. Terminology is often vague. Descriptions can be contradictory. Often the only way to be certain is to come across an illustration or surviving device and even then this does not necessarily represent common practice and either piece of evidence could be contemporary propaganda rather then something that was actually used.

 When you’re talking about historical torture it is essential to find multiple sources and make sure they agree.

 Vague terminology like ‘water torture’ can cover a host of different sins. Finding a vague term or euphemism multiple times doesn’t even tell you if this was the same practice carried out in different areas or different practices with superficial similarities.

 If a source doesn’t give you enough information to be sure don’t use it. If a source suggests the meaning of a euphemism based on no clear evidence from the time period don’t use it.

 What I’ve found in my own small collection of books on witchcraft is very sparse on details.

 One of the older books I have suggests that there were almost no witch hunts or witch trials in Scandinavia which is complete bollocks. The book was published in 1959, so I’d suggest being wary of English language sources from that date and earlier.

 A much more recent (2017) Oxford University Press book on the subject gives an estimated 400-500 executions for witchcraft in Norway during the period of 1601-1670.

 This might seem like a small number compared to the thousands that were executed throughout the Holy Roman Empire but it seems a significant number given that the Norwegian trials were so concentrated in a small, sparsely populated region.

 Unfortunately this book is a very general overview of the perception of witchcraft and magic throughout Europe from the ancient world to the present. So it doesn’t really give any details of the kinds of tortures a Norwegian accused of witchcraft might endure.

 The author of the chapter on the witch trials was Rita Voltmer, University of Trier in case that’s helpful. She has published several papers on witch trials and the use of torture and at least one on witch trials in Norway. However a lot of her work is in German.

 These two papers/chapters in particular may be of interest: the english language document on torture and emotion in witch trials and the German paper on Norwegian and Danish witch trials.

 Several of the books I’ve got access to confirmed that Norway burnt witches and provided stories focused on shapeshifting and causing storms at sea. They also confirmed the use of torture in witch trials but nothing so helpful as the kind of tortures employed.

 I found multiple references to ‘water torture’. One of these implied that the particular torture was waterboarding alla the historical Dutch method. But the same source said this caused vomiting or possibly diarrhoea which seems to imply pumping.

 At a guess I’d say pumping is less likely because waterboarding can cause vomiting and so far as I know pumping wasn’t common anywhere in Europe during this period. However absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.

 ‘Water torture’ could also potentially refer to: a temperature torture, near drowning, a method of sleep deprivation or even dehydration. Without more detail it’s really hard to say which of these is being referenced.

 I found one mention of ‘burning torture’ a reference that I think referred to tearing the flesh with hot pincers based on the description of a torn wound. However given I only found this referenced once and I’m unsure of the source I found it in, I would not say this is a good one to pick.

 Which leaves me with common tortures.

 Whatever the time period, whatever the place, beatings the most common torture. Easily.

 If your character gets repeatedly hit, whether it’s clean or not, you are not being historically inaccurate. And I’ve got a lot of posts on beatings generally and clean beatings that can help you write that.

 Starvation and dehydration are also both really common regardless of culture and time period. So are temperature tortures or exposure though I think different countries have favoured different methods at different times.

 Torturous cell conditions were incredibly common across Europe historically. Lack of sanitation, wet cells, inadequate bedding, over crowding and conditions amounting to a temperature torture were all really common. They were also often happening alongside starvation.

 I have a masterpost on starvation and tags covering temperature tortures, exposure and prisons. I think the ‘prisons’ tag should give you most of the posts covering poor cell conditions, ‘historical torture’ and ‘historical fiction’ may also be helpful to you.

 I’m sorry I couldn’t come up with anything more specific.

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

Edit: So this should be my week off the blog but I’ve seen a lot of the responses to this. Most of them are extremely helpful, thank you to everyone who knows Norwegian that is offering to help.

However: if your instinct is to say that any torturer, historical or recent, is ‘honourable’ and follows a code of conduct then this blog is not the place for you. I don’t tolerate that kind of apologia or people using my work to spread it. 

[the-fox-knows]

‘I’ll Tell You a Story’

Mustn’t Linger at Crossroads (1)

What were the words of an old wives tale? Simmering magic behind an ancient veil. A land so steeped in legend and myth, it is little wonder when things go amiss.

The low sky, laden with swollen clouds, had effectively obscured the sun and any chance of continuing with a picnic four young women were desperately clinging to; four Americans on holiday in Scotland, underestimating the dreach weather, and in various stages of bowing down to the superior forces of Mother Nature. The last to submit had her face turned to the sky, squinting up at the looming clouds, an expectant quirk to her lips as she waited for that first drop to splash somewhere on her skin.

“Molly! Stop daydreaming and help pack this up. I don’t want the whicker to get wet!”

Snapping her eyes back to her friends, she lurched to her feet and wordlessly began folding the blanket her bum had been holding hostage. A smile lingered hiding behind her curtain of hair, giving away her amusement at their frantic behavior. This was the quartets fifth day in the country and the first afternoon that had promised improved weather for their little outing. Molly couldn’t say she was surprised by the speedy return of rainclouds, though, was the only one willing to meet them. Outnumbered in less than a second, she gave into their squawking, though, had her thoughts elsewhere as they packed the car up just as the first drizzle was unleashed.

“You go on ahead,” Molly told her friends, pulling out her umbrella and opening it with a flourish. Their plans consisted of heading back to the B&B they were staying at, but Molly was just a bit sick with cabin fever and had one or two things she wanted to poke around before returning.

“What? It’s raining. Where are you going?” Ellie demanded, closing the trunk and hurrying to the passenger side.

“I’m not ready to come back yet. Need to stretch my legs,” Molly explained, keeping it brief.

“But it’s raining,” Cathy insisted from behind the wheel, reiterating Ellie’s point.

“I have my umbrella, besides it’s a ten minute walk to the B&B. I won’t be long,” she assured with a smile and a nod.

“Oh, let’s just leave her. You know we won’t talk her out of it,” Gracie hollered from the back, eager to be off the roads. Out of the four, she was the biggest worrywart and would likely as not be the one biting her nails until Molly walked through the doors to their rooms. As it was, she could only concern herself with one thing at a time, and presently the rain was getting heavier, plunking off the roof of the car.

Cathy and Ellie gave Molly a final, appraising look, before having to agree with Gracie.

“Just don’t go off the paths and – oh, is your phone charged? Do you have a signal?”

“Yes and yes,” Molly answered without checking. “I will stay on the paths, look both ways before crossing, and I’ll make sure not to talk to any strangers. Happy?”

Ellie grumbled. “Fine, but if you’re not back within the hour Scotland’s going to have three stereotypical Americans on their hands who won’t shut up until they find their friend. So for the sake of our motherland’s reputation – don’t daydream!”

Laughing, Molly shooed away their concerns, waving fondly until their little rented car dipped into a valley, vanishing from sight.

Free to explore, Molly thought giddily.

At a much slower pace than the automobile she sloshed her way down the road making sure to hit every puddle until the denim of her jeans were beyond damp and murky water could be felt sliding down the inside of her wellies. She twirled her umbrella over her shoulder, humming ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ to herself as the flat land around her held the tempting invitation to drop her umbrella and just run until she couldn’t – to throw caution to the wind and indulge even further into her reckless nature.

She wanted to see everything that could possibly be seen on this trip, to soak up as much as the culture and folk lore as possible. In a week’s time they’d be journeying even further north to the Highlands, something she was particularly excited about. Snapshots she’d seen of the rugged land spoke directly to her romantic imagination and the raw mountains with hints of mossy green, she felt sure, would easily fulfill her desire for adventure. She gave a rueful chuckle at her friends’ expense as she thought of the near future and how many times she planned on giving them the slip. Her endurance for new experiences far outpaced theirs.

For now, they were staying in a seaside chalet in Dunbar, overlooking a glorious stretch of beach with a walk that was part of John Muir Park. It was to this strip of sand she was headed. The rain was tolerable; no threat of lightening as of yet, and the desire to stand on the beach and be eye-level with the stormy waves, the sea-breeze filling her lungs, sounded like the perfect cure for cabin fever.

The beach was deserted, forcing Molly to momentarily doubt the sanity of her notions, but then the drizzle sputtered into a few week drops, and she felt it safe enough to continue. The tide was low, stretching back so that the glistening sand seemed to extend for miles before meeting the white foam. Slipping out of her wellies, Molly toed the sand, imprinting her feet in the cooling ground. She stood in the space between high and low tide, looking out towards the horizon in easy meditation, the natural rhythm lulling her into a deep serenity so that time was forgotten. Her mind turned to the legends of natural in-between points: cross-roads; the gloaming hours of dawn and twilight, not quite day nor yet night; the stretch of sand between high and low tide.

Eventually, the drizzle resumed, though turned stronger this time, and Molly was forced out of her reverie. Unconsciously, she had allowed her umbrella to droop to the side, and now straightened it above her head once more. Checking her phone she read the time as being half past two, and if she were to follow her friend’s warning about time she had only eight minutes to return before Scotland would be plagued with a headache.

Chuckling to herself Molly cast a final glance at the sea before turning her back towards it.

Missed by her roving gaze, however, was a speck on the horizon. Smaller than a dot, yet moving swiftly towards the shore, its wooden body soon loomed clear as the men waiting within watched the ever approaching beach with war-lust in their eyes. The metal of their weapons were dull under the foreboding sky, yet they received the fall of the rain with a low pattering that thrummed pervasively on the hull of the longboat. Out of the scores of men, only one stood with the outward appearance of patience. His glance held a spark of wisdom missed by the others as he prepared himself to once again meet the somewhat familiar land of the Christians.

. . .

 It had been quick. The tolling bells had eerily fallen silent all too quickly when the monks ringing them had been relieved of their heads. The monastery sacked, the town pillaged; young men who were no more than farmers or apprentices bravely stood their ground against the invading forces only to be cut down with a ferocity and cruelty undeserved. The passionate actions of the berserkers were dispassionate in their execution. There was no thought, no mercy, only the blood-lust that they entreated to take hold of their mind when rampaging.  The women faced depredations hitherto unknown to them as they no longer had their men folk to protect them. Their screams related the horrors of the North-Men far better than any round church bell could.

Undisturbed by this red backdrop, Ragnar Lothbrok walked slowly down what had only recently been an aisle of the church. The wooden benches now overturned, cut, chipped, and strewn alongside the bodies that had fallen atop them. The sight did nothing to upset the marauder, though unlike the rest, it did not make him revel either.

His steps were firm, but questing. He had no predestined location that he sought, only to gather all that he could to learn more of this new world. Past a ruined door that led to an ante-chamber, he found more bodies slumped over slanted desks; their life’s blood mingling with the colorful ink on the illuminated pages.

Recognizing these monks as being similar to Athelstan, Ragnar flicked a curious glance towards the ruined pages, his gaze running over the unintelligible scripts. In terms of value, these sheets were worthless to him, even less to Earl Haraldson. He may not understand the lines that marked out a language, but he knew that they were filled with nothing but the Christian G-d. Still, there was an undeniable twitch in his hand that impulsively snatched at the most unspoiled parchment.

The yearning for knowledge, no matter its source, was a more powerful inducement than the finest of kings’ hoards.

. . .

It was not long before the treasures; the gold crosses and platters, the silver goblets and candleholders were accounted for and brought excitedly to the proud serpent’s head rising from the water. The lapping waves caressed the hull, only to turn to erratic splashing when the tread of the Northmen disturbed the shallow depths as they distributed their goods throughout the boat. The rain had ceased early on in their raid. Their talk was disconnected from the carnage they’d delivered to the town; happy and boasting of the fine things they would get for themselves and their women once returned. The honor that would come to them as their riches increased; as they had no doubt it would, seeing how bountiful this land to the west was proving to be.

Ragnar stood back from this talk, both physically and figuratively. His ambitions were perhaps more far-reaching than those on the beach, yet his wits were sharper. Earl Haraldson was much on his mind of late. Ragnar had drawn the board and now the moves must be played by himself and those involved – whatever the consequences.

The land he stood on was rich, richer than mere jewels and trinkets - it was a land of wealth. Tillable soil, hardy animals, weather not so unforgiving as the climes of his homeland. Yes, he thought, his narrowed gaze taking in the sprawling promise, the flash of his eyes striking against the brown of his skin. Yes, there are riches to be had here.

Movement caught his notice breaking the spell he was weaving for himself. There was a flash of red between the green foliage of the trees that grew on the far reaches of the beach.

Cautiously stepping forward Ragnar paid a quick glance over his shoulder to the men by the boat. He was unobserved by them. Looking back to the trees he tilted his head, his eyes roving for a sign of a threat while he unobtrusively tightened his grip on his axe.

Flicking his gaze back and forth, Ragnar entered the first line of trees. He could hear the person’s tread now - quick and careless. At first they seemed to be marching away from him, however, a few seconds later had them returning in an indirect route. They changed course for a third time, and Ragnar found himself intrigued.

On silent feet he followed the noise, his grip no longer so intense on the handle of his axe. Low murmuring soon joined the footfalls, then, what sounded like an exceedingly frustrated grunt. There was a feminine lilt to the aggravated noise, and Ragnar quickened his steps until he saw a woman crashing through the trees away from him, only to change course as if she didn’t know which direction was hers.

Sidling up to a large trunk he watched her unseen.

Her raiment piqued his interest, as did the implement she was currently wringing in her hands. The curved end was intriguing, though, with a raking gaze, Ragnar determined its dullness, therefore it’s uselessness as a weapon. The satchel at her side was more promising of finding something of interest. His head was tilted curiously, his breathing quiet as he observed the woman’s ill contained hysterics.

She did not belong to the town they’d just sacked, he was sure of it, though he had nothing to base it on other than an educated summation.

Cocking an ear, he heard her distressed murmurs catching on barley contained sobs. There was a foreign lilt to her undertones, alas, ere he could distinguish the tongue, her reckless ambling began taking her further away from him.

As a shadow, he trailed her, pursuing her with a hunter’s instincts. Unknowingly, she made it easy for him.

She branched off a few times in opposing directions, displaying clearly that she was as much a stranger in these parts as Ragnar was. Several times he had looked back over his shoulder contemplating the distance he was risking by plunging deeper into these foreign woods. It was when he desired to go no further - and was entirely confident that this woman was alone - that he slipped from the concealment obtained from the woods and let himself be seen.

He anticipated her change of heart a second before she made it and was there to catch her startled gaze the moment she spun on her heels to retrace her steps.

Immediately she froze; a stifled gasp swallowed quickly in the back of her throat. Almost imperceptibly her fingers tightened around her strange device as her eyes darted over his appearance. At his side, his axe still had flecks of blood from spots he had missed in his initial wipe of the weapon, and he was sure splattered red ornamented his face and clothed chest. A slow smile tugged at his lips bearing an overwhelming resemblance to something feral as he enjoyed her eyes on him.

“You are a stranger?” he poised it as a question, though his tone was indicative of knowing the answer.

The woman’s eyes snapped back to his from where they had been staring at the lethal array of weapons strapped to his belt. Slowly, she shook her head, voicing a stuttered response in a language unfamiliar to him. He did not doubt her authenticity, though, immediately his interest was piqued even further. A new language meant a new land, a new land meant new riches, and new riches held the tantalizing treasure of more knowledge.

In mere seconds a plan had formulated.

The woman still stood frozen, like prey who knew they were caught yet clung to the hope that if they drew little attention to themselves they’d rediscover their freedom.

“I have a proposition for you,” Ragnar began in a tone of voice that might have been interpreted as mocking in his overt congeniality. It was clear she didn’t understand him, if the desperate shaking of her head was anything to go by. And which only intensified when he brought himself a step closer to her.

With a trembling step back she interrupted him speaking again in her tongue; the hitch in her voice audible.  

“You will come with me,” he said, keeping pace with her, never quickening his step in a terrifying show of unconcerned victory. He had her, and both knew it. She stumbled away regardless, tripping on her own feet as she was unwilling to turn her back towards him. The useless implement she held she began defensively brandishing when his eyes glinted.

“There is a story to your presence, and I would have it; a meaning to your language.” His gaze dropped to her denim-clad legs deliberately, then back to her eyes. “A reason for why you wear such tight trousers where any man may appreciate your form with little imagination.”

She spoke again, almost pleading as her footing faltered over some roots, and Ragnar deemed it time to end the cat-and-mouse game. With little effort he was before her, trapping her between his form and the solid trunk of an oak. Grasping first her wrist, he little expected the rattle to his head when the woman suddenly struck out with her odd stick and attempted to flee. His grip tightened immediately, holding her to him, as he brought her right before his nose where he proceeded to stare down at her squirming figure. Her entire body was engaged in struggling against him, tears streaming down her already wet face as he closed his large hands around both her wrists. Even then the fight persisted in her. Her fists railed against his chest, straining to break free of his hold. The curved handle of her stick proceeded to strike Ragnar in the face a couple more times before he wrenched it from her grip and flung it blindly behind him.

He was beginning to bristle at the soreness in his nose from the implement he’d initially deemed useless.

With a final attempt, the woman threw her body weight at him, knocking him only slightly off balance, though, startling him nevertheless at the move. She was able to slip her wrists from his grasp and, forgetting her stick, darted away. However, the North Man was too sharp for her. His grasping reach for her caught her round the middle, sending her crashing to the forest floor where her head collided with the hard ground; the impact rendering her unconscious.

Ragnar breathed heavily from where he fell atop her stomach and looked up to see her still form. His brow furrowed minutely until he saw the flutter of a pulse in the dip of her jaw. Taking a moment to examine her unimpeded at such proximity he decided that he had made the right choice in seeking her out. Her face agreed with him and when her eyes would be open once more he hoped to see that flare that had sparked even through her fear. Her hair fell long and tangled prettily in the grass and fallen leaves. There was no stain of blood which told Ragnar that he’d better use this time to his advantage and get her to the boat before she woke. He would investigate later into her satchel.

.

The others had noticed his absence, but it was Rollo who voiced their question.

“What is this?” He extended his chin to motion at the woman slung over his brother’s shoulder.

A few appraising eyes scanned her drooping body as they continued loading the last of their treasures and slaves into the long boat.

“A woman,” Ragnar answered broadly, splashing into the sea, walking towards their vessel home. Rollo huffed in irritation at the deflection; he followed after.

“What is she doing here?”

“Presently? She is unconscious.” He turned to give Rollo a half-smile. “She was not an easy catch.”

“Why are you bringing her? We already have many slaves. She will be an extra mouth to feed.” Briefly, his eyes roved over her raised derrière, taking in the shapely cut of her legs on display.

“Is that your only complaint against her coming?”

“It matters little to me which creature you decide to plow, only don’t let your cock decide who has the smaller ration.”

Ragnar swung into the boat with a little difficulty due to the woman, but when his feet were solidly on the deck of the boat, the woman slumped in front of him against the side, he looked down at his brother.

“Your proficiency with words, brother, leaves little to the imagination. There will be no shortages of food,” he assured before hauling the woman back up and bringing her farther down the boat, effectively winning the argument.

Rollo spit into the sea, watching his brother’s back a moment longer. He finally turned away with an unpleasant twitch to his lip, as the last of the load was brought on board and the Vikings cast off.

. . .

The first thing Molly was aware of was a nauseating dip and rise that moved her body, and which made her spinning head that much more unbearable. Her eyes were shut still, and she decided to let them remain as a shield against an unfamiliar scene. The sounds engulfing her were foreign and baffling. The voices of men speaking in a different language rang left and right of her, while the rushing song of the sea made clear why she was experiencing vertigo. A cool sea spray tickled her cheek causing her to flinch.

Her head was lowered, her chin nearly touching her chest, and she felt a soreness at the back of her neck from being bent so. The throbbing on the side of her skull, however, outweighed any of her other discomforts.

Molly remembered falling; remembered the man who’d appeared out of nowhere, interrupting her hysterical hike through the forest.

Upon quitting the shore with the mind of returning to her friends, Molly underwent a transformative experience of confusion, denial, anger, then raw fear when the horrid screams had pierced the stifling quiet. It was then that she heard the distant crash and clang of metal, of fearsome roars that she instinctively knew no animal emitted. In her turmoil and desperation to get away from whatever violence was taking place, and to somehow return to something she knew, Molly had lost her way in the trees. The broad trunks soon turned maze-like, only increasing her panic and seeping away any vestiges of rational thinking she might have had at her disposal.

