#Praise be to the patchwork king!!!!! :]

[waywardwarren]

These threads are so fine. Finite, fragile lines...

[dee-writes-anime]

Chapter 1: The Witch Accused

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY In a village consumed by sickness and fear, you, an accused witch, are captured by a desperate mob and dragged to face judgment before the King of Curses, Sukuna.

CONTENT WARNINGS detailed depictions of a village struggling with disease, starvation, and decay, mentions of sickly children, livestock death, and human mortality, tense interactions between the narrator and villagers, including verbal accusations and implied mob violence, scenes of witchcraft involving blood and incantations, implied religious conflict, subtle criticism of faith and its intersection with fear and blame.

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The village had always been a brittle thing, teetering on the edge of ruin long before I was born. It was nestled into the crook of a valley, cradled by sinking hills that slumped like jagged scars against the horizon. It wasn’t a place you’d stumble upon by chance- hidden away from trade routes, tucked between forests thick with bramble and treacherous rives prone to flooding. The isolation had once been its greatest strength, a sanctuary from the wars and chaos that riddled the lands. 

And then the sickness came.  

It began as a quiet invader, seeping through the village like a shadow, causing soil to grow stubborn. Clinging to the roots of crops like a jealous lover, dark and heavy with clay. Even in the best seasons, it gave little, forcing villagers to rely heavily on cattle and scrape by on meager harvests of bitter greens, barley, and the occasional patch of onions. 

Then those shadows curled through pens, infecting the cattle that the village had once praised. Once sturdy beasts began to collapse in fields, their bodies bloating under the summer sun, they milky eyes staring blankly into the void. The surviving livestock, fewer in number each year, were gaunt and skittish, their hides stretched thin over sharp bones. They too seemed to sense the growing death in the shadows as their milk soured and their offspring grew weaker and weaker.  

And finally, shadows of sickness- of death- slipped through the cracks of straw roofs, finally having curled into every corner. The village itself was a patchwork of survival—wooden homes leaning against each other for support, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of neglect. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys, its bitter scent a constant companion, mingling with the acrid tang of unwashed bodies and the faint, coppery smell of blood from the butcher’s hut. A well sat at the heart of the village, its water once fresh and clear, now tinged with a faint, metallic aftertaste that no one dared question too closely. 

The people bore the signs of its slow, merciless grip. Their skin was sallow, stretched thin over angular bones, their hands chapped and cracked from work that never seemed to end. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes told stories of sleepless nights and empty stomachs. Their clothes, once simple but serviceable, were now threadbare and patched so many times the original fabric was hardly recognizable. Loose tunics hung over narrow shoulders, cinched at the waist with frayed cords, and the occasional shawl or cloak—woven from coarse, undyed wool—offered meager protection against the cold.  

The children fared no better. Their bare feet left prints in the mud as they scurried between homes, their laughter thin and fleeting. Many of them had red-rimmed eyes from coughing fits that never quite left, their small hands gripping sticks or scraps of wood as makeshift toys. Even the strongest among them looked frail, as though the village itself drained the life from them as payment for their survival. 

Generations had lived and died here, their lives marked by toil and prayer, yet little else. The temple at the edge of the village was the tallest structure, its roof patched with mismatched tiles scavenged from who-knew-where. Its wooden beams sagged, and the faint chime of its bell at dusk carried a mournful note. It stood as a monument to the villagers’ faith—faith that had grown brittle over the years, much like the wooden beams that groaned under its weight. 

Said temple was led by the “elders,” who could be considered a different breed entirely. They were wiry and hunched, their backs bent from years of labor in the fields and the weight of authority they carried like millstones around their necks. Elder Kazu was their figurehead, his face a web of wrinkles that deepened every time he spoke. His hair, sparse and snow-white, framed a narrow face with sharp, calculating eyes. He walked with a gnarled staff, its wood polished smooth by years of use, and though his voice cracked when he spoke, it still carried the weight of command. 

Beside him were the others—Elder Masami, with her thin lips and perpetually furrowed brow, and Elder Daiki, who had long since lost his teeth but none of his sharpness. Their clothing was slightly more intact than the rest of the villagers’, a sign of their status. Masami’s long tunic was adorned with faded embroidery at the cuffs, a hint of red thread that might once have been vibrant. Daiki wore a heavy woolen cloak draped over his narrow shoulders, its edges fraying but still imposing in its bulk. 

The market square was little more than a dirt clearing where merchants used to come, though their visits had dwindled to nothing in recent years. Even the well, the village’s lifeline, bore signs of decay. Its stone walls were cracked, and the water within tasted faintly of iron, as though the sickness had poisoned even the earth. 

The sickness only worsened from there as fevers stole both the strongest and weakest, the oldest and youngest, with seemingly no pattern, leaving behind far too little with scars in the shape of coughs that lingered like unwelcome guests. They seemed to move through this dying world like ghosts, their footsteps quiet, their voices softer still. A people clinging to the remnants of a life they no longer believed in and no matter how many stories the elders told, their eyes stayed empty. At first, they blamed the river, its waters swollen and brackish after a summer storm. Then they blamed the traders who passed through, though fewer came with each year. The blame shifted like the wind, but the sickness stayed, digging its claws deeper with each passing season. The village had limped through years of disease, desperation a constant companion whispering in the ears of the villagers as they eventually turned their gaze to me.  

“Her,” they whispered. “It’s because of her.” 

They never said it to my face, of course. They feared me too much for that. When I walked through the market square, their conversations would drop into hushed tones, their gazes shifting quickly to the ground. Mothers pulled their children close as I passed, shielding them as if my shadow might curse them. The few merchants brave—or desperate—enough to trade with me kept their words clipped and their hands trembling as they handed over what I bought. I never bargained with them. I paid full price or not at all. It wasn’t charity. It was control. They’d seldom leave small offerings at my doorstep —half-eaten loaves of bread, broken beads, wilted flowers. Apologies, or perhaps bribes, to keep my wrath at bay. 

To them, I was an outsider, not because of where I came from but because of what I could do. They feared me, but they needed me, and that fragile thread had kept their hatred at bay for a while. 

But it wasn’t always this way. Once, I had been one of them, tolerated if not entirely accepted. My knowledge of herbs and remedies had been a boon when the sickness first came. I had eased their fevers, soothed their children’s aches, and kept the worst of it at bay for a time. But the lands were sick—sicker than any tincture or spell could fix—and my small successes weren’t enough. The people needed someone to blame, and it was easier to point to the witch who lived on the outskirts of the village than to face their own failures or the cruelty of the world. 

Their fear, though, was not entirely misplaced. 

I was no saint. My patience had worn thin years ago. The first time someone dared to accuse me outright, I made a spectacle of it. I hadn’t harmed them—no need to dirty my hands for a fool—but I had spoken their name during a storm, loud enough for the thunder to carry it, and left dried bones where they would find them. I let their imagination do the rest. The next morning, they left the village, and no one dared to follow. 

Now, they called me a monster behind closed doors, muttering their curses to their gods, but they still came to me when they had nowhere else to turn. When the children coughed too hard to breathe. When their crops failed, and they needed someone to tell them it wasn’t their fault. I helped them—sometimes—but not without reminding them of what I was capable of. They needed the fear as much as I needed them to feel it. 

For all their hatred, they couldn’t help themselves. It was easier to fear me than to admit their gods had abandoned them, that the sickness in the lands had no cure. 

Despite their fear, the village clung to its routines like a lifeline. The blacksmith’s hammer still rang out in the mornings, dull thuds echoing through the square. Children still played near the well, their laughter sharp and fleeting, as though they knew better than to let it linger. The temple bells still chimed at dusk, their hollow tones calling for prayers that no one truly believed would be answered. 

But beneath it all, the air was thick with tension, like the pause before a storm. The villagers had spent years shouldering their burdens, but even the strongest beams splinter under enough weight. And when they broke, they would come for me. 

The village was a place that could survive anything, but it would never thrive. It was a monument to endurance, a lesson in scarcity. It had stood against the odds for generations, but I could see the cracks spreading, could hear the creak of its foundations. These people had long since forgotten how to hope, how to dream. I’d watched it happen, year by year. All they knew now was fear. 

And fear, I had learned, could only be contained for so long. 

“Morning, Elder Kazu,” I said as I passed, my tone polite but edged with sharpness. My hands clutched the woven basket at my side, filled with bundles of herbs I had spent the morning collecting. The elder gave a stiff nod in return, but his jaw was tight, the corners of his mouth pulled downward. 

“Witch,” he said finally, his voice low, as though afraid it might carry. “The land suffers, and you—” He hesitated, his lips trembling before he found the courage to finish. “You walk as if it doesn’t touch you.” 

I stopped mid-step, turning to look at him. The others near the well froze, their eyes darting between the two of us like rabbits scenting a wolf. 

“You think I’m untouched?” I asked, keeping my voice calm, almost pleasant. I stepped closer, slow enough to watch him shift uncomfortably. “Tell me, Elder Kazu, how untouched I must be when you’ve come to me five times this year for teas to ease your cough? Or when your grandson came to me, pale as death, because nothing the temple priests did could break his fever?” 

Kazu’s jaw tightened further, and his fingers curled around the edge of his walking stick. “And I paid you for those things.” 

“Yes,” I said, my voice like silk. “You did.” 

I let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating. One of the other elders shuffled uncomfortably, the sound of his sandals scraping against the dirt breaking the quiet. 

“I’ve done no harm to you or this village, and yet you speak of me as though I brought the sickness upon the land myself.” I leaned in just slightly, enough to make Kazu stiffen. “Perhaps you should stop looking for devils in the shadows and instead ask why your gods have turned their backs on you.” 

The crowd around us sucked in a collective breath, their fear palpable. Kazu’s face turned red, anger mingling with something sharper, something he wouldn’t dare admit to himself: fear. 

I straightened and turned to go, my basket swaying lightly at my side. “Let me know if your grandson’s cough returns,” I said over my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want him to suffer for your pride.” 

Later that day, as I sat outside my small home on the outskirts of the village, I saw her approaching. I recognized her as one of the people in the crowd from earlier in the morning, she had been clutching the rosary at her chest as she watched the whole ordeal, shaking like a leaf. The woman’s steps were hesitant, her child clinging to her skirts. She wasn’t the first to come here, and she wouldn’t be the last. Still, I didn’t move, watching as she stopped a few feet away. 

“Please,” she said, her voice trembling. Her eyes darted around as though she feared being seen. “My son—he hasn’t been able to breathe all day. The priest said... said it’s in the hands of the gods now.” 

The boy’s face was pale, lips tinged blue, his breaths shallow and uneven. It was a cruel sight, one that tugged at the edges of my mind, though I wouldn’t show it. 

“And you think my hands will do better than theirs?” I asked, leaning back against the doorframe. My tone wasn’t kind, but neither was it cruel. It was deliberate. 

She hesitated, clutching the boy tighter. “Please,” she said again, desperation cracking her voice. “I’ll pay you.” 

I tilted my head slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her fear to blossom. Then I stood and pushed the door open with a creak. “Bring him inside.” 

She hurried past me, her steps unsteady but driven by urgency. The child let out a wet, gasping cough as she lowered him onto the cot near the hearth. I ignored her trembling, focusing on the boy. He was far gone, but not beyond my reach. Not yet. 

“Wait outside,” I said, not bothering to look at her. “You’ll only make it worse.” 

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it, retreating reluctantly. The door creaked shut behind her, and I let out a slow breath. Alone at last. 

I crouched beside the boy, studying his face. His breathing was shallow, his small chest rising and falling unevenly. Reaching into my basket, I pulled out a bundle of herbs and laid them on the table, their pungent aroma filling the room. 

I worked quickly, grinding the leaves into a thick paste with a mortar and pestle. The rhythm of the grinding was steady, almost hypnotic. With a knife, I nicked my finger, letting a few drops of blood fall into the mixture. The paste hissed and darkened as my blood met the herbs, a faint shimmer rippling across the surface. 

“Breathe, child,” I murmured, my voice low and steady. “Breathe deep.” 

I smeared the paste across his chest, the dark substance soaking into his skin. His body jerked, his back arching slightly as his lungs fought against the weight pressing down on them. I closed my eyes, pressing a hand over his chest as I muttered an incantation under my breath. The words were old, their cadence sharp and commanding, filling the space with a thrumming energy that crackled in the air. 

The room grew still, the tension thick as the boy gasped suddenly, his breaths deep and ragged. The blue tint in his lips began to fade, replaced by a faint flush of color. His chest rose and fell evenly now, the rattling gone. 

I wiped my hands on a rag and sat back, watching him sleep. The paste on his chest had vanished, absorbed into his skin, leaving only the faintest trace of its presence. I felt the pull of exhaustion settle into my limbs, but it was a familiar weight, one I had learned to carry. 

The door creaked open, and the mother stepped inside. She froze when she saw him, her hands flying to her mouth. “He’s—” Her words broke into a sob as she dropped to her knees beside the cot, gathering the boy into her arms. 

She turned to me, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Thank you.” 

I should have known they wouldn’t leave it at whispers. Fear has a way of festering, and tonight, it seemed ready to boil over.  

It had only been hours since I sent the woman back on her way that I heard a knock at my door. It was sharp, relentless, and entirely unwelcome. 

I didn’t answer at first, letting it echo through the quiet of my home. Only a fool would come to my door so late, but then again, this village was full of fools. When the knocking didn’t stop, I sighed, setting aside the herbs I’d been drying by the hearth. The hour was late, and I wasn’t in the mood for their desperation tonight. 

When I opened the door, I was met with the gnarled face of Elder Kazu. Behind him stood three men, their faces half-hidden in the dim glow of lantern light, their expressions tight with unease. 

“Elder Kazu,” I said, my voice flat. “To what do I owe this intrusion?” 

The elder’s gaze darted past me, as if searching for something—or someone—inside. His knotted hands gripped his staff tightly, and his jaw was set with a determination I hadn’t seen before. Behind him, the men shifted uncomfortably, their fingers tightening around the tools they carried: a shovel, a rusted scythe, and a length of rope. 

“The child died,” Kazu said, his voice cracking like dry wood. “Despite your... efforts.” 

I stiffened, the words sinking like stones into my chest. The child from earlier. His mother had come to me, begging for help, and I had given it. My craft was strong, stronger than their faithless gods. But sometimes, even I could not bend fate. 

“And you think that’s my fault?” I asked, my voice calm, though I could feel the simmer of heat beneath it. 

“You said you healed him!” one of the men snarled, stepping forward. I recognized him—Hajime, the father of the boy. His face was twisted with grief, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. “You lied! You cursed him, just like you’ve cursed this whole village!” 

I met his glare, unflinching. “Your boy was dying when you brought him to me. I bought him time, nothing more. If you want to blame someone, blame the sickness in the land. Blame your gods for abandoning you.” 

Hajime surged forward, but Kazu caught him with a firm hand. “Enough!” the elder barked. His voice wavered but held enough authority to make Hajime fall back, trembling with fury. 

“It’s not just the boy,” Kazu said, turning back to me. His voice was quieter now, almost steady. “The crops failed again. The cattle are dying. More children are sick. And yet, here you stand, untouched. Unharmed.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “You think my survival is proof of guilt? Perhaps it’s just proof that I’m smarter than the rest of you.” 

That was the wrong thing to say. 

The men moved as one, lunging forward with clumsy but determined hands. I fought back, my nails raking across flesh as I twisted and kicked, but there were too many of them. Rope snaked around my wrists, biting into my skin as they wrenched my arms behind my back. Someone grabbed my hair, forcing my head down as they shoved me into the dirt. 

“Let go of me!” I snarled, my voice cutting through the night. “Do you think this will save you? Do you think your gods will return because you’ve tied up the only one who ever helped you?” 

“Quiet!” Kazu barked, his staff slamming into the ground with a dull thud. “We’ve had enough of your poison, witch. You’ll answer for what you’ve done.” 

