#Remnants of Foraged Feasts

[xtruss]

Excavating a Language at the End of the World

How an Old Dictionary is Revealing New Perspectives on an Indigenous Culture.

— By Katarina Zimmer | July 31, 2024

Image: Shutterstock

Deep in the southern hemisphere, where frigid waves lap against the toe of the South American continent, the sea has no single name. Locals have called it tāralömbi when the water is perfectly calm. Čilamaii are the swells that gather along the coast, mötālömön is the roughening of the water by western breezes. Döna is the term when certain winds ruffle the ocean’s surface in such a way that the movement of fish underneath cannot be discerned and canoes must return ashore.

The Indigenous Yaghan people who have spoken these words are native to Tierra del Fuego—the mosaic of islands, fjords, channels, bays, and coves created by the submerged foot of the Andean mountains in southern Argentina and Chile. The Yaghan and their ancestors are thought to have persisted in this harsh, windy, and cold seascape for thousands of years. There, they have built canoes, from which they hunted sea lions and seals with harpoons. They have caught fish, gathered mussels, made ornaments, and celebrated rites of passage. They have roamed far and wide.

The last truly native speaker of Yaghan, Cristina Calderón, died in 2022. Up to a few hundred members of the group are still alive today—including Calderón’s granddaughter Cristina Zárraga and others who are working to revitalize the language; Yaghan is classified as “dormant” by the Endangered Languages Project.

Dictionaries, it turns out, can be excavated for rich information missing from the archeological record.

Although archaeologists have long been fascinated by the deep history of this seafaring, nomadic people, many of the physical remains their ancestors left behind have been lost to time. Fortunately, they have also left clues in the Yaghan language.

The Yaghan words for the sea were exhumed from a 19th-century Yaghan-English dictionary compiled in the late 1800s by an Anglican missionary. In a recent paper in the International Journal of Historical Archaeology, a team of Norwegian scholars argue that studying this historical snapshot of Yaghan could yield important clues about these people’s lives over the centuries. The same approach could be used for potentially hundreds of other languages, dead, alive, or dormant, across the globe to better understand old ways of life, ancient ecologies, and humans’ connection to the landscape.

Dictionaries, Such As The One Created For The Yaghan Language, It Turns Out, Can Be Excavated For Rich and Nuanced Information Missing From The Physical Archeological Record.

“You could think about language in a similar way as we think about the archaeological sites in a landscape,” says the lead author of the new research, archaeologist Jo Sindre Eidshaug of the Norwegian University of Science and Technology’s Marine Ventures project, an international archaeological research effort. Eidshaug views language as something that “settles” a landscape just like physical artifacts, as people develop knowledge and vocabulary in places where they spent most of their time.

“This kind of research gives us a new tool to understand some [questions about] the life of these people in the past,” adds Angélica Tivoli, an archaeologist at the Austral Center for Scientific Research of the National Scientific and Technical Research Council in Ushuaia, Argentina, who wasn’t involved in the new work.

Today, while language revitalization efforts of Zárraga and others are underway, little Yaghan is currently spoken in Tierra del Fuego. The Yaghan culture and language underwent a devastating decline after Europeans arrived. In the 1880s, about 90 percent of the Yaghan people died from infectious diseases Europeans brought. The decline continued into the 20th century, when many Yaghans continued to die prematurely and faced discrimination for speaking the language. Today’s Yaghan people still fashion traditional harpoon points of whale bone and weave baskets, nowadays mostly to sell to tourists, but they can no longer canoe or boat freely due to restrictions by the Chilean Navy.

Thomas Bridges, who constructed the dictionary, first met the Yaghans as a teenager in 1856 and later lived with them for 30 years. Carefully documenting their language and culture helped Bridges to translate the Gospel of Luke into Yaghan, as part of Anglican missionary tradition to make the Bible accessible in local languages. But while a complete Yaghan Bible may never have come to fruition, Bridges’ dictionary includes about 32,000 words. “That level of detail he was documenting—it’s so beautiful,” says Oxford University ornithologist Andrew Gosler, research director of the Ethno-Ornithology World Atlas which collects Indigenous knowledge on birds. “To be able to document that kind of detail,” he says, demonstrates a closeness with the native speakers.