It hardly mattered when the screaming stopped. The screaming had happened, and she prayed that whatever had caused such anguished cries would miss her entirely. Interestingly, she felt guilty at feeling no guilt in wanting to help in whatever crises had just occurred. Without even seeing what evil had befallen, she knew she was out of her depth and possibly a bit mad. When she’d first climbed the path of the cliffs that lead to the B&B she’d found nothing. No lodgings and no town; as if it had never been.

When he appeared, when she turned and found herself face to face with a heavily armored man, visible blood flecked on his clothes, his face, and disturbingly on the blade of his axe, she felt a numbing that nearly threatened immobility.

Where was he now, Molly wondered?

A tall wave rocked her and the boat close to upright, and her fear, which seemed endless this day, compelled her to scream in horror at the reality of her situation. She strangled the impulse with a low whimper, one that was drowned out by all the other noises, and forced herself to remain quiet.

He’d kidnapped her! And with that little understanding it was all she needed to know that she had to get away – even if it meant succumbing to the ocean. A known fate, even fatal, was preferable to the unknown horrors that lay in wait.

With the seed of intention planted firmly in her mind, beating back the fear that had consumed her was easier with the prospect of action. Slowly, Molly cracked open her eyes, fluttering her lashes in tiny blinks to clear away the hazy grime coating her sight. When her vision cleared, she was grateful for the curtain her long hair provided, concealing most of her face, bowed as it was. Extending her consciousness to the rest of her body, she became aware of herself being propped up against something, her feet bent in front of her, while her unbound hands lay in her lap. Her umbrella was long gone, but she still had her bag; she felt it’s strap across her chest. Strangely, that comforted her.

It was the only chance she had. It was the only choice she had.

The men’s voices continued, and absently she heard them as she worked up her courage to spring for her freedom. She felt certain that she was against the side of the boat, therefore a leap, and quick turn would see her over the side.

Suddenly boots entered her line of vision and stopped in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut, then forced herself to relax to allay suspicion should whoever stood before her stoop down and look. They did indeed stoop down, lowered in a crouch, and Molly felt their presence close to hers. A hand touched her head, smoothing down the side of her face until her chin was caught in their fingers; locks of her hair caught in between. Her head was forced back, exposed to the terrifying environment, and softly placed against the wood bracing the rest of her form.

Molly willed her breathing to remain even, willed her eyes to remain calmly shut.

She would escape, she thought to herself, encouraging her state of mind to take this attention as nothing more than passing. But then the wicked thought of lust poked at her; of his lust, of every man on this boat’s lust. What if that was why she’d been taken? What if they all planned on having their way with her? She was about to spring, uncaring of the hand that still cupped her face, uncaring of the dangerous timing.

She needed to escape!

She was going to!

Now!

The hand left her, and she heard him rise, the heavy tread taking him a few steps from her.

The time was now. No one was expecting it.

Molly’s eyes flew open, as she blindly turned while scrambling to her feet. Her shaking hands gripped the side of the boat, hauling herself up when she heard the first shouts of protest to her endeavors. The voices grew loud and angry, but she didn’t dare look back. Slinging her legs over in a surprisingly fluid movement, she dropped, only to feel an interruption in her fall to the lapping waves scant feet below. Gravity favored her, however, and it wasn’t until she felt the shocking cold of the sea that she realized what the hiccup had been. Allowing herself a single glance back, she saw him standing with every intention of jumping in after her, her bag clutched in his fist. But another restrained him, shouting words that the sea swallowed, while physically holding him in place. The boat maintained it’s course, speeding away from her, while Molly grit her teeth against the cold and the stinging pain of the salt water washing over her head. Her body rose with the waves, her hair sticking to her face as she pulled her eyes away from the striking boat, indicative of another time, and began paddling away. She didn’t even care that she lost her bag.

Her strokes were strong and deliberate, and to her relief, the shore was still visible. It would be the longest she’s ever swum in the ocean, but she could do it. She’d escaped her captors; she wouldn’t fail when deliverance was so close.

. . .

Ragnar stood stonily, his narrowed eyes watching the woman’s progress, his fist still gripping her satchel. His anger towards his brother was immense, despite the reason that was plain to view in Rollo’s argument. They had many slaves already, he knew. He’d been told. That was not what rankled him. It was something Rollo could not understand; something he hadn’t understood when Ragnar had protected Athelstan against his bloodlust.

There were more to these raids than violence and treasure – to him at least.

The current was in her favor, pulling her farther and farther away, until she was nothing more than a speck climbing out of the sea, straggling up the beach. Even from this distance, he saw that her gait was slow and labored, and had he had absolute command over this vessel, she’d already have been back on board and under his careful watch.

She was a slippery one. Almost begrudgingly, Ragnar had to admire her daring; the barest hint of a smile tickled the corner of his mouth, as his regret played ruefully on his mind. Now he could only imagine what secrets she had to tell; what manner of society permitted women to be dressed so tantalizingly, and if it was not her society, what circumstance had her attired so. Why it was she was so terrified, even before she’d been aware of him. And if he had discovered these things with her lips to his ear, and those legs wrapped around him, he wouldn’t have minded that either.

She was gone from the beach now, having disappeared from his gaze somewhere between the trees and the lengthening distance growing between them. Ragnar stared some minutes longer until he was certain that he could gain no further sight of her. The men’s chatter had died down after her escape, and Rollo, once he ensured his brother’s remaining on the boat, had moved away.

With a curl to his lip, Ragnar pushed away from the edge, his attention being caught by the woman’s satchel. He’d almost forgotten it in his absorbance of watching her. It’s weight was sturdy and the means  of opening it occupied Ragnar longer than he anticipated, finally finding success when he tugged on the metal flap and dragged it down the teeth looking binding. He frowned at the unusual ‘zip’ sound, and greedily dipped his hand within, rummaging and pulling out the contents. Most of the items merely raised more questions, though one or two things were vaguely recognizable. There was a perfect ring of keys, the craftsmanship precise and clean and far the superior of any of their blacksmiths, as well as a book. Ragnar rifled through it’s pages eagerly, although he found nothing comparable to the works Athelstan had told him of, nor of what he had seen himself in the monasteries of the Christians. There were no colorful illuminations, only scribbles, words that maintained an elusive illegibility. Also unlike the monks’ works, there was no neatness to the script. The scratching looped and slanted, were big then small from page to page.

Skimming a hand down one of the open pages, Ragnar sought any clue as to what language he was attempting to read, yet continued to be disappointed. With a snap, he shut the book, but did not return it to the satchel as he did with the rest of her things. Resting it atop his leg, he stared down at it, his eyes mapping its corners as he projected future conversations with Athelstan about translating it for him.

He may have lost the source, but perhaps he would learn of something worth his time from the green book now in his possession.

 Chapter Two →

[mysterious-prophetess]

Anakin vs Danaerys: Why one Fall isn’t as hated as the other.

Though it has been weeks since that finale aired, I think we can all agree that this is a topic people are not going to just stop talking about anytime soon. Game of Thrones was a cultural phenomenon and then it fizzled out like a firework that plunged into water too soon. In watching others’ reactions, I saw that some people compared Danaerys Targaryen’s rapid fall to Anakin Skywalker’s Fall in Star Wars and even I’d thought “even Anakin had more time to go nuts than her.” That got me to thinking whenever it was brought up that Anakin had a nonsensical Fall too but it made more sense in context as to why that was.

The prequel trilogy was not as bad as some might say it is. At least, I don’t think it’s bad 100%. I was a kid/teen whenever they came out and I enjoyed them. Looking back I like them in this ranking: 3, 1, and 2. It’s funny that I like the third film, the one with the aforementioned Fall more than the others but to me it was the one that finally had its stuff together as far as the prequels were concerned. Yet, the reason Anakin’s fall is more believable in three versus Danerys’s 3-4 episode “fall” is we already knew he was going to become Darth Vader. To those who say “you should show it 1,2,3,4,5,6” this is why you shouldn’t. Otherwise the Fall is more abrupt, but still there. Because it starts with the former black sheep of the franchise Episode 2. So, with all that considered, Danerys and Anakin have the same amount of screen time to fall, but why is his more acceptable even without know he was always doomed? Let’s look at what Anakin did in these two movies.

Anakin Skywalker is both not a complex character and yet very much a complex of a character.  We start Episode 2 with Anakin as a padawn and he was your typical whiny teen who thinks he’s more grown up than he is (nineteen is still a teenager). He also has an almost obsessive love for Padme whom he hasn’t seen in ten years.  He then explores this love despite the fact the religion/group he is a member of strictly prohibits forming major attachments like this. He is granted visions of his mother dying and when he finds her dead after being tortured by the local aliens who hate/torment the human settlers, he slaughters their whole village and not just their able bodied warriors who would be mostly responsible for this act of cruelty. He admits this to Padme. They go rescue Obi-Wan, they end up captured. He nearly derails a pursuit to save Padme when she doesn’t need saving. He acts like a teenager and gets dismembered for it. He then ends the movie getting secretly married. Basically, Anakin is a walking talking cluster of red-flags. It’s an instance where foreshadowing and character development are walking side-by-side for the most part. When Anakin Falls in Episode 3, he’s been through a war for the past three years. War changes people and not for the better. He’s also buddy-buddy with a Sith Lord who may or may not be screwing with his head using the Dark Side as well as encouraging Anakin’s worst aspects of himself: pride, impulsiveness, obsession. Palpatine also used other tactics to make himself seem like a safe stable support when he was a trap. In short, Palpatine master manipulator was setting Anakin’s Fall up. When Anakin goes full Vader and marches on the Jedi Temple, it’s shocking but not because we’ve already seen him go and massacre a Tuscan Raider village a movie prior. We know he’s capable of it already, therefore now that he’s murdering those who look to him for security, is horrifying but it’s actually well within his character. Even his force-choke of the woman he’s ostensibly done all this for isn’t too far beyond what we know he’s capable of now that Anakin is Vader. It doesn’t feel too rushed, and it doesn’t feel like it’s out of nowhere for shock value because everyone knew it was coming. Even without having seen the Original Trilogy first, Anakin murdering those Sand People is still enough of a moment to know he’s not going to stay good.

Now, let’s take a look at Danaerys Targaryen. Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, yadda-yadda. Since this is the show we’re looking at the books will not be included in this discussion. So, why does her heel turn make no sense but Anakin’s does, you might ask. Let’s go back to the fact Anakin was a pile of red flags whereas Danaerys, until this season, was not. She might have had a flag here or there but she wasn’t on the whole a pile of them. She still pursued an idealists vision of things, but could be selfish. Her descent into madness because “no one wuved her as much as Jon and then Jon wouldn’t act on their love because incest and she felt isolated” is both sexist and stupid. Her lack of foresight to scout ahead because she somehow “forgot” about enemies is illogical and plot convenient that her dragon gets killed to drive her mad. Cersei beheading Missandei is within Cersei’s character but beyond that it was a waste of a character’s death and let’s not even go into the other issues surrounding the only major WoC character being treated as fuel to a “madness” fire. Finally, her decision to burn down the whole city was so poorly defended and so much of a heel turn that no amount of “foreshadowing” can excuse her sudden desire for wanton murder. She burnt enemies last season—in battle. She executed people via dragon—when they wouldn’t submit and she’d given them a chance and it was war. She was distressed when the dragons killed people and locked them up in Mereen. She risked everything to fight the Night King and his undead horde. Yet, all that was so easily undone because a lack of love? No. Doesn’t work. If Danaerys was so unstable then she’d have immediately attacked Kingslanding the moment she got everyone ready to go after resting on Dragonstone. She’d have told Jon to bend the knee or else go away and not helped him if she was Mad Queen material the whole time. Basically, you can’t have an idealist character go in that time from slightly problematic to full blown Mad Queen. Danaerys had the elements to become like that but her actions on the show never fully went far enough to make her out of nowhere decision to burn it all. Which is why it’s not as accepted a heel turn as Anakin’s. Because the work wasn’t done properly for her to turn like that in a show like Game of Thrones where the characters used to be fully fleshed out creations. I actually don’t care if that’s what Martin intends to do with Danaerys in the books, because he takes time to get characters to where they will eventually go and it makes sense every step of the way. This was a rushed chop job of a character angle versus the nice curve of an arc and no amount of “well, actually, it was foreshadowed” will excuse the sloppy execution.

Say what you will about the Prequel trilogy but their whole purpose was to set up the Empire and Darth Vader and they accomplished that. Game of Thrones on the other hand lost sight of anything and everything it was possibly moving towards and became War Bad. Power Mad People Bad. Oligarchy Good Enough. Stories Good.  It all ends up being empty when it’s rushed. Here’s hoping Benioff and Weiss don’t fuck up any character arcs with their new cash cow Star Wars like they did with Game of Thrones but since the most recent Star Wars film-to me- was a meh, the bar for not screwing things up is low.

[some-cookie-crumbz]

A Little Sweet Treat

A Little Sweet Treat Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Pairing: Shiro/OC Summary: Super late, self-indulgent Valentine’s Day fic about my Galra OC, Adwru, developing a crush on Shiro and trying to find a way to make his interest known. I’m also dedicated this one to @kdxart because the developing of this ship was something she suggested and now I’m in deep. Standard Disclaimer: If you read and enjoy this, please give it a like/ reblog so I know if I should write more. 

Human customs were certainly… Strange, to say the least.

Adwru hadn’t initially thought much of the Paladin’s home planet upon meeting them, as he already knew a little bit about it from what he’d heard from Keith. A primitive world with – judging by his first few encounters with the Paladins themselves – rather primitive denizens, who ran primarily on instinct with very little knowledge of the actual scope the universe beyond their familiar stars. They were noisy and ran their mouths like mad – especially the blue one – to the point he often wished his ears were less wide and tall and sensitive to sound. Sometimes, though, he found himself endeared by their giddy excitement about everything around them. They reminded him of himself when he’d been a young whelp, so long ago now, being taken on his first exploration of the dunes surrounding the ravine where his family’s den was homed. This led to a bit of curiosity, wondering what kind of society and environment could cultivate beings like these humans.

And, in the end, he found his questions being mostly answered by the Black Paladin, the most approachable of them all.

When Kolivan had opted to move Blade resources to focus on helping Team Voltron, Adwru himself had been skeptical about how it would all work out. The Blade wasn’t perceived in a particularly fond light by the parts of the universe that were aware of them, given whom it was primarily comprised of. He’d joined the Blade in hopes of doing good deeds and protecting or improving innocent lives, of proving that there were Galra whom were trying to stop Zarkon’s tyranny and disagreed with his cruelty. More times than not, though, their help was taken but then they themselves were scorned because of their heritage. It was disheartening, in a way. He certainly understood why those that they tried to help were distrustful of them, considering all they’d suffered, and he took more pride in knowing they were able give some kind of assistance. He didn’t need to be praised for what he did, but a part of him longed to at least not be called every derogatory insult possible upon giving assistance.

And then Takashi Shirogane happened.

Initially, their interactions were primarily simple business. He tended to speak with Shiro the most when relating to concerns including the Paladins, given he was the Paladin of the Black Lion and the leader. Queen Melenor and Coran were both clearly matured, responsible adults with loads of experience in regards to serving as delegates and warriors, and Coran’s son, Garrett, had inherited his father’s outgoing nature, which tended to draw people in to him. Even Princess Allura was a charismatic and considerate delegate, even if she didn’t show that side of herself to the Blade operatives very often. However, none of them were actively engaging in the physical side of the war, so Shiro was the one it made the most sense to speak with about such matters.

Additionally, he was the Paladin with the most experience in regards to working together in a setting such as this. The Green, Blue and Yellow Paladins were all there incredibly talented, but they were also much younger than most of the other instrumental players in the development of the growing resistance. The Green and Yellow Paladins were both highly intelligent with repairing or developing new technologies, and the Blue Paladin’s charisma and personality couldn’t be understated. They were doing a good job taking to their roles as Paladins, given the circumstances, but they were still rather immature and sometimes the gravity of what their titles actually meant.

It was admirable to see that one of the Paladin’s seemed to acknowledge the severity of the situation. Keith was the second most serious about his post, but even then, he’d noticed that sometimes Keith tended to act in a more kit-like fashion when interacting with the other three Paladins. It was admittedly kind of nice to see him cut loose and act a bit more in line with his age, even if it wasn’t the best of circumstances for it. Adwru knew that like in the Blade hadn’t always been easy for Keith, given he was a few years younger than both himself and Nihaar, who were the other two youngest members. So, he figured that the universe would be fine if he wanted to go gallivanting about to space malls or mosh-pitting at rock concerts.

This led to him interacting with Shiro even more and, from there, he noticed the strange way Shiro addressed the Blade and its dealings.

As the Coalition grew, Shiro took the time to praise and thank all their associates for their help; and, surprisingly, made sure to mention the Blade. After missions, he would make sure to thank any Blade members present for their assistance before concluding the debriefing. At public statements to planets they liberated, Shiro would take the time in his speeches to mention that they were only able to succeed as far as they did thanks to Blade intelligence. And, even still, he would always mention the Blade at meet-and-greet conventions where they were trying to enlist more planets into the Voltron Coalition. It seemed contradictory to their end goals in beginning the Coalition in the first place. Why admit to working with individuals with ties back to the very Empire you are trying to dismantle at recruitment meetings? It would only cause many of those planets you want in your alliance to become leery of your true intentions. It could make outsides uncertain of where Voltron’s loyalties lay, which would lead to lower recruitment numbers.

Somehow, though, they seemed significantly less effected than Adwru had anticipated. The Coalition continued to grow, despite the awareness of these planets that the Blade was involved in Voltron’s movements.

Then, his theory changed to one that he thought made a bit more sense. The Blade was one of the few allies Voltron had upon the new generation of Paladins stepping up and bringing hope back to the universe. It only made sense that, until they could grow their forces, they’d be sure to express their gratitude for the work they did. Once they had accumulated an impressive support system, though, the shows of gratitude continued. And Adwru, not one to accept being toyed with, had confronted the other on it.

"I'm… I’m sorry, but I don’t follow. Why would I lie about being grateful to what you and the other Blades do for us?” he asked, tone calm if not a bit confused. He’d been looking through a few battle simulations that Coran had suggested for their next training session on his tablet. While Adwru normally disliked pestering someone while they were working, this was the closest to down time as they’d most likely get for some time, and he had to take the chance.

"Because you have no other option but to do so. At least until your Coalition has grown large enough in size that you don’t need to, that is,” he scoffs, eyes narrowing slightly in growing frustration. He hadn’t anticipated the other to try and politely deflate the truth being let out.

"I think you’re overthinking it a bit. I make sure to thank you and the other Blade members for what you do to help us because you deserve it, and I always will. You all work so hard, risk so much, and ask for so little in return,"

"But we are Galra, the same as Zarkon and the rest of his Empire. We are the kin of those that have committed heinous acts to countless innocents for thousands of years,” he asserted firmly, brow kitting. The other looked up from the screen of his tablet, head tilting a bit, and blinked at him slowly. Adwru’s gaze briefly flittered over to the Galra prosthetic the human sported then looked back up, thinking that perhaps he could trigger the other to react more honestly if he struck the right nerve. “You should know quite well what Zarkon and his followers are willing to do to those in their clutches from your own experiences.”

Shiro tracked his gaze, the fist of his prosthetic clenching a bit. Adwru prepared himself for the other to explode, but he never did. The hand slowly unfurled and Shiro set his tablet aside to give him his full attention. "It wasn’t a Blade member that did this to me; it was one of the Galra that obeys Zarkon that did. It wouldn’t be fair of me to hold that against you or any other Blade when you’ve been trying to put a stop to things like this for years yourselves,” he pointed out. “I've never heard a Blade member try to justify Zarkon or the Empire's actions. I’ve never heard a Blade member try to make excuses or downplay the cruelty of Zarkon’s actions. None of you agree with what he does. I mean, you're all working actively to stop him! You're trying to right the wrongs of the Empire, Adwru, and you deserve to be thanked for that."

And Adwru didn’t know how to respond to that. And how should he, really? For someone to finally tell him that he was doing good, to reaffirm that he had made the right decision in joining the Blade of Marmora? With a quick, curt nod and mumbled, “thank you” he darted away. For the rest of the day, he had pondered over this and every other interaction he’d had with the human. Shiro was always so eager to offer assistance, to answer questions, as well as learn about the cultures and customs of those they were aligned with. For Adwru, whom had always been passionate about learning and growing better insight into those around him, there was something rather appealing about that.