They hauled me to my feet, the rope biting deeper as they dragged me into the square. My bare feet scraped against the ground, the cold seeping into my skin as the village came alive around us. Doors creaked open, faces peering out, and soon the square was full of murmurs and nameless faces. 

Shadows danced wildly across the thatched roofs of the village as torches flickered in trembling hands. They gathered around me like vultures circling a corpse, their whispers rising into a chant, fueled by fear and hatred that churned like poison in their veins. 

I stood in the center of it all, bound at the wrists, my face cloaked in shadow but my eyes unyielding. The ropes dug into my skin, rough and unrelenting, but I refused to show pain. My gaze swept over the crowd, unwavering, as if I were the one passing judgment. Their anger faltered when I looked at them—cowards, every last one of them. Some shifted uneasily, others clutched their children closer, as if I might lash out and curse them where they stood. 

“She brought this on us!” Kazu’s voice cracked like dry leaves, his bony finger trembling as it pointed in my direction. “The deaths! The sickness! It’s her witchcraft!” 

I tilted my head, letting the ghost of a smile curl my lips. “Witchcraft?” My voice was low, but it cut through the din like a blade. “Is that what you call your own failures?” 

The crowd rippled with unease, torches flickering as if the flames themselves feared me. I could almost taste their panic, a bitter tang that fed the growing ember of defiance in my chest. They wanted to blame me for everything that had gone wrong in their miserable little lives. They wanted a villain. And here I was, bound and ready to play the part. Their silence wasn’t just fear—it was a storm gathering strength, waiting to break.

“She has no shame!” a woman screeched, clutching her rosary so tightly it threatened to snap. “We must end this before her evil consumes us all!” 

The crowd closed in, their faces a blur of fear and hatred, their torches casting wild, flickering light. I felt the first tendrils of panic claw at my chest, but I shoved them down, keeping my gaze sharp and my spine straight. 

“If you think fire will save you,” I said, my voice ringing out over the square, “then you’ve already lost.” 

The words did little to calm them. If anything, it seemed to embolden them, their cries rising into a unified chant: “Burn her! Burn her!” 

Kazu raised a hand, silencing them with a single motion. “We’ll do nothing without the lord’s permission,” he said, his voice steady now. “Sukuna will decide her fate.” 

The name hung in the air, heavier than the smoke. Sukuna. The King of Curses. The monster who ruled over life and death in this land. I had heard the stories—the whispers of his cruelty, his insatiable hunger for destruction, his throne built on blood and fear. A chill ran through me at the thought of standing before him, but I didn’t flinch. Not here. Not now. 

The crowd parted as Kazu motioned for the men to drag me forward. My knees scraped against the dirt, my wrists burning against the rough rope. But I kept my head high, meeting their hateful glares with the same sharp defiance I always had. 

The forest loomed ahead, its shadows deep and foreboding, swallowing the torchlight as if even the trees feared the lord who reigned over this land. I kept my eyes forward as they pushed me forward, every step deliberate. Each one echoed my silent vow: If death awaited me at the end of this road, I would meet it standing tall. 

But deep in my chest, something stirred. Not hope—not even fear—but curiosity. A dark, creeping curiosity. If Sukuna was truly the monster they said he was, perhaps he would see what I already knew. That I didn’t belong in this crowd of cowards and fools. That my place wasn’t here, bound and powerless, but somewhere far greater. 

The flames of the torches dimmed as we disappeared into the forest’s embrace. With them went the last remnants of my old life. Whatever awaited me on the other side, I wouldn’t bow to it. Not to Sukuna, not to anyone. If the King of Curses wanted to break me, he’d need far more than rope and cowardly men. 

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE what better way to ring in the new year than posting the first chapter to a new series? Hope you enjoyed this one, my loves! More is coming very soon… hopefully 🩷🩷

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings

[phneltwrites]

Sunday Snippet

and cause there's no rules, here's also a sunday snippet from the time loop fic

“Don’t you see how stupid that is? I’m—this is a blip. I know you respect the monarchy, but you don’t have to force yourself to give deference to my temporary place in it. For God’s sake, you take orders from me, a disrespectful, undignified little brat. I’m seventeen, and you’ve been doing this…” Wilhelm realises he doesn’t know.

“Since before you were born,” Jan Olof supplies. “I was there when you were born. I wasn’t senior enough to attend the former Crown Prince’s birth, but I was present at yours. I held you when the nurse came to weigh you.”

That stops Wilhelm in his tracks. It’s too strange to contemplate. As he thinks about it, he doesn’t have any memories before Jan Olof. His earliest memory is of him falling on the gravel path by the east garden and skinning his knee. It’s a patchwork memory, sensations and snippets. The excitement of running, and then the disorientation of the fall making him scared and unsure. He can see the rip in his pants and the blood on his hands, little scratches with rocks in them that are blurry through his teary eyes. And he can see Jan Olof’s face, large and looming as he waves a woman over with antiseptic and bandaids. It stung and he held Jan Olof’s hand. The memory stuck with him because there were so many people and everyone was so upset. He knew he’d done something wrong. But Jan Olof was calm. He looked after him. It’s weird, right? To not remember much before that?

“My duty is to you. You are an opinionated teenager,” Jan Olof continues. “Opinionated youths often become measured and powerful adults. Those qualities could serve you well as King, Crown Prince.” This is the greatest praise Jan Olof has ever given him. 

“You think I could be a good King?” He can’t believe that. Wilhelm spins and leans on Jan Olof’s desk, hands gripping the edge behind him. Wilhelm gapes at him. He thought he understood it. Jan Olof didn’t like him and would prefer someone who fit the role better, someone more charismatic, more masculine. His mother made it sound like they were trying to replace him, that Wilhelm had to audition for the role of Crown Prince. But if Jan Olof didn’t want it, then, why?

[wilbycoles]

May 24

Identity theft is a concern for everyone online, especially after all the data breaches releasing personally identifiable information such as passwords, social security numbers, addresses, and credit card numbers. It is also an issue that Christians have to deal with in the spiritual realm.

Online identity-theft involves the bad guys learning enough of your information to assume your identity and steal your resources.

They try to find and trick information from any source they can, leaving you alone and unaware, ignorant of what is going on, while they proceed to visit banks and merchants who have what they want and convince them that, based on your reputation and credit report, there is no harm in sending merchandise and money to a different address.

God's people have to deal with His enemy convincing THEM that they are NOT who God declares them to be, and therefore have no right to all of the Spirit's richest resources of strength and power and love and forgiveness, the privileges of right-standing with God such as immediate access to His presence and the assurance of our requests being heard and answered, His anointing to save, heal, and deliver, the roadside benefits of legions of heaven's angels to rescue and defend us when attacked or needing help along our journey.

Psalm 143:2 Do not bring Your servant into judgment, for no one living is righteous before You.

God's enemy, our enemy, cannot use the riches that God has assigned and attributed to us; all he wants to do is keep us from using them for ourselves and for others, to further God's kingdom, and his only tools are lies and half-truths designed to generate fear, intimidation, doubt, condemnation.

"You haven't felt God's presence yet today - " perhaps true "- because God is too busy for your little worries." completely false, but matches our natural limits which we project on to God until the Word and Spirit reveal the depth of His love

"What right do you have to approach such a holy God?" never give attention to a question the enemy asks, for he frames it to his advantage

"That sin you committed cuts you off from God - " no one knows that better than the devil " - so you should just give up and quit trying." as long as I get up one time more than I fall down, I have endured, and have God's victory.

Go to the Scriptures and study who you are, learn who you are, remember who you are.

Not the the identity the world assigns you, not the caricature held up to you by God's enemy, not the patchwork crazy-quilt of memories you retain from childhood, but the truthful, honest, loving, eternal description in the Word of God that declares you are His beloved, for only God searches the heart, and only God does not lie.

Psalms 143 v.8 Let the morning bring me word of Your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in You. Show me the way I should go, for to You I lift up my soul. v.9 Rescue me from my enemies, O Lord, for I hide myself in You. v.10 Teach me to do Your will, for You are my God; may Your good Spirit lead me on level ground. v.11 For Your name's sake, O Lord, preserve my life; in Your righteousness, bring me out of trouble. v.12 In Your unfailing love, silence my enemies; destroy all my foes, for I am Your servant.

Beloved and loving Lord, You speak truth to us, even when it is truth too wonderful for us to comprehend.

You love us, and while we daily grow into a greater understanding of that, we accept it where we stand and let it soak into our hearts and let it echo back to You as we give voice to our thanks and praise of Your eternal lovingkindness.

Thank You for helping us stand firm on Your word and fling off the attacks of the enemy.

Thank You that You proclaim us priests and kings and assign us tasks in which we can serve.

In You we have our identity, and in You we are useful and productive.

Zechariah 7 v.9 This is what the Lord Almighty says: 'Administer true justice; show mercy and compassion to one another. v.10 Do not oppress the widow or the fatherless, the alien or the poor. In your hearts do not think evil of each other.

[nvrcmplt]

How quickly his lips sneered upon the mention of the patchwork was nearly a blink and miss it expression. Though he watched Nanami process his compliments and praises, the Hound did enjoy watching them fluster without much to show for it. Be it the folding of the newspaper in a finger or like their words in return. Verbal embarrassment. It made the Hound rather pleased within himself - though when given more statements in the form of curious questions, Weiss was surprised it had taken this long.

Nanami was a beautiful man with a beautiful mind and yet an everlasting respectful silence in his being. A mature mind that took things in its stride but Weiss' was happy now. Nanami was showing interest into the oddities that was His being. Through tales of Hounds was always in ink, pictures and poems from mouths - many didn't actually know what they did. Tales of hunting down sinners were true but not humanity. Hounds couldn't care less for humans, they weren't good for many things besides the source of their food.

They didn't eat humans like many books like to say, they ate the sin within their souls. They consumed the demons that escaped Hells Gates and hides within. Furthermore, they take away the monsters in the blood and leave behind the aftermath of a corpse long gone. Hades, Satan - monstrous names of the King of Hell, Weissager knew of only dutiful orders.

Hunt The Sinners. Punish the Damned. Protect the Weak. Herd the Lost.

Blinking gently and tilting his head only slight, did the Hound begin to answer for his human. "Souls, do not have a shape nor standard colour. Humans are very versatile in their emotions and cores. The soul can not be mimicked by another but can be similar in families." Weiss started, looking to the other's chest and a bit lower, the glow was welcoming to his sight. "Mothers share their souls with children, Fathers aid in moulding them. Siblings add colour. Friends and pets included." Since not everyone had a sibling. "There is a reason why, orphans become hollow, reason why those abused by their parents turn vile or die at their own hands."

"Colours are plentiful, never one colour or the same. No shade is claimed by one emotion more than another." It was a hard skill, to read souls - it was why it made things much easier for Hounds like himself to find their kind in them. "Demons - have no colour, we have only the void. A burning darkness from our lack of anything." Hands raise to press to his chest. "We are often depicted without hearts, but that is only slightly true. If the heart is a metaphor for lacking souls, it is correct. However, we are not emotionless nor void of feelings, we feel them. Intensely - stronger than humanity and animal alike. Our sense of duty comes first, which dulls that outlook to those that do not understand." Hands lower back to his lap, gaze shimmering before resting upon Nanami's own.

"Seeing someone through their Soul is very possible, but we Hounds lack a lot of knowledge of human activities. We can understand you are calm and warm, but we do not understand where it began or when." Glancing to Nanami's core again though, Weiss tilted his head a touch more before voicing it himself. "As like now, your core glows, warm and dim - content and at peace but its colours mix of the sky, sea and your blue shirt. Do these different shades mean different things? To me, I do not understand it, and you may not even know yourself." A blink then his gaze returns to Nanami.

"Demons that possess humans, corrode and burn the soul, consuming it like flies on shit." A scrunch of the Hound's nose. "That is what we hunt for on the human realm, escaped souls that have yet to fulfil their sentences of punishment for their wrongful ways. Creatures born of humanities worst souls. Abusers, murderers, rapists - are born from these things. The patchwork stain - he is a manifestation of it all in monster form… I doubt he sees souls for what they are, but what he can make them to be. His power… the skill he has to manipulate them, sickens me." The growl in his tone was nothing short of bone chilling, the furrow of his brow to a rare sight. "I do not like him."

"Outside of monsters like him, there are special souls. My brother and I, are the lucky few to find them. To witness one soul and bound with it." He's gaze lessened in its feral state, to return to a gaze of loving adoration, unhidden devotion. "Soul bonding… is a rarity. As hounds only bond once."

Sentence Starters; no longer accepting || @nvrcmplt

“   the  world’s  most  brilliant  jewel  is  in  your  soul.   ” //Weiss

     ❝PLEASE, WEISSAGER…❞ STATEMENTS LIKE this always embarrassed him, but that never stopped his partner from speaking them to him on a regular basis. Nanami was someone who merely accepted praise rather than took a great deal of it to heart. A formality, more or less. However, Weissager would have none of it. He would praise him until the world came to an end to the point that Nanami may even come to see things through their eyes. One day, perhaps. One day. Gently placing his coffee down upon the table with a faint thump, he temporarily took his gaze away from his newspaper to look upon the other. ❝I have always wondered what a soul looks like to a hellhound. Do they come in different colors? Can you see what kind of person you’re talking to just from sight alone? I know your kind chase after those who are supposed to be dragged down to hell, so I was always curious about that.❞ Sometimes he looked back at when he first began to notice Weissager watching him in the distance and how deeply unsettling it all had been. At first, he didn’t know why that was, and yet, he hadn’t been…distrusting of them.

     Only uncertain.

     Truthfully, he had a feeling of déjà vu from their constant visits and observing back then. That kind of feeling one had when they felt like they had seen someone before, and merely couldn’t recall where. That too had been curious, although Nanami never asked Weissager any questions about their curiosity. He had merely accepted it. ❝The patchwork curse could see souls too…or so they said.❞ Maybe it was the same as cursed energy…

[septembersghost]

Trended today- Roberta Flack 70s back to back Grammys Award ROTY (twitter.)com/1HillbillyWilly/status/1629003732775243777?s=20 (youtu.)be/kgl-VRdXr7I (youtu.)be/d8_fLu2yrP4 I wonder if their will be cameos of icons in Daisy & The Six? Fashion styles re-trending? Political, environmental & social issues from that era are still relevant & relatable right now- the response to that show will be interesting.

Critical reputation: Flack's minimalist, classically trained approach to her songs was seen by a number of critics as lacking in grit and uncharacteristic of soul music. According to music scholar Jason King, her work was regularly described with the adjectives "boring", "depressing", "lifeless", "studied", and "calculated"; in contrast, AllMusic's Steve Huey said it has been called "classy, urbane, reserved, smooth, and sophisticated". Wikipedia She made history despite the criticism or praise.

FOB mention- Flack's collaboration with Donny Hathaway is mentioned in the song "What A Catch, Donnie" on Fall Out Boy's fourth studio album, Folie à Deux. Wikipedia

🎵 MIIIIIIISS FLACK SAID: I STILL WANT YOU BACK. I GOT TROUBLED THOUGHTS AND THE SELF-ESTEEM TO MATCH 🎵 (such a me core lyric.) what a catch masterpiece, folie an album of all-time, so true.

both of those songs of roberta's are VERY famous, it's interesting to see those adjectives there, particularly note "calculated." hmmm.

i haven't read daisy jones yet, so i'm not sure if it references real musicians and icons of the time! the response will definitely be curious to see, it's SUCH an anticipated series this year.

regarding the fashion, i did love this little tidbit:

A subtle homage. Riley Keough plays a stylish 1970s rock star in Daisy Jones & the Six, so costume designer Denise Wingate knew she had to pay tribute to Keough’s grandfather, Elvis Presley.

“I met a woman, Love Melody, who designed clothes in the ’60s and made two jumpsuits for Elvis,” Wingate told E! News in an interview published on Monday, February 20.

The costumer, who previously worked on Cruel Intentions and She’s All That, reached out to Melody to create some pieces for 33-year-old Keough’s character, Daisy Jones.