Grandmother Tongue: Cristina Calderón, pictured here, was the last known truly native speaker of Yaghan. She died in 2022, but her granddaughter Cristina Zárraga and others are working to revitalize the language. Historical perspectives, like that from the newly analyzed dictionary, help enrich contemporary understanding of the culture’s deep history—and connection with the landscape of Tierra del Fuego. Photo By: Víctor Alejandro Correa Rueda/Wikimedia Commons

Because Bridges was merely striving to record the Yaghan vocabulary as comprehensively as possible, his dictionary may be less colored by prejudices and personal agendas than ethnographic reports of the Yaghan by other missionaries and travelers, Eidshaug says. But still, the dictionary is limited in the kinds of questions about the past it can answer. Languages change over time, so it’s unlikely, for example, to shed light on deep archeological questions, such as the origins of the first marine hunter-gatherers in Tierra del Fuego some 7,000 years ago. Or to necessarily give a full picture of the richness and breadth of Yaghan life.

In other places, like Australia, male linguists have been historically more likely to ask men than women about their practices, documenting little on activities traditionally carried out by women, notes linguist Luisa Miceli of the University of Western Australia. Bridges also mostly worked with only one Yaghan couple—Okokko and Camilenna—to understand the language, possibly limiting his view of the communities’ activities as a whole, Gosler says. And, many concepts in Yaghan are so specific to culture and place that they’re hard, if not impossible, to fully encapsulate in other languages, adds Zárraga, who learned the language as an adult from her grandmother.

But the dictionary might have encoded detailed knowledge about the kinds of resources, practices, and deep environmental understanding that were assembled over hundreds or thousands of years in Tierra del Fuego, much of which hasn’t been preserved in the archeological record. “The kind of environmental knowledge that is picked up in this language has an antiquity to it,” Eidshaug says.

Most Physical Traces of Yaghan Culture, Like Any Remnants of Foraged Feasts, Were Lost To Time.

Wherever they went, Yaghans accumulated knowledge and vocabulary about their environment—the climate, the sea and its inhabitants, the coastline, the beach, and the forested hinterlands of Tierra del Fuego. Archaeological studies have mostly focused on shell middens along the coast—ring-shaped piles of shells that were discarded around dwellings—where animal bones and bone tools were preserved thanks to the alkaline chemistry of the shells.

The dictionary catalogs commonly hunted and foraged foods that don’t preserve—fast-degrading things like crab shells, berries, and fungi—in line with some ethnographic reports. Eidshaug counted 48 Yaghan terms for local fungi, many that describe their ripening in rich detail. For example, auačix, the round yellow summer fungus that grows on the šöšči tree: čikidönara describes immature fungi; pöša the second stage just before the fungus opens in holes and gets puffy; and dönara is when they are fully ripe, shortly after falling from the trees.

Most physical traces of the central vehicle of Yaghan culture, the bark canoe, like any remnants of auačix feasts, were also lost to time. Yet the dictionary describes in detail the resources and strategies involved in canoe-making. Bark is cut from the šöšči tree, and wood fiber called uri is used for sewing. Hūšun—seed stalks of wild celery—are sewn as pads into the seams to make them waterproof. Tstāgi soil is used to cement the seams. Tatega—pieces of young smooth bark—are attached to the canoe’s upper edges to protect paddlers from blisters. Through words like these, “we get a broader picture of the material culture,” Eidshaug says.

By Any Other Name: While trying to better understand the Yaghan language and culture—in order to craft translated Bible verse—a 19th-century Anglican missionary ended up creating a detailed map of the Indigenous group’s local knowledge and worldviews within his handwritten dictionary. Here, he documented the many Yaghan words for funguses. Credit: Yahgan Dictionary, 1865, hosted on Patagonia Bookshelf.