Adwru had left briefly for a mission with the Blade to gather intel on the next planet they intended to liberate.

When he’d returned, late into what the Castle denizens had determined to be their equivalent of night time, he’d spotted Shiro settled in the lounge, a juice pouch in his hands, and his eyes cast to the floor. The look on his face was one that spoke of a forlorn exhaustion that he’d seen countless times before in the ones they saved from the Galra, as well as some of the older Blade members. He was still clad in his evening wear of some slack pants and a loose shirt, meaning he’d probably been stirred from his sleep by something; whether that something was a physical form or a dark, looming shadow, Adwru couldn’t say.

“Black Paladin?” He asked quietly. The other didn’t respond, though, so he stepped a little closer. “Shiro?”

The other visibly flinched and looked up at him, dark eyes flickering in anxiety and his prosthetic arm starting to spark with color. When he realized it was just Adwru, though, he visibly slumped. “Oh, Adwru, welcome back. How was the mission?” He asked, readjusting in his seat a bit. It didn’t hide the slight tremors, though.

“Good,” Adwru mused, ears tipping down slightly in concern. His gaze shifted down briefly to the small device the information as enclosed in.

The human’s eyes fell to the device and he moved to stand up. “Are those the files we needed? I’ll help you get it imported to the Castle Ship’s mainframe. I may not be as skilled as Pidge or Coran, but I can at least help with that much,” He offered.

A part of him wanted to insist that Shiro go back to bed, try to get some rest. He would need to be at his peak in order to assure that Voltron functioned properly, after all. But another part of him suspected that the other wouldn’t listen to him. He held up a hand and walked around, settling a comfortable distance away from Shiro on the couch. “There are things in this file that would be best to discuss with the team as a whole, actually. But, I’d like to talk to you about something else,”

This caused the other to blink in surprise, but he settled back against the cushions of the couch. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

“I’d like to know more about the specifics of the assignment you were on before you were taken in by the Empire,” He said, carefully tucking the device into one of the pouches in his uniform. “I know your planet isn’t as advanced as some of the others we work with, but I’ve been led to believe that this Kerberos you were on is quite a ways off from your Earth, yes? It must have been an important mission.”

And, after a moment of pause, Shiro chuckled and took a sip from his pouch. “It was,” He mused before beginning to get into the logistics of it all.

This began a new routine between them. When Adwru was up late working on projects, as his people were typically of a nocturnal nature, Shiro would come and join him. As he worked, they would talk about this or that; normally Adwru asking questions about Earth technology and space exploration approaches. It didn’t start as something he asked out of genuine interest but more to offer a distraction, to help Shiro’s mind escape from the troubles rattling around in his head. His feelings changed, however, as he saw how excited and passionate the other became about his work back on Earth. The conversations always left him glowing, wearing a softer smile and the tension in his body relenting just a bit. Seeing this side of him and seeing how much he cared about the work he’d been doing before and how much he cared about his work as a Paladin now had left him with a strange feelings in his chest.

It grew, however, when Shiro began to express an interest in Adwru’s own history. He asked about what his home planet had been like, or when he started working with the Blade. And so Adwru had opened up and talked a little bit. He explained how his Mother was of a planet called Cenlonas, who specifically belonged to a race called the Fendosians. His Mama was a half-Galran Blade member whom had been sent to track down another Blade member that had gone traitor and tried to flee. His Mother and Mama worked together to find the traitor and execute them before they could potentially reach out to their allies within the Empire, and their relationship grew from there. He told Shiro about the time when, upon his second chance to leave the ravine for exploration, he stumbled into a large, prickly bush and ended up covered in small burrs. His Mama had spent the whole night helping him to pluck them from his coat.

The story caused a deep laugh, that rumbled all throughout his being, to escape Shiro, and Adwru’s ears perked up in delight at the sound.

He liked being able to offer Shiro a safe place to just be himself without worrying about the expectations of his title. And, he realized, something about seeing the man beneath the helmet left him feelings that he could only deem to be infatuation. This put him in a bit of an odd spot, though, because Earth being so far removed from the rest of the going-ons meant that very little was known about Earth courtship and customs. What, for example, would be seen as a gesture to show romantic interest?

Thankfully enough, the incredibly loud Blue Paladin offered him some insight when he started shouting about something called “Valentine’s Day”.

“What is this holiday about?” Romelle asked curiously when Lance suddenly proclaimed that it was coming up.

“Depends,” Pidge mused from her perch settled on the couch. She was skimming through some prisoner logs, most likely trying to snuff out any sign of her father or brother. “For younger kids, it’s a day to give little paper cards to all your classmates to pretend you’re all best friends and such. For teenagers, it’s a day where excessive, explicit PDA is seen as completely acceptable. For adults, it’s a day to get gifts for and from your partner, as well as some hot tail in some cases.”

Lance’s face screwed inward and he made a displeased noise. “Ugh, you’re making it so cynical,” He huffed, sticking his tongue out as if her words had left a foul taste in his mouth. “Valentine’s Day is a day for amore~! It’s a day in which lovers are allowed to openly express their feelings, to articulate just how deeply their feelings run~!” He proclaimed, gesturing dramatically, turning to drop on one knee and hold one hand out towards Allura, settled on the couch beside Pidge.

She blinked then giggled and rolled her eyes when he waggled his eyebrows at her playfully. “It certainly sounds interesting, when you put it that way,” She mused.

“So it’s only lovers and small children? If so, why would you want to celebrate it here? No one on the ship is dating,” Romelle pointed out.

“Well, no,” Lance said as he carefully stood back up, setting one hand on his hip. “See, it’s typically seen as a holiday for lovers, but it’s much more about love itself. The love between lovers, the love between friends, or a chance to expression that you are in love with someone.”

Adwru’s ears twitched and he glanced over briefly. He could do something for Shiro on Valentine’s Day to make his affections known, but how? He briefly entertained the idea to outright ask the Blue Paladin, but that seemed like a bad idea. For as tactical and clever he could be, he wasn’t exactly very skilled at keeping from gossiping. He would tell Romelle and Allura, who would then tell Coran and Garrett, who would then tell the remaining Paladins; including Shiro himself. Keith, despite being half-human himself, had limited knowledge of Earth traditions due to him being in the Blade for most of his years. Pidge seeming to have a rather cynical view of the holiday most likely wouldn’t be of much help.

But then there was Hunk, the Yellow Paladin, who was a bit nervous but also incredibly kind and smart and practical. He carefully slunk out of the commons area and headed off for the hanger, where he was certain the other was. Hunk was humming happily, bent over his work desk as he sketched out the drafts for a new shield device. They were trying to design shields akin to the particle barriers of the Lions and Castle Ship to give to allied forces, so that in the situation of a Galra attack, they’d be able to defend themselves until Voltron could swoop in and help them. “Excuse me, Yellow Paladin?” He asked calmly, peering over his shoulder.

The other let out a loud squawk and spun around to face him, flailing his bayard between his hands anxiously. He got a good grip on it but before he could shift it into its proper form, blinked and slumped back into his seat. “Dude, why do you Blade guys constantly sneak up on us like that? Can we, like, put bells on you guys while you’re in the Castle or something?” He whined with a small sigh, carefully setting his bayard back down and starting to turn around. “Also, if Pidge sent you to whine at me about how she wants to get to work, you can tell her that-!”

“What are the customs associated with your Valentine’s holiday?” Adwru cut in, paying no mind to the other’s prepared lecture about boundaries and patience.

He halted in turning back to his task to look at him inquisitively. “What?”

“The Blue Paladin was discussing your Valentine holiday. What, exactly, is anticipated for this holiday?”

“Well, I mean, it kinda depends,” He said as he spun around fully to face him. There was a glint in his dark brown eyes that implied he knew there was more than just casual interest behind the questions, but didn’t press it. “If you’re just giving to someone you’re friends with than normally small things like cards are typically the norm.”

“And if you mean to make a gesture of interest?”

“Like, you want to tell someone you like like them?”

“I… Believe so? Your terminology seems to be rather odd but I believe it is what I intend,” He stated. He carefully lifted his head and peered around, just to be safe, before squatting down so he was eye-level with young male. “I would like to offer a gift to Shiro as a sign of my interest in him. What is a good tactic to take in a situation such as this?”

The young man gawked at him for a moment before nodding slowly. “Okay… So, it really depends. Normally, you’ll want to make sure you pick something that’s, like, thoughtful, you know? Something that shows you’ve been paying attention to his interests and such,”

Adwru’s left ear twitched a bit and looked off to the side for a moment, his mind reeling through all the conversations they’d had. What stood out was one from a few quintants prior where a groggy Shiro, the two settled in the lounge, had lamented about some of the things he missed from Earth. “I have an idea. A snack that he may enjoy. But I will need the assistance of someone with a skilled palate to accomplish this,” He mused, pushing himself upright again.

“Are you thinking something Earth-based? Because, like, that might be a bit of a challenge. I mean, I’ve got a good idea of what goes good together, but I haven’t really tried to recreate anything Eart-centric,” Hunk said worriedly.

“I know a place where we can most likely find the materials needed. If you agree to go with me, taste-test to find things that have the right flavor, and help me get things figured out, I will serve as your bodyguard while we are there and purchase any additional goods you would like,” He vowed.

Hunk’s eye lit up and he nodded eagerly. “You give me the date and time and I’ll have Yellow ready to bail!”

It was difficult to get the okay to go from Shiro on the day of their intended escape. “I have a meeting to collect some intelligence gathered by a covert operative. Hunk has agreed to take me to the designated location,”

“Wouldn’t it be better to have Pidge or Keith take you? I mean, Green has the cloaking ability and all. Or, Red would be good since she’s the fastest Lion, and Keith would most likely be familiar with how Blade meetings go down,” Shiro pointed out.

Hunk looked a bit panicked, opening his mouth to most likely blurt out some kind of excuse, but Adwru cut in smoothly, “You’ve been implying you’d like the other Paladins to be a bit more hands-on, so I thought that it’d be good to allow someone other than Keith to accompany me. And, of all the Paladins, the Yellow Paladin seems to be the most outgoing and respectable. I thought he’d be the most logical option between himself, the Green Paladin, and the Blue Paladin.”

That had seemed to not only placate the leader, as he allowed them to leave, as well as endear him some to the Yellow Paladin. “Did you mean what you said? About me?” Hunk asked as they left the hanger.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think it were true. I’m not fond of speaking just for the pleasure of hearing my own voice, you see,” He mused. Hunk had chuckled a bit at the answer and then focused on inputting the information he’d been giving.

The location was an intergalactic foods mart, where different vegetation from different worlds could be exchanged. It was located on a large asteroid just outside the orbit of the planet Hyna, and was one of the few locations in the Fefage galaxy that wasn’t Empire territory. The look on the young Paladin’s face reminded him of a pup getting their first bite of grilled turel meat. They wandered from booth to booth until they managed to find the things that Hunk felt would be most inclined to create the desired treat he had in mind.

When they returned to the Castle Ship, Shiro was in a meeting with Queen Melenor, Coran, and a few of the bigger names that had enlisted into the Coalition. While he was preoccupied, Hunk and Adwru got to work. Or, rather, Adwru insisted that he be the one to do the brunt of the work, as it was meant to be a gift from him. Hunk was patient as he helped walk him through, the two of them testing and experimenting to figure out the right consistency. It took them a little longer than intended, but they got it worked out.

The wrap job on the gift wasn’t the tidiest, with how the white bow on top was askew and uneven, but he supposed it was the best he could do. Gifts typically didn’t get wrapped in his culture, but Hunk had been adamant as he shoved the bow and glossy lavender paper into his hands. Adwru’s handwriting as he tried to use the English alphabet from Earth to spell out Shiro’s name looked more like a pup’s sand sketches than an actual word, but he supposed it was the best he could do with next to no experience. The packaging wouldn’t be important, he hoped, so long as the gift itself turned out to be a good choice. Hunk offered him a reassuring grin and thumbs-up before nudging him along his way.

He headed off down the hall, staying close to the wall, instincts kicking in at the prospect of his “mission”.  He realized he should have asked more questions. How did the offering a gift work in human culture? The meeting had just ended as he rounded the corner, Shiro speaking quietly with Queen Melenor as they exited. It was the ruler who saw him first, noticing his tense posture and the object clutched in his grasp. A small smile turned up on her lips and she leaned over, saying something to Shiro before motioning Coran to herself and heading along. Shiro looked a bit bemused before he turned and spotted Adwru, seeming surprised. “Hello, Adwru,” He said, turning to fully face him.

“Hello,” He greeted back with a curt nod of his head. He carefully adjusted the gift in his hands before holding it into the open space between the two of them. “This is for you.”

Shiro blinked a bit in surprise. “Oh, thanks. What’s the occasion?” He asked, taking the gift and gently tugging at the bow.

“The Blue Paladin informed me that a holiday was approaching that is of significance to many humans. Valentine’s Day, he called it,” He explained, his eyes skirting from the human before him to his boots. The young man took in a small gasp, his cheeks turning a bit pink at his explanation. “The Yellow Paladin observed my efforts to assure the quality. I hope you enjoy.” He explained quickly, his stomach roiling uneasily.

“Adwru, um, Valentine’s Day… It’s, well, how do I say?” Shiro stammered out with a small nervous smile.

“The Blue Paladin explained what, exactly, this holiday meant. And that is specifically why I chose to offer you this gift now,” He said, forcing his tone to keep from warbling out of nervousness. Shiro’s eyes widened a bit, the flush lightening a bit, as his eyes tracked back down to the top of the gift in his hands. The look on his face was something soft and sentimental but also a bit contemplative. What was he thinking, he wondered? Was it possible that Shiro was interested in him in such a way as well?

And then, because he wasn’t sure what else to do once that thought hit him, he offered a quick nod before darting off to find himself a good place to hide. Maybe try and coerce Keith to join him for a small patrol of the galaxy they were in.

“Adwru, wait!” Shiro called, trying to catch his arm, but the other was around the corner before he could give proper chase. He frowned before looking back down at the gift in his hands, plucking the card off and looking at it. A small smile crept on his lips when he saw the attempt the other had made at using the English alphabet to write his name, finding it sweet how far he’d gone. He’d seen the written language of Adwru’s people before and surmised that he should offer to teach him how to write in Japanese. It’d most likely be much easier for him to learn, since the two styles were similar to one another.

He then carefully pulled apart the box and popped the top off, looking down at what rested inside with his head cocked. Inside, was a small cluster of what he assumed were some kind of fruit, but they were shaped something similar to the number 9 without the empty gap in the circular portion. They were a bright yellow color, with white stems and leaves at the very top. The lower half of it was covered in a turquoise colored sort of coating that gleamed almost like it was made of glass.

Were these some kind of trinket or decoration piece? Well, he figured, that didn’t make much sense. If he’d requested Hunk’s request in preparing this, it only made sense that it be some kind of snack. He plucked one out and gave it a small sniff. It had a pleasant, sweet smell to it. With a small shrug, he took a bite and his eyes widened at the incredible, sweet flavor followed by the smooth, slight bite in his mouth. He pulled it back and licked his lips, staring at the small fruit in his mouth in disbelief.

“I miss a lot of things about Earth, but you what I miss the most?” Shiro asked, staring from the ceiling of the lounge to look over at Adwru. The other had originally been working on decrypting some files on his holo-pad, but as they swapped stories he’d set it aside to award him his full attention. He always liked it when Adwru would become fully invested in what he had to say. It was always so cute how the other’s large, fox-like ears would twitch and dip in accordance to what Shiro said or how he said it.

“Other than not having to trapeze through space in a giant, psychic robotic Lion leading a team of adolescents?” He prompted back dryly, ears perked upright.

Shiro laughed and gave him a playful shove, recognizing the dry wit he’d learned Adwru leaned towards. “Okay, that,” He said before leaning back against the couch, “but I really miss strawberries.”

“Strawberries?” The other parroted curiously.

“Mmhm. They’re these sweet fruits that are just so good. Especially if you get them dipped in chocolate; dark chocolate, especially!” He explained excitedly.

“It certainly sounds like something interesting,” Adwru prompted. Shiro had rambled a few times about the different snacks and treats that could be found on Earth and, while Adwru’d never had a chance to try any of them, he was familiar with basic things like chocolate and candy bars.

“Oh, it’s amazing. I mean, dark chocolate makes everything better,” He continued, his sleepy mind falling into a prattle about dark chocolate and what else it paired with well.

Shiro smiled as he tossed the remaining bite into his mouth and closed his eyes in pure bliss. “I can’t believe he remembered that,” He said softly carefully putting the lid back on the box. He then headed off in the direction Adwru headed off on. He wanted to approach the subject of a potentially shared interest with him, and let him get a small taste of just how good these little treats were.

[florentium]

Game of Thrones > Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow > Theon Greyjoy

Oh my god this reply is going to obnoxiously long, Kelty.

Fandom answers: Game of Thrones

1. Favourite character: this question is impossible but for brevity I will say Varys, my baddest bitch.2. Least favourite character: equally impossible but… Ellaria Sand, probably? Not because I dislike her, necessarily, just because she’s…. poorly written.3. 5 favourite ships: in no order, Jon/Theon, Ramsay/Theon, Sansa/Theon, Sansa/Brienne, Jon/Satin4. Character I find most attractive: In the show? Robb Stark, hands down. Sorry for being basic.5. Character I would marry: I would never marry anyone.6. Character I would be best friends with: I get a fucking kick out of hanging out with Varys, but he doesn’t really have friends, now, does he?7. A random thought: I have so many.8. An unpopular opinion: Dany is not a good person and the series would be best served both in the show and the novels with her becoming a villain.9. My canon OTP: Theon/Ramsay.10. My non-canon OTP: Actually, I really don’t limit myself to single pairings. I ship goddamned everything at maximum power at all times, but if I have to pick a single one, let’s say Jon/Theon.11. Most Badass Character: Probably Sansa.12. Most Epic Villain: Petyr Baelish. 13. Pairing I am not a fan of: Jon/Daenerys 14. Character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another): HA. Petyr Baelish. 15. Favourite Friendship: Bronn and Podrick, or Varys and Petyr (a very lose definition of the term).16. Character I most identify with: Varys.17. Character I wish I could be: Varys.

Pairing answers: Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow

1. When I started shipping them: Like, genuinely, not until the end of season seven. I had read and enjoy a lot of threesome and/or love triangle stuff of them and Robb, but in that capacity it was always a rivalry or hate sex angle, less about their own discrete relationship. But I think their final scene together in the finale of season seven is the best thing from that season. They now have the longest history of any two still-living characters, aside from the Lannister siblings. Jon has known Theon longer than any of his surviving siblings, and Theon lived with Jon longer than any of his own family. And now there is such history between them. The two wayward step-children of Winterfell chose such different paths through the war, and I don’t think they’ll ever find another who understands them the way each other do. Even if they don’t always like each other, I think they have an understanding of one another that will never be surpassed.

2. My thoughts: I mean, how much time do you have? They start out in Winterfell has two disdained outsiders, children made to bare punishment for their parents’ misdeeds. One is highborn, one is baseborn, and so they react to that ostracism very differently. I imagine that much of their rivalry and dislike of one another stems from feeling threatened by the other’s position. And each has what the other longs for. Jon is baseborn, disliked by Lady Stark, but clearly Ned’s favourite and afforded privileges, closeness, and affection that Theon would only dream of. Theon has his highborn heir status, wealth, a title, but no familial affection. The jealousy hate sex must be incredible. And post-war, when they’re both so altered by the events of their lives apart, I can’t imagine the hatred and fondness and pity they bear one another, seeing what the other has become. Both, to some extent, I think, want to go back to Winterfell in the long summer, and they are all each other has left of that time.

3. What makes me happy about them: Their potential to understand one another, their potential to be kind to one another in a world that’s done it’s level best to destroy them both.

4. What makes me sad about them: Literally everything fucking else about their history and future together.

5. Things done in fanfic that annoys me: The pairing has such a small audience, I don’t even think there is enough trope material for me to be annoyed with. I suppose the underselling of the damage they’ve experienced, or their initial dislike of one another.