“I had her make two beautiful long coats for Riley — one in a rust leather and another in patchwork denim. I felt it was important to bring something from that period,” Wingate explained. “And I think Riley was touched.”

[dreadwulf]

Through the Fire, To the Limit, To the Wall

part one  

part two  

part three 

the original Part Four, which will now be Five

(Here’s a surprise chapter of Ring of Fire! Or at least it was a surprise for me. This will actually slot in as chapter 4 on AO3, as it takes place before Jaime arrives at King’s Landing in the Burning Down the House chapter.)

For Podrick, at least, it is a beautiful day.

He had been awakened with a surly shout by the Commander's squire Peck, who called the boys to order like they were real soldiers, and they had clamoured up and out of their beds with a minimum of dawdling and giggling. They were all ages and sizes, and they lined up by height, rearranging themselves anew every day with Pod shoved somewhere in the middle. 

When everyone else had been sent to break their fast, he, Podrick, had been taken on a special mission, stealthily retrieving Oathkeeper from the armory tent. Peck had distracted the quartermaster with conversation while Pod slipped inside, and he had been quiet as a mouse searching through the weaponry to find the valyrian steel sword enclosed in a fine case lined with velvet. The blade stood nearly as tall as him, and he had to smuggle it under his cloak, holding tight to the scabbard with his hands behind his back and even then he looked to have a second head, but somehow no one had questioned him when he reappeared at Peck’s side and they managed to steal away together without raising any alarm. 

Peck’s praise for that had been nearly as great a reward as being allowed to swing the sword himself, for just a few moments, before they put it back in the scabbard and brought it to the wood where Ser Jaime awaited them. 

Ser Brienne had been there as well. She stood right next to the Commander and yet they had looked very far apart. But still, she had smiled to see Podrick, and the two of them had been set on a pretty chestnut horse and sent riding off into a new adventure -- leaving Pod’s new friends behind, but back together with his lady knight, a squire once more.

All in all, it is a wonderful start to a day, and it is still yet morning. 

“Did you enjoy your time in the Lannister camp, Podrick?” Ser Brienne asks him. She rides ahead of him, while the squire grips her waist, and she turns her head only a little to address him, so that he cannot see her face.

“Oh yes, milady,” Pod answers her excitedly. “Do you think we could go back for a visit someday?”

She turns away at that, and does not answer. 

They ride without speaking for some time. They look to be going east, with the sun stabbing directly at them through the trees. He holds onto her only lightly. Pod knows she had been badly hurt, is still recovering, and he does not want to pain her. He wonders if she is really recovered - any time he catches a glimpse of her face, her brow is furrowed with pain. Perhaps they should have stayed with the Lannister army a day longer. 

“Where will we ride to next, milady Ser?” he pipes up. 

Still she does not answer.

Ser Brienne has always kept herself to herself, and Podrick is accustomed to this. He feels fine riding silently with her, and today it is especially grand to be in her company again. It’s always all right either way, whether he talks or not. If he stammers she will not laugh at him, or hurry him along impatiently and push him through each sentence as Lord Tyrion used to. No, the quiet around her has room for him to finish his thoughts, and often in her company his stuttering lifts and he can speak quite normally. Or he can be quiet as a mouse, and she will not think him stupid or forget he is there.

There is often a great deal on her mind, and sometimes she is lost in her thoughts and does not answer him. But Ser Brienne remembers things he says even if she doesn’t reply. She always remembers Pod. She always makes sure he has food to eat and a warm place to sleep. She has been teaching him to fight with a sword, just because he asked her to, and she is a patient and forgiving teacher. If she promises him something she will do it without fail. She is solid and reliable and when there is danger she will be there to meet it first of anyone, and she would never run off and forget him or abandon him to a nasty fate. He knows that as surely as he knows the sun will rise. Pod is safe around Ser Brienne, though that is not a word or a sense that he is familiar with. He does not remember having a single home, or parents, but he remembers sleeping soundly under the stars with Ser Brienne watchful over him in the dark night, and that feeling must be much the same. 

Brienne stops them just before they reach Maidenpool. A train of wagons are rolling out of the growing settlement with a moderate guard. They wait a little ways back from the road.

“Lord Tarly’s men,” Podrick identifies the banner. “Allies of King Renly, and of the Tyrells.”

“Lord Tarly is no ally of mine,” she says darkly, and in a lower tone adds, “but what allies have I left?”

He tugs at her sleeve. “Should we tell him of Ser Hyle?” 

Ser Brienne frowns harder somehow. “What would we tell him? No. We avoid Lord Tarly for now.”

When the train has passed, they ride cautiously into Maidenpool. The streets are crowded, but all are about their own business -- moving livestock, doing morning chores. No one gives them a second glance. 

They pass the bathhouse, newly festooned in banners to cover the faded bloodstains on the stone. Women congregate all around it, dressed in bright colors, hair wet and shining in the morning sun.

“Maidenpool looks a fair sight better than it did when we saw it last,” Podrick says, attempting to be cheerful.

He expects her to still be surly and silent, and he is surprised when she stops the horse and answers him instead.

“When first I saw this place, the waters were bloated with corpses, and the streets filled only with burnt-out husks of buildings. Archers ambushed us here, and Ser Jaime and I fought them off.”

Pod blinks back at her. That must have been when Ser Jaime had been her prisoner, on the journey back to King’s Landing. She speaks of that rarely, even less than she speaks of everything. And then she looks back at him, as though she has just remembered that he is there.

“Do you know the tale of Jonquil’s Pool?” Brienne asks him abruptly.

“Yes, milady.” Pod offers it eagerly, leaning towards her. “The knight Ser Florian the Fool saw the lady Jonquil bathing there with her sisters, and he fell in love. Or at least, that’s the part I know.”

Brienne’s expression is distant and unreadable. She looks at the ladies going in and out of the bathhouse, and holds the reins tightly in her hands.

“He was a homely man, Florian. Picture him more patchwork than shining. His armor was mismatched and his reputation spotted. He was only a hedge knight and not well-born. He was no possible match for a highborn maid. But when he saw Jonquil in the bath he could not help but fall in love with her, for she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Despite everything, he could not help himself. And in time he won her heart, through many trials and heartaches, he won her.” 

Pod shrugs. “Those songs are for girls perhaps. I haven’t heard those parts. They never sang them for me.”

“Perhaps they are.” She darkens palpably, her face dipping down into shadow. “I used to love those songs. When I was a girl, or something like it. But I admit it was foolish, Pod. Life isn’t a song.”

She spurs her horse to ride on.  

“Could you sing it for me, milady?” His innocent face turns up to her. “One of the songs about Florian and Jonquil?”

She snorts. “Ser Jaime could have sung you Six Maidens in a Pool, with great enthusiasm.”

There is an odder silence after that. 

“Do you want to look at the pool, milady Ser? We could stop at the Bathhouse.”

“I’ve never seen it,”  she concedes faintly. “Though I’ve been past this way thrice before. But it’s a place for fine ladies, Pod. Not for me.”

Instead they stop at a stream on the other side of Maidenpool. This one is a fairly ordinary pool, fed by a small spring. Before the winter there would have been flowers, and one can see where they would have been. Now there are only sickly shrubs. The water, though, is lovely and clear. 

Brienne dismounts her horse and kneels, suddenly, at the side of the stream. For an odd moment, it seems as though she will remove her riding gear and wade into it. She did after all never get that bath she had been promised. Instead she only leans forward and cups her hands in the water, splashing her face. She leaves her hands covering her face a moment too long, and when she removes them she stares down into the mirrored surface of the water for a long while. 

“Pod,” she says very seriously, “did you fare well amongst the boys at the camp? Were you well treated?”

“Yes Milady,” Pod nods eagerly. “They have their own tent and it’s bigger, much bigger than the one we use, and dry and warm and they sing and tell tales all the night through. Then we rode in the wagons and slept when the army moved and at dusk we could run and play until full dark and then we got real meat to eat. Jossmyn Peck, Ser Jaime’s squire, he said he would spar with me sometime, we never did though…”

Brienne nods back slowly. “Were they frightened? The other boys?”

Pod frowns at her quizzically. “No. Should they be?”

“I suppose not.” Brienne looks up and down the road swiftly. “Would you like to go back to them for a time?”

He frowns harder. “Aren’t we on a quest, milady?”  

“I am. You are not.” She stands. 

“I’m your squire.”

“I don’t have a squire. I’m not a knight.” She rubs her face again, leaving it wet and shining. “I’m a foolish girl who’s a long way from home, and I don’t know what to do next.”

“You are a knight really.” Pod argues with her stubbornly. “You’re the best knight I’ve ever seen, better than the Kingsguard and Ser Hyle and the knights we met on the road--”

“But I’m not. I thought I could be, if I were only so perfect and honorable that no one could find any fault in me, and I could fight better than everyone else, then they would have to knight me, they would have no choice. But I’m none of those things, Pod. I promised to protect Lady Catelyn, and instead she was slain. I promised to see her daughters freed from King’s Landing and they were already gone. I promised to see Ser Jaime safe to King’s Landing, and he lost his hand along the way. I promised to rescue Lady Sansa, and I cannot find her, much less see her safely home. I promised to restore Ser Jaime’s honor, and instead I betrayed him.”

“We can still find Lady Sansa,” the boy says stubbornly. “We haven’t looked everywhere yet.”

“We have no leads. There was only rumor to go on and even that has run dry. She could be anywhere now, she could be in the North or in the Reach, or in the Vale, or even across the Narrow Sea. We cannot search everywhere.” Her head bows forward, and her cheeks are wet.  “And what would I say if ever I found her? Shall I tell her how I failed her mother, and what she became? How then would I convince her that I can protect her? I cannot even convince myself.”

“You can protect her! You can protect anybody!”

“No, I can’t. I couldn’t protect Dick Crabb, I couldn’t protect Ser Hyle Hunt or Septon Merribald, I couldn’t protect the children at the orphanage, and I couldn’t protect you.” Her eyes fix, noticeably, on Podrick’s neck, where he knows an angry red burn around his throat still marks him. “I will never be knighted, and there is no place that I belong. Perhaps I should just return home.”

Brienne looks very sad. She has looked this way ever since they left the camp this morning. 

Podrick hates how sad she looks. He wracks his brain for something to say that might make her not look so sad. 

“Don’t worry, Pod,” Ser Brienne interrupts his thoughts. She is trying to smile. “All will be well.”

Podrick recognizes this smile. He has seen it before.

Ser Jaime had been angry when Podrick had met him, though he was trying not to show it. He had reassured him, and even made jokes, but something had seethed beneath it. The golden commander had been formidable in his anger, a towering fit of ire, and it had frightened him. The Lion of Lannister, the Kingslayer, had a famous temper fit to topple kingdoms. In the face of it he had stammered and stumbled over his words and the man had been like to snap his head off in frustration, so impatient he had been. 

“P-please ser,” he had finally pleaded with him. “It should be me imp...p-prisoned and not her. She only meant to free me; she begged them not to m-make her do it. She begged them. Ser Brienne would not betray a friend, it was m-me, she did it for me. P-put me on a stake in the ground and let her go.”

Ser Jaime had abruptly left him when he said that, with an expression more of pain than anger.

Podrick thinks on him now as a lion with a wounded paw roaring to keep everyone back. The second time he had met him the lion had been only wounded and not roaring, and not quite so frightening. He had been kinder to him, that time. He had smiled more, but the smiles did not reach his eyes. He had many more questions that time, mostly about Ser Brienne. Though he had called her Lady, which felt strange. Lady Brienne. No one else on their journey had ever addressed her so, and not with that lightly mocking tone which somehow sounded fond and not cruel. He asked, the Lion, if Lady Brienne had ever spoken of him, and Podrick had to tell him no. 

What he should have told him was that her silence on that matter had been very loud indeed. That his Lady kept certain things unspoken, and most of all those closest to her heart. He should have told the Lion how she had unwrapped Oathkeeper, the blade he had given her, only at night when she thought no one was looking and stared upon it, and ran her fingers over the jewels and the lions in the pommel, and wrapped it most carefully afterwards, handled it as though it were the most precious thing that she had, the most beloved. 

But he told the Lion no, because he did not know how to explain the other part, and she had never spoken of it. And the Lion had been unsurprised, and he had smiled a false smile, and sent him out to play in the snow, and Podrick had not thought of it again until now, when Ser Brienne shows him the same smile. 

They must have the same wound, somehow. A blow which had carved them in twain, and they did not know how to put themselves back together. 

Podrick knows little and less of how two people might rebuild that kind of trust. But the memory jars something else in him, a memory of the Lannister brother that he knew far better. Lord Tyrion, the Imp, who had been kind to Podrick, if a little dismissive. He had said a thousand wise things, and even read aloud to him, from time to time. And there had been a book there in his quarters, or even several books, about the great knights and the Age of Heroes. There is something there, faint in his memory, that he knows will be important.

Podrick stands up and speaks eagerly, without stammering. “At King’s Landing, I squired for Tyrion Lannister. Lord Tyrion was a smart man. He used to read a whole book every day! And he said, I remember, he said... that there were no knights in the Age of Heroes, they came later, with the Anders--”

“Andals--” she corrects him quietly.

“--right. The Andals had knights, but Westeros didn’t, not then. The heroes before they came were just heroes. But we call them knights anyway, even though they weren’t actually knighted like we do it now. They weren’t really knights!”

“That’s hardly the point--”

“The point is, it doesn’t matter what they really were. They’re knights now, whether people then called them that or not. Because of what they did. Because they were great.”

Her hands make fists. “They were great. They did great things. I haven’t done anything but lose.”

“They probably didn’t always win! We just don’t sing songs about those parts. Maybe they lost and lost and lost and they kept trying until they did something great, and that’s the part we remember now. Not the hard parts.”

Brienne looks down into the pool.

"If they never knighted you, it wouldn’t change the things you did. You would still have killed the bandits in the Saltpans. You would still have stopped that awful Rorge from hurting the children at the crossroads."

"But I don’t want to be merely a killer. I want to keep my promises. I want to be honorable." Her hair falls over her face, obscuring the terrible scars on her cheek. "I couldn't keep my oath to Lady Catelyn without breaking faith with Ser Jaime. I had to choose. If I cannot keep my oaths, if honor is denied me, what is left?"

But she seems to know the answer. She brushes her hair back behind her ears and sighs, and she sounds much older than before.

“There is something… something I feel I must do. But I don’t know if I’m brave enough. This task I cannot fail in, and I do not know if I can succeed.”

“You should try,” Pod pushes. 

“If I am a true knight,” she says hesitantly, and then more firmly, “then I must protect the realm, and defend the innocent. Less than a day’s ride from here, Pod, there is an invading army coming to kill King Tommen. He’s only a boy, even younger than you. And he is Ser Jaime’s son. I may have failed in the quest he gave me, but I might be able to help him defend the King. I must do whatever I can. Do you understand Pod? I have to.” 

 Pod brightens. This sounds more like the Brienne he knows. “I can help.”

“No,” she says sharply. “No. This part I must do alone. I can risk myself for this, but I will not risk you.”

“You would leave me behind?”

“I will come back.” She puts her hands on his shoulders. “If I yet live I will come back for you, Pod, and we’ll look for Lady Sansa. And for Lord Tyrion too, I know you wanted to rejoin him…”

“I want to stay with you,” Pod says miserably. 

Brienne looks surprised. Then her expression softens, briefly, and she squeezes his shoulders.

 “I will not be riding to battle, Podrick, not the way you’re thinking. I cannot be of help on the battlefield without knowing his plans, but I can try to get into the city ahead of the invasion, and protect the King and the Queen Regent. I will have to disguise myself, and there would be no way to bring you along. But do not worry, I would not go off and forget you. Not for Ser Jaime, not for anyone. I gave Ser Jaime to the Brotherhood to make sure you would be safe."

Pod’s face falls. Could it be his fault that Ser Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime are so unhappy? 