The dictionary also offers a window into some of the intangibles of Yaghan culture and worldview. Some entries pertain to rituals, such as kīna, an initiation ceremony for boys aged 12 to 17. The Yaghan word “to go” is often combined with prefixes to indicate direction; some denote the cardinal directions like north and south, but others indicate “toward land” or “away from shore,” illustrating how people mentally divided their landscape. Other entries explain how Yaghans kept time according to the seasonal changes in nature around them. Čgaiaŋgūta is the season for ripe auačix fungus. Čīyāgörana is the season when šöšči tree bark loosens, hākūa for making spring canoes. Iūan is the time when older crabs carry the younger ones, čīiūaiella the time after they’ve separated.

Information buried in the dictionary might also help interpret the physical archeological record. In the dictionary, for instance, Uštānim is described as a porpoise jaw used as a comb. Isöska is the lower jaw bone of a whale used as spear bones. Dictionary entries of this type could help archaeologists make sense of a hodgepodge of bones found underneath shell middens, and perhaps provide important context to certain tools, Tivoli says. “Maybe it’s a way of calling our attention to look deeper into the archaeological record,” she says.

Many nouns describe local animals, which represent a third of the dictionary. The wealth of different terms for certain animals—such as for shellfish—may reflect a recent increase in their importance as a resource relative to other creatures.

This new, linguistic approach to uncovering more about a long-lived culture as described in Eidshaug’s paper is quite valuable, says archaeologist Flavia Morello of Chile’s Institute of Patagonia and the Cape Horn International Center, both part of the University of Magallanes. It shows how dictionaries can act as gateways to unique cultures and in doing so help foster a deeper societal appreciation for cultural diversity and the kinds of relationships humans can cultivate with landscapes. “It’s very inspiring as a paper,” she says.

Archaeologists elsewhere are increasingly interested in leveraging language in similar ways. Miceli and her colleagues recently published a pilot study to explore what kind of information they could glean—from dictionaries of 10 Aboriginal languages in Australia—about domestic fire use, and whether this could be useful in guiding archaeologists in excavating sites, Miceli says. Past collaborations between archaeologists and linguists have often centered on answering questions about the likely homeland of ancestral languages, and how and why they spread, rather than using vocabulary to help with archaeological excavations. “That, I think, is quite new,” Miceli says.

Watertight Insights: Many of the physical artifacts of the Yaghan people—whose ancestors have occupied Tierra del Fuego likely for thousands of years—have been lost to time and harsh weather. By digging through the 19th-century dictionary, scholars were able to learn more about the details of how people once made the canoes that plied the area’s waters. Photo courtesy of Springer Link.

Eidshaug and his colleagues also applied this same proof of concept to a dictionary of Norwegian as it was spoken among coastal fisher-farmers and other people in the area in the 1840s. And there are many more old dictionaries of languages waiting to be excavated from archive shelves.

In the case of the Yaghan, the hope is that such investigations not only answer archaeological curiosities but also help the living communities engage more deeply with their past. “We’ve connected several times with archaeologists who study artifacts and middens, and it has always been an interesting topic for us Yaghans,” says Zárraga, who spoke with me through an interpreter from her native Spanish language.

Zárraga spent a decade living with her grandmother, learning Yaghan practices, values, and language—and about her grandmother’s experience as the culture around her eroded. “It was … very pure cultural knowledge that my grandmother had, through the language,” Zárraga recalls. She is working to carry this ancestral knowledge forward in time. She’s already written two educational books on the Yaghan language and has plans for a Yaghan-Spanish dictionary. Eidshaug, meanwhile, has digitized Bridges’ dictionary to make it more easily accessible.

Though media reports often described her grandmother as the last Yaghan speaker, Zárraga hopes her efforts will ensure that the language and its embedded information will not molder in archives, and that the unique culture it described won’t go the same way. “That’s why it’s very, very important, all of these things that my grandma gave me,” she says. “So we are not the last ones.”