6. Things I look for in fanfic: Pre-war/series, interesting and realistic unhealthy sexual coping mechanisms, varying degrees of complication from the presence or involvement of Robb or Theon’s many mindless sex partners, driving another away only to fall back into old habits. Post-war/series, trauma-bonding, pathetic comfort sex, varying levels of violence, tenderness, frustration, defensiveness, and forgiveness. And maybe, if I’m feeling particularly sappy, healing and happiness in some far off spring.

7. Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: Well for Theon, basically anyone. Anyone that would be gentle and guiding and respectful of him. Sansa would be my ideal, I think they would make a fantastic endgame pairing, but I know it won’t happen. As for Jon, really, I will be satisfied with anyone that is not Daenerys or Sansa. I know those are the major camps in terms of who Jon should end up with, and I vehemently oppose them both, so just anyone else, please, thank you. Surprise me, show, write Satin into the last season out of nowhere and have him whisk Jon away to a cottage in the Reach.

8. My happily ever after for them: I mean, c’mon, even the happiest, most romanticized outcome of them still has a crater of emotional trauma in their past. Basically, I will be satisfied with both of them surviving the war for the dawn.

Character answers:

1. How I feel about this character: I feel so much about this character. I could fill a book. The thing that draws me to Theon’s storyline (like Sansa’s, like Cersei’s, like Brienne’s) is that the drama is the result of just ordinary human cruelty. There are no dragons, no stable time loops, no spooky prophecies, just the banality of human evil. And Theon has had so much evil done to him, by his father, by his sister, by the King, by the Starks, by war, by Ramsay, by his own people. He was obliterated, truly, by it. And everyone who ever tried to help him, he scorned. He’s goddamn Shakespearean in the scope of his character arc, and more than anything I want him to find peace.

2. Any/all the people I ship romantically with this character: Once more, Robb/Theon, Jon/Theon, Sansa/Theon, Ramsay/Theon, and I’m sure others. I could be talked into shipping Theon with anyone.

3. My favorite non-romantic relationship for this character: I find the relationship between him and his sister rich and interesting. Maybe not healthy or kind or what either of them need right now, but both have been so limited and fucked over by familial and cultural expectations of them, I think they could forge a real reliance on one another if they’re given the chance.

4. One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: He gets to take a fucking goddamn nap. Specifically, he, Jon, and Sansa climb into bed and sleep for fourteen straight hours while Ghost lounges on top of the quilts.

5. Favorite friendship for this character: Potentially Varys, though they never got to interact onscreen. Varys empathizes so much with the powerless.

6. My crossover ship: I don’t fuckin’ know. Crossovers are weird. 

[aegon]

why dany deserves all the love

So after seeing rather blatantly-biased anti-Daenerys posts and political!Jon nonsense on my dash recently which I found ridiculous and unbelievably hateful against a fictional character, and I’m salty af, here’s all the wonderful things Daenerys Targaryen has done (on the show) and why Jon Snow does not need to pretend to love her. 

Warning: it’s a goddamn long list.

1) Despite not wanting to be married to Khal Drogo initially and is terrified of what’s about to happen, she still has enough grace to thank him for his gift. 

2) She tries to learn how to please him because he’s her husband and she wants to be loved. 

3) She adapted and learned a whole new language and culture that wasn’t her own. She didn’t appropriate it or look down on it, but actually adjusted to it and defended them to her own brother. My god what a horrible person. 

4) Her brother tries to hurt her and she still asks for mercy for him. 

5) She even gets gifts made for the same brother who’s progressively become more and more abusive towards her because Dany still loves him because that’s how big her heart is.

6) I love when people use her threatening her brother as an argument because he literally just hit a pregnant woman and Dany has a goddamn backbone. I’m adding that to the list. 

7) She defends the women the Dothraki want to rape, and convinces her husband to do so. 

8) She undergoes the same level of dehydration, starvation and horrendous living conditions while trying to find shelter for the khalasar that stayed with her. Never once do we see her lash out at them or mistreat them in any way. 

9) After Xaro murders half her people as well as one of her closest allies, she enacts revenge on him. Yeah that’s a positive point because Xaro is a murderer and entirely deserved what happened to him because he’d happily have Dany butchered just for her dragons.

10) She actually takes all the verbal insults Kraznys mo Nakloz dishes her way because she needs his army. If she was such an arrogant, brash woman, she certainly exercised a lot of patience here. Because Dany isn’t petty and understands how to conduct herself. 

11) Dany has every right not to like Barristan Selmy. But she still takes him in and forgives him. 

12) She offers water to a dying slave. Oh no, the cruelty. 

13) SHE FREES THE UNSULLIED

14) SHE COMMANDS THEM TO KILL THE MASTERS BUT PROTECT ALL THE INNOCENTS

15) SHE EVEN TAKES MISSANDEI BECAUSE SHE KNOWS SHE’S AN ABUSED SLAVE AND WANTS TO SAVE HER. 

16) While I’ve never been a fan of sacking cities and Astapor is left vulnerable without their army, I’ve come to realise that they needed to literally build back up from their foundations if they needed to change their way of life. Which was slavery. Which is not okay. So I’m giving this point to Dany because no one else did it. 

17) It’s a small thing but asking the Unsullied to pick their own names. It’s giving them their humanity back and that’s such a precious gift. 

18) Did not buckle down when Yunkai’s slave masters tried to bribe her because she wanted the slaves free. 

19) Gets the Second Sons on her side, the very people who would have fought against her. That’s a queen, yo. 

20) Frees the slaves of Yunkai. 

21) Actually talks to Missandei properly and values her advice. 

22) When finding the road full of slaves all hammered to a cross, she insists upon looking at each of their faces and giving them a proper burial, without their slave collars. But y’all are ready to call her insensitive and a mad queen. Go off I guess. 

23) Frees the slaves of Meereen. 

24) After hearing about her failures to maintain Yunkai and Astapor’s statuses as free cities, she rationally questions herself and decides she needs more experience before moving on to Westeros. And she stays in Meereen and learns. 

25) Paying a goatheader three times the value of the livestock he lost to her dragons. 

26) Letting Hizdahr zo Loraq bury his father. Joffrey put Ned Stark’s head on a pike, but let’s compare the two anyway because they’re exactly the same. 

27) Takes the time to listen to her subject’s complaints and issues. 

28) Takes Jorah’s advice when he tells her not blindly seek revenge, but to give a choice of mercy to the Wise Masters who took Yunkai from her. 

29) Has boy-talk with Missandei. Like she doesn’t need to be so casual with someone who works for her but she is and Missandei feels comfortable enough to talk about it. 

30) Sparing Jorah’s life eventhough he outright betrayed her and committed treason. 

31) Has established halls and barracks to give the former slaves somewhere to eat and sleep 

32) Understands that freedom means allowing someone to have a choice, and if former slaves want to be sold back into slavery, then they should do so under their own terms. She gave the former slaves the right to decide their own fate instead of letting it be dictated to them.

33) Upon seeing a victim of her dragons, she locks them up. Which is such a massive deal because these are her children and seeing them in chains is distressing af, but she does it because she’s looking out for the safety of her people. 

34) Retakes Yunkai. 

35) Heeds Barristan’s words when he tells her the truth about the Mad King, instead of calling him a liar. 

36) Enacts the right justice to a former slave that murdered someone that was supposed to be granted a fair trial. I’ve seen a post say the people hissing at Dany are a sign of her being a terrible ruler, but she did the right thing. And the people didn’t react well to it because it was a former master that was murdered, and their sense of justice is ruled by hatred. So yeah, let’s side with them just because Dany is supposedly terrible at making the right decision. 

37) Tries to understand and adjust to the culture of Meereen by marrying one of their nobles and opening the fighting pits against her own wishes because she values peace. 

38) Spares Jorah’s life again. 

39) Takes Tyrion, the son of the man that murdered her family, as an advisor because she’s not a revenge-fuelled angry queen. 

40) Stands up to Khal Moro despite being alone and vulnerable because she’s a goddamn badass. 

41) Despite Khal Moro literally only moments ago threatening her, she still offers to gift him horses if she can get back to Meereen. 

42) Destroys the super rapey leaders of the khalasar and takes the Dothraki for her own. I know people have had issues with this because she burnt their sacred place to the ground, but given their leaders had just threatened to have their horses rape her, I think burning them to the ground was an ideal decision. But hey let’s sympathise with them because anyone but Dany amirite. 

43) Takes Tyrion’s advice for diplomacy. 

44) Saves Meereen looking fly af in the process. 

45) Demands the Ironborn stop pillaging the land, because she’s already caring about the people of Westeros despite not actually having met them yet. 

46) Grants the Greyjoys the right to rule themselves. 

47) Understands that, despite enjoying a physical relationship with Daario, that she needs to marry for alliances and having a lover could be detrimental to that. She’s thinking like a politician and a queen. 

48) Tyrion tells her that he believes in her, after he’d given up hope on everyone else. Says a lot. 

49) Upon arriving to Dragonstone, gets straight tf to work. 

50) Asks Varys to advise her should she ever go astray, instead of betraying her. This is a huge deal, because Dany is openly admitting that she has the potential to go wrong and that she’d look to her advisers for help. That’s not Mad Queen material, that’s what a good queen should be asking.

51) Asks for forgiveness from Jon for the crimes House Targaryen committed against House Stark. 

52) Allows Jon to mine the dragonglass for his army. 

53) The Lannister battle is controversial, and while I do agree the use of dragonfire was excessive, let’s be real. It’s a battle. It’s her first real battle in Westeros that she’s actively involved in. Also at what point are we supposed to sympathise with the Lannister army again? Arya’s scenes were shown to humanise them, that they’re just pawns in the great game - but Christ, so were the people of the Riverlands and Highgarden that the Lannister army took over. Where was the outrage then? You can’t always side with the people that aren’t Dany at the spur of the moment just because you hate her. 

54) SAVES JON SNOW. YOUR FAVE IS ALIVE BECAUSE OF HER. 

55) SACRIFICES ONE OF HER CHILDREN. TO SAVE JON SNOW. 

56) Pledges to help Jon fight the Night King. 

57) Clearly is good enough for Jon Snow to want to pledge fealty to her. 

58) Knows the importance of the war in the North, so is willing to sit down with Cersei and have her armies fight alongside Lannisters if need be. 

59) Actually does appreciate Jon Snow. 

60) Probably is amazing at sex. I admit I’m including this last point so it’s exactly sixty but I’m not wrong. 

So there we have it. 

60 reasons why Jon is not faking his affection for Dany, and why she’s worthy of the affection in the first place. She’s made mistakes, but she’s done far more good than bad. And given she’s been raped and kidnapped and undergone severe trauma, the idea that Jon Snow would be using her because he secretly thinks she’s a Mad Queen is so anti-feminist because you’re actively rooting for a man to abuse a woman and her trust, so so wrong on every moral level because you’d rather your faves started their romantic relationship based on the misuse of another’s heart and body, and makes a fuckboy out of the man raised by Ned Stark. Which is blasphemous. So jot that down.

Anyways, Daenerys Targaryen deserves love, pass it on. 

[thetwominuteshate-blog]

Hello, cruel world.

I am exhausted with living on this earth.

I could throw literary quotes at you. I could tell you that society at large has become what the dystopian science fiction authors of yesteryear predicted it would. I could start this blog with a call to arms, urging you to riot in the streets and tear down the prison we've built for ourselves.

But the truth is I'm just tired. I'm tired of constantly living in fear. I'm tired of feeling no connection with the world around me. I'm tired of seeing so much suffering that spans continents, in "the greatest nation in the world", while criminals look down on us with derision from their ivory towers. I am tired of feeling as though, no matter what I do, my decisions are of no consequence. I'm tired of the world slowly eroding me until there is nothing good left in me. I'm tired of feeling alone, and I am so, so tired of seeing the world as it could be--as it SHOULD be--and always coming up so short I can't even see the finish line.

I've been rejecting the reality I've found myself in for far too long, escaping into worlds of my own making or the worlds others have created for the sake of escaping my own despair. But it doesn't have to be this way. I still reject this reality, the efficient brutality of a race that has been born into an environment so unforgiving that we fail to put our own violent natures behind us. I reject the notion that the world cannot improve. I have had enough.

Those of you who have read George Orwell's 1984 might remember the Two Minutes Hate. For those of you who haven't or have forgotten, the Two Minutes' Hate is a daily ritual put in place by a maddeningly restrictive government with the intention of directing the fear and anger of common individuals living in such a repressive society by placing them in front of a television screen that projects images of whomever the Party deems is an enemy. The Other. When I first read it, this excerpt in particular stood out to me:

"The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp."

These days, most of what I see in the media is the Two Minutes Hate. Talking heads on two dimensional screens telling us who we should hate. Vicious propaganda that those who lack the will to fight the ones keeping them locked in misery buy into wholeheartedly. Instead of directing their rage at the ones responsible, people punch down, ostracizing people less fortunate than them.

But this isn't the reason why I chose to name this blog after the Two Minutes Hate. Because hate is a funny thing--when we don't let it eat away at us, it gives us the strength to fight without abandon. It causes us to reduce things to rubble and burn the remains so there is no trace of its existence. It can be a powerful tool. But it is fire, and most of us, if not all, aren't well enough equipped with the knowledge to know which things are worth burning.

I've been filled with hate nearly for as long as I can remember. Full disclosure: I'm a 27-year-old white, bisexual cis male. For most of my life I lived in a small town and have largely kept myself in seclusion due to bullying throughout my childhood into my teen years. I only recently became aware of the deepening aspects of my sexuality, but over the years I've faced baseless accusations of homosexuality to the point that a cowardly bully had his friend fight me. As a result, I faced suspension. My school district, like most, put on a public face that disavowed bullying, but enabled it when it occurred. The culture I was surrounded by swam in toxic masculinity, boys that pretended to be men through the ownership of trucks flying the Confederate flag and other meaningless, superficial displays of their own insecurities. My "community", which is so very important to conservative culture, treated me like a stubborn weed long before I could even grasp cruelty. I felt suffocated, unable to flourish because there was always someone watching my every move. As a result, I've come to loathe authority in all its forms.

That's just backstory, though. Over the years I've come to realize that my circumstances were relatively fortunate. I'm privileged; people have been murdered over the merest suspicion that they might be gay. There are people who face severe bullying on a near-daily basis, and that's in this country alone. The atrocities committed in our world's history dwarf mine to a subatomic level. I've had friends who have been raped, faced child and domestic abuse, and even now are in circumstances far more dire than my own. It's no longer for my own sake that I hate, it's for those who are beaten down and cannot fight back, whether on an individual or cultural basis.

I'm not here to play white, straight(ish) savior. In fact, I wouldn't even consider myself to be an ordinary person. I am on the verge of mental instability--for years I've felt the effects of severe depression, which is finally in check. For a time I was so suicidal that I abused substances on a daily basis because the only calming thoughts I had in sobriety were of my own death. I have a deep desire to hurt and destroy, to get back at the world that I feel cut me open and left me to bleed out. I'm a sadist and a masochist in the BDSM scene. I have twisted fantasies that run so deeply to my core and no outlet for them outside of the scene. I want to make others suffer for the injustices they inflict upon those who are undeserving of pain. Because whoever came up with the idiom, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" should have been tortured without cause, broken by suffering that held no ultimate meaning. Then he'd have a greater grasp on the state of the reality as it is.

Hate is addictive. Orwell was right; it spreads like a wildfire, and it's impossible not to be caught in the blaze yourself unless you sequester yourself with comfort and ignorance. And turning a blind eye to the problems others face, whether it's next door or on the other side of the globe, is possibly worse. Until now, I've feared the repercussions of acting against authority, the odds of my successful retribution stacked heavily against me. Even now, I fear the things I will express will draw fire from all sides, so I'm shielding myself through an anonymity browser in order to ward off potential enemies, whether they are a collective agency like the NSA or some alt-right IT cunt with internet access. Those of us in the United States have been officially granted a right to free speech, but we live in an era in which seizing that right can go so far as to get you killed, especially if you call for progress and your voice is heard by millions.

But my end goal is not society's complete collapse. There are pieces of this world worth preserving. I may only be useful for tearing things down, but someday I hope someone will build them back up into something better that works for all people. I long to help individuals understand that all people are just that--people. Not secondary or tertiary characters in your life, good-or-evil projections onto a screen for you to scream at. It's this mentality that causes entire populations to suffer, and I know my work will never be done until the most marginalized find a place in society.

But this is not a call to empathy. Part of recognizing each other's humanity is holding each other accountable for their actions. I believe no person can be perfectly good--we all do terrible things, myself thoroughly included--but there are those of us who are so mindlessly destructive in their actions that I honestly believe the world would be better off without them. This quality of malignance does not discriminate between race, gender, or age. We are among self-made monsters on a daily basis, and they deserve as much sympathy as they dole out.

Words without action are meaningless. I don't intend to sit here and tell y'all to start a French-style bloodletting while I sit comfortably in a downtown loft. This is a time for action. This is a time for violence. This is a time to stand up against the birth of fascism in the so-called "Land of the Free". This is a time for hate.

I am Winston Smith, and this is my Two Minutes Hate. This is my war. Will you join me?

[shiobookmark]

Violet Evergarden Movie

... wow, book fans really don’t like this movie huh? Spoilers below. And a linguistic and cultural question for native Japanese speakers.

It was a good movie. I don’t think I was in the right emotional state to watch it unfortunately, it just didn’t explore Violet’s psychology as deeply as I would have liked.  The series really hit the hardest for me when it was exploring Violet’s trauma and survivors guilt. There were hints of that in the beginning of the film what with her insisting she’s no one to be glorified, and that scene with Diedfried returning her hair ribbon. She’s walking past him, away somewhere else and not even conscious of who he is, but when he reaches into his pocket she thinks he’s about to pull a weapon and puts him in an armlock. He forgives her for it instantly, which considering his spitting hatred of her in the TV series is... interesting. Honestly that dropped plot thread is what I find the least forgiveable. Hodgins is understandably leery about letting him anywhere near Violet considering he’s why she was in the army in the first place, but Cattleya points out that maybe their reconcilng is what Violet needs. I’d argue that maybe she needs to stay far the fuck away from her abuser but okay, they both lost Gilbert, I kind of get what she means. 

Now the issue fans of the books seem to have is with Gilbert. In the novel my understanding is that he faked his death, and everyone knew he was alive and kept it from Violet. His goal being that she should learn to live without him, because when she blindly follows his orders she can’t ever be free. Which is admirable, but seeing how much Violet suffers and becomes suicidal with grief, the fact her friends apparently keep up this charade in the novel is pretty heinous. Maybe she takes it better in the novel? In the movie, Gilbert was displaced following the war, ending up at an enemy hospital without his ID tags. A reviewer mentioned that they found it hard to believe he’d be displaced, and that his uniform wouldn’t give him away but: 1. Pretty sure that happens to soldiers all the time in real war. 