"I’m s-s-sorry,” he stammers.

"Don’t be sorry!” she says quickly, wiping at his face with her thumb. “I’m not sorry. Because of that you are here and alive and well. I could never be sorry for that. But now Ser Jaime is the one who needs my help. He thinks he will not win this battle, but he will go anyway, to try to save his son. I fear he will perish in the attempt. I cannot allow that to happen.”

Brienne’s face takes on a strange light then, one that Podrick will long remember.

“The knights in the songs would risk their lives to save a fair maiden from danger. Ser Jaime is not a maiden, but... If there is any chance I might save him from a ghastly fate I must try. I know it must seem foolish. I can’t explain it, but… it’s like a song, Podrick, a song I hear in my heart. Like when Ser Galladon went out to face the dragon, or when Florian met Jonquil. They knew which way their destiny lay, and they rode to meet it. I must do the same, or else be a coward forever. I only hope I can live up to their example.”

Podrick does not want to let her go again so soon. But if she doesn’t go, he knows, she will let herself down, and it will make her even sadder. Perhaps if she can help Ser Jaime, it will heal this wound of hers. Perhaps they could heal each other.  

“You can do it, milady ser. You can do anything.” He puts all the enthusiasm he can muster into his encouragement. “You’re the best sword-fighter in the world. You can take a few Targaryens.”

Brienne smiles genuinely, a gap-toothed, shy smile that he has never seen before.

“That’s going a bit far, Pod, but I shall do my best. You’re right, even if I cannot be a true knight, I can still protect the innocent and do what’s right. And if I cannot fight for honor, I can still fight for love.” 

Podrick beams. “What can I do to help?”

“You can go and stay with the other boys at the Lannister camp. Jaime won’t take them to war. I think he will leave an ancillary camp behind with the boys, and anyone else he would like to save. The boys, and his squire, and perhaps your cousin too. When you find them there, they will look after you until I return. Find them, and wait for me. Will you do that for me, Pod? So I wont worry?”

He nods. Because he has to, because she needs him to. He’s only just found her again, but he has to let her go. He can see it now - she is a true knight, and she is on a quest to a place he can’t follow. As her squire, he will have to do as she commands. 

He will go, and he will take great gulps of air to choke back the tears until she can’t see him anymore. 

She gives him much of the coin that Ser Jaime had left her, and all of the supplies too. She takes only the hound’s helmet, and Oathkeeper, and leaves him her horse. 

Brienne kneels before him before he takes his leave. “Keep practicing while I’m gone. Every day, the sword forms and the footwork. Will you?”

Pod nods wordlessly, to keep himself from stammering or sobbing. 

“I will return, I promise I will. I came back to the Brotherhood for you and I will come back to you this time. You’re my squire and as long as I live I will come back for you.”

Pod stares into her eyes resolutely. “No matter what. Promise.”

She stares back. “I promise.”

Pod throws his arms around her neck. At first she is still, but then her big arms wrap around him and pull him flush against her,  and she holds him so tightly he can scarcely breathe. She whispers, “thank you,” into his hair, again and again. He does not know what she is thanking him for.

[inky-duchess]

Hi there ! So, I’m making a fictional religion for my story and was wondering what elements I should include to make it feel more realistic and like a real part of the lore

I can't find my original post so here:

Worldbuilding: Religion

All people follow some semblance of a god or deity or force. Call it Jesus, Allah, Apollo or positive energy, all worlds believe that there is something greater than themselves or that somebody is guiding their actions and the events that befall them. We all want someone to love, to blame, to talk to. So we create gods and powers that be.

Place of Religion

Before we get to the fun parts, we have to consider the place of the faith in your land. If we look around today, we see a patchwork of countries and their relationship with religion.

Some countries are a patchwork like America or France.

Some are predominantly one religion only and only that one is acceptable to practise.

Some have two religions vying for control such as Pakistan.

Believe in it or not, religion remains a major part of the woldbuilding. So with ever culture you must create you must think about its place in the everyday of your world. Perhaps there is love for religion and faith or perhaps there is fear or oppression. How do the people view religion in your land?

Another thing to consider, is the relationship between Church and State. Sometimes I find that the styles of government have different relationships with their faiths.

Theocracy- Religion is always a huge part. The government runs on it. The people breathe it.

Monarchy- Some monarchs claim to be gods or to be divinely chosen. This is good PR. But some kings and queens don't get on with religion. I'm looking at you Henry.

Government- May rely on the religion to prove their actions or detest them for going against them. Roman politicians often bribed augurs to fake omens to prove themselves right.

Pantheon

All faiths and religions have a force to look up to. We can have one singular god/force (monotheism) or a group of gods (polytheism).

Most Monotheistic religions focus on a singular theme. The being is all powerful, omnipresent and manages an expansive universe on their own. These gods are usually faultless and perfect and there are no embarrassing stories of them.

Polytheistic gods can be as perfect as their lonely friends but not always. Gather a bunch of all-powerful beings in a single room, you will get some funny stories. These gods are usually flawed. They will share the duties of running the universe, usually in charge of different factions of the world; war, love, death, water or fire.

Gods/forces usually come with stories. We will have an abundance of stories but mainly we will have:

A world creation tale

A human creating tale

A war against evil

Godly origin stories

Tale of a massive flood.

Ritual

We think of religion and we think of prayer. We no longer sacrifice goats or children or virgins to appease the things that be. But there are other things to do in order to honour the gods.

We usually have a few types of ritual.

The gesture

The offering

The sacrament

Gesture: Catholics bless themselves, Añjali Mudrā or the namaste is a sign of respect in India, Muslims perform the rakʿah/bowing cycles in ṣalāt/prayer

Offering: In Judaism, during Hanukkah they light candles to represent eight nights that an oil lamp burned. In Catholicism, candles are burned in memory of the dead, incense is burned. In Greek Mythology, young men were whipped before the statue of Artemis, their blood an offering to her.

Sacrament: Catholicism has seven levels (i once got thrown out of class for referring to it as pokemon evolution). In Islam and Judaism, we see coming of age sacraments.

Values and Ethics

Each religion teaches us something. Each has their own values. Most religions preach peace, love, truth, harmony (except when other relationships are involved in some).

Every religion has its own set of rules. Some are there to keep certain values entertained. If modesty is preached, the people don't make dick jokes or go about with tits out. If warriors are praised, the pacifist and conscientious objector will be shunned. How often are these rules broken? How are they enforced? What are the punishments for breaking the rules?

You must look at the message your religion conveys. We always hear about the peace and love. Mix it up and allow religions to send mixed messages. It makes it interesting.

Accessories

Every religion needs its accessories. A place to worship in, certain garments to wear and a symbol.

Places to worship can be any place. A building or outside in the open. You can have gilded temples with jewelled idols or your simple altar. You can have your field, forest and beach or river to pray beside.

Perhaps your religion has certain clothes one wears. Islam has the hijab or burka. Hindus have the bindi and the sari. Catholic women used to and still sometimes wear veils in mass. Judaism has their skull caps and rock awesome beards.

Symbols can be anything. It can be a circle. It can literally be a chair. But it needs a reason to be important. Perhaps the deity created the first Lay-Z boy or maybe the saviour likes good back support.

[lady-plantagenet]

A Bygone Era - Chapter 7

Essentially, the latest instalment of my fictionalised portrayal of Lady Isabel Neville’s life. This chapter is told through her POV. It is set in November 1469

Please please let me know any thoughts or criticisms you may have! :)

22nd November 1469

In the sanctum that was her dreams, Isabel gladly shed the chains enslaving her to the temporal. For the past months she willed merry thoughts visit her in those sweet hours. Now that mind finally prevailed over matter, she wove herself among rosy images of frolicking unicorns and walks in perfumed gardens. There, white roses surrounded, their scent ever more sweet in spite of their diamond petals. Hand-in-hand with her, George shone even brighter and they never tired no matter how far they walked. The never-changing image, freely eager rushed to her, like she imagined peasant children would towards their mothers.

A brisk wind bellowed through the damp corners of London’s narrow streets, its whistle pressing onto even the city’s most officious dwellers to not venture further than the thresholds of their homes, as the first sleep was coming to an end. Isabel gently rose and tucked the errant dark strands that had escaped the confines of the silk she took to wrapping around the length of her hair, to preserve its softness. The next time she awoke, would be in the dreaded anticipation of returning to the Woodville court where after so many months she would have to once again see for herself her father and husband cornered by the Edward’s household men and their sidelong glances.

As typical, no creases were to be found on the pearly linen. George used to joke that should anyone ever think to intrude into her chambers during those hours they would think that she was in fact lying in state, face placid and pale, fingers crossed over an unmoving belly. Now visibly with child, her mother thought it improper for them to be seen sharing a bed, her prudery extending this veto to even Anne who selflessly offered herself for sisterly companionship. Now alone and enveloped in the heaviness of stale silence, came the irresistible draw to stay awake yet unmoved, to seize the calmness.

She peered at the wooden leg, supporting her canopy, to find that the little tyke had also decided to shed itself free from its earthly collar and rope. Isabel feared the greyhound had already entered into the advanced stages of its rampage of L’Erber; laying siege on her mother’s settles. She drew her fox furs over her shoulders before making for the stairwell, grumbling to herself ‘ What possessed me to accept this pup, when I know dogs never listen to me? Should have left all four of the whelps to Anne, Father and George’

The main hall of L’Erber was adrift with slumber, it bode well with the sombre carvings in the English Oak of the chairs and longtables. The row of oriel windows were like large eyes into the gardens, the grass sleek after the succession of rainy days bowed them to nature’s will turned oppressive. After throwing some quick glances, she continued to her father’s cabinet as the moonlight sprang in intensity colouring the cream threshold arch, into a patchwork of shades of jewelled blues, reds and greens, mirrors to the glass’ reflections.

In the chasm of night, she could make out the sound of light steps drawing closer. She met them with the free long-strides afforded to her by her nightgown and found George clutching at her dog. To her, he looked as strange in his white shirt and plain breeches, as the kitchenboy would donned in his plumed caps.

Whispering yet startled, he beckoned her into the cabinet. ‘The poor thing was parched, my sweet, I found it trying for Anne’s room, I gave it some water and would return it you’

Isabel cocked her head and smiled ‘of course it did, my sister seems to retain some magic over these creatures’

The bolt slid behind them with a thump ‘maybe she remembers to feed them or perhaps your dousing of flowery scents does not agree with them’ he teased reverting to his normal pitch

‘I do not douse myself’ she protested before feeling a heat penetrate through the flimsy satin of her sleeves and the scent of wax fill the air from the half-a-dozen candles burning about a wooden table. She knew instantly to ask ‘what you seem grave, my love, what troubles you so?’

He looked to the papers as the silver glow from outside mingled with the golden candlelight; sharpening the lines of his cheekbones and nose, it mingled with the hazel in his eyes setting their golden aglow like the pages in an illumination. Her breath caught in her throat, sudden awe washing over her in pangs. In the past, they seldom came accompanied by feelings of inadequacy, but tonight they did. ‘Nothing truly important Isabel. I paid a simple revisit to the terms of the amnesty, granted to us yesterday’

Thin dark eyebrows knitted in slight confusion ‘Aren’t such documents about four pages? I see at least one hundred there’

She took deliberate steps towards the mound, but he got there first. The pile nearest to her was filled with sums and numbers jumbled around within its mahogany leather covers. Lone deeds were interspersed around, surrounded, like rushes on the flagstones, they dropped to the floor with each frantic movement of George’s hands.

She knelt to pick up a ceaded scrap, across it, lines were scrawled in fours, the penmanship raw and inelegant. Before she could make out the words, George reached in and in one fell movement plonked it in his pitcher. The ink turned the contents blue as its truth unravelled in the water.

Isabel froze ‘what-‘, he regarded her, a defeated intensity came in response with a blank stare ‘Your father, I shall put simply, scorns my efforts. He gambled for Edward like he would not, now for me. It strikes me, how fool I was to shut my ears when he was accused of favouring the party of Margaret of Anjou’, he then entered into a slurred babble as he slowly sat down as if in the grips of a headache ‘Monipenny, him and the spider, Calais, the charges-‘

‘Husband of mine, would you let your doubt divide?’ she plead feeling herself kneel beside his chair, the oaken floors hard and numbingly painful under cold knees. ‘Does our dream no longer beseech you? The perfumed garden of England, the Camelot, through which we shall all walk, forever’

‘That may be so, truly I trust your dear heart. But here in your father’s dreams the white roses have wilted to red, ever since the disillusionment that was my brother. This accursed amnesty, I did not want it, your father alone did, and for what? Do not even have me begin on your uncle of Montagu’

‘My father, my uncle.. Husband they are your cousins too, not my kin alone’ she felt her voice reduce to a harsh whisper ‘Men to fight Humphrey of Brancepath could not be mustered until Edward were released. If father had not ridden north with Edward the Lancastrians would have breached the northern defenses, scoured our territories seizing off them any value. Neville lands to which I feel you too often forget are your livelihood also, as your mother’s son’

He felt her eyes bore into his from below, glowering in shivering green glints ‘Rise up, I will never have you kneeling, my sweet, not even to me’ he cajoled, while caressing the softness of her cheeks. When reaching the curve of her downturned eyes she could feel his fingers pull firmly, pinching even. ‘Do not think I have forgotten. Your father makes good work of reminding me every day of the Neville exceptionalism, a debt borne from my blood on your wealth. In the past, where a King alienated his barons, a violent fall was never too far behind. All the same, whenever a baron rose too high...’ He started acidly, stood drawing her up to him. Certain sentences did not need to be ended.

She shook clinging to him, twisting in a strange guilt as she sought the warmth spreading from his hands. To her surprise, his winded tightly around her in instinctive protection. Disjointed moments like this were becoming more commonplace, shrouded in these fogs of light-headededness Isabel could never quite make out who George meant to make his enemies, their enemies. As a girl she was taught to hate Lancaster. It was easy, they were the murderers of her grandfather and uncle. As a woman it was Edward’s York. They who took those sacrifices for linen scraps in surplus, past use, unworthy of embedment in the regalia of these robes made for Edward’s new age. Learning to hate Neville was as impossible as learning to hate George. When the day comes that those two shall split, so shall I, in two equally bloodied parts.

‘He loves you George, differently than he did Edward. But, he is past gambling’ is what finally came out in muffled notes between palpitations ‘I speak not for uncle, but father, like the lord, he works in mysterious ways. He is patient and biding his time’

‘Biding his time Isabel?’ he retorted incredulously ‘By setting us backwards?’

‘No no, now with the Grand Council’s amnesty granted, you will be able to muster troops soon, you see. What is necessitated is time’ she drew away to his unconvinced eyes narrowing ‘I tell you how insulted he was, gravely so, when parliament denied you’ as if you were the son he never had and had forgotten he still wanted. A hope that lay dormant first when I showed no interest in military tactics and again when for a good year, Anne would cry every time venison was served. You came and it revived in you, his Neville heir, the recievor of that smile which once had been for my eyes only. It became her to verbally lay onto George all the praises that he inspired in her, but this, she would not realise by saying, and would continually for as long as circumstances were not so dire to force them from her mouth.

She beckoned him to the window seat, somewhere to level them, her dog pacing behind them mirroring the sound of their steps with its light staccato ones like an echo in the void. ‘Edward is not a king for England, he will show himself thus and everytime it will lodge itself into the minds of the men in the commons, bearing into their conscience. That must be father’s plan’ she decided

‘A passive attack, one with too many variables, truly wife-‘ began George

‘Your reign will not be as Edward’s, why must it surprise you that your path is not modelled in the likeness of the one he took? You face a harder foe than he ever did, in time the commons will think on Clarence for daft Henry of Lancaster be no substitute. Look to two months past, then only uncle could enter London now...’