— Katarina Zimmer is a Science and Environment Journalist Currently Based in Germany.

[elysiality]

-⋆˚꩜｡ synopsis — your little foraging trip with your girlfriend and the dictator of your village quickly goes south when said dictator pulls a knife on you. lucky for you, you've dabbled in the art of self-defense before. (requested !)

WOLF IN THE HEADLIGHTS —

★ natalie scatorccio and shauna shipman.

"How can a girl who couldn't even keep her title as queen keep a girlfriend?"

fuck this. onto rule five then.

rule 5— use violence to subdue the predator.

─────────── ౨ৎ ───────────

PT 2 — ★

-⋆˚꩜｡ cw !! — fem! reader, spoilers for yellowjackets S3, yellowjackets typical antics, knife to throat bullshittery, flirting, mentions of blood, mild descriptions of cannibalism, shauna shipman, is it really infidelity if you're homoerotically pinning a girl to the floor of the canadian wilderness with a butcher knife in front of your girlfriend?

══════════════════════════

oh, for the love of the wilderness.

you're considering foraging for some of the poisonous mushrooms that you were warned to avoid and shoving them in your ears for earplugs.

the dreaded, painful sound of Shauna snarling an insult at Nat reaches your ears for the sixth time in an hour. they can't lay off of each other for ten minutes.

maybe you'd be a little bit more sympathetic towards Shauna in other situations. she's not taking her baby's death very well, as expected.

and yes, she would warrant empathy for that in usual situations, as expected.

that is, if she wouldn't go back to the village after this little trip of your trio was done and dusted and then order around everyone like some sort of fucked up, wilderness stalin. power really does get to one's head.

you feel some ounce of humanity surface in you when you think of the poor scientists. one dead, the other two trapped in the animal pen next to the carefully bred ducks and rabbits as well as their shit hole. and possibly remnants of coach's dead body.

but then it sinks back under the surface, along with the rest of your unimportant emotions. throughout this whole over-extended, impromptu camping trip with your soccer team, you've gained a reputation as the 'aloof' one. which, in wilderness terms, means being assigned hunting duty along with Nat.

you didn't have the same penchant for shooting with a hundred mile radius accuracy like she did, so your job was setting snares along paths where she found the most prey.

that was how you started talking. like— really talking.

pre-crash, your relationship was cordial and friendly— a wave in the hallway, informing each other on Jackie's constant practice time changes and then bitching about it for a little, sharing notes, making assists during games, etc etc, but it never went any further than that.

it was only during these hunting trips that you really started connecting. you were quiet and easy to talk to— a perfect listener to lend your ears to Nat's agitated rants. you told each other about your interests back home— you'd never have a chance to do them again, but it was nice to talk about them nonetheless.

one thing led to another, as it so often does, and you started up a secret relationship before you knew it was happening.

the reason for the secrecy wasn't for fear of homophobia— you were on an all-girls soccer team, for fucks sake, but more so because you started dating when Nat took on the leader role for the team.

building the huts, gathering animals to breed, all these different activities meant that a public relationship would cause quite the scandal, given that your 'community' was small enough to be surveyed from atop of a large rock.

so you kept it under wraps for the time being. the thrill only contributed to your excitement of being in this relationship— secret kisses on hunting trips, moving in with her on pretense of her needing moral support (which isn't even a lie), holding hands under the makeshift table during feasts.

things were about as great as they could be in the middle of nowhere— until they found Coach Scott. until Nat executed him via mercy killing and Shauna blew up on her.

your relationship with Shauna pre-crash was...strained, to say the least. you were friendly enough to each other— but the only reason for that was that Jackie was the bridge between you two.

you were close to her so by extension you were close to Shauna. she was like a second body attached to Jackie, immobile and rendered useless without her. your relationship was strained because it was hard to seperate her from Jackie— Shauna just did whatever Jackie wanted most of the time. you didn't know what her true colours were. you couldn't even imagine her without her other half.