2. From memory both sides of the war wore green uniforms, it’s not hard to think Gilbert’s uniform badges were burned and blown away since he lost an arm and was under fallen rock. Afterwards, he drifted to an island that used to be part of enemy territory but had since become independent. They had lost all their young men to the war*, not a single person had returned and the town was dying as a result. He stayed on as a teacher. And he didn’t want to see Violet because despite claiming to love her, despite wanting her to have a happy childhood, to see things that were beautiful and enjoy cute and pretty things, he made her into a killing machine. We can debate about how much of a choice he had, the implication in the series is that Diedfried demonstrated Violet’s killing prowess in front of the higher ups and if Gilbert hadn’t taken charge of her someone less scrupulous would have. But the fact is he felt he’d ruined her life and wanted to stay out of it. Plus her existence reminded him of his failure to protect her, the cruelty he was forced to commit in war and all that stuff. Perfectly sound motivation in my opinion.  Staying on the island was a weird sort of penance, helping former enemy civilians rebuild and educating their children. This particular fan didn’t like this weakness because apparently Gilbert in the book spends his time amassing power and resources to help defend Violet however he can. And this Gilbert is not that.  I don’t love what that implies about novel Gilbert, because while yes, he’s paying her back, it does imply he has an awful lot of control over her future and pokes his nose into her business. Even if it’s to keep bad people off her back it’s not exactly hands off, is it? In the movie he’s characterised as a boy who was drafted into the army young, with all the weight of his family legacy on him, never got any freedom and basically had to carry that responsibility alone. And the idea of having broken a fragile and helpless little girl into a tool of war broke him.  I liked that, to be frank. It really put to bed any lingering doubts I had about his feelings for Violet because frankly even if it is romantic (which aishiteiru would imply) I can’t believe he’d ever take advantage of or hurt her. He seems to have enough awareness of his effect on other people to be capable of not doing that.  Now, the ending. Their future together is left really ambiguous but we know Violet pretty much retired from ghostwriting on the spot and lived on that island with Gilbert for the rest of her days. While people on the mainland are mostly unaware of where she retired to, the people on the island remember her as something of a local hero who helped their people write letters and built their post office into a thriving business that’s still got the highest output (in the country?) even 60 years later.  She may have also taught at the school. The same reviewer had issues with the implication she basically abandoned everyone for Gilbert, but I don’t think that’s the case. Rather she had no reason to continue ghost writing. It wasn’t a passion of hers, she began as a method of therapy and healing, to learn to understand love. Once she’d done that there was no reason to continue. Her writing evolved. She found a place to stay and she’s remembered. There’s no mention of Gilbert at all. She’s on the local stamp in her iconic costume, we have no idea if she married Gilbert, if they were simply lifelong friends, or even if either of them are dead. Did she outlive Gilbert? We don’t know! Now the problem I have with this is a problem I was always going to have: The movie sort of implied she needed Gilbert in order to move on, and she did leave behind her friends in some capacity to be with the one she loved.  I was hoping for a more nuanced ending where it was far clearer she didn’t need Gilbert to survive, but wanted him.  The movie certainly implies that’s the case, as she’s willing to leave the island without seeing him for the sake of the terminally ill boy she made a promise to. Her other relationships take priority. But the ending sort of undermines that with the explanation she stayed on the island with him. Personally I think it’s left ambiguous enough that we can easily interpret it the way we want to.  Which leads me to my question. I’m curious as to if there’s any cultural ambiguity to the word ‘aishiteiru’ at all or if Japanese simply lacks an intense expression of love that isn’t romantic.

Is Violet and Gilbert’s relationship one that delightfully transcends traditional labels, defying the audience to pin it exclusively as ‘platonic’ or ‘romantic’? It would certainly seem to be in keeping with the overall series theme of love that’s difficult to express in words, in the emphasis the series places on familial and platonic love over romantic. Or is this a nuance exclusively created by a Western framework? Where an ‘I love you’ is capable of being platonic, no matter how dramatic the circumstances? Is ‘aishiteiru’ only for Romeo and Juliet, or can it be for friends and family too? Is the series trying to transcend the limitations of its native language? If aishiteiru is usually romantic, is this series trying to use it in a broader context? Daisy writes a letter to her parents and the screen cuts to white text on black that reads aishiteiru, with that editing implying it’s what was written in the final lines of her letter, or at least it’s what she’s saying behind the words. Is it the sentiment? Are they using the phrase aishiteiru as a link between Daisy and Violet, as the series catchphrase, while the loves are supposed to be seen as different?

And if aishiteiru is always romantic, how would a Japanese author write about an ambiguous ‘I love you’? When ‘daisuki’ just doesn’t cut it? I doubt Gilbert would say ‘daisuki,’ would it have as much weight? Am I interpreting it as less meaningful than it actually is? Does Japan have a concept of phillia? Deep, long lasting and intense love between friends? Is there even a line between ‘different’ love? And how does this Steven Universe scene read in Japanese?

This is said as aishiteiru in Japanese, I saw it in a random clip on youtube. In English, he’s clearly addressing Connie and the gems, his family, as he leaves them behind.  In Japanese, would this simply be a romantic confession to Connie? Do you lose that nuance? In English he could be confessing to Connie, but given his general freedom with his affection it’s far more likely it’s meant for everyone. He’d not likely single Connie out as the only person he says goodbye to. In comparison, here’s a similar scene where he says ‘I love you’ to Peridot, who he’s far less close to. I can’t check, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this was ‘daisuki.’

This is driving me nuts please is there ANY ambiguity to this phrase at all? Or is it just normally used romantically? As in a ‘well you could use it platonically. We’d understand from context, but it’d be a bit weird.’

[hotelconcierge]

THE GENDER NULLARY

Trigger warning for everything that follows: the coddled, over-sensitive, “triggered” millennial crybaby does not exist. Hold your applause—the COSTMC is an oxymoron because coddling does not sensitize, it scleroses. Have you met these people? They can’t feel an emotion without an audience and a week to rehearse. The performative offense of this group results from high emotional tolerance, not low; sad-rage is heroin to everything else’s Motrin, and no matter how vast the safe space, some kids are gonna hang at the outskirts hoping to score.

Of course, even the phoniest opportunist has a few real triggers—the type that precludes rage because you’re numb in the fetal position. And of course, there are many uncoddled e.g. traumatized people who are genuinely vulnerable to the many, many instances of genuine cruelty and callousness.

Every community with a code of conduct is a safe space to some extent. My lawyer advises no comment on whether safe spaces are good or bad in principle, because it depends: who is being included, who is being excluded, where will they go, and who is enforcing the rules.

My concern is the way these debates are settled. And when the excluded protest against political correctness—that human resources plot to merge all safe spaces under one state capitalist thumb—they ditch culture war bushido and strike at whomever can be hurt the most.

What you have to understand is that the PC debate is a farce. When the public demands a witch for the stake, the NYTimes selects David Brooks,

perhaps the most balding, white, sanctimonious chump at a newspaper full of balding, white, sanctimonious chumps. Here are four critiques; don’t read any of them unless you still find it exciting to watch a strawman burn.

What’s more interesting is that while Brooks criticizes upper-middle-class culture for being “laced with cultural signifiers that are completely illegible unless you happen to have grown up in this class,” his article is nothing but illegible cultural signifiers. Which, duh, he’s writing for the Times. Brooks thus renders himself irrelevant (which was the point): his critics focus on his blunder of political correctness (the high school grad intimidated by a chicken pomodoro) and dismiss him as classist accordingly.

Lesson: Anyone who opposes political correctness from within will lose and be humiliated. Even without the unforced error, Brooks could have been dismissed as rich and white. His archives could have been mined for hypocrisy. Even a charged non sequitur would have crushed his argument: “So it’s no big deal that it’s legal to murder transpeople in all fifty states? No, I’m David Brooks, better focus on political correctness!” Of course, plenty of non-bourgeois oppose PC, but you’ll never hear that point of view in the Times because, yikes—internalized racism.

The result is that the anti-PC viewpoint is only taken seriously when it refuses the framework of PC. I don’t mean “taken seriously” like there is a meaningful debate. But when an internet troll calls you, say, “a fucking spic faggot,” you can’t reply “hah, well that just shows your heteronormative, colonialist assumptions!” without looking like a wimp. You have to reply with equal bile, which smells of hatred, maybe fear. And it’s no fun to be on the receiving end of hatred, but it’s better than being treated—like Mr. Brooks—with contempt.

Trolls, like catcallers, flashers, and school shooters, are men who ran the numbers and found: being hated > being invisible > being humiliated in the official channels. The first two go back to chimps, the third variable is society-dependent, and wowza does ours fuck it up. Men want to become masculine, citation needed, and when society shit-talks the honest path to manhood then it is inevitable that those foolish enough to listen will turn to the black market. And once that’s your game...

This blog is far from politically correct, but I try to mock only the deserving— bureaucrats, demagogues, cowards, and conformists—and for behavior, for the things people can change rather than those they can’t. But people tend to be insecure about the things they can’t change, and it just so happens that in America insecurity is always wound up in sex. Every debate about safe spaces thus devolves into a debate about gender: a catalog of body dysmorphisms, a who’s who of racial castrations, cuckold, bitch, cunt, whore, freak. You’d think everyone would be against this level of discourse, but gun control means one thing on Park Avenue and another thing entirely in Wichita. The law, in its majestic equality, forbids both the popular and unpopular from being unpopular. Calls for PC go nowhere because cruelty is the best weapon some people have.

Idiot [unemployed, probably no friends]: “So you’re sympathizing with racist, misogynist trolls. Wow. Just—I can’t even.” I didn’t say anything about sympathy. I said that a society gets what it pays for. IMHO, most shock-value trolling is both ineffective—it strengthens the case for Big Brother—and morally disgusting. But it’s a symptom, not the disease. Like oxycodone, trolling is recourse for people with nothing better to do, and like The Opioid Epidemic, the hand-wringing has less to do with fixing the problem than with making it so consumers don’t have to look at something ugly.

The content of trolling is thus extremely not the issue, but even so, I’ll take the bait. To accuse someone of failing at gender is the worst sort of punching-down. It’s not just hateful, it’s lazy, it’s bullying the foreign kid to make up for getting your ass beat at home. And it’s dumb. Forget about the moral argument—my critique is that the gender police are not even wrong.

Judith Butler (Gender Trouble), who coined the term “performative gender,” the antecedent to “sexuality is a spectrum,” has reached Antichrist status in some circles and in fact received a personal diss from Pope Benedict XVI. She’s good, and if you wanna throw down you gotta throw down with the best. So: Does Butler write like a pedant getting paid by the syllable? Does she open each topic with a chain of passive-aggressive rhetorical questions? Does she have the worst fanbase this side of Harris and Klebold? Does she have a point?

Hemlock time. How do you define gender? “Gender is a set of behaviors and attributes that correlate with sex.” Okay—what’s sex? “Aren’t you a doctor or something? XY and XX.” I’m flattered by the appeal to authority, but weren’t you the guy complaining when the CDC lowered the normal testosterone range? How do you feel about androgen insensitivity syndrome?

You can deny your eyes and insist that having an SRY gene makes Eden Atwood male, but from a medical perspective Eden is estrogenized, at risk for osteoporosis, and going down in the chart as an F.

“Look, fella, I know a dime-piece when I see one.” So modify your definition: hormone levels, fertility, waist-hip ratio, empathizing over systematizing, long bathroom lines, 10 Things I Hate About You...The first problem is that all of these traits exist on, sorry, a spectrum, from menopausal women to full-figured men. The choice of which traits to include—and where to draw the cut-offs—and if the division is binary or quaternary or nullary—is just like, your opinion, man (woman/they/them). The bigger problem is that now you’re defining sex as gender.

This reduces your original statement to, “Gender is a set of behaviors and attributes that correlate.” Which is true. And as far as stereotypes go, gendered ones ain’t bad, maybe even necessary to function, the guy wearing a V-neck probably does like shaving his pubes. But they are still stereotypes, man-made, imperfect, and punishing to those who do not conform. I’m no cultural relativist, some people suck and deserve cold and swift judgment, but is the presence or absence of armpit hair really the hill you want to die on?

There’s a practical argument to be made against fractalized gender: it’s confusing. With 3^^^3 possible sex-gender-orientation combos, how are kids supposed to know how to grow up? Aren’t imperfect gender roles better than 24-year-old otherkin? I hear you, guy wearing a Harley-Davidson jacket and listening to Mötley Crüe, but Tumblr semantics are a consequence of twenty-teen spirit, not the cause. If we weren’t arguing about the gender binary (and before we were) we’d be arguing about the range of femininity or masculinity; the crusade would be for pixie cuts and stick-and-poke tattoos to be considered as feminine as Brazilian butt lifts. Don’t be fooled by words—do you really want society to have one idealized template per gender? How would that ideal be decided? Majority rule?

There’s a hilarious overlap between the people who get mad about preferred pronouns and those who call for a return to “traditional masculinity.” The idealization of some Hollywood-ified tradition isn’t the problem; if you want to roleplay a fursona, go ahead. No, what’s pathetic is the begging. Rather than be a man, in spite of the system, you demand validation from the system for aspiring to be a man. Being against identity politics is the new identity politics. That’s why right-wing culture warriors are so into the idea of crybaby millennials—it’s comforting to believe that you’re actually strong (since you don’t drink from plastic water bottles) and that anyone getting laid is actually xeno-estrogenized. Even if this was true, obsessing over it, masturbating to it, using it as an excuse for self-pity and inaction—that makes you a  _ _ _ _. Four-letters. Multiple choice. Maybe hangman will teach you something.

The foundationalist reasoning of identity politics tends to assume that an identity must first be in place in order for political interests to be elaborated and, subsequently, political action to be taken. (Gender Trouble)

My beliefs are no doubt way south of Ms. Butler’s on the political compass, but we agree about one thing: that ain’t a nice way to go out.

But this is precisely the way in which the laundry-is-a-social-construct movement has failed. I have held off on criticizing them because it’s too easy, when you mock Rachel Dolezal for being “transracial” you get to pretend your own self-image is meaningful, but no, all identities are power poses in front of the bedroom mirror, meaningful only insofar as they help you with the rest of the day. “Well, SCIENCE says that—” You sure you want to play that game? Again, I respect anyone who has the courage to defy their assigned caste. I have no purity objections to a transhumanist society where the tap water runs ecstasy and you can get augmented genitals at Starbucks. I don’t even mind Bushwick. The problem with the mad libs youth isn’t the slew of labels—intersectional, nonbinary, pansexual, curious kinkster, ethically polyamorous, empath, casual baby witch (mostly crystals, auras/energy)—the problem is, what are you going to do with them? And there’s a patriarchy-approved answer: buy shit and beg for validation.

If gender is performative, if identity is not necessary for political action to be taken, if the possibilities are infinite once freed from the bounds of phallogocentrism, then why is it that so many cultural subversives sound exactly the same? You know the stereotype. Bondage. Anxiety. Smoking when drunk. Circlejerks of praise for completing the most basic of tasks. Very, very bad poetry. Expensive fashion draped across waif-like models. Guilty pleasures: junk food, liquor, and problematic TV. Hated roommates. Emoji marxism. Twitter. “today i feel cute enough for a selfie, might delete it later.” “didn’t get out of bed until 2 i’m trash lol” “wow, some casual racism at work today. i’ll just laugh and someday burst because i hate confrontation. but whatever.” I’m not saying these traits describe anyone real, although they might. I’m saying: why is this the stereotype?

Discussion questions: When people type in lower case, what emotion do they hope to convey to the reader? The alt-right often asks if “liking feminine traps” is “gay”—is there anything more heterosexual than wishing you had a weaker male friend to validate your penis? Would trans rights even be an issue if the majority were FtM? How many modern protests can be summarized as “consumers demand product”? Who would win, every chafed masculinist and joyless academic or one flamboyant 19th century playwright? As Oscar Wilde put it: “Everything in the world is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.”

Choose:

HYPOCRISY’S BAD, BUT YOU’RE WORSE

THE FALSE NEGATIVES

[yutikyis]

Snow in Ul’dah

The streets of Ul’dah were not exactly the safest places for anyone. The Blades kept things sane of course but it was still a land of excess and cruelty where exploitation could be found around every corner. Yet it was hard to see that side of Ul’dah in the middle of the Starlight celebrations. The strange snowfall that had seemed to blanket all of Eorzea, combined with the decorations, made it look more like something out of a dream. Most of the merchants might have little time for the snowfall but the commonfolk seemed taken by the good cheer. As the Miqo’te walked through the streets she found herself having to duck out of the way of excited children running to and fro. More than once she had to weave out of the way of snowballs tossed in good cheer, and more than once she ended up getting a firm clump of snow in the back of the head, leaving her with the unpleasant-yet-somehow-enjoyable sensation of melting snow dripping down her back. Few places were so apparent as the back streets. Normally one avoided them in Ul’dah at their own peril but the fact that they were off the beaten trail meant that in the wake of a snowfall they became tiny wonderlands. The snow was cleared off the main streets quickly, too many merchants would complain otherwise. The back streets though? They remained piled high and as Yuti turned down one she found herself in a veritable garden of snowmen. It was a charming sight to see. Children of every race working together to create snowmen. You could see the differences. Most were the standard two-clumps-of-snow creations that were standard for Eorzeans but a few broke the norm. She saw one made of three successively larger balls of snow, one which was just a singular large smiling face, and more than a few which could just be described as ‘piles of mush.’ Not to mention the personality in each. She saw one young Miqo’te girl trying to fashion a snow-tail for her snow-catte and grumbling in frustration as it kept falling off and tiny Lalafell sitting on a larger Elezen boy’s shoulders to stick the tiny carrot nose in an oversized Sno-Roe. 

Yuti smiled to herself as she watched the children playing. Snow, in Ul’dah of all places? Who would have thought? It was a Starlight miracle for certain. She knew it had its downsides. A lot of these children lived outdoors or even on the streets. The snow made it hard on them. She knew that there were wonderful people like Tyr here or Frost in Gridania who would do everything they could to help the little ones out, but it put a slight damper on the joy of the snow. Still, children were strong. In these eyes of these playing tots she saw not fear of the oncoming cold but joy at the fun it brought with it. Yet she couldn’t help but frown as she saw one of them sitting alone. A small Rean girl of about ten summers with dark black hair that stood out against her pale scales. She was sniffling and crying, her kneels pulled up to her chin. There were tears rolling down her cheeks and judging from the light dusting of snow atop and around her she’d been sitting there for a while.  Yuti walked over and took a seat next to her, pulling her own knees up into a similar position. She didn’t say anything. Just sat there. Moments stretched out. Almost a full two minutes passed before the Auri girl spoke. “Go away.” Two simple words but they were what Yuti had been waiting for. She spoke in a soft but polite voice in response. “N-no thank you. W-why are you crying?” The Auri girl frowned and scooted a bit away. However she couldn’t move far without leaving her little snow pile and so it was an entirely perfunctory gesture. She returned her head to her knees but annoyance and frustration had replaced her despairing expression and the tears at least had stopped rolling down her cheeks for the moment. The two sat in silence together for almost ten minutes before the Auri girl spoke. “I want to go home but I can’t,” she said in a tiny voice. Yuti turned her head lightly so she could rest it on her knees, gazing over at the young girl. “A-and why not?” The Auri was quiet again before she spoke. “Mommy says we’re going back to her home but I don’t want to. I’ve never been to Mommy’s home. I grew up here. I don’t want to go to her home. Everyone I know is here. ” Yuti hummed a little at that. “A-and where is your mother’s home?” The Auri girl seemed to curl in on herself. “Is Doma. Mommy grew up there and now she wants to go home. I never went to Doma. I don’t want to. It isn’t here.” She picked up a clump of snow and tossed it imprecisely to splatter against the opposite wall. “It’s far away and it’s weird and they don’t even really have Starlight there.” Another toss. “I don’t care about Doma. I want to stay here. My best friend is here.” Yuti could understand the issue. Doma and Ala Mhigo both suffered from a generational divide. Even those born before the fall weren’t necessarily old enough to have much memory of the way things were before. It had been a problem during the war where there were plenty of ‘traitors’ in both Doma and Ala Mhigo who were little more than people who grew up without the same sense of loyalty to their homeland, or merely those who didn’t consider it worth fighting for. The loss of country and culture certainly can have that impact. It’s hard for anyone, but especially for a child, to find solace in an idea from before their birth in the wake of leaving behind friends and family.

 “I know the f-feeling,” she said quietly. “A-and I came from somewhere else too. Eorzea is m-my home now and I wouldn’t want to leave it either.” It was true too. She certainly had memories and nostalgia for her home island but Eorzea was her true home, even if she’d lived there less of her life. She couldn’t imagine having grown up in Eorzea and being asked to leave it for a strange homeland.  A part of her wanted desperately to find the girl’s mother and argue with her. Yet she didn’t know the full story. The woman might have family who survived the occupations or might have someone waiting for her or might simply be dead-set on returning home. A woman who’d lost her childhood home having the chance to return could have a thousand justifications. A random Miqo’te arguing out of emotion would hold little sway there. The Auri girl nodded her head and looked down again, her expression dejected and unhappy. She was staring off into the distance and it was clear Yuti’s words had just confirmed the sad feelings in her heart. She had clearly been hoping for something more than empathy. 