‘Now we are “his bestest friends”’ chuckled George to Isabel’s relief, resting a hand on her womb, suspicion was smothered bloodlessly in its infancy. ‘Until our son comes into this world, right you are, clever wife of mine, as your father thinks, we will bide our time’ he took on a sterner tone, proclaiming ‘smiling and revelling while the populace shall stir clandestinely in our shadows. As we shall prosper, Edward will rest easily lulled into the bed built onto the false security he so desperately seeks’

She covered his hand with hers, feeling their intertwined weights protecting the beggining of their glorious legacy, now safely tucked by the blanketing darkness that lay beyond the guttering candles, until it would rise glorious like the three suns at Mortimer’s Cross, humbling all men in its blinding promise . How fortunate he is, saddled with a wife who does not shirk glory for comfort. Glory... For a matter of moments her mind was throttled to Rivers and his son, mechanically it reclaimed its place before guilt could ‘England will be ready then, and only then could Camelot be reborn, in all its bygone beauty. Arthur rose in you, now as England needed’ she said with the luxury of earnestness not necessity. If it were not for his mention of the child, she would have forgotten its role in all of this. Premonitions were now matched. She now stood witness to his beam, eerie in its small belonging.

‘Why do you look at me like this?’ she whispered perplexed, by then the passage of time had snuffed out the orange light, leaving only silver beams for them to make any likeness of each other, nevertheless his countenance shone, pure in its bareness.

The soft sigh that followed hid an unexampled longing better than it did his amusement. A kin of numbing dolour, but through whose clasp seeped joys plangent, like sands, rushing the tighter they are gripped. ‘I shudder to think what you will ask if I ever look upon you in anger’ he murmured. ‘My do you have a knack at reading expressions’ he replied in a sarcasm that resounded far too gently to be playfully intended.

‘Why, but the same could be said for you’ she chided sighing ‘You roam these halls, looking for what? Lancastrian bribes in father’s log books? Secret promises to Edward in letters? Look about you, I am not alone in my love for you’

‘You mean Margaret? I should hope so, but from her letters, I can see that Charles has claimed all her affections. A child shall come and I will be forgotten’ he said sadly

‘Your mother then, George’ said her deep voice, twice older than her years ‘That supper summer past your brother said-‘

‘Edward always believes he knows what tricks to employ, to get me to recant’ interjected George looking out onto the gilded edges of some thirty rustling hedges ‘He would stoop so low. To use her name as bait when the world knows how it was Richard she favoured, the one she praised who bore our father’s features and was as diligent as her in anything he laid his hands on’, with a yawn escaping him, he rubbed his eyes feeling them drop. He stared at his fist which now bore three fallen eyelashes, all curled and dark.

He blew them away recalling the same three wishes he always prayed upon, while her gaze was briefly dropped, scratching at the emblazoned roses bobbing at her hem, finding their point of strain. What would Edward know anyway?, it is not as if he had been his brother at Fotheringhay or Ludlow. Watching him grow into this man. I hasten the days when George will see that my love for him strangles - nay, could drown the love of a court. A sea crashing into a road hole, one a loaded waggon could ride over with ease.

‘I confess I can not sleep, the cold does not agree with me’ she heard him say and quietened with an offer to join her.

‘These hours have made a different character of my proprietous wife, what would the lady Anne say to that or you wandering about in this cloth’ he chuckled drawing a hand to his chest, imitating her indignant gesture of choice.

‘She would say it would do none good to have you dozing off on father when your brother bids you genuflect next morrow, anyhow, I am hers to command no longer’ she said straining for the dog, as her father’s patters made themselves heard, inching towards the kitchens for a crumb or two of raspberry pie. A habit even her mother did not know of.

She stifled an amusement at George’s initial fright before they scurried off like two miscreant children. Inside, the pup leapt from her hold, the silk from her head misplaced itself upon its nail. ‘Come, leave your hair fall, it’s such a rare sight for me that I sometimes forget we are wed’ said George

With a nod she acquiesced, the featherbed was colder than when last left. ‘As it were, the woes of having war marry us. I would have willed that I remained young Duchess for longer, before becoming a mother on the eve of her consignment’

George was clearly amused by her peculiarity, this woman who seemed to have revelled these months past, belly thrust forward, hands shielding it with every step she took ‘But you seem eager for this child’

‘Yes, but I would much rather have had my husband for longer as I did in Calais’ the usual good-humoured simper twisted into what could nearly be said to be a wicked grin.

‘I fear you are becoming wanton. Tell me, have I given you a smile to take to court tommorow?’ he jested waving off the candles. He drew her into his arms, pressing himself against her, she matched him ardently as they kissed, tongues grasping at each others in frustration.

‘You know, mother and Anne have accused me of mischief since having known you’ she then delighted in saying ‘and I do not think it would be well-recieved. I thought a lady does not smile at court’

‘Have you already forgotten? all is gay now. Edward would not have people recall the soberness of Henry’s time’

Across them, the mercer houses were settling into the second sleep, the yellow light through the glass stilting with each snuffed torch, She turned to him when the cold lunar glow took over. ‘Will we have smiling and revelries at our court?’

‘For certes, but not for those old enough for it to turn my stomach. Yours could never, no matter how advanced you would be in your years. I could not imagine you haggard’. He murmured himself to sleep, recounting his waking dreams as he buried his head deep in the nook between her belly and bosom.

She wrapped her hair about his shoulders like a midnight mantle of protection and felt her body drift as her mind made an attempt to depict him as an old man. Her imagination failed and the face beneath her eyelids would not mature like everyone else’s. she clung to him tighter as she drifted off.

Mercifully, court had broken, all mummers complicit in that performance of peace scattered to their usual selves. Flurries of snow bouncing to the wind’s tune, piled onto the grass in hundreds with every low note. Where Isabel stood, she knew that by Compline the hoare ground would rise, crashing against the flying buttresses about the quadrangle, like corpses on a battlefield come alive. Only in angular Westminster was god so.

Before returning to her chambers, she chanced upon a disappearing figure, shoulders hunched against the wind, his black cape leaving furrows through the snow. ‘Lord Scales-‘

He turned, none too reticent ‘Your Grace?’ The wool in her strammel cloak shifted as she produced The Book of the City of Ladies, it lay heavy in her hand ‘Here, may your mother have it back. I give her thanks for lending it to me, entrusting me, tell her that. Gramercy to you too, for telling me of it’ she spoke quickly, her body already turning away.

‘What did you make of it?’ His tone lightened at her surprise. What I make of anything is that I did not think to have it returned to you under those circumstances. Inordinate favour has been shown to her uncle of Montagu, if whispers were true then his son would be given the dukedom of Bedford, and Jacquetta Rivers would now be (as she were in truth) mere countess, her days as Lancastrian royal duchess extinguished beyond doubt.

She, roped between father and husband, now dangled like the hanged man on tarot cards. Father would now have his Neville heir, he does not particularly know nor love this nephew, though such considerations pale in father’s mind when set against the shining legacy. The son of York stands securely on the throne and if it be through Montagu that father may stay sheltered in Edward’s golden rays, then why pull George and I from the shadows. A chord is ready for the snip. Oh Woodville, you may think I have won this day, because we are pardoned as your father and brother lie unavenged. No no, George and I have not. For reason of the king’s cunning that is. Foresee for your future what I see in my own.

‘I think it a welcome rebuttal to Le Roman de la Rose, I liked how Lady Reason came first, built the city foundations. One sees how a logical mind makes for a sturdier shield than courtesy or beauty’ Isabel’s contempt for the temptress, La Rose, was evident. Yet, Anthony nodded with approval. Guileless eyes as his father’s showed that he saw his sister as anything but. I hope to god that to some, I as well am more than Lady Wealth.

Months ago, Isabel found he was the only Woodville she was not averse to and apart from George and her FitzHugh cousins, whenever they did visit, the only person who had not avoided her, fearful of the allusions acquaintance with her would invite.

‘Still, it does does not flow with beauteous images like in Le Roman. I am unsure if it will ever be as popular’ he said meaning no doubt Christine de Pizan’s beliefs and how they were made hods of earth therein.

‘Yes, but it uglies all that was described beautiful in other literatures, implicitly by way of its direct criticism. So any wall or house in that city would therefore be the more beautiful’ her younger self would shake her head at her, the girl whose world was walled by tapestries and illuminations. An unmoving life pre-ordained to be beautiful in presence.

‘You see, I do wonder if the general man would be capable of your deft analysis’ he said courteously

‘The general man?’ Isabel’s puzzlement gave him the opportunity to lift his mood by explaining ‘Yes, the Duchess of Burgundy has made use of my introducing of William Caxton to her. She is now his patroness. If such a printing enterprise were successful, such literatures would come in the hands of the general man. You know of him?’

Read the rest on: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268239/chapters/59465026

[gegenji]

A Pixie’s First Impressions

Gria Gai was a Pixie on a mission.

After seeing the Mortal that their King had claimed as their sapling – and all the antics and just… general fun that had been had after their arrival – Gria had come to a decision. They would find a Mortal all their own to play with. Other Pixies had gotten similar ideas in their head, but Gria was certain they were going to have the best one.

They’d share, of course. Just to show them off. After all, how would anyone know they had the best sapling if they didn’t?

However, that meant going to the place where the King had gotten theirs. Sure, Gria could be lazy like a couple of the other Pixies who seemed to be content flitting about looking for interesting Mortals in the lands around Il Mheg, but that would be just that. Lazy. Plus, seeing the land the King’s sapling had come from seemed like it could be fun in its own right. A strange, foreign land!

Finding a way to actually get there took a bit of doing – even though the King seemed to flit to and fro from there like it was nothing – but a stroke of luck came from fellow Pixie Lor Feo who apparently made several similar trips. Traveling to this other world to look at weather of all things. Seemed a bit boring to Gria (they had plenty of weather back home now that whole dull “perpetual daylight” thing had been fixed, after all!) but who were they to judge? Especially if they were willing to let Gria tag along to find The Bestest Sapling.

And that brought Gria to where they were now.

The aspiring skywatcher of a Pixie had led Gria to a bustling city in the middle of what was supposed to be in the middle of a desert. That’s what they said, anyway. However, it was raining when they arrived and it doesn’t rain in deserts, that’s why they’re deserts!

Like Amh Araeng. And there weren’t even any Mord or a single Ghilman around! At least nowhere that Gria could see.

... What was the term for more than one Ghilman anyway? Ghilmans? Ghilmen? Ghilmany? Whatever it was, there weren’t any of them here.

Regardless of proper Ghilman pluralization, there were a lot of interesting non-Ghilman Mortal folk to pick and choose from for Gria’s own sapling. The most populous seemed to be the helmet-less Dwarves – which Gria honestly liked better, as the old “helmet and beard” look was so overdone – alongside Humes and Galdjent. They used different names here, though. Humes were “Hyur” (about the same, how boring!), the Galdjent were “Roegadyn” (quite the change!), and Dwarves had a much more fun and musical name of “Lalafell.”

Gria spent a fair bit of time flitting about – as they hadn’t seen so many Mortals outside the Crystarium before! – and looking over their options. Staying invisible the entire time, of course. Didn’t want them to know they were being tested so they couldn’t cheat or something! That way Gria could properly rate them all on very important and very precise criteria that the Pixie decided on the spot.

And there were a lot of places to check, too! There was a spot where many seemed to gather to eat and drink and talk and fight, another that seemed to be about fighting but was much stuffier and more regimented, and yet another fighting place where Mortals watched other Mortals fight each other or other creatures. A lot of fighting here, honestly.

But what ultimately grabbed Gria’s attention was a part of the city where the Mortals were all dressed up in colorful and interesting outfits. The Weaver’s Guild, they called it, headed by a Galdjent – wait, Roegadyn – by the name of Redolent Rose who seemed to be quite the fashionable sort. And popular too, as many seemed to come to him in order to have more of those delightful outfits created.

Gria spent what might’ve been an undue amount of time following this Redolent Rose around, watching him work. It was all very interesting; turning spools of cloth and glittering bits of metal and crystal into visually entertaining pieces. Gria tried their hand at it a little too - with a needle that one of the other Mortals had very obviously misplaced out in the open like that - and made a nice little dress for themself. Well, it looked nice after a quick glamouring to hide the patchwork nature and irregular stitching. But that was to be expected - Gria was still learning, after all!

Things got even better when - while tending to the various pricks and bruises caused by the needle failing to cooperate - Gria noticed Redolent slipping off somewhere. And trying to be covert about it, which meant it must be for something extra fun! And so the Pixie, tossing the needle dismissively over their shoulder (it knew what it did), followed after.

And how Gria was rewarded for their sharp eyes and brilliant deductive reasoning! For the Galdjent-Roegadyn led the Pixie to the most wonderfully colorful and exciting place yet, full of noise and life and prizes! There were so many fun things for Gria to do there, like chasing the giant birds racing around a track.

Or watching Mortals play strange games involving numbered cards with pictures on them and strange glyphed little white squares.

Or dancing with the strange little green fellow in the nice suit that wandered around the place.

Or trying their hand at striking the small statue of a goofy red-garbed fellow.

Or laughing at the Mortals who got sneezed off that raised platform. Or fell on one of the multiple climbing puzzles. Or exploded off, in a couple cases. Which, honestly, was the funnier way for them to be dislodged.

All these delightful distractions, of course, meant that Gria kinda-sorta… lost track of the Galdjadyn. But who could blame the Pixie, with so many fun and interesting things to do there? No one, that’s who. Honestly, it would be strange for anyone not to want to check all everything this place offered!

And it wasn’t like Gria didn’t try and find them... after “helping” a Mortal who was trying to control a claw thing in a box. They just weren’t handling it right, after all. But after that, the Pixie totally went to try and find out where Redolent went and they totally almost found them!

It just so happened that there was someone who had a similar fashion sense that was judging people’s outfits based on themes. But they were named Masked Rose, not Redolent Rose! That’s a totally different kind of rose… not that Gria had ever seen a rose with a mask before. Sounded mysterious.

Gria wanted - nay, needed - to find Redolent Rose though, as entertaining as it was to watch this one praise and berate other Mortals’ outfits on all sorts of criteria. Plus, the masked Roegajent had also disappeared at some point when the Pixie went to go see (and participate in) what seemed like a sudden dance contest. So, with neither kind of Rose seemingly around, Gria made the very tough decision to head on back to the Weaver’s Guild.

They were a Pixie on a mission, after all.

… After trying their hand at that “Monster Ball” thing. Was the ball really a monster? Or did they throw the ball at monsters? Gria needed to find out. It was very important.

[nightversion]

Picking The Right Bed Mattress Dimension

So.what are the distinctions in the 2 and also exactly how do you comprehend which could be the finest suitable for your brand-new bed cushion? If you're thinking about either one, the adhering to contrast should certainly be of howtoopenalockedcardoor passion.

When you acquire your brand-new bed cushion you obtain a solution guarantee card which has all the info you call for to see what is covered as well as exactly how. The size of time the moment duration as well as what you require to do to secure your bed cushion as well as protect the warranty. You can swiftly lower the life of the maker as well as the bed cushion will certainly not take commitment for your forget if you mess up the bed cushion.

Some treatments make use of oil or chemicals in production. Naturally, this would certainly generate a bed mattress that is not natural and also, as a result, environmentally hostile. All-natural latex is environment-friendly.

To include life to your bed, you have to believe concerning making use of a memory foam bed mattress topper. A memory foam bed cushion topper is amongst the ideal choices.

I do not comprehend the number of individuals I have in fact seen acquisition a $2000 bed mattress just to discover out it removes their back or they can not rest comfy on it. If you go shopping the suitable area, obtain the excellent help, obtain the ideal features for you, spend the best amount of money to obtain what you desire as well as requires, and also do so at a place that assures your benefit, after that your chances of having continuous comfortable rest is truly superb.

Regretfully, there has in fact not been detailed clinical research study or managed clinical tests on the topic of bed cushion and also discomfort in the back. Bed bed mattress are greatly an issue of specific selection.

The better selection of coils the much far better the bed cushion will certainly use. A king dimension bed cushion can differ from 400 to 900 coils.