it was only after Jackie's death and the posthumous cannibalisation of her body that Shauna truly started growing into her own person— and that person was not someone you liked at all.

to you, she was lukewarm— an extraordinary achievement, given her feeling blue all the damn time, but you were kind and sweet enough. helping her move around when she started showing, giving her some of your food to help with the unborn baby's growth, defusing the tension between her and Lottie when she started spouting weird shit about the baby— oh sorry, her baby.

you knew she appreciated it, given that she didn't lose her shit with you if you dared to breathe too loudly, so you were as genial to each other as you could muster.

it started to manifest post stillbirth when you realised that your portions of stew were increasing, that Shauna silently contributed to arguments between you and anyone else by glaring menacingly at the offending party, that she willingly helped you with your chores even though you pushed through it in complete silence.

these were jovial enough gestures and you were grateful to her. the only problem you had with her was her attitude towards everyone else— and more specifically, your girlfriend.

for whatever reason, she had it out for Nat, even before her crowning. she hated her with fervid intensity, which heightened your dislike for her.

then came the frog scientists. the poor things stumbled into your village just a few hours too late. they could've dealt with Nat, who would've been merciful. instead, they had to deal with Shauna 'the Butcher' Shipman who'd recently discovered that she liked the taste of blood. oh and of course, Lottie, the wilderness' divine prophet or whatever the fuck, who had kindly given Coach Ben a friend in heaven via axe-to-the-head.

you realised pretty quickly that these scientists could be useful to you. they knew the way back to civilization. they could help you get home. you dared to let yourself think about that word again. home. your friends. your family. school. a normal life.

but of course, life has a way of ripping your happiness out of your hands and landing a solid kick to the groin instead. Lottie chose to stay back. then Shauna. then Tai. Shauna hijacked the gun and took charge of the village, locking up your path to civilization in the animal pen (again). There goes all hopes and dreams of leading a boring, adventure-free life again.

even so, the world kept spinning. which meant another day of scavenging for food out in the wilderness— especially with winter so close by. you feel like quite the worker ant as you push through overgrown shrubs and bushes, two more pairs of footsteps behind you.

everyone felt a bit queasy at the thought of eating meat so soon after the whole Coach Scott fiasco, so you and Nat were told to go out and forage instead. you were more than happy to do this, since it meant you would have time together and you'd be able to pry Nat's thoughts open like a nutshell and let her rant to you.

she seemed to have the same idea, getting skittish and jittery as you got ready, exchanging agonised looks with you while grabbing the grass-woven baskets.

however, on brand with your shitty luck streak, your plans were rudely interrupted by Shauna, who clearly thought that maybe you'd attempt to poison her or something— a very likely possibility, given the Misty incident at the start of your stint in hell and how irritable she was becoming these days. she firmly declared that she was joining you— and of course you couldn't reject your queen. (heavy air quotes on that).

so now you have to go hunting for mushrooms and what not with a very antsy Nat and Shauna, who's always been a ticking time bomb. luckily, you'd remembered that you had strung up some nets around a couple of berry patches deep in the woods, which is where you're on route to right now.

the trip had been relatively peaceful so far, save for the occasional woodland creature sprinting across your path and the sound of dry leaves crunching under your feet— but of course that couldn't last.

you round on the two of them, halting in your tracks. they're arguing about the rescue thing again. good god.

"I've told you hundreds of times before— we can't leave yet because I say so." Shauna reiterates firmly, her grip on her knife tightening till her knuckles turn white.

Nat huffs, dropping her gun on the dirt, locking her eyes onto Shauna. "Then you're clearly a fucking psychopath. D'you think these people are just gonna be our fucking escape route whenever we want? Their fear is gonna dwindle soon and then they're gonna see us for what we really are— a bunch of scared, pathetic teenage girls who eat their friends to survive."