“B-but do you want to know a secret?” The Auri girl gave a sort of halfhearted shrug and grabbed another clump of snow. It was clear whatever secret Yuti had didn’t hold much sway with her. She reached her hand back and tossed the handful of snow towards the opposite wall. As the girl tossed another clump of snow, Yuti raised her hand and lightly caught it with her conjury. Snow, after all, was mostly water anyway. She gave a little wiggle of her fingers, manipulating the snow carefully. There wasn’t a lot, just a handful, but it was enough to make a remarkably tiny featureless snow-person, which settled slowly onto the ground.  The Au Ra’s eyes widened and she looked up at Yuti quickly. The Miqo’te was grinning a little at her, eyes sparkling lightly. “We live in a world of magic. You may have to go but that doesn’t mean you have to stay gone. D-Doma is far across the sea but you know what? I went there just the other day and came back. S-so did a friend of mine. Someday you will be able to too.” She reached into a pouch at her side and pulled out two little pearls. “A-and even when you’re gone you can still communicate. J-just give this to your friend and it’ll be like you’re never apart.”  The Auri girl reached out hesitantly as Yuti held both pearls in the palm of her hand. She’d lived in Ul’dah long enough to be hesitant about any stranger offering anything for free. Her hand hovered for a moment and then quickly darted in, grabbing both pearls in a single swift movement. She fidgeted with them for a minute and then lightly affixed one to her horn, giving it a nervous little tap to check it was in place. “I still don’t wanna go though,” she said quietly. “Even if I can talk to people and come back someday, I don’t want to go. There are Garleans there and monsters and I won’t have any friends and...” the Auri girl began to panic, tears welling up in her eyes, a tremble of panic starting in her body. Yuti moved quickly, scooting and and resting her head against the Au Ra’s, wrapping a comforting arm around her. The Auri flinched but didn’t pull away, sniffling softly. “W-what’s your name?” Yuti asked quietly. The young Au Ra looked up at her, blinking her teary eyes.”Ushi.” Yuti’s smile warmed. “Well, Ushi, I’m Yuti. It’s v-very nice to meet you. A-and I can’t say anything about Garleans or Monsters... b-but you absolutely will have at least one friend. I v-visit there all the time, and my linkshell frequency is in that pearl I gave you. If you n-need anything, g-give me a call and I’ll come as soon as I can, okay?” The Auri girl looked confused, her hand quickly darting up to the pearl at her horn before looking at Yuti in confusion. “You will? Why?” she asked, a hint of the Ul’dah suspicion in her voice. Yuti winked. “B-because I like having friends too and I k-know what it’s like not to.” The Auri hesitated before nodding her head slowly. Yuti gave her another little squeeze and slid back, scooting away. The two sat in silence for a few moments before Ushi spoke again. “Do... you want to make a snowman?”  “I would love to.”

[the-fox-knows]

‘I’ll Tell You A Story’ (1)

Musn’t Linger At Crossroads

What were the words of an old wives tale? Simmering magic behind an ancient veil. A land so steeped in legend and myth, It is little wonder when things go amiss.

The low sky, laden with swollen clouds, had effectively obscured the sun and any chance of continuing with a picnic four young women were desperately clinging to; four Americans on holiday in Scotland, underestimating the dreach weather, and in various stages of bowing down to the superior forces of Mother Nature. The last to submit had her face turned to the sky, squinting up at the looming clouds, an expectant quirk to her lips as she waited for that first drop to splash somewhere on her skin.

"Molly! Stop daydreaming and help pack this up. I don't want the wicker to get wet!"

Snapping her eyes back to her friends, she lurched to her feet and wordlessly began folding the blanket her bum had been holding hostage. A smile lingered hiding behind her curtain of hair, giving away her amusement at their frantic behavior. This was the quartets fifth day in the country and the first afternoon that had promised improved weather for their little outing. Molly couldn't say she was surprised by the speedy return of rain clouds, though, was the only one willing to meet them. Outnumbered in less than a second, she gave into their squawking, though, had her thoughts elsewhere as they packed the car up just as the first drizzle was unleashed.

"You go on ahead," Molly told her friends, pulling out her umbrella and opening it with a flourish. Their plans consisted of heading back to the B&B they were staying at, but Molly was just a bit sick with cabin fever and had one or two things she wanted to poke around before returning.

"What? It's raining. Where are you going?" Ellie demanded, closing the trunk and hurrying to the passenger side.

"I'm not ready to come back yet. Need to stretch my legs," Molly explained, keeping it brief.

"But it's raining," Cathy insisted from behind the wheel, reiterating Ellie's point.

"I have my umbrella, besides it's a ten minute walk to the B&B. I won't be long," she assured with a smile and a nod.

"Oh, let's just leave her. You know we won't talk her out of it," Gracie hollered from the back, eager to be off the roads. Out of the four, she was the biggest worrywart and would likely as not be the one biting her nails until Molly walked through the doors to their rooms. As it was, she could only concern herself with one thing at a time, and presently the rain was getting heavier, plunking off the roof of the car.

Cathy and Ellie gave Molly a final, appraising look, before having to agree with Gracie.

"Just don't go off the paths and – oh, is your phone charged? Do you have a signal?"

"Yes and yes," Molly answered without checking. "I will stay on the paths, look both ways before crossing, and I'll make sure not to talk to any strangers. Happy?"

Ellie grumbled. "Fine, but if you're not back within the hour Scotland's going to have three stereotypical Americans on their hands who won't shut up until they find their friend. So for the sake of our motherland's reputation – don't daydream!"

Laughing, Molly shooed away their concerns, waving fondly until their little rented car dipped into a valley, vanishing from sight.

Free to explore, Molly thought giddily.

At a much slower pace than the automobile she sloshed her way down the road making sure to hit every puddle until the denim of her jeans were beyond damp and murky water could be felt sliding down the inside of her wellies. She twirled her umbrella over her shoulder, humming 'Singin' in the Rain' to herself as the flat land around her held the tempting invitation to drop her umbrella and just run until she couldn't – to throw caution to the wind and indulge even further into her reckless nature.

She wanted to see everything that could possibly be seen on this trip, to soak up as much as the culture and folk lore as possible. In a week's time they'd be journeying even further north to the Highlands, something she was particularly excited about. Snapshots she'd seen of the rugged land spoke directly to her romantic imagination and the raw mountains with hints of mossy green, she felt sure, would easily fulfill her desire for adventure. She gave a rueful chuckle at her friends' expense as she thought of the near future and how many times she planned on giving them the slip. Her endurance for new experiences far outpaced theirs.

For now, they were staying in a seaside chalet in Dunbar, overlooking a glorious stretch of beach with a walk that was part of John Muir Park. It was to this strip of sand she was headed. The rain was tolerable; no threat of lightening as of yet, and the desire to stand on the beach and be eye-level with the stormy waves, the sea-breeze filling her lungs, sounded like the perfect cure for cabin fever.

The beach was deserted, forcing Molly to momentarily doubt the sanity of her notions, but then the drizzle sputtered into a few week drops, and she felt it safe enough to continue. The tide was low, stretching back so that the glistening sand seemed to extend for miles before meeting the white foam. Slipping out of her wellies, Molly toed the sand, imprinting her feet in the cooling ground. She stood in the space between high and low tide, looking out towards the horizon in easy meditation, the natural rhythm lulling her into a deep serenity so that time was forgotten. Her mind turned to the legends of natural in-between points: cross-roads; the gloaming hours of dawn and twilight, not quite day nor yet night; the stretch of sand between high and low tide.

Eventually, the drizzle resumed, though turned stronger this time, and Molly was forced out of her reverie. Unconsciously, she had allowed her umbrella to droop to the side, and now straightened it above her head once more. Checking her phone she read the time as being half past two, and if she were to follow her friend's warning about time she had only eight minutes to return before Scotland would be plagued with a headache.

Chuckling to herself Molly cast a final glance at the sea before turning her back towards it.

Missed by her roving gaze, however, was a speck on the horizon. Smaller than a dot, yet moving swiftly towards the shore, its wooden body soon loomed clear as the men waiting within watched the ever approaching beach with war-lust in their eyes. The metal of their weapons were dull under the foreboding sky, yet they received the fall of the rain with a low pattering that thrummed pervasively on the hull of the longboat. Out of the scores of men, only one stood with the outward appearance of patience. His glance held a spark of wisdom missed by the others as he prepared himself to once again meet the somewhat familiar land of the Christians.

It had been quick. The tolling bells had eerily fallen silent all too quickly when the monks ringing them had been relieved of their heads. The monastery sacked, the town pillaged; young men who were no more than farmers or apprentices bravely stood their ground against the invading forces only to be cut down with a ferocity and cruelty undeserved. The passionate actions of the berserkers were dispassionate in their execution. There was no thought, no mercy, only the blood-lust that they entreated to take hold of their mind when rampaging. The women faced depredations hitherto unknown to them as they no longer had their men folk to protect them. Their screams related the horrors of the North-Men far better than any round church bell could.

Undisturbed by this red backdrop, Ragnar Lothbrok walked slowly down what had only recently been an aisle of the church. The wooden benches now overturned, cut, chipped, and strewn alongside the bodies that had fallen atop them. The sight did nothing to upset the marauder, though unlike the rest, it did not make him revel either.

His steps were firm, but questing. He had no predestined location that he sought, only to gather all that he could to learn more of this new world. Past a ruined door that led to an ante-chamber, he found more bodies slumped over slanted desks; their life's blood mingling with the colorful ink on the illuminated pages.

Recognizing these monks as being similar to Athelstan, Ragnar flicked a curious glance towards the ruined pages, his gaze running over the unintelligible scripts. In terms of value, these sheets were worthless to him, even less to Earl Haraldson. He may not understand the lines that marked out a language, but he knew that they were filled with nothing but the Christian G-d. Still, there was an undeniable twitch in his hand that impulsively snatched at the most unspoiled parchment.

The yearning for knowledge, no matter its source, was a more powerful inducement than the finest of kings' hoards.

. . .

It was not long before the treasures; the gold crosses and platters, the silver goblets and candle-holders were accounted for and brought excitedly to the proud serpent's head rising from the water. The lapping waves caressed the hull, only to turn to erratic splashing when the tread of the Northmen disturbed the shallow depths as they distributed their goods throughout the boat. The rain had ceased early on in their raid. Their talk was disconnected from the carnage they'd delivered to the town; happy and boasting of the fine things they would get for themselves and their women once returned. The honor that would come to them as their riches increased; as they had no doubt it would, seeing how bountiful this land to the west was proving to be.

Ragnar stood back from this talk, both physically and figuratively. His ambitions were perhaps more far-reaching than those on the beach, yet his wits were sharper. Earl Haraldson was much on his mind of late. Ragnar had drawn the board and now the moves must be played by himself and those involved – whatever the consequences.

The land he stood on was rich, richer than mere jewels and trinkets - it was a land of wealth. Tillable soil, hardy animals, weather not so unforgiving as the climes of his homeland. Yes, he thought, his narrowed gaze taking in the sprawling promise, the flash of his eyes striking against the brown of his skin. Yes, there are riches to be had here.

Movement caught his notice breaking the spell he was weaving for himself. There was a flash of red between the green foliage of the trees that grew on the far reaches of the beach.

Cautiously stepping forward Ragnar paid a quick glance over his shoulder to the men by the boat. He was unobserved by them. Looking back to the trees he tilted his head, his eyes roving for a sign of a threat while he unobtrusively tightened his grip on his ax.

Flicking his gaze back and forth, Ragnar entered the first line of trees. He could hear the person's tread now - quick and careless. At first they seemed to be marching away from him, however, a few seconds later had them returning in an indirect route. They changed course for a third time, and Ragnar found himself intrigued.

On silent feet he followed the noise, his grip no longer so intense on the handle of his ax. Low murmuring soon joined the footfalls, then, what sounded like an exceedingly frustrated grunt. There was a feminine lilt to the aggravated noise, and Ragnar quickened his steps until he saw a woman crashing through the trees away from him, only to change course as if she didn't know which direction was hers.

Sidling up to a large trunk he watched her unseen.

Her raiment piqued his interest, as did the implement she was currently wringing in her hands. The curved end was intriguing, though, with a raking gaze, Ragnar determined its dullness, therefore it's uselessness as a weapon. The satchel at her side was more promising of finding something of interest. His head was tilted curiously, his breathing quiet as he observed the woman's ill contained hysterics.

She did not belong to the town they'd just sacked, he was sure of it, though he had nothing to base it on other than an educated summation.

Cocking an ear, he heard her distressed murmurs catching on barley contained sobs. There was a foreign lilt to her undertones, alas, ere he could distinguish the tongue, her reckless ambling began taking her further away from him.

As a shadow, he trailed her, pursuing her with a hunter's instincts. Unknowingly, she made it easy for him.

She branched off a few times in opposing directions, displaying clearly that she was as much a stranger in these parts as Ragnar was. Several times he had looked back over his shoulder contemplating the distance he was risking by plunging deeper into these foreign woods. It was when he desired to go no further - and was entirely confident that this woman was alone - that he slipped from the concealment obtained from the woods and let himself be seen.

He anticipated her change of heart a second before she made it and was there to catch her startled gaze the moment she spun on her heels to retrace her steps.

Immediately she froze; a stifled gasp swallowed quickly in the back of her throat. Almost imperceptibly her fingers tightened around her strange device as her eyes darted over his appearance. At his side, his ax still had flecks of blood from spots he had missed in his initial wipe of the weapon, and he was sure splattered red ornamented his face and clothed chest. A slow smile tugged at his lips bearing an overwhelming resemblance to something feral as he enjoyed her eyes on him.

"You are a stranger?" he poised it as a question, though his tone was indicative of knowing the answer.

The woman's eyes snapped back to his from where they had been staring at the lethal array of weapons strapped to his belt. Slowly, she shook her head, voicing a stuttered response in a language unfamiliar to him. He did not doubt her authenticity, though, immediately his interest was piqued even further. A new language meant a new land, a new land meant new riches, and new riches held the tantalizing treasure of more knowledge.

In mere seconds a plan had formulated.

The woman still stood frozen, like prey who knew they were caught yet clung to the hope that if they drew little attention to themselves they'd rediscover their freedom.

"I have a proposition for you," Ragnar began in a tone of voice that might have been interpreted as mocking in his overt congeniality. It was clear she didn't understand him, if the desperate shaking of her head was anything to go by. And which only intensified when he brought himself a step closer to her.

With a trembling step back she interrupted him speaking again in her tongue; the hitch in her voice audible.

"You will come with me," he said, keeping pace with her, never quickening his step in a terrifying show of unconcerned victory. He had her, and both knew it. She stumbled away regardless, tripping on her own feet as she was unwilling to turn her back towards him. The useless implement she held she began defensively brandishing when his eyes glinted.

"There is a story to your presence, and I would have it; a meaning to your language." His gaze dropped to her denim-clad legs deliberately, then back to her eyes. "A reason for why you wear such tight trousers where any man may appreciate your form with little imagination."

She spoke again, almost pleading as her footing faltered over some roots, and Ragnar deemed it time to end the cat-and-mouse game. With little effort he was before her, trapping her between his form and the solid trunk of an oak. Grasping first her wrist, he little expected the rattle to his head when the woman suddenly struck out with her odd stick and attempted to flee. His grip tightened immediately, holding her to him, as he brought her right before his nose where he proceeded to stare down at her squirming figure. Her entire body was engaged in struggling against him, tears streaming down her already wet face as he closed his large hands around both her wrists. Even then the fight persisted in her. Her fists railed against his chest, straining to break free of his hold. The curved handle of her stick proceeded to strike Ragnar in the face a couple more times before he wrenched it from her grip and flung it blindly behind him.

He was beginning to bristle at the soreness in his nose from the implement he'd initially deemed useless.

With a final attempt, the woman threw her body weight at him, knocking him only slightly off balance, though, startling him nevertheless at the move. She was able to slip her wrists from his grasp and, forgetting her stick, darted away. However, the North Man was too sharp for her. His grasping reach for her caught her round the middle, sending her crashing to the forest floor where her head collided with the hard ground; the impact rendering her unconscious.

Ragnar breathed heavily from where he fell atop her stomach and looked up to see her still form. His brow furrowed minutely until he saw the flutter of a pulse in the dip of her jaw. Taking a moment to examine her unimpeded at such proximity he decided that he had made the right choice in seeking her out. Her face agreed with him and when her eyes would be open once more he hoped to see that flare that had sparked even through her fear. Her hair fell long and tangled prettily in the grass and fallen leaves. There was no stain of blood which told Ragnar that he'd better use this time to his advantage and get her to the boat before she woke. He would investigate later into her satchel.

. . .

The others had noticed his absence, but it was Rollo who voiced their question.

"What is this?" He extended his chin to motion at the woman slung over his brother's shoulder.

A few appraising eyes scanned her drooping body as they continued loading the last of their treasures and slaves into the long boat.

"A woman," Ragnar answered broadly, splashing into the sea and walking towards their vessel home. Rollo huffed in irritation at the deflection; he followed after.

"What is she doing here?"

"Presently? She is unconscious." He turned to give Rollo a half-smile. "She was not an easy catch."

"Why are you bringing her? We already have many slaves. She will be an extra mouth to feed." Briefly, his eyes roved over her raised derrière, taking in the shapely cut of her legs on display.

"Is that your only complaint against her coming?"

"It matters little to me which creature you decide to plow, only don't let your cock decide who has the smaller ration."

Ragnar swung into the boat with a little difficulty due to the woman, but when his feet were solidly on the deck of the boat, the woman slumped in front of him against the side, he looked down at his brother.

"Your proficiency with words brother leaves little to the imagination. There will be no shortages of food," he assured before hauling the woman back up and bringing her farther down the boat, effectively winning the argument.

Rollo spit into the sea, watching his brother's back a moment longer. He finally turned away with an unpleasant twitch to his lip as the last of the load was brought on board and the Vikings cast off.

The first thing Molly was aware of was a nauseating dip and rise that moved her body, and which made her spinning head that much more unbearable. Her eyes were shut still, and she decided to let them remain as a shield against an unfamiliar scene. The sounds engulfing her were foreign and baffling. The voices of men speaking in a different language rang left and right of her while the rushing song of the sea made clear why she was experiencing vertigo. A cool sea spray tickled her cheek causing her to flinch.

Her head was lowered, her chin nearly touching her chest, and she felt a soreness at the back of her neck from being bent so. The throbbing on the side of her skull, however, outweighed any of her other discomforts.

Molly remembered falling; remembered the man who'd appeared out of nowhere, interrupting her hysterical hike through the forest.

Upon quitting the shore with the mind of returning to her friends, Molly underwent a transformative experience of confusion, denial, anger, then raw fear when the horrid screams had pierced the stifling quiet. It was then that she heard the distant crash and clang of metal, of fearsome roars that she instinctively knew no animal emitted. In her turmoil and desperation to get away from whatever violence was taking place, and to somehow return to something she knew, Molly had lost her way in the trees. The broad trunks soon turned maze-like, only increasing her panic and seeping away any vestiges of rational thinking she might have had at her disposal.

It hardly mattered when the screaming stopped. The screaming had happened, and she prayed that whatever had caused such anguished cries would miss her entirely. Interestingly, she felt guilty at feeling no guilt in wanting to help in whatever crises had just occurred. Without even seeing what evil had befallen, she knew she was out of her depth and possibly a bit mad. When she'd first climbed the path of the cliffs that lead to the B&B she'd found nothing. No lodgings and no town; as if it had never been.

When he appeared, when she turned and found herself face to face with a heavily armored man, visible blood flecked on his clothes, his face, and disturbingly on the blade of his ax, she felt a numbing that nearly threatened immobility.

Where was he now, Molly wondered?

A tall wave rocked her and the boat close to upright, and her fear, which seemed endless this day, compelled her to scream in horror at the reality of her situation. She strangled the impulse with a low whimper, one that was drowned out by all the other noises, and forced herself to remain quiet.

He'd kidnapped her! And with that little understanding it was all she needed to know that she had to get away – even if it meant succumbing to the ocean. A known fate, even fatal, was preferable to the unknown horrors that lay in wait.

With the seed of intention planted firmly in her mind, beating back the fear that had consumed her was easier with the prospect of action. Slowly, Molly cracked open her eyes, fluttering her lashes in tiny blinks to clear away the hazy grime coating her sight. When her vision cleared, she was grateful for the curtain her long hair provided, concealing most of her face, bowed as it was. Extending her consciousness to the rest of her body, she became aware of herself being propped up against something, her feet bent in front of her, while her unbound hands lay in her lap. Her umbrella was long gone, but she still had her bag; she felt it's strap across her chest. Strangely, that comforted her.

It was the only chance she had. It was the only choice she had.

The men's voices continued, and absently she heard them as she worked up her courage to spring for her freedom. She felt certain that she was against the side of the boat, therefore a leap, and quick turn would see her over the side.