Decorative patchworks can be acquired as just that, decor. Despite the fact that they are an excellent praise to the baby room, decorative patchworks settings a suffocation hazard and also should certainly be removed from the infant crib while the child is resting.

When you acquire your brand-new bed cushion you obtain a solution guarantee card which has all the info you call for to see what is covered and also just how. You might quickly lower the life of the maker and also the bed cushion will certainly not take commitment for your forget if you mess up the bed cushion.

To include life to your bed, you have to believe regarding utilizing a memory foam cushion topper. Unfortunately, there has really not been detailed clinical research study or regulated clinical tests on the topic of bed cushion as well as discomfort in the back. The higher selection of coils the much far better the bed cushion will certainly use.

[geminiamethyst]

The Nightmare Before Christmas. Chapter 2: Kyun’s Lamet.

Sorry this took a while. Here’s the second chapter of this au. Like Kyun and Shin’s names, Mumrik was originally my friend Ju’s idea. Please give her some love by checking out her blogs by clicking HERE for her main blog and HERE for her Snufkin blog because she is amazing at what she does. Again “The Nightmare Before Christmas” does NOT belong to me, it belongs to Tim Burton and Disney.

Enjoy the chapter.

Having to be able to successfully escape his creator's clutches, Shin sits with his back gently against a tombstone so he wouldn't tip it too far back. He looked down at where his arm was, some of the leafs stuffed inside him were poking out.

“See you’ve run away again, Shin.” A voice spoke over the rag doll’s shoulder. Shin exclaimed as he looked up. He was met face to face with a ghost that took the form of a boy at the age of sixteen. He had messy brown hair that seemed to be impossible to brush and chocolate brown eyes. He wore a forest green jacket, green trousers, a black shirt and brown boots. Even though he appeared to be solid from a fair distance, Shin could see right through him when he was up close.

“Mumrik! Are you trying to scare the unliving daylights out of me?” Shin exclaimed placing a hand over his heart.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist.” The ghost grinned a little before it looked like he was sitting down in mid air. “So why are you out this time? Wouldn’t have anything to do with the Nightmare King, would it?” Shin nodded absentmindedly in a daze, thinking about Kyun, before Mumrik’s words were made crystal clear in his head.

“Mumrik!” He shouted, his patchwork cheeks turning bright pink.

“Oh come on, Shin! I might be someone that’s been cursed to be a ghost for all eternity, but that doesn’t make me blind. I’ve seen the way you look at Kyun.” Mumrik laughed. Shin’s cheeks turned into a shade of red at that. He hid his face in his knees, wrapping one arm around himself.

Hearing a small creak from the cemetary gate opening, Shin hid behind the tombstone, scared that he was followed. Mumrik rolled his eyes but he ducked down next to Shin, just to try to make sure he didn’t get into trouble. Seeing it's only Kyun as he entered the cemetary and shutting the gate behind him, Shin felt his racing heart settle at the sight of Halloween's young leader.

As Kyun made his way swiftly through the area to a certain tombstone that resembled a dog house. Shin stayed hidden, out of his sight. As soon as he stood next to the tombstone, Kyun tapped his leg. A small ghost dog appeared through the stone.

Now that he had his faithful companion with him, Kyun at first glance up at the huge full moon behind Spiral Hill then at the endless tombstones all around him.

“There are few who'd deny,

At what I do,

I am the best,

For my talents,

are renowned far and wide.”

It was true that with everyone knowing what he does he is the very best at and barely anyone denies or doubts that. Quickly hiding behind a scary gargoyle statue, Kyun did a short jump scare with his dark magic quickly to add to the effects to what he is doing as the dog, Sorry-Oo follow his master.

“When it comes to surprises,

in the moonlit night,

I excel without ever,

even trying.”

As Sorry-Oo follow close behind, he appeared to be giving Kyun a smile of agreement as he leapt gracefully onto the very tip of a tombstone with his tiptoes.

“With the slightest little effort,

Of my ghostlike charms,

I have seen grown men,

give out a shriek.”

With each leap from one tombstone to the other, Kyun appears to barely give an effort for his act as Sorry-Oo stood by each stone, his tail wagging each time he landed successfully before jummping off the third stone and between two statues, one a completely scared man screaming and the other a freaked out horse.

“With a wave of my hand,

And a well-placed moan,”

At first he is in a crouching position with his arms crossed in front of him with his shadow magic forming at his finger tips like fire before standing on his feet, arms extended to his sides and then pulling them back in with his hands becoming fists, extinguishing the shadow flames completely.

“I have swept the very bravest,

off their feet!”

At first Shin could see that he seems proud of what he's done. However, the rag doll knew something else about the Nightmare King that no one else knew of, not even his closest friends of Halloween Town. In all truth, Kyun has become worn out with the same thing happening every year for Halloween. Kyun’s smug looking smile dropped instantly into a frown.

“Yet year after year,

It's the same routine.

And I grow so weary,

of the sound of screams.”

Shin could easily see that Kyun is indeed fed up and very fatique as he watch him slump against a tall gravemarker.

“And I, Kyun,

the Nightmare King,

Have grown so tired,

of the same old thing…”

As Shin hears more and more of how he feels, Kyun makes his way to the top of Spiral Hill and the rag doll remains behind him at a decent distance. While hiding behind the frightened horse statue, Shin couldn't help but gasp at the possibilities that they are alike with Shin's own problems surfacing to the front of his mind.

“Oh somewhere deep,

Inside of my heart,

An emptiness,

Began to grow.

There's something out there,

Far from my home,

A longing that,

I've never known…”

With Kyun standing upon Spiral Hill with Sorry-Oo sitting by his side, his shadow of leadership shine along with the full moon light. Shin could feel his heart tighten a bit as tears slowly started to form in his eyes.

“I'm the master of hallows,

And a demon of fright!

And I'll scare you,

right out of your pants!”

Even the souls of the dead get scared of the Nightmare King. With the wave of a single hand, ghosts and spirits lurking in the crypts and mausoleums in the cemetary appeared out of their eternal sleep, bowing to the Nightmare King before they vanished into the night.

“To a guy in Kentucky,

I'm Mr. Unlucky!

And I'm known throughout,

England and France!”

When Shun moved to a hiding spot closer to Spiral Hill, he stepped on a broken dead branch, which caused Sorry-Oo and almost Kyun to catch him hiding. The only one who didn't miss the rag doll, Sorry-Oo had recognised him as the one whose eyes seemed to sparkle at the sight of the Nightmare King, but different from how the residents of Halloween Town beam at the sight of their leader. In fact, the emotion that sparkles in his eyes is more than just admiration, it's love. A strong love that's hidden away from everyone, even Kyun, just waiting to be revealed to him at the right moment.

“And since I am dead,

I can take off a head,

To recite Shakespearean quotations.”

To prove this, Kyun took off his head with no need effort and held it as if he was doing Hamlet. He slipped it back as he continued to describe himself.

“No animal nor man,

can scream like I can!

With the fury,

of my recitations!”

Sure everything he had said to describe himself as his subjects see him are good and true. But Kyun kept one thing to himself; his desires for someone to understand his feelings and share the same emptiness that lingers in his heart.

“But who here,

Would ever understand,

That the Nightmare King,

With his ghost like grin,

Would tire of his crown?

If they only understood.

He'd give it all up,

If he only could…”

Leaning out of hiding for a moment, Shin could clearly see the sadness Kyun hid from everyone but the one with eyes that could see the details of one's emotions quite easily. Feeling Sorry-Oo gently nudge at his leg, Kyun turned toward the ghost dog to pet him, causing Shin to think he'll get caught if he remained out in the open, so he ducked back into hiding.

“Oh, there's an empty,

Place in my bones,

That calls out for,

Something unknown.”

With Spiral Hill unwinding under his feet to a hill close to the other gate, Kyun made his way off the hill to leave the area and enter the woods with Sorry-Oo close behind.

“The fame and praise,

Come year after year,

Does nothing for,

These empty tears…”

Now that he was gone and it's safe to come out, Shin reached out to where he last saw Kyun as Spiral Hill returned to its regular position. "Kyun, I know how you feel." Shin whispers as he places his hand over his heart that beats tenderly for the Nightmare King. The two both yearned for freedom; Kyun, a freedom to an exciting life, and Shin, a freedom of his creator's strict rules and be with the crowd in fun events.

Making his way to a dead bush, Shin found the herb he needed to restock on Deadly Nightshade.

“I don’t see why you don’t tell him, Shin. You two are alike in a lot of ways, and yet you choose to hide your love for him. You don’t even say hello. Why not?” Mumrik asked as he drifted over to the rag doll. It was clear that he had watched how Shin had admired the ruler of the town. Like Sorry-Oo had observed, the ghost boy always catches the sparkle that glistened in the rag doll’s eyes.

“It’s not that simple, Mumrik. I can’t just walk up to him and say that I love him just like that.” Shin sighed, looking up at the ghost.

“Sounds simple to me.” Mumrik shrugged, not clearly understanding.

“You don’t get it Mumrik. What if he’s not…you know…” Shin muttered before his words failed him.

“Gay? Shin for crying out loud. It’s not the nineteenth century where being gay is illegal.” Mumrik finished for him, getting a little frustrated. “Besides, you don’t know unless you try. Take baby steps. You know, go up to him, say “hello” and get to know him a little, see what he’s like and go on from there.”

“I only wish it were that simple.” Shin sighed as he gathered some of the herbs.

“You mean your creator? Oh come on! The doc can’t still be keeping you on that tight of a rein, is he?” Mumrik groaned.

“Would I be collecting Deadly Nightshade if he wasn’t?” Shin asked as placed the herbs into his basket.

“Okay, point taken. But still, you love Kyun. Surely if you-“ Mumrik muttered out loud, not thinking straight.

“What do you know about love anyway? Last time I checked you-“ Shin interrupted, not understanding the ghost boy at all.

“My parents, they love each other. Or loved. I don’t even know if they’re still alive.” Mumrik sighed sadly, leaning back into a lying position and looked at the pitch black sky.

��I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Shin sighed, feeling terrible. Half the time, he forgets that the ghost was actually a normal human until he was cursed to be a ghost. He didn’t know how it happened, Mumrik refused to tell him, but he knew that it had made the boy very upset. “How long has it been since you last saw them?”

“I don’t know. When you’re undead, you tend to lose count of the years that go by.” Mumrik shrugged, almost like he didn’t care despite the sad tone in his voice. Shin sighed as he stood up, basket in hand.

“You coming?” He offered, as he started to make his way out of the graveyard.

“I would, but I’ve spent too much time away from the graveyard already. And you know this blasted curse. If I spend too much time away from the graveyard, I’ll disappear. Literally.” Mumrik sighed in frustration, angry at what rules he has to go by in order to keep himself from fading away forever.

“I see. Rest well, my friend.” Shin said as Mumrik started to go into the ground.

“Night Shin. Have pleasant nightmares.” The ghost yawned as he vanished under the dead earth. Shin watched until his ghost friend sank right down into the ground, resting, regaining his energy for when he needs to leave the graveyard. Shin could relate to that in terms of being forced to stay in one place. Maybe that’s why he warmed up to the ghost boy so quickly. With nothing else in mind, Shin slowly made his way home.

Back at the tower where Shin lived, with the sound of thunder outside, the rag doll entered the kitchen to find it deathly quiet and empty. He opened up the pantry and placed the Deadly Nightshade plant he recieved in the dark purple jar he kept the herbs hidden in the single pantry. As soon as he shut the pantry door, Shin saw light at the corner of his eye and turned to see Hemulen come down the slope.

Coming face to face with his troublesome creation, the Hemulen said with a somewhat tired tone, "I see you've come back, Shin."

"I had to." Shin replied, covering up the fact that he had gotten more Deadly Nightshade.

"For this." Hemulen stated, lifting up Shin's detached arm.

"Yes." Shin said sheepishly, as the limb waved at him timidly.

"Come on." Hemulen said as he turned his wheelchair around. As he wheeled back up the slope, Shin followed.

In a few minutes, Shin was strapped down to a table. On a small stand, the Hemulen had parked his wheelchair next to it. He had a needle and thread in hand, stitching Shin's arm back into place. The rag doll only looked up at the ceiling, not feeling any pain at all in his arm.

"That's twice this month you slipped Deadly Nightshade into my tea and run off." He scolded.

"Thrice actually." Shin attempted to correct him with a smirk, only to make the elder snap.

"You're mine you know. I made you with my own hands." 

"You can also make other creations. I'm restless. I can't help it." Shin tried to reason, to try to make the creator understand.

His angered face softening, the Hemulen then said with a more patient tone, "It's just a phase my boy, it will pass. We need to patient, that's all."

"But I don't want to be patient." Shin added as Hemulen finished stitching him up.

Back in the forest, Kyun continued to walk miserably. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts about what to do that he wasn’t even paying attention as to where he was going. He heard Sorry-Oo bark behind him.

“No, boy. Not now. I’m not in the mood.” Kyun sighed, not even looking at the ghost dog. Sorry-Oo continued to bark and even nudged the Holiday Leader for attention. Kyun gave in finally. “Oh, alright.” Kyun reached under his shirt. After a brief couple of seconds, there was a snap from his rib cage. He pulled out one of his rib bones. Sorry-Oo got excited immediately at seeing the bone, wagging his tail so fast that it was nothing more than a blur. Kyun grinned a little at seeing his companion’s typical excitement. “Here you are.” Kyun tosses the bone into the darkness of the forest. Sorry-Oo sniffed around the area where he thought the bone landed. He growled a little in frustration when he couldn’t see it. His nose lit up, making it look like a mini carved up pumpkin. In the bright orange light, he spotted the bone. Barking with excitement, he picked up the bone in his jaws. He drifted after Kyun, who continued to blindly walk further away from Halloween Town.

Chapter 1: HERE

Chapter 3: HERE

[master-sass-blast]

Strong as Stone: Part Seven, First Half.

Hey, Sass, why do you keep writing multi-part chapters? (asked no one)

What? I don’t do that. I have no idea what you’re talking about. *blatantly ignores title of this post*

Lowkey, I have ideas, and then I start writing, and then I realize about 3k words in it’s going to take more time than I thought.

Like, I don’t write these over the course of the week. I write, edit, and post over the weekend. I’ve got two days to make these updates happen. I’ve written almost 10k words in two days before (Part Five, when Dewani beats a man silly). It’s not fun (well, it is, but not eating so that I can keep writing isn’t fun).

So, yeah. Multi part posts so I can keep my sanity! Yay!

Anyway...

Hey, guess what!

It’s nap time!

Last week, we watched as our favorite group of heroes managed to renegotiate with the United Nations and cancel both the search and the tactical repercussions.

This week, Okoye finally gets her much needed vacation.

Rating: T/PG-13.

Warnings: One metric fuckton of fluff, mostly to atone for all the angst and stress of the last few installments, sensuality and sexual themes, swearing, and Dewani being a little shit.

Pairings: Okoye x M’Baku and background Shuri x OC.

@the-last-hair-bender

The life of the Dora Milaje is not one of peace or leisure. There will be times when you’re pushed past your limit, when you’ll feel like you’re worn down to nothing, when you’ll feel like you’re about to break.

That is why, when you have time to rest, you must take it.

Never feel guilty for taking care of yourself. A Dora Milaje who doesn’t take care of herself is a danger to her sisters and those she’s sworn to protect.

Her boots thudded against the patchwork stone slabs that made up the courtyard outside the Great Lodge. The chilled wind nipped at her nose, and snow clung to the corners of the windswept space.

Okoye grinned as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

She’d taken a couple days to sleep and put her brain back together. Then, once she’d felt human again, she’d packed her things and taken her ship up to the Jabari lands.

She had eighteen days left in her vacation, and she intended on spending each and every one of them with M’Baku.

Her heart sped up when she saw the main door open, then went back down to normal speed when she realized it was just Dewani.

“Hi, Okoye!”

Okoye smiled and returned Dewani’s hug. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m just fine.”