Shauna crosses her arms quietly, advancing on Nat with quiet footsteps. Nat steps back, just slightly, but a twig snaps under her heavy boots and it's enough to catch Shauna's attention. her lips curve upward into a canine-showing grin. like a wolf.

you, however reluctantly, take a step forward, ready to break up any potential fights. it reminds you of the basic rules you've set for yourself when going hunting with Nat— the rules on how to deal with another predator who has their eyes locked on your kill.

rule 1— be ready to intervene.

"No.", Shauna says softly, her intense gaze burning into Nat, "they won't. Because that's not who we are. We're so much more than that."

"Yeah?", Nat challenges, taking a shaky step forward. They're inches away now. "Then enlighten me. Who are we, if we're not the high school seniors who crashed into the middle of nowhere and have had to do horrible, fucked up things to survive?"

Shauna examines her for a moment, her eyes scanning Nat's gaunt, scar-streaked face. "We're predators.", she drawls out. she sounds each syllable out slowly, like she's explaining addition to a pre-schooler. "Yellowjackets, if you will." She grins like a shark.

"We kill to survive. We hunt, because we have to and because we want to. Our village is our nest— colony, pack, whatever you want to call it. We aren't just teenage girls and you know it." she pokes her finger into Nat's chest, rolling her eyes. "You're just too much of a wimp to admit it."

Nat gulps, that heavy, guilt filled gulp you've seen her do so many times— after devouring Jackie, when she found out that Lottie nearly froze to death during the hunting competition, after Javi died. you sigh internally. it's time to step up.

rule 2— create distance between the predator and the prey. DO NOT USE YOUR OWN BODY IF YOU DON'T FANCY BEING EATEN ALIVE.

okay, so you're only following half the rule. so what? you step in front of Nat, effectively shielding her from Shauna's gaze. the only problem? Shauna's attention is on you now.

two blazing brown eyes lock onto yours and you calmly hold her gaze, resisting the urge to drop it and run away squealing like a frightened rabbit.

her eyes are void of any emotion but morbid curiosity. like she's wondering what colour your blood would be. or perhaps how you would taste if she took a bite out of you. you wonder if this is what people mean when they say 'coming face-to-face with death'.

her mental deterioration was one of the most obvious, second to only Lottie's. when Jackie was alive, she was still somewhat tethered to the husk of her old self. the soft-talking, quiet smart girl who preferred to stay in her best friend's shadow. that persona froze to death with Jackie in the snow.

Shauna calls your name in a low voice. a taunting, almost playful tone— an echo of all the times she'd used it while reprimanding you during practice. "Move.", she almost croons, one hand tracing the sheath of her knife.

you stay rooted, raising your hands placatingly.

rule 3— attempt to calm the predator. diverge their attention. use bait if necessary. DO NOT USE YOUR OWN BODY.

"Listen. We have a job to do. I don't care what bullshit you two wanna argue about— don't do it now." you say, readjusting your basket over your shoulder for full mobility. "I get it. You're pissed that no one wants to turn our community into a dictatorship, she's pissed that you don't want us to be rescued and taken home." her eyes narrow dangerously— a sign that you should stop talking. you don't.

"But winter is coming. We need to stock up on food because what happened last time cannot happen again." her eyes flash with just the slightest hint of guilt before it melts into that corroded look that sits on her face all the time.

it haunts you, all of you. the first time you'd tasted human flesh. the hunger. the ravenous feasting. how you had learnt that day that human flesh tasted disturbingly like pork when cooked. how easy it was for civility and morality to leave when hope was lost.

"Come on." You plead with her, your voice dripping with honey. you can feel Nat's heavy breathing on your neck. she's torn between terror and rage. her hand finds yours and she squeezes, an action that does not go unnoticed by Shauna's trained eyes. "Let's go back to foraging. We survived a fucking plane crash. We'll get through this. Together."

oh. you wish you could've taken that last line back. you may have talked her down from the cliff if not for that last line.

something in Shauna's eyes splinters— like a mirror shattering into little shards of glass. her eyes flicker to Nat's neck, where Jackie's necklace sits on her collarbones, glinting gold in the sun.