Suddenly boots entered her line of vision and stopped in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut, then forced herself to relax to allay suspicion should whoever stood before her stoop down and look. They did indeed stoop down, lowered in a crouch, and Molly felt their presence close to hers. A hand touched her head, smoothing down the side of her face until her chin was caught in their fingers; locks of her hair caught in between. Her head was forced back, exposed to the terrifying environment, and softly placed against the wood, bracing the rest of her form.

Molly willed her breathing to remain even, willed her eyes to remain calmly shut.

She would escape, she thought to herself, encouraging her state of mind to take this attention as nothing more than passing. But then the wicked thought of lust poked at her; of his lust, of every man on this boat's lust. What if that was why she'd been taken? What if they all planned on having their way with her? She was about to spring, uncaring of the hand that still cupped her face, uncaring of the dangerous timing.

She needed to escape!

She was going to!

Now!

The hand left her, and she heard him rise, the heavy tread taking him a few steps from her.

The time was now. No one was expecting it.

Molly's eyes flew open as she blindly turned while scrambling to her feet. Her shaking hands gripped the side of the boat, hauling herself up when she heard the first shouts of protest to her endeavors. The voices grew loud and angry, but she didn't dare look back. Slinging her legs over in a surprisingly fluid movement, she dropped, only to feel an interruption in her fall to the lapping waves scant feet below. Gravity favored her, however, and it wasn't until she felt the shocking cold of the sea that she realized what the hiccup had been. Allowing herself a single glance back, she saw him standing with every intention of jumping in after her, her bag clutched in his fist. But another restrained him, shouting words that the sea swallowed, while physically holding him in place. The boat maintained its course, speeding away from her, while Molly grit her teeth against the cold and the stinging pain of the salt water washing over her head. Her body rose with the waves, her hair sticking to her face as she pulled her eyes away from the striking boat - indicative of another time - and began paddling away. She didn't even care that she lost her bag. Her spirits were somewhat buoyed when she realized that they must have only cast off, for she could see the shore.

Her strokes were strong and deliberate, and to her relief, the shore remained visible. It would be the longest she's ever swum in the ocean, but she could do it. She'd escaped her captors; she would not fail when deliverance was so close.

Ragnar stood stonily, his narrowed eyes watching the woman's progress, his fist still gripping her satchel. His anger towards his brother was immense, despite the reason that was plain to view in Rollo's argument. They had many slaves already, he knew. He'd been told. That was not what rankled him. It was something Rollo could not understand; something he hadn't understood when Ragnar had protected Athelstan against his blood-lust.

There were more to these raids than violence and treasure – to him at least.

The current was in her favor, pulling her farther and farther away, until she was nothing more than a speck climbing out of the sea and straggling up the beach. Even from this distance he saw that her gait was slow and labored; and had he had absolute command over this vessel she'd already have been back on board and under his careful watch.

She was a slippery one. Almost begrudgingly, Ragnar had to admire her daring; the barest hint of a smile tickled the corner of his mouth as his regret played ruefully on his mind. Now he could only imagine what secrets she had to tell; what manner of society permitted women to be dressed so tantalizingly, and if it was not her society, what circumstance had her attired so. Why it was she was so terrified, even before she'd been aware of him. And if he had discovered these things with her lips to his ear and those legs wrapped around him he wouldn't have minded that either.

She was gone from the beach now, having disappeared from his gaze somewhere between the trees and the lengthening distance growing between them. Ragnar stared some minutes longer until he was certain that he could gain no further sight of her. The men's chatter had died down after her escape, and Rollo, once he ensured his brother's remaining on the boat, had moved away.

With a curl to his lip, Ragnar pushed away from the edge, his attention being caught by the woman's satchel. He'd almost forgotten it in his absorbance of watching her. It's weight was sturdy and the means of opening it occupied Ragnar longer than he anticipated. He finally found success when he tugged on the metal flap and dragged it down the binding that resembled teeth. He frowned at the unusual sound and greedily dipped his hand within, rummaging and pulling out the contents. Most of the items merely raised more questions, though, one or two things were vaguely recognizable. There was a perfect ring of keys, the craftsmanship precise and clean and far the superior of any of their blacksmiths, as well as a book. Ragnar rifled through its pages eagerly, although he found nothing comparable to the works Athelstan had told him of, nor of what he had seen himself in the monasteries of the Christians. There were no colorful illuminations, only scribbles, words that maintained an elusive illegibility. Also unlike the monks' works, there was no neatness to the script. The scratching looped and slanted, were big then small from page to page.

Skimming a hand down one of the open pages, Ragnar sought any clue as to what language he was attempting to read, yet continued to be disappointed. With a snap, he shut the book, but did not return it to the satchel as he did with the rest of her things. Resting it atop his leg, he stared down at it, his eyes mapping its corners as he projected future conversations with Athelstan about translating it for him.

He may have lost the source, but perhaps he would learn of something worth his time from the green book now in his possession. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Chapter Two →

[apostrophedog-undertale-blog]

Undertrench: Introduction

It is impossible to think nowadays that the Monsterkind, the people who tore though Europe with fire and ancient sorcery in those fateful days of 1913-1919 were once considered our friends and allies.

But the truth is they were, as far back as history has been recorded Humans and Monsters cohabited with one another. Together the earliest societies and civilizations were achieved, and the cultures and achievements that came with it. Despite their differences, it seemed the two races for a while in ancient history considered each other equal, and were united together in peace and in war, and that was their downfall.

You see, their unison was also the cause of their division, for in war they truly saw their differences, Monsters had naturally occurring magical powers were as Humans had strong SOUL's and, if determined enough, could cheat death.

Naturally, when societies based entirely around war and conquest came about, they grew envious of each other. Humans grew envious of Monster Magic, Monsters grew envious of Human SOUL's, Humans started leaving societies with Monster leaders, Monsters started leaving societies with Human leaders, and thus the separation began.

Not much is known about what Monsters did whilst separated from us, what is known is that they united in Western Europe, and that they were united under one, omnipotent monarchy known as the Dreemurr Dynasty, how it came about is unknown, and how the Dreemurr family was selected is also unknown, but what is known is that King Asgore and his Queen, Toriel had been the so called "leaders" of the Monster race for possibly centuries, if not more.

This Kingdom's population consisted of almost every Monster in existence, unlike the Humans, the Monsters were not divided by nations or peoples. They also established their own culture and identity, and no longer considered themselves equal to Humankind, they considered them as cruel and unfeeling.

This kingdom, separated and uncontacted from the Humans lay in peace for hundreds of years, until the 17th Century, where the Kingdom was neighboured by several Human Nations such as Brandenburg, Prussia and Poland. Who saw it as an opportunity to gain land without the opposition of any other European state.

Thus, without any warning, Prussian soldiers marched into the kingdom with strange weapons the Monsters had never seen before, there was little resistance. Then came the Polish with similar weapons, and then the Brandenburgisch, until all of the kingdom was under direct Human control.

For many days the Monsters stayed in their homes looking at the peculiar figures marching down the street, sometimes breaking into houses and looking around, it was obvious they were searching for something.

In truth they were looking for the King and Queen, but to no avail, it seemed that they had ran away and gone into exile. This gave monsters a slight hope for a future, but they would not see their rulers for a long time.

After a while, Monsters were forced into Neighbouring countries, as their land was no longer theirs and their homes would be occupied by Prussian, Polish and Brandenburgisch civilians.

Millions of Monsters were forced to go into new and confusing Human nations, such as the Dutch Republic, the Papal States, the Kingdom of France and the Kingdom of England.

They were not welcomed warmly, Humans considered them to be animals and freaks, the Priests and Bishops and even the Pope considered them to be demons that shouldn't be trusted, and they were ridiculed in literature, theatre and the arts, barely anyone trusted them. They were also not allowed to join the Army, go to any public places, or receive any noble titles like "Sir", "Lord" or "Doctor". The Monsters were treated like filth, but they lived through it for the rest of the century.

In the 18th Century, European nations grew an interest in Monster Magic, due to massive tensions between European Empires many of the most powerful countries wanted the best and newest forms of weaponry, Monster Magic seemed to be the answer.

During the American Revolutionary War, the British forcefully enlisted about a hundred Monsters who could conduct fire magic as a weapon against American Rebels, although the British lost due to the lack of men, the Monster Magic was successful enough in battle for other nations to start using it, such as France and Prussia.

It had been 100 years since the destruction of the Kingdom of Monsters, but still Monsters had this belief that their King and Queen would come back and rally them against the Human enslavers, some Monsters did try to conduct revolution, but these small uprisings ended up in massive military retaliations. Sometimes the Humans would use these uprisings as a way to test out new weaponry, such as lighter cannons or grenades.

The 19th Century started off with a colossal war, the Napoleonic Wars, Monsters once again were forcefully enlisted into the French, British and Prussian armies, approximately 10,000 fought, but they where not treated as living beings, but as weapons. Some armies tried to get Monsters to join them by stating they would be "freer" if they did so, mostly France did this, as an attempt to gain more soldiers.

Throughout the years of the 19th Century, Monsters would be used less and less as the Humans created war machines that can out match Monster Magic, the Industrial Revolution had begun, and yet the Monsters played a big part.

Millions of Monsters started to flock to the capital cities of Europe, mostly London, in a attempt to gain work from the newly built factories, slums were built to accommodate them.

The population of London increased from 1 million to 6 million in the 1880's, most of them Monsters. Here the Monsters went to factories where they made cloth, sewed uniforms, and made bullets for the ever growing Human war machine.

Never before had the Monsters been so mistreated, they were underpaid, undernourished and many died in the smoke-filled factories from tuberculosis, heat strokes and malnourishment.

This was the final straw for many Monsters, and soon, Monsters got together to try and find the King and Queen, and to communicate about regaining a homeland. They managed to locate them without the knowledge of the humans, the Monsters felt pride once again knowing their monarchy was safe, the Dreemurrs secretly ordered the Monsterkind to protest and demand land for their people, these were known as the "Delta Crusades".

In London, hundreds of thousands took to the streets demanding a homeland, the Delta Crusades grew fierce as the newly formed Police Force fought the protests with batons and fists, by the end of the 1880's, the British Government ordered an emergency meeting and realized they had two options, either Europe could give in to their demands and re-establish the Monster Kingdom, or they could refuse, which could lead to war.

European leaders where invited to London the following morning, and it was put to the vote. Britain, already suffering from the previous Crimean War and the war raging in South Africa against the Boars, did not wish for another, and agreed.

Imperial Germany voted no, as the territory the Monsters wanted was inside their borders, but, the majority voted yes, and the Monsters from across Europe left in triumph toward their new home, and the Monarchy had returned too, they rebuilt their capital city, and named it simply "Home".

And thus the 1890's began, and the Royal Family had gained a new heir, Asriel, a cherished new born son. The Monsters, though happy, were confused as to why they wanted an heir now more than ever, but it was soon obvious the Dreemurrs wanted war, and so did the majority of monsters, for the cruelty they suffered through throughout the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries.

The Humans of Europe, now with more new machinery such as Ironclads, Aeroplanes and Machine Guns, also wanted war. But the Humans waited until something happened to justify a declaration.

On the 20th February 1913, a strange yellow light, almost like the sun itself, was seen falling from the sky in Schwerin, Germany.

The ball of light grew brighter and nearer, and soon the citizens went into a state of panic, without warning, it hit the city and caused a inferno of flames and death, torching the city without a trace, leaving behind only black, coarse ash.

Knowing it was Monster Magic, Germany declared war on the Kingdom, followed by Britain and France, the Great War had begun.

[mizukabehana]

Get ready to meet one of your nominee’s for the 2017 Worst Mother of All Time Award!! 

NAME: Naida Yana Vodnaya NICKNAME: Tsunaritsa  ( Tsunami Queen )  AGE: 46  HAIR: Blue EYES: Light Blue HEIGHT: 5′3  BUILD: Toned  STATUS: Alive  OCCUPATION: General in the Imperial Army of Sin MAGIC: Water Magic  RESIDENCE: Alemna, Sin ( the capital )   CLASS: high upper class.  FAMILY: Rurick Lytvyn ( ex-husband ) Juvia Lockser ( estranged daughter ) Erik Vodnaya ( father )  Adeliya Vodnaya ( mother )  Illya Vodnaya ( sister )  Liliya Vodnaya ( sister )  Artur Vodnaya ( brother )

ONE LINE INTRODUCTION: Naida Vodnaya is often liked to the frozen oceans near her home-town; ruthless, unforgiving & frigid. 

WARNING: the contestant’s personal essay, biography && evidence she should win, contains some content viewers may find disturbing, cruel, &&& possibly triggering. Read at your own risk if you are sensitive to any of the following; parental abuse/neglect, graphic violence, illogical choices rooted in the desire for power, abuse of said power & emotional manipulation. 

BIOGRAPHY 

Naida Vodnaya was born in Lyrga, Sin. A large town with a small population, nestled in between a vast mountain range & the most frozen parts of the ocean. Lyrga was known mostly for ice-fishing, if it was known for anything at all. Despite the rough conditions, it was a place of peace. 

Her father, Erik, was perhaps the most respected & feared man in not only the town, but in any town nearby as well. For the Vodnaya family was widely known to possess magic. A trait that while no longer outlawed in the country, was still a thing that inspired terror in those who did not have it. The Vodnaya family had survived generations upon generations of magical persecution without befalling any harm && no one was interested in finding out what powers the family possessed to have done so. No one, that is, except Adeliya Ikanova, who was a travelling huntress known to pursue even the most deadly beasts. She captured Erik’s heart, at least enough to secure a marriage with him &&& the two had Naida. 

Their parenting styles aligned well, as they both believed in forging a child made of ice & steel rather than flesh && blood. Erik, who had trained under his father, ensured that Naida learned what it meant to survive. He taught Naida to harness the gift of the Vodnaya name, Water Magic. While Adeliya taught her how to hunt, how to kill. The two would often leave Naida alone in the mountains for nights, weeks, even months at a time in order to raise her as something vicious. 

Of course, as the years drew on, there were other siblings, but Naida was the first. 

Adeliya was blunt with her daughter, scolding her if she did anything ‘wrong’ but praising her for doing things ‘right’. What this often meant is Naida was met with disapproval every time she displayed tendencies towards ‘softness’ &&& cruelty was met with rewards. Erik did his best to hammer in self-preservation, after the generations of survival despite magic being illegal, this was a trait Erik felt was essential to living. 

When Naida was nineteen, she wasn’t what her parents intended. While they’d given her all the tools to survive, they hadn’t accounted on her ambition. She didn’t crave the same thrill of a chase the way her mother did & she didn’t want the peaceful life her father was desperate for. Naida wanted power. After a blow out argument with her parents, who told her that should she put the family at risk like this, they would sever all ties with her. She packed her things, of which there were not many && headed towards the capital. Determined to join the military there as one of the first mages &&& rise through the ranks.   

However, on her way there, she met a man named Rurick. He allowed her to stay with him while she rested in her travels & ultimately the two fell into bed together. Naida ending up with child, while Rurick fancied himself in love with her. The two married && Naida convinced herself that she would still be able to pursue her dreams of power with a family at her side. 

It wasn’t until the child, which she named Juvia, was born that Naida’s idea began to crumble. The girl was born with magic. Magic like Naida had never seen, not in any of her siblings. Juvia couldn’t control it. The weather was linked to her emotions &&& a rainstorm was ever-present when she cried. At first, Naida & Rurick did their best to keep their daughter happy. But as time passed, they both grew impatient with the task. 

The worse they snapped at the now toddler, the worse the weather became && the worse their moods grew. It was a horrible cycle that led to aggressive fights &&& resentment hanging heavier in the air than the rain. Eventually, when the rain storm grew so large it encompassed the land for as far as the eye could see, Rurick slammed the door shut & left. 

Naida was left alone with the daughter, now six, who had been the beginning of the end. She was sharper now, colder than she’d been before. Whatever heart she’d had when she left her parents was dead or decaying && Naida wanted was that place in the army she’d wanted in the first place. 

She may have been able to do it with a husband &&& a daughter, but as a single mother? Surely not. 

So Naida came up with a plan. She’d leave Juvia somewhere she’d never return from. She decided on Fiore, a country with a drastically different culture, a different language & as far away as possible. It took weeks of research, planning && travel, but Naida was able to ditch Juvia in a shopping square. 

Back in Sin, Naida made a b-line for the capital &&& really truly began to pursue her dreams. Knocking over prejudice & limitations put on her because of her magic. It took years, but through countless battles won, Naida rises to general status. She has her own squadron && no one knows about the daughter she once had.  Naida is considered a mage-rights hero &&& there are young mages all over the country who look at her with fierce admiration. 

It’s not until years later, when Naida is grappling with her newest obstacle of obtaining political power ( you can only fight for so long before your body begins to regret it ), that she hears about a water-mage out of Fiore who’d supposedly died in a great war against Alvarez. Naida doesn’t care much, until it’s mentioned that the water mages name was Juvia.  

MORE ABOUT NAIDA

Fun Facts: 

As of the beginning of her military career, Naida an official win/loss ratio of 43/5 in registered duels against other officers. She currently holds the record for most challenges. 

Naida’s favorite color is the blood of those in her way. 

She is so blinded by her desire for power, she often missteps & winds up moving backwards. 

The tattoo on her chest is the equivalent of a guild mark. In that it is meant to display her allegiance to the Imperial Army. 

Sinean government officals are keeping a very close eye on her, because they struggle to trust her. Though they keep her on board due to her unquestionable value as a soilder. They have no intention of granting her any higher privileges. 

Naida often wears blue lipstick. 

Her family is aware of the name she’s made for herself, but remain as clueless as everyone else that she has a daughter. 

There are multiple serious journalistic articles on her, the impact she’s had on mage rights && still no one managed to find out about Juvia. 

Rurick is re-married, with new children &&& is part of an anti-mage activist group due to his experience with Naida & Juvia. Though he does not share this, because while it would look bad on Naida, it would also look bad for him. The two are currently pretending as if they’ve never met prior to the political circumstances. 

Rurick does not know what actually happened to Juvia. In fact, he assumes that Naida handed her off to her mysterious family. 

Skills: 

As she is a general, there is a certain amount of implied skill to be at that level, of which Naida has. She is a water-mage && has mastered a lot of techniques along those lines. She is skilled in hand-to-hand combat, but relies a lot on her magic. Whereas Juvia can turn herself into water, Naida pulls the water out of other sources &&& can do so incredible quickly. 

Reputation: 

As stated above, Naida is generally looked upon as a hero in mage rights. Though many people dislike her personally, no one disputes her role in the progress of  the sinean mage movement. Opinions on this vary based on political views. People in favor of mage rights view her as a hero, while people against it target her with hatred & even violence at times. 

Her most notable feat however, was during a battle against a rebel group aiming to over throw the government. They’d managed to take over several large cities in the country && Naida was sent along with a large troop to stop them. While the initial goal was just to keep them from gaining any more ground until more backup could come, Naida changed the game pretty early on. As the cities happened to be on the coast. Using the ocean, Naida completely decimated several of their camps. The aftermath was so destructive, it earned her the nickname Tsunaritsa ( Tsunami Queen ).

EVIDENCE

So, let’s go over why you should vote for Naida to win this years award. 

Abandoning her six-year-old daughter.

Choosing a foreign country, with the biggest possible cultural, geographical & language distance possible to do so.

Before this abandonment, Naida was sure to dish out psychological && emotional abuse guaranteed to last a lifetime. 

Upon discovering her daughters ‘death’ as a “Fiorean War Hero” Naida decides to pursue a plan to achieve better political sway by carving out an “in” for herself with Fiore’s leaders by playing up the grieving mother part. 

She still hasn’t had to face any consequences for abandoning said daughter.