Okoye narrowed her eyes at Dewani’s cheeky smile. “What do you have planned?”

“Since when have I planned anything ever?”

Okoye crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve spent over a decade in service to the royal family. In that time, I’ve watched Princess Shuri prank and best the King no less than two hundred fifty times. I know when someone’s planning something.”

Dewani grinned. “M’Baku might not know you’re here.”

Okoye’s eyes widened in alarm. “I thought I let him know I was coming.”

“Oh, he knows you’re coming. He just might think that you’re arriving about... oh... two hours from now?”

Okoye fought the urge to roll her eyes. “So, I have to wait for two hours?”

Dewani let out a cackle. “Hell no. He cleared his schedule for today when he realized you were coming so that he could be ‘ready in case you came early.’ He’s just working in his garden right now.”

Okoye raised an eyebrow. “He has a garden?”

“Well, yeah. It’s not all that uncommon among the Jabari. We are vegetarians, after all.”

Okoye shivered as another burst of cold wind swirled around her. “Can we go inside?”

“Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry.”

She followed Dewani into the main lodge and down a hall where the outside wall was made entirely of glass. “How did you like your first trip to the outside world?”

“Decidedly underwhelming. Are all Americans that obnoxious?”

“Unfortunately, most of them are.”

Dewani grimaced as she took a sharp right turn and started walking down a flight of stone stairs. “Great. Why did the King want to rejoin with the outside world again?”

“If we take every sign of struggle and every setback as a reason to reject the notion of unification, we’ll never make any forward progress in bettering the world.”

“Fair enough.” Dewani paused just outside a doorway, peered around the corner, then looked back at Okoye and held a finger to her lips. She mouthed the words ‘I’ll distract him first’ and disappeared around the corner.

Okoye crept up to the doorway and peered around the corner.

“Is she here yet?”

“Will you learn some damn patience? It’s only been fifteen minutes since I talked to you last. Relax!”

M’Baku’s shoulders slumped, and he went back to pulling weeds out of the rich, black earth. “So, what’s happened in the last fifteen minutes?”

“The apocalypse, apparently. Everything outside of the Jabari lands has been consumed in a bright, fire-y death.”

“Praise Hanuman for protecting us.”

“I kept telling the low-landers that vegetarianism would pay off, but do you think they listen to me?”

“You’re ahead of your time, Dewani. They were fools to not listen to you.”

“I know!”

Okoye had to place a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

It was endearing to watch, really. It was clear by M’Baku’s casual, unruffled responses that he was used to Dewani making up nonsense and was more than content to play along with her.

It also reminded her of the stories Shuri had told about M’Baku threatening to feed Agent Ross to his children, only to reveal that the Jabari were vegetarians and start snickering.

And then there had been Olufemi’s comments about her service to the avatars...

The apple does not fall far from its tree, Okoye thought as she watched the Jabari siblings banter back and forth.

M’Baku turned away from Dewani to drop a couple handfuls of weeds into nearby basket, and the younger woman nodded at Okoye, signalling the General to start sneaking up behind the Jabari Chief.

Okoye slid out of her coat and set her bag off to the side, then started creeping up behind M’Baku.

“So, if you and Okoye can take vacations together, does that mean I can invite Shuri up at some point?” Dewani asked to keep her brother distracted.

“I think that would be reasonable. You’d just have to get the Queen Mother and the King to agree.”

Dewani hummed as she ran her fingers over the delicate leaves of a little sprout. “I want to show her the valley. I think she’d like it.”

M’Baku grunted. “She’d probably find ways to bring her technology into it.”

“Shuri isn’t all about technology,” Dewani insisted, leaping to her girlfriend’s defense. “Quit being so sour.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So,” Dewani went on as Okoye carefully edged around a row of knee-high plants. “Do you have anything planned for Okoye?”

“Dewani--”

“Not like that! I was just wondering if you were going to show any of the sights.”

Okoye took the opportunity to grab M’Baku by his shoulders and kiss his cheek. “Yes, I’d like to know as well--” She couldn’t even finish her sentence before she was swept off her feet and into a massive hug.

“I thought you wouldn’t be here for another two hours!”

“Uh, yeah.” Dewani grinned deviously. “I lied.” When M’Baku gave her an exasperated look, she shrugged. “I wanted to surprise you. Are you surprised?”

M’Baku pressed an enthusiastic kiss against Okoye’s cheek. “Very.”

“Then my work here is done. I’m leaving before you two get gross. See you later, Okoye!”

Okoye tried to open her mouth to reply, but was cut off by a passionate kiss from M’Baku.

“Why’d you go along with her?” M’Baku asked when he finally broke away.

“It seemed harmless enough.” Okoye stroked the side of his face. “It’s good to see you, my love.”

M’Baku beamed down at her. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

She smirked up at him. “You could show me, if you wanted to run the risk of really grossing Dewani out.”

“Mmm, perhaps later. I have some things I’d like to show you first.”

She shivered slightly as M’Baku pressed his lips against her jaw. “By all means, then, show me.”

Okoye couldn’t help but smile. “It’s beautiful.”

They were standing on one of the many bridges that crisscrossed the Jabari lands. Below them churned the main river that ran from the ceremonial waterfalls, through the River tribe’s territory, and flowed out through the Jabari mountains. Before them, one could see down the entire length of the valley. The lowest parts of the mountains were dotted with lush vegetation, giving way to snow peaks as the eye moved up.

“I’ve been wanting to show this to you for several months now,” M’Baku said. “This is the spot that Dewani wanted to show to the Princess.”

“It’s breathtaking. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You wouldn’t. The low lands have nothing like this. For thousands of years, this view has only been seen by Jabari eyes.”

“Until now.”

M’Baku grinned down at her. “Until now, yes.” He pressed a series of gentle, warm kisses against her cheek. “How long are you staying, again?”

Okoye smiled up at him. She’d already told him, but seeing the giddy look on his face was worth saying it over and over. “Eighteen days.”

“Eighteen days,” M’Baku murmured against her lips. “A lot can happen in eighteen days.”

Okoye opened her mouth to agree, but wound up clinging to M’Baku when a particularly strong gust of wind made the bridge shake. She glared up at him as he started chuckling and swatted at his chest.

“How about we go inside?” M’Baku offered, one arm around her and one hand on the railing, steadying them both.

“Yes.” She gritted her teeth as another gust of wind shook the bridge. “Now.”

Kiss. “You have no idea--” kiss “--how happy I am--” kiss “--that you’re here.”

“I think--” kiss “--I’m getting--” kiss “--an understanding.”

They were seated on a blanket in front of the fireplace in the library. A bottle of wine and two half-filled glass sat off to the side, next to a small plate of fresh fruit and cheese.

Okoye was half-straddling, half-laying against M’Baku, leaning against his solid chest as he pressed kiss after kiss against her lips.

This. This is what she’d been craving for the past month. Time to rest and relax. Time to detach from her job and just be herself.

Time to lazily make out with M’Baku in between intervals of drinking wine and talking.

If there ever was such a thing as paradise, this would be it. “So,” Okoye asked as she reached over and took another sip from her glass. “What all do you have planned for me over these next eighteen days?”

“Well, I didn’t want to pack too much in. I know it’s been a while since you’ve had a proper vacation.” M’Baku took a sip from his own glass, then leaned back against the couch. “I also have some meetings with my council over the next few weeks, but I figured I’d show you a few sights. Nothing too strenuous.”

“I like the sound of that. What would you show me?”

“Well, there are some gardens in the valley that are among the best in Wakanda, if not the world. There’s a spring celebration in the central village that I thought you’d like to see. There’s a series of hot spring pools that are connected to the lodge.”

“Mmm, I like the sound of the last one.”

M’Baku grinned. “I thought you might.”

Okoye smiled back and kissed his shoulder. “So, where am I staying while I’m here?”

“Well, I can have one of the servants make up a room for you, or you could stay with me.”

Okoye gazed into the fire as she mulled her options over.

The logical option was to ask for her own room. They were barely six months in to their relationship, and they’d never slept together before. Diving in to something like that, especially since they hadn’t talked about it much, would be irresponsible.

The option she wanted to go with, however...

“What would happen if I stayed with you?”

M’Baku shrugged, not bothering to hide his smile. “Whatever you want to happen.”

“If I just want to sleep?”

“Then we’ll sleep.”

She gazed up at him, excitement coursing through her. “And if I don’t want to sleep?”

“I can accommodate that as well.” M’Baku pulled her into his lap. “What would you like?”

“Well, I think we need to talk about this,” Okoye said as she slid her arms over his thick shoulders. “At least a little.”

“Okay. Do you want to have sex with me?”

Okoye giggled and pressed her face against his shoulder. “You are so ridiculous!”

“On the contrary, I like to think I’m highly efficient and straightforward.”

“I’m not opposed to having sex with you,” Okoye said once she had her laughter under control.

M’Baku grinned. “I’m not opposed to having sex with you either.” 

They both dissolved into a pile of giggles together.

M’Baku got his breath back before she did. “Are you on contraceptives?”

“All members of the Dora Milaje get a contraceptive shot every six months.”

“Are you sure it’s up to date?”

“I had it updated before the Harvest Moon festival.”

“Oh, I see,” M’Baku said, grinning widely. “You had plans, did you?”

“Plans, no. Ideas, maybe. Prepared foresight, yes.” Her smile slipped away, and she started tracing her finger over the designs on his tunic. “Do you think it’s too soon?”

“No.” He skimmed his fingertips over the edge of her jaw. “But you think otherwise.”

Okoye sighed.

It wasn’t that she thought otherwise, not entirely. She wanted to be with M’Baku, wanted to ‘have sex’ with him, as he had so bluntly put it.

Half a month ago, after the Harvest Moon festival, she’d been perfectly fine with the idea. She’d even put some of her tighter dresses and nicer underwear on her packing list, for Bast’s sake!

So, what had changed between now and then?

“I think I’m just tired and overthinking everything,” Okoye muttered as she laid her head against his shoulder. “I’d much prefer to go back to bed with you.”

M’Baku chuckled quietly and kissed her temple. “How about this: you come to bed with me. If something happens, it happens. If not, that’s okay too. And, by tomorrow, if you decide you want your own room, I’ll have one set up for you. Sound good?”

“Sounds good.”

His bedroom was unlike anything she’d ever seen, from the rooms in the palace, to the hotels she’d stayed in while travelling with T’Challa, to her own apartment in downtown Birnin Zana.

For one, it was markedly simple. Only the necessities were present: a bed, a desk and chair, a few dressers, and a nightstand.

Okoye couldn’t help but mentally compare it to Shuri’s bedroom, which had its own mini-lab in it.

M’Baku’s bedroom also seemed to follow the Jabari principle of letting the outside world in. The outer wall was made up entirely of glass, showcasing a fantastic view of the mountains. All the furniture was made out of wood, twisted and carved into elegant, smooth shapes. A massive fireplace lined with stones from the river sat opposite of the bed. The bed itself was as massive as M’Baku, and was draped over with wool blankets and thick furs.

“I like your way of decorating,” Okoye said as she ran her hand over one of the furs. “It’s simple in a good way.”

“We don’t see a point in complicating the purpose of a room,” M’Baku said. “Let the room be what it needs to be, big enough to house what it needs to house, and only have the rooms that you really need.”

Okoye smirked. “I need to show you an American website, then. It’s dedicated to mocking ridiculous houses with too much wasted space.” At M’Baku’s blank look, she went on. “Think seven bedrooms, six bathrooms, and three dining rooms. For a house, not a palace-style building.”

M’Baku rolled his eyes. “Colonizers.”

“Tell me about it. Is there a bathroom I can change in?”

M’Baku grinned at her salaciously. “You could just change right here. I wouldn’t mind.”

“I know you wouldn’t, but I’d like to take my makeup off.”

M’Baku pointed to a door at the far end of the room. “Through there.”

The bathroom was much like the bedroom --everything was made out of river stone, and only the necessary fixtures were there. A massive stone sink took up one side of the wall, with a toilet positioned next to it. At the far end of the room sat a massive stone tub that was big enough for M’Baku to rest in comfortably. The outer wall was a continuation of the glass from the bedroom.

Briefly, Okoye wondered if self-exposure was a regular part of Jabari life --and, if so, just what she was getting into with M’Baku--before she quickly changed into her night clothes and washed her face.

Back in the bedroom, M’Baku had already changed into a pair of simple linen pants. He was stretched out across the bed, and smiled as he watched Okoye walk towards him. “You look nice.”

She glanced down at her oversized purple shirt and sweatpants. “If you say so.” She laid down next to M’Baku and trailed her fingers over his bare chest.

M’Baku propped himself up on one arm and gazed down at her. “Eighteen days.”

Okoye smiled up at him. “Eighteen days.”

“What would the King do if I kept you here?”

“I think you should be less worried about the King and more worried about me.”

“You wouldn’t want to stay longer?”

“I only packed so many clothes!”

“I can have more made for you.”

Okoye laughed and rolled her eyes. “I like my job, M’Baku. I have purpose in it.”

M’Baku sighed dramatically. “Well, I suppose I can bear to part with you, if only for that.” He started trailing kisses down her neck. “But not forever.”

Okoye sighed happily and tilted her head back to give him better access. “That’s something we can agree on.”

M’Baku froze, then moved so that he could look her in the eye. “Promise?”

Warmth spread through her chest, and she smiled softly as she reached up to cup his cheek. “I promise.”

[jonathanbitterli]

Beatuified Abstraction

The house floating like a concrete butterfly.[1] A spartan symphony of poured concrete, concrete block, gravel, tarred piles used as decoration, concrete tiles, galvanized metal: the Bijlmer displays more gray matter than any other place in the world.[1] The floor is a patchwork: different textures—concrete, hairy, heavy, shiny, plastic, metallic, muddy— alternate randomly, as if dedicated to different species.[2] An innovative building with film and fabric.[3] This way of building was fit for a king, especially when combined with the antique repertory of forms, and strictly proportioned, symmetrical designs.[4]

Round it grew numberless flowers of varied hue, filling the air with the richest perfume, Coco saw the blue flower alone, and gazed long upon it with inexpressible tenderness, she at length was about to approach it, when it began to mock, and change its form. [5] “I have been a rose,” says the perfume.[6] There were flowers for colour and for perfume. [7] The lower orchard showed exuberant vegetation, with ornamental trees and fruit, and the trunks of citrons and oranges which reached right up to the windows of the emperor's room, and delighted him with their colour and perfume.[7] The trees are the true glory of the park some 274 chestnuts, flanked on either side by a double file of limes which perfume the air in summer.[8] Coco stood alone in the huge perfumeyard gazing quietly at the city.“This city can only become more Parisian” she thought “It is already on its way to becoming hyper Paris, a polished caricature.[9] The city is no longer supposed to function as the land of opportunity for the little guy[10] its about opportunities for big women like me.”