Jackie. sweet, sweet Jackie, who always pointed out when your shoelaces were untied and redid them for you, who held your hair back when you threw up after a rough night out, who made sure everyone had snacks during halftime, who always let Nat stay over when things got rough at home even if they weren't all that close.

Jackie, who had died so easily, like she was born to die there, nestled under layers of snow shrouding her dead body after an argument with the girl she loved so much.

Jackie, who above all, wanted the group to stay together. who wanted to get through it together.

you tense up. you know what's coming. you can sense the storm brewing in Shauna, you can see it in her eyes. you've finally struck a chord.

"Yeah?", Shauna asks quietly, taking another step forward towards you. you're now mere inches away from each other. her breath is cold against your face.

"And where's she gonna go, even if I do agree to this stupid rescue plan?" it's Nat's turn to tense up. her family has always been a touchy subject for her and for good reason. you place your hand on hers, stepping closer to her body.

"Back home to her shitty trailer? With her alcoholic mom who waits for daddy dearest to come back from beyond the grave?" she's sneering at you. sneering.

you can't remember step four. your fists are clenching and unclenching desperately as you try to resist the urge to beat her into a pulp.

"But of course you'd defend her right?" Shauna taunts further. step four, step four— what was step four?

"You and your pathetic little girlfriend. What a perfect pair. I'm surprised you'd even want her, though."

Shauna directs her attention to Nat now, who's quivering behind you. a lesser woman than your girlfriend would've quailed under that gaze.

"How can a girl who couldn't even keep her title as queen keep a girlfriend?"

fuck this. onto rule five then.

rule 5— use violence to subdue the predator.

in one smooth motion, you vault over to Shauna, closing the gap between you two, tackling her to the ground. your nails, rough and jagged, dig into her wrists, knocking the knife right out of her hands as she hisses in pain.

your fingers close around the handle of the falling knife, already guiding it to her neck. just before you can cut her throat open into a pretty red smile, her hand comes up, gripping onto your wrist, shaking against the force you're using. just barely preventing her own death.

you lock eyes with her. those brown eyes, dark as the earth, once bright as stars, stare back at you. she's shaking under you, and panting, trying to regain her breath. the impact must've knocked the wind right out of her.

your legs are splayed out on either side of her waist, keeping her pinned down. one of your hands, the free one, is keeping her wrist pinned down. the other is holding the knife to her throat, where her other hand desperately struggles against it.

"Do you really think you're that important?", you ask her in a low voice. her eyebrows raise as you press the blade in your hand closer to her throat and she pushes back harder. she makes no move to get you off her even though she probably could— and easily, that too.

you're vaguely aware of Nat's laboured breaths behind you.

"Anyone can do what you do. You aren't our leader— you're just the butcher.", you spit out venomously. "Do you really think anyone would protest if I ended your shit right now?"

she tilts her head at you impassively, but her body trembles under you. you smirk. you know what she's actually feeling.

"You're shaking...", you sing-song gleefully, trailing the knife down her collarbone. she stiffens up as the cold metal scrapes against her bare skin, trailing along the fabric of her cloth.

"Yeah, people tend to do that when they're being threatened with a fucking knife." she grits out. you tut and tighten your grip on her other hand, pinning it forcefully to the ground.

"Come on now. Don't be a smartass..", you roll your eyes, dropping your voice to a low husk that imitates hers. "You look so much better when you shut your mouth."

it's her turn to smirk now. her gaze drops to your lips and she raises her head just enough to press her nose to yours, but you pull away just slightly. you still have a girlfriend, after all.

she snorts, her eyes pulling away from your plush lips to focus on the blade that's now resting against her throat. "I knew you weren't boring."

you raise an eyebrow, digging into her skin just a little— not enough to draw blood, but enough to elicit a delicious gasp out of her. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"

Shauna shrugs, grinning. her body language betrays that she's loosening up now. her previously strained shoulders have now dropped, and her fingers are indolently intertwined with yours.

perfect.

you stare at each other in a quiet few seconds of silence. then, you brusquely press the knife into her throat, drawing a thin line of blood. the red drips out of the wound, vibrant on her pallid skin.

she chokes in surprise, a whimper of pain finding it's way out of her throat, her eyes widening. the element of surprise. always works.

you lean in a little closer so that your breath mingles with hers. your hair tickles her face, blocking you two from Nat's view.