What do you think? Does Naida make the cut? Is she a contestant worth your vote, or simply a ‘bad mom’ who’s bitten off more than she can chew with the rest of the competition? Let us know in the comments down below! To find out the results, follow us on twitter, instagram, tumblr or facebook @badmomsquad 

[mutualhighmaintenancemachin-blog]

I need a fix cus I'm going down

Made the mistake of appraising myself sufficiently healthy to attend a bonfire with normal decent tax-payer type folks. Stood up too fast in my chair and blacked out completely, hit my head on concrete. When I came to i had no earthly fucking memory of having driven to the bonfire, nor could i really recall the names of the three concerned hipsters perched over my limp doughy abscessed jaundiced shit heap of a body. Told them it was a problem with blood sugar, i had forgotten to imbibe my afternoon orange juice! Translation-haven’t slept in four days, taking in roughly two hundred calories a day all in ginger ale. Meth heads opt to sustain themselves on a diet of paranoid resentment in lieu of proteins and grains. The cook gets super spun and lectures us like we’re babes about the dark leftist forces presently waging war on the masculinity of the white man-for one thing, he's convinced that jews run the porn industry and that fucking pornhub is riddled with overtures both overt and subliminal intended to brainwash white guys into identifying as weak and feminine and to associate men of color with heroism and strength. He also believes that soy causes gender dysphoria. All of these batshit crazy delusions act like stars in the broad constellation of the cooks worst dystopian fears-a workforce with no room left for traditionally male-centered leadership characteristics dominated from top-down by a host of future ladies who make their trade in creative collaboration, rather than fear and theft of other peoples ideas. Without a need for a provider, our nazi-bespectacled methamphetamine cook envisions a new sexual economy in which women will jettison their attachments to the family structure in favor of like, industrialism, i guess, and men will have no other resort but a desperate turn to cross-dressing and dick-taking and i guess maybe stitching scarves. It was at this point that i was really tempted to tell the cook something he needs to hear-if you really believe that large shadow societies are orchestrating history just cus they want to make you some dudes boyfriend, its probably cus part of you wants to be. I get that, sucking dick is a blast. if you’re terrified that you can’t compete in a post-modern job market, it might just be because you aren’t. There’s no place left for cowboys or outlaws or methcooks cus those professions only make sense in the context of an insanely violent frontier. You feel obsolete and useless because you are, but make no mistake, that hurt has nothing to do with the world everything to do with your soul being severely malnourished. I know cus mine is too! Real moral christian courage is showing up to your crucifixion with a smile on your face ready to graciously thank the romans for every nail they put through your wrist. You feel empty because your a paranoid fascist meth cook, i feel bad cus I'm a junkie. We are bad. The nazi pilots who blitzed france in two sleepless, speed-fueled nights probably felt fucking fantastic, as if they were aloft on the trade winds of history itself and their momentum across europe must have seemed like proof enough of the moral righteousness of the german cause. But then the morning comes and the meth wears off and your skin smells like piss and your back aches and you can’t stop grinding your jaw and the first wave of survivors begin to trickle out from the camps and presumably in that moment a few nazis had the epiphany-that the very same starved beaten traumatized jewish women and men and children they had aspired to extinguish from human memory were now going to tell the story of what had happened. Power loses, grace is its own kingdom, etc etc. Furthermore those german officers who managed to transition back to civilian life and start families must have experienced a very strange new parental dynamic-can you imagine a family at a dinner table and the proud head of household instructs his small son to finish his vegetables and after pausing to mull it over for a few moments his son turns to him and says Father having thought about it a great deal i don’t think ill be following your instructions-after all you were only following instructions yourself when you helped to engineer the greatest cruelty in human history! To which ostensibly the father mumbles to clear his throat and asks his wife to pass the potato salad. Not even to invoke the possibility that the Fuhrer himself Mr. Adolph Hitler probably died surrounded by a swarm of shadow people, fucking hilarious just the thought, him yelling in that distinctive manic patois of his that he’s the leader and the abeyance of his will is sacrosanct blah blah blah while the little invisible mites under his pale skin shift and swell and scratch and the shadow people dancing around his peripheral vision taunting and cajoling and ridiculing him and the absurdity of his final solution and because he didn’t know speed the way we now know speed he probably didn’t know anything about the shadow people at all from his perspective they might just as well have been the ghosts of his victims come to taunt and ridicule him in his lowest hour pointing and laughing and daring him to pull the trigger!   

The same entitlement motivates the mass shooter who imagines a world full of seven billion perfect strangers as an attack on his rightful pursuit of happiness. No one will sleep with him and he can’t make sense of his place in a world built on fucking so he begins to indulge in fantasies of coercion, revenging himself on the very public space he so craved Now if our hypothetical douchebag had any pretense of self-awareness he might have looked into the possibility of adopting several dogs, and in turn coming to see his life as a story about caring unconditionally for animals. That’s a helluva life-Saint Francis got into the catholic hall of fame for doing not a whole lot more. Or perhaps he could adjust his expectations of intimacy in consideration of the countless plain-to middling-to ugly folks who are forced to come to terms with the truth early on that all of our bodies are grotesque and hideously deformed billboard advertisements for our big beautiful impossibly dense souls-come see a kernel of divine inspiration made self-aware, shimmering in the glory of creation,  just two exits past the tits and chin and ankles and all the rest of our faulty parts. 

Now a discerning reader(however unlikely you’d be to find one in an audience consisting of absolutely fucking nobody lol) might have already begun to detect a certain heady strain of hypocrisy in this authors conclusion. Because while I'm not much of anything the one thing i certainly am is a self-destructive drug addict. So maybe its one thing for me to make fun of the cook for his wrath-filled flu-stricken infants tantrum of a way of viewing the world, assigning to his solipsism a generation-hopping solidarity with his nazi forefathers who came before and identifying in his politics the germinal seed of fascisms future, a politics so personal and self-contained that every divorce will be debated as if it were a stand in for larger cultural decay, every morning hangover a portent of spiritual decline, the vitals of the stock market remeasured and reassessed each time someone finds on the sidewalk a loose dollar bill. Political assemblies with real largesse exclusively devoted to trolling the instagram of a nebraskan man named doug’s now ex-wife  for pictures of her maui vacation with husband number two drinking mojitos on a beach with sand bleached white as bone and both of them grinning with surgical precision an opulent almost confrontational kind of public grinning Doug couldn't recall that bitch ever having felt for him and the kids off playing in the surf and well how could any concerned and conscientious citizen fail to see the basic threat to democracy that whole scene represents? Donald Trump is probably the loneliest man in the world. He’s never met another person. He spends his time wandering the halls of his head checking for reoccurrences of his own reflection, a lifetime spent pathologically re-telling the same story about how he came to be the most powerful person in the world, so that by the time he really became who he had always pretended to be, the most influential figure in the free world, he had long-since bought into his own fraud to such a great extent that even the real thing couldn’t compare. Only a selfishness and self-centeredness as grandiloquent as his could explain the mindset of the modern mass shooter and the micro-politics informing him. He confuses his head for the world and then becomes enraged when it won’t do as he wishes, cursing the rain for its cold lash against his shoulder where he’d rather there have rested warm summer glow, furious at the thought of all the people he would never meet in far-off places he would never see who never paid him any attention whatsoever. Playing peek-a-boo a little bit of cheating peer through chubby fingers arrayed like a geisha’s fan and for the first time see that objects don’t disappear without our gaze to ontologically anchor them to earth. What a hurt. Now it might be technically correct that my addiction does to my loving family what the selfishness of the mass shooter does to public space. It intrudes like an alien thing and turns the air chilly in our childhood home and it transforms the medicine cabinet into a contested territory in need of defensive fortification and now that Cassies marriage has crashed on the rocks of addiction nobody could blame her if she never allowed another addict to darken her doorstep again and there was the sight of Jan opening my trucks passenger side door and a few rigs fell out onto the floor and all the spoons in the house have one side burnt-and-bruised like a black-eye you say you got from falling down a flight of stairs despite body language that says something entirely else why is it we don’t have a single spoon in the house what ghost spends all night punching the walls full of holes 

recently went to an Alanon meeting to sneak a glimpse of how the other half lives...this lady said my addiction is to loving my addict. Bawled rivers out from red raw-rubbed rubber eyes and said my addiction is to my addict Not her person or qualifier or partner but her addict. Syntax almost seeming to suggest that something about the existential plight of the addict gets her intoxicated dizzy on pain. It’s quaint though cus that sort of sentiment is for fucking rookies-guarantee you no ones crying over me like a romantic. Not anymore. My thing these days is of a distinctly more shakespearian strand of tragedy, with wittgenstein and derrida’s influences also undeniable. I’m sick now in a way where people stop crying and praying you’ll find God and change and decide instead it’d be easier to just cross the street. Schizophrenics lost in a chorus meant only just for them, apocalyptic street preachers who stand on soap boxes while reeking of shit and give voice to visions of an America not our own, an alternate dimension where european arrival at the shores of the new world stalled out somewhere halfway across the pacific ocean on a wave so tall it scraped the heavens and America grew up a nation of nomads who set their watches to the rumbling migration of herds of buffalo and not even the highest priest could dream of a more beautiful idea than that of motion, movement without cease, the only acceptable fixed still frozen property being the burial mounds where the dead went after all their motion had gone-if they could view us on the other side of the looking glass stolen away in our own personal homes they would almost certainly come to the conclusion that this place where we live is just the land of the dead, a negative photograph of everything vital and good. Who would i be to disagree though, right? 

The point is anyway that some alchemical reaction of A. Mental illness and B. Amphetamine abuse has more or less stranded me in words. Verbs and nouns and adjectives and adverbs in place of sky and grass. What Fredric Jameson called the prison house of language. Where derrida’s difference goes to play for eternity, never quite meaning what it had meant to say. What shook wittgenstein speechless. The president’s rhetoric so hollow that you can almost see him suffering a kind of dementia or spiritual torpor that results from the badness of his faith. Chewing and chomping consonants and sounds till they all are made to mush and shearing syllable after syllable off the network of signification until all that’s left is one satellite pinging a distress call hello is anyone there off of its own side. It’s own side like Adam plucked Eve from his rib and said put on this dress-after they ate the fruit and God cast him/her out to walk the world alone reportedly God said have fun all alone you worthless slut. Imagine trumps final state of the union-i am very sick, i have been alone for as long as I can remember, i wish i hadn’t lied so often, i wish i had occasionally told the truth, i would trade all of it to have known just one person. 

Anyways, barring that miracle of political theater, the body gets sick and dissolves while the spirit is lost in words. I’d like to die in a bathroom stall in haughville with a rig stuck in my arm and the words I'm sorry stuck at the tip of my tongue and God decides to show some compassion and makes me a deal says you were never much good to people didn’t believe in a thing but you sure could do some impressive vomiting up of nonsense words and so what ill do is your soul will dissolve and turn into ink and for the rest of eternity you’ll be a naughty joke or a half-scribbled doggerel scrawled on the wall of a piss-soaked bathroom stall in the ghetto or you could say call this number here for a good time and don’t forget to ask for large marge and nobody’d ever suspect you were trapped in there or maybe a joke like this favorite of mine about my son it goes something like Jesus Christ was a God-awful carpenter, couldn’t pull a nail to save his own life. Christ was a God-awful, couldn’t pull a nail to save his own life. Couldn't pull a nail. Christ was God-awful. Couldn’t nail his own couldn’t save a carpenter terrible couldn’t pull god-awful a terrible carpenter he couldn’t pull a nail to save his own life. I can’t pull this nail to save my own life. It’s right there sticking out of my wrist, but for whatever reason I just can’t find the right words to pull it out he was a carpenter who couldn’t pull a nail even if his life depended on it couldn't save his own life he couldn't-

For a good time call this number 1-555-555-5555 and don’t forget to ask for-

[scripttorture]

1) can you tell me about/direct me to resources about 18th century torture methods? 2) a few pirates of that time period (like Roche Braziliano and Francois L'Ollonais) were fond of cutting peoples' tongues off. I know nowadays people get tongue cancer, have it removed, and they can still function. But in the 18th century do you know how risky this might have been and what complications it had? 3) you're cool and helpful, thanks for this blog

Well- yes I can but the world is a big placeand those methods vary depending on where in the world you mean.

 You’ve talked aboutpirates but all that does is narrow it down to 3-4 continents instead of thefull 6. So this is probably going to be a pretty shallow overview of a lot of countries and cultures. If youwant more information about particular methods or places then feel free to sendme another ask. :)

 Generally speaking Ithink you’ve hit on a reallyinteresting time period.

 While anti-black racismhad really started to rise in Europe this was still a time when the Empires ofsub-Saharan Africa were militarily strong, wealthy and (while this variedacross countries obviously) powerful centres of learning. There was a lot ofEuropean exploitation of the New World but at the beginning of the century thenations there had not yet been decimated by Europeans. Further afield from thearea you’re focusing on the Ottoman Empire was hugely powerful and countriesthat would make up modern day India and Pakistan were phenomenally wealthy.

 There were a lot of trade routes crossing the globeand the ease of trade and the opening up of new trade routes was bringing moreand more people into closer contact with each other.

 As a multicultural personI tend to think mostly in terms of the positives this kind of increased globalconnectivity brings. But this time period really highlights how exchange ofideas can lead to some pretty ghastly things too.

 This really was theheight of the trans-atlantic slave trade and since piracy was closely linked tothat trade I think I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk about it and the torturesused on both sides of the ocean.  

 The trans-atlanticslave trade really marks a turning point in global torture because it providedan economic incentive for people to develop ‘clean’ non-scarring tortures. Notcoincidentally this is also the time the European public started to findwhipping of Europeans distasteful. Sothroughout the century the traditional punishments in navies and army unitswere gradually replaced with anotherbranch of clean tortures.

 Lets start with theslave trade: that will give a general overview of torture at the time inWestern Africa, the Caribbean and parts of North and South America.

 The initial period ofcapture seems (so far as I can tell) to have been relatively free of torture.Victims who resisted or were seriously injured were generally murdered by theirattackers. On the West African side most torture happened while slaves werebeing transported.

 Forced marches,starvation, dehydration, exposure and neglect were common. Restraints as a formof torture were also in regular use; heavy metal manacles with sharp edges werethe most common form. These cut into limbs (generally the wrists, ankles andneck) and when around the neck may have been heavy enough to restrictbreathing. Wounds from the restraints could easily become infected, especiallysince slaves were kept in frankly squalid conditions. Infections and otherdiseases were not treated.

 Women and girls wereroutinely raped. To the point where there were structures specifically builtfor carrying out rapes. I don’t have any data on rape or sexual assault of menbut I presume that it also occurred.

 Holding areas, largepens or barns essentially, along the coast of Western Africa were overcrowdedand filthy. People were packed in to the extent that they could not moveeasily. There was no ventilation. They stood and sat in their own filth and thefilth of the people who’d passed through before.

 Then there were theships.

 The best comparison tothe space allocated to a person on a slave ship is probably a coffin. Theycould not stand or sit up; often there wasn’t space to lie down comfortablyeither. The victims could move enough that I can’t describe this as a stressposition but it isn’t far off. Theywould have been kept in permanent physical discomfort by these conditions andthere would have been muscular damage (similar too but to a lesser extent thanin stress positions) as a result.

 Sores were common,which led to more infections because once again they were kept in unhygienicconditions, surrounded by vomit and human waste. Additionally they were kept onstarvation diets with little water.

 Once the ships reachedthe New World these people were once again confined in squalid conditionsbefore being sold. Generally at this point the survivors (somewhere between30-50% died in the crossing on ship, I do not have any figures for transportwithin the African continent currently) were given better rations in an attemptto make them look healthier.

 Tortures at this pointtended to be clean. Stress positions in particular ‘bucking’ or ‘the parrot’sperch’ (USA and Brazil) started to become more common. The victim’s ankles aretied together, knees bent and their arms are wrapped around their knees. Theirhands are tied together and a stick is inserted into the gap below the knee andabove the elbow. The victim is then hoisted into the air and left danglingupside down with the stick digging painfully into their knees. Victims duringthe slave trade in the New World were sometimes transported like this as well.

 Stress positions usingrestraints seem to have been a trend in this area at that time.

 After the victims weresold scarring tortures became more common. Whipping and beating were ubiquitousacross the New World. Thumbscrews were favoured in Brazil. Branding and burningwas wide spread. The Code Noir of Haiti specifies mutilations and amputationsfor specific ‘crimes’, examples include branding the shoulders or face andcutting off the ears.

 Death by coveringpeople in boiling sugar or by leaving them buried with the head exposed alsooccurred throughout the Caribbean. As did hangings and at least one case ofusing the Wheel. Dogs were bred specifically to hunt humans.

 Obviously practicesvaried across countries as varied as Jamaica and Brazil. I’m trying tohighlight practices that were widespread, ‘typical’ or show how influences fromparticular places. The New World was the site of protracted and incrediblyinventive cruelties because these societies were built on slavery.

 For further informationyou may want to consult the Code Noir, BlackJacobins by C L R James which is available free online, or well practicallyany book on Caribbean or Brazilian history worth the name.

 I’m going to step backa moment now to talk about torture in some of the West African countries thevictims came from.

 So far as I can tell atthis time (and my reading is far from complete) torture in the Dahomean, Beninand (broadly speaking) Yoruba Kingdoms (which made up a good chunk of the coastfrom modern central Nigeria into Togo) was mostly punishments that weredesigned to kill. It was mostly analogous to the English practice of hangingdrawing and quartering or the more broadly European practice of breaking on thewheel. The practice I’ve heard of most commonly in coastal Western Africa wasthrowing people from tall buildings.

 There are Europeansources at the time which describe mass killings and often sensationallydescribe them as ‘sacrifices’. (I’m thinking of Dahomey in particular here-).So far as I can tell there’s little evidence that these practices were strictlyreligious. More sober analysis has suggested the victims were criminals and/orprisoners of war and that sentences built up over an entire year were allcarried out during a particular week.

 The bias in theavailable sources makes it difficult to speak about torture in the region withany clarity.

 One thing we do know is that at the time a lot ofthese coastal Kingdoms had been somewhat destabilised by their northernneighbours. Expansionism further inland had led to waves of refugees fleeingsouth, sometimes with armies pursuing them. This created a lot of conflict inthe region as a whole. Which means that ideas about torture were probably also changing within the region, spreadby raiding soldiers and fleeing victims.

 Which brings us to the other armies that were changing theirtorture-practices at the time: the armies of Europe.

 During the 1700swhipping soldiers and sailors fell out of favour. It was seen as unsavoury anduncivilised. In response to public disapproval European military groups changedtheir tactics, moving away from scarring and towards clean tortures.

 Generally speaking theysettled on forced exercise, stress positions and exposure as ‘acceptable’punishments (an attitude Europe and indeed America has found hard to shake).

 I’m unsure whichcountries started the trend, but Britain based their stress positions on practices seen in the Prussian army andthe Anglo-Saxon tradition of stress positions seems to me distinct from theFrench.

 The core of the Britishtechniques were ‘crucifixion’, ‘the picket’ and the saw-horse. Briefly thesewere: a standing stress position tied to a fixed object with arms outstretchedas a T shape or X shape, a suspension torture where the victim was suspended bythe wrist with their weight resting on a spike below their foot, and a seatedstress position with the victim tied straddling a sharp wooden device, legstied straight and weighted.

 The French seem to havefavoured ‘the silo’ which is a squatting stress position. The victim is tiedhand and foot in a sort of half-crouch. This was done in a specially dug pit sothe victim was also exposed to the elements in a pool of their own waste.

And of course there were also Inquisitions running in Europe and in European colonies, torturing and murdering Jews, Muslims and practitioners of traditional religions in Europe and the New World. 

 That’s three pages andI haven’t touched Asia or indeed any part of Africa that’s south or east ofNigeria.

 In terms of piracy in the New World in the 1700sthese are the torture traditions they’d be exposed to and these are the onesthey’d likely draw on: slavery and the military techniques of the time. This doesn’t mean that your torturers couldn’t invent their own, just thatthese are the methods they’re likely to be aware of.

 (Also please give memore specific areas in the future readers- the only reason I could reel offthis much is because West African and Caribbean history are long standinginterests of mine.)

 Which I think brings usto tongues.

 I’ve double checkedthis with ScriptMedic and a lot ofcomplications are springing to mind.

 Firstly blood loss: thetongue is a lump of muscle with a fair few veins and arteries going through it.

 Secondly infection,which is a risk in and of itself but could also cause-

 Swelling of the throat,restricting breathing or the ability to eat.

 The tongue is also usedto swallow, by definition removing it is going to cause some problems eatingand drinking.

 My instinct is that if this healed the victim would probablyhave long standing issues getting enough to eat and drink. It might also beeasier for them to choke on their food and drink.

 Any of these thingswould be pretty serious complications when there’s not really any medical careavailable.

 And I’m going to stop answering this question now beforemy answer sprouts another 2,000 words.

 I hope this helps. :)

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