 Gathering of the guests

The event takes its course, the tension rises by the minute - the room temperature as well. [11.1] Coco finally appears. [12] So the rest of her children. She wore much make up, and was heralded by exotic scent.[13] Her children were wonderful. [14] Among many the most outstanding were N°5, N°19 and N°22. N°5 embodies the essence of everything that one has to imagine under a classic, floral powdery aldehyde one. She is the epitome of feminine beauty, fearlessness and therefore wearable in all moments of life.[11.1] She’s perfect,  smelling like glass. There is a clean transparency throughout her.[11.2] N°19 however is fresh faced, hers is a beauty in need of no masking, she's blessed with a warm personality. She is the epitome of confidence, gently wrapped in the comfort of a fragrance oozing the tenderness of iris, the delicate sweetness of orris, and the clean, just about soapish caress of vetiver.[15.1] But over the time she has changed. Her original formulation is much greener, sharper in a sense than those of today. The drydown is a lightly poudre'.[15.1] N°22 on the other hand is a woman who wears this as tall, slender, with porcelain-like skin. She wears her elegantly styled hair upswept, and she is draped in the finest silk garments.[16.1] While reflecting in its streamlined profile the boyish androgyne silhouette.[16.2]

Few hours into the spell, jasmine and peach add to the ball, juicy and crisp enough to not obscure the previous duo. At last, ylang ylang and vetiver make their appearance; one dance and they leave, only to return some time later for a goodbye take.[17]

 The rite

If there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasure of the imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable [18] with their sensibilized senses the group moved to a place where there are no mirrors, projecting screens, complex illumination effects and the sounds of a concealed orchestra suggest an infinity of forbidden space beyond the accessible parts of the villa. [19] It was really an escape into a fairy tale world that was sought. [20] Here the gods of mythology and the animals of fairy tales converge in[21] each other. The subject of xenofeminism, then, is neither woman nor human [22] This dream a fantasy of sensory gratification, confused identities, and commingled pleasures is a celebration of the self and its grandiose desires [23] Now that both beauty and truth are considered subjective among the intellectual class, “interesting” has become the new term of highest praise. [24]

An old man, uncrowned, but with curling hair, at work. [25] He is wearing his ritual costume, with decorations representing servitor spirits, and holding the drum that he used to induce a trance state. [26] He takes an empty bottle of perfume from Coco and performed the ritual. [12] The diamond was taken to be crystallized water and the old man mumbled: “a little frozen wässcrli,’ Anshelm 2, 21 ; fon diu wirt daz is da zi (thereby turns the ice into) christallan so lierta, so mau daz fiur dar nber machôt, nnzi diu christalla irglnot, ^[ei'igarto 5, 25; conf.”[27] Coco cries out in labour, when her new daughter Cristalle is born. [28] The causal potency of an idea, or an ideal, becomes just as real as that of a molecule, a cell, or a nerve impulse.[29] The abstraction becomes beauty.[30]

The rite is ended, and we have [31] a bright forest clearing in spring, a cool clear stream flows by, a certain humidity is still in the air, flowers blossom and exude their delicate scent.[32] It's a dance of passion, the water and fire each shaping first a separate, then a common impression in the air. Cristalle is utter sophistication. Enchanting, distinctive without being loud, precious in the way only great creations - of all sort - can ever be. Some days, nothing can compare to her. [17]

Quotes

[1] Koolhaas, SMLXL

[2] Koolhaas, Junkspace with Running Room

[3] Koolhaas, Elements of Architecture

[4] De Jonge, Unity and Discontinuity

[5] Harrison Wood Gaiger, Art in Theory 1648 1815

[6] Hugo_Les Miserables

[7] Gothein_A History of Garden Art

[8] Saunders_The Art and Architecture of London

[9] Vanderburgh_Tourism Revisited

[10] Steinberg_Gotham Unbound

[11.1] https://www.parfumo.net/Perfumes/Chanel/No_5 Blog from Friedaherz

[12] Greenhalgh_Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky

[13] Carter, Anthony Blunt His Lives

[14] Rudolph_Taste and the Ancient Senses

[11.2] https://www.parfumo.net/Perfumes/Chanel/No_5 Blog from Stinkypenny

[15.1] https://www.parfumo.net/Perfumes/Chanel/N19 Blog from Interdit

[16.1] https://www.parfumo.net/Perfumes/Chanel/No_22 Blog from Oriane

[16.2] https://www.parfumo.net/Perfumes/Chanel/No_22 Blog from WildGardener

[17] https://www.parfumo.net/Perfumes/Chanel/Cristalle_Eau_de_Parfum Blog from Interdit

[18] Warner, Alone of All Her Sex

[19] Harris, Governing by Design

[20] Hays_Architecture Theory since 1968

[21] Zajko_Laughing with Medusa

[22] Braidotti Hlavajova_Posthuman Glossary

[23] Butler_Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses

[24] Speck_Walkable City

[25] Ruskin, The Stones of Venice

[26] Hutton, The Witch A History of Fear from Ancient Ronald

[27] Grimm, Teutonic Mythology The Complete Work

[28] Hofstadter, I Am a Strange Loop

[30] Serres, The Five Senses

[31] Michelet, Satanism and Witchcraft

[32] https://www.parfumo.net/Perfumes/Chanel/Cristalle_Eau_de_Parfum Blog von Schatzsucher

[perfectirishgifts]

CHANEL Celebrated Its 2020/21 Métiers d’Arts Collection At Chateau De Chenonceau

New Post has been published on https://perfectirishgifts.com/chanel-celebrated-its-2020-21-metiers-darts-collection-at-chateau-de-chenonceau/

CHANEL Celebrated Its 2020/21 Métiers d’Arts Collection At Chateau De Chenonceau

On December 3rd at 7pm Paris Time, The house of Chanel unveiled the film of the show for the 2020/21 Métiers D’Arts Collection imagined by Virginie Viard. The show was held on December 1st in the Grand Gallery at the Chateau de Chenonceau in the Loire Valley in France. A premiere for Chanel and a majestic one. Only one special guest attended the show-due to the second lockdown in France- the muse of the house Kristen Stewart who will be the face of the Collection photographed by Juergen teller. 

CHANEL 2020-21 Métiers d’Art Show Finale

Chateau de Chenonceau or the “Château des Dames” is located in Touraine, in the Val de Loire on the Cher river and easily accessible from Paris by car (two hours) or by TGV train to Tours (one hour). In the 16th century, King of France Francois Ier reigned over the Royaume. He admired the Italian Renaissance. A great Patron, he welcomed Leonard de Vinci. With its moderate climate, stunning landscape, The Val de Loire is known to be the favorite home to Francois Ier. The region will be the symbol of the blooming of the French Renaissance with its multitude of castles built and inspired by the Italian codes. The castle is not meant to be a safe  place anymore, it has become a sumptuous and magnificent place where the Royal Court showcases all the marvelous beauties of the era: art, architecture and gardens. 

The Chateau de Chenonceau in Loire Valley

The “Château des Dames” is the witness of a particular history as it was built in turn by great intellectual, feminist, strong and avant gardiste women for their time- Katherine Briçonnet, Diane de Poitiers, Catherine de’ Medici, Louise de Touraine and Madame Dupin- exactly as Gabrielle Chanel was in her time. “Showing at the Château de Chenonceau, at the “Château des Dames”, was an obvious choice. It was designed and lived in by women, including Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de’ Medici. It is a castle on a human scale. And Catherine de’ Medici’s emblem was a monogram composed of two intertwined Cs, just like that of Chanel,” confides Virginie Viard. “We don’t know if Coco was directly inspired by her, but it is highly likely because she so admired Renaissance women. Her taste for lace ruffs and the aesthetic of certain pieces of her jewellery come from there. Deep down, this place is a part of Chanel’s history.” In 1936, Gabrielle Chanel wrote an article on the women of that era: “I have always been struck by a strange feeling of sympathy and admiration towards the women who lived from François Ier to Louis XIII, perhaps because I find them all to be great, with a magnificent simplicity and a majesty imbued with onerous duties.”

Catherine de’ Medici’s emblem was a monogram composed of two intertwined Cs, just like that of … [] Chanel,” confides Virginie Viard.

The current architecture of Chenonceau is mostly the work of Catherine de’ Medici. During the French Revolution, the castle was protected as the Cher helped the farmers to transport merchandise. In the 18th century, Chenonceau was a prominent place for promenades, poetry, theatre. A place of lectures, conversations, pleasure. Jean-Jacques Rousseau got inspired by the beautiful landscape of Touraine and composed his poem “L’Allée de Sylvie”, he was the secretary of Madame Dupin. During WW1, Château de Chenonceau owned by the Meunier family became a hospital, and during WW2 it was on the demarcation line. Since then, the Meunier family has perpetuated the extraordinary rich history of this gem in France and over the world. Château de Chenonceau is the most visited castle in France. Thanks to the House of Chanel, in order to offer a spectacular lesson of French history during this pandemic, why don’t you read Ronsard’s poetry and immerse yourself in this romantic region, at least for a while.

Chateau de Chenonceau

For the first time, Chanel produced exclusive contents unlocked by invitation only. A coffret including a text “from one Renaissance to others” written by Fanny Arama relating the history and multiple links between the women who made “Château des Dames” and Gabrielle Chanel. The text was also related in audio clips by muses of the house Keira Knightley in English, Anna Mouglalis in French or Penelope Cruz in Spanish. Coming together with magnificent photographs of Château de Chenonceau of Juegen Teller compiled in a book. 

Ultra shorts suits-body revisits the emblematic Chanel tweed jacket with daring proportions and … [] richly colored sequins.

The Chanel Métiers D’art show is the heritage of Karl Lagerfeld. He wanted to perpetuate French cultural legacy and an uncommon craft expertise. Held every year in December, outside the fashion calendar, the Chanel Métiers d’Arts show is an ode to French rich savoir faire. For this 2020/21 Métiers d’Art Collection, more than ever the Chanel’s craftsmen orchestrated by Virginie Viard accomplished a spectacular collection. 

The facade of Chateau de Chenonceau on a sweater

Ultra shorts suits-body revisits the emblematic Chanel tweed jacket with daring proportions and richly colored sequins. The geometric nonchalance allure of a long skirt in a fringed tweed patchwork worn with a black and white jacquard sweater. 

The warm hues of a tweed cape echo the famous tapestries of the castle, while the flowers from the two gardens, one created by Diane de Poitiers and the other by Catherine de’ Medici, located on either side of the castle, inspired the floral embroideries on the wide lapel of a jacket. But, also, the black and white checkered motif on the Grand gallery floor is reminiscent of a life-size game of checkers, and appears on sequined mini-skirts. The collection plays with volumes and materials, and is definitly modern and feminine. An embroidered delicate dress by Lesage, the two-tone sparkling silver platform sandals by Massaro, the facade of Chateau de Chenonceau on a sweater or belts, the constellation and accumulation of sparkling jewels and pearl necklaces. The 2020/21 Métiers d’Art Collection is a praise of nonchalance, magnetic, and above all so feminine. 

Constellation and accumulation of sparkling jewels and accessories

Rendez vous in Chanel stores in May 2021. Next year, the 19M will open in Paris, the building realized by architect Rudy Ricciotti, will regroup and celebrate all the Chanel Métiers d’Arts into a creative hub of multidisciplinary.

More from Travel in Perfectirishgifts

[seriousbusinessforhumans]

Despite the dissatisfaction, the changes brought by I-940 are being felt. Last week, King County prosecutors filed what is believed to the first murder charge against a police officer under the new law. Some law enforcement officials said the law’s training measures will have long-lasting impacts. De La Cruz praised the accountability and improved training that the measure created, but said activists want to see much more intrinsic changes, including some that were left out of the compromises made to pass I-940.

Washington state Attorney General Bob Ferguson said his office is investigating 30 incidents involving potentially deadly force by police since the initiative took effect in January.

Cops didn’t follow the law: One of I-940’s key provisions requires independent investigations in cases of serious use of force by police in Washington state.....An independent team of detectives and crime scene technicians from agencies not involved in the killing are supposed to investigate and present their findings to the local prosecutor. The team leader is required to vet members for conflicts of interest and review that information with community representatives, defined as people who “have credibility with and ties to communities impacted by police use of deadly force,” within 72 hours of the investigation starting, according to state regulations drawn up to enforce the initiative. And the team leader is supposed to provide weekly public updates. That didn’t happen after Wiley shot Joquin, at least not initially.

Pierce County’s Cooperative Cities Crime Response Unit, which investigates major crimes in smaller municipalities and is one of a patchwork of regional teams handling the independent investigations mandated by I-940, stepped in. It took nearly two months for the team to find a community representative, a process Annalesa Thomas said didn’t begin until she and her husband contacted the leader of the investigative team.....For Annalesa Thomas, that was particularly troubling, because several of the investigative team members had served on a multiagency SWAT team with Wiley. At least two were present on May 23, 2013, when Wiley used explosives to breach the back door of Leonard Thomas’s home in Fife. A jury later found that decision ultimately led to Thomas’s death from a police sniper’s bullet.

Puyallup Police Capt. Ryan Portmann, who’s overseeing the investigation into Joquin’s killing, acknowledged there were delays......When Wiley shot Joquin, Lakewood hadn’t yet named any community representatives, although it has now....Portmann said he thinks as investigative teams across the state become more familiar with the new process, there will be more compliance.

Some of the training mandated by I-940 also has been delayed. New recruits attending the Basic Law Enforcement Academy at the Criminal Justice Training Commission are receiving 200 hours of de-escalation and mental health training as required by the regulations developed after I-940 passed, officials said. However, instructors are in the process of redeveloping that curriculum after rushing to meet the Dec. 7, 2019, deadline for implementing it, said Jerrell Willis, the academy’s division manager for applied skills training.

-

Joquin’s death isn’t the only recent killing by law enforcement that has drawn scrutiny. A Seattle Times examination of the investigation following the March 3 death of Manuel Ellis at the hands of Tacoma police raised similar questions about whether law enforcement agencies were following the new law. Ferguson, the attorney general, has asked the Legislature for a new police accountability law that would track use of deadly force across the state.

For I-940’s proponents, it’s a reminder of what they didn’t achieve in negotiations before and after the initiative passed.

The initiative took a circuitous route through the Legislature and the courts to the November 2018 ballot. After voters approved the measure, members of De-Escalate Washington found themselves sitting across the negotiating table with law enforcement groups that had opposed its passage. An early compromise came during the 2019 legislative session, when lawmakers passed the Law Enforcement Training and Community Safety Act, which amended and replaced I-940. One of the biggest changes both sides agreed on was the standard for prosecuting police officers who kill someone. The ballot measure required officers to show “good faith” in the use of deadly force, something law enforcement groups strongly opposed. In a compromise, activists and police groups gave legislators their blessing to change the standard to whether “a similarly situated reasonable officer would have believed that the use of deadly force was necessary to prevent death or physical harm to the officer or another individual."

In June, as pressure from protests mounted, Gov. Inslee created a task force to bring additional recommendations for reform to the Legislature. Thomas said she’s pushing for stricter limits on when police can use deadly force and an enforcement measure to ensure agencies comply with the independent review rules.

Annalesa and Fred Thomas gather together outside of their home in Tacoma on Aug. 19, 2020. Their son, Leonard Thomas, was killed by police in Fife in 2013. The family received a multimillion-dollar jury award in the aftermath of his wrongful death, and they became major proponents of I-940. 

-

Where the conversation has moved

That bias plagues police departments, and communities of color are overpoliced, is well established. An InvestigateWest analysis of nearly 8 million traffic stops by the Washington State Patrol found that troopers searched Black, Latino and Native American drivers more often than white drivers, but found drugs and weapons less often. A Seattle police analysis found similar results last year.

Historically, these disparities have been chalked up to implicit bias, the idea that everyone has unconscious biases that impact how they view people of other races and ethnicities.......When the Seattle City Council in August voted to cut funding for officers’ implicit bias training, members of Decriminalize Seattle said it was one of the first times any municipality in the country questioned what one activist called “this gospel of implicit bias.” The city council voted to require the department to show its training is having an impact.

Thomas called police to her son Leonard’s house in 2013 after he’d asked her to take his 4-year-old son because he’d been drinking and was having a mental health crisis, then wouldn’t let her leave with the child. During a wrongful death trial in 2017..... Wiley, the officer who would later shoot Joquin in Lakewood, was described by the lawyers as overeager and overaggressive.....Wiley’s reaction was ebullient. He called the sniper’s bullet a “frickin’ million dollar shot” and cracked jokes with fellow officers, according to court records. The jury levied $1.5 million in punitive damages against him. 

Annalesa Thomas wonders why someone like Wiley who she said exhibited “a callous disdain for human life” is still on the force........That Wiley was in a position to shoot and kill Joquin after being found responsible for her son’s death is evidence of a cultural problem in police departments, Thomas said.

InvestigateWest is a Seattle-based nonprofit newsroom producing journalism for the common good. Learn more and sign up to receive alerts about future stories at http://www.invw.org/newsletters/.

(Selected segments of the article)