"Listen to me.", you say genially, holding back a maniacal grin. "You need to drop this whole terrorist act of yours. It's not cute on you." your thoughts wander to Nat and you add, "— and stop targeting Nat to be your stress relief. It's not her fault that we were actually willing to let her lead us. That she was actually capable of doing it too."

Shauna's eyes flicker with a hint of something— admiration, maybe. Nobody has stood up to her like this since— well, since Jackie.

her breathing grows ragged— not in trepidation, but in anticipation. the sicko is enjoying this. she chews her bottom lip, almost agitated, squirming a bit under you. you remain firm as a statue on top of her.

"What if I don't want to?" the statement is almost petulant in nature, but you know what she wants. and if it'll get her to put a halt on her plans for wilderness domination then...

you carve another pretty line across her throat, just below the first one. Shauna groans, her eyes hooding in hunger.

"Then I'll give you want. Do you want to see Jackie again? I know you do. I'll help you. And I'll do it while you're wearing her necklace, so that you can give it back to her."

You tangle your fingers in dark, sunkissed hair, yanking it back so that more of her throat is exposed to you. her Adam's apple bobs tantalizingly, practically begging for you to draw a pretty pattern into it.

you don't. yet.

"Will you be good?" you ask her quietly. her eyes are completely clouded now, scanning your face as though she's seeing you for the first time.

they're still glistening with just the slightest hint of shock. like a deer in the headlights.

your eyes trail to the empty dagger sheath still hanging off her belt, the callouses on her hands from all the time she's spent gutting animals with that beloved knife of hers.

no.

a wolf in the headlights.

"Hey." you prod her throat again with the tip of the knife, glaring. "I asked you a question." you let go of her wrist to move your hand to her chin.

she immediately takes the opportunity to rest her now free hand on your waist where your shirt has ridden up, no doubt leaving dirty streak marks that you're too lazy to clean behind.

you tilt her chin up, forcing her eyes off your lips and back into charged eye contact. she scans your face, as though evaluating you and weighing her choices— before she cedes with a small, almost imperceptible nod.

you smile. "Good dog.", you coo in the most condescending tone you can muster. she bares her teeth at you before snapping her jaw shut, realising that she's only proving your point.

you stay on top of her for one beat— then two—

you roll off of her, dropping her knife to the ground. she immediately straightens up, leaning back on her arms and cracking her neck.

you rub at the crick in your own neck as you smile sweetly at a dumbfounded Nat, who had evidently been watching the whole thing with a wide open jaw.

you strut up to her, your gait eased and relaxed now that you can breathe freely and push her lips closed with a single finger.

"I'm gonna go see if that mushroom thatch we set up last week is still intact." you tell her. she stares at you like you just told her that you wanted to join Lottie's weird prayer circle cult.

you giggle, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips before skipping off. god knows you needed that little stint of open violence. saying that you wanted another hunt would be too crude— but you doubt that anyone would've protested against harming Shauna. except maybe for that little pet of hers, Mel.

Shauna, who had been preoccupied with twirling her knife over in her hands and wiping her own blood off of it, comes to stand next to Nat. she stares off at the spot where you vanished out of sight and into the bushes, her face identical to Nat's. the sight is almost comical.

then finally, after a long, extended pause—

"Hey. You up to sharing?"

Nat whips her head around to glare at Shauna so fast, she thinks she might have whiplash.

"Not a chance in hell, you little bitch."

══════════════════════════

a/n: holy moly this took foreverrr— I might go back and proof read this, idk. this also had a lot more shauna x reader than the anon who requested this prob had in mind. sorry anon !

anyways, reminder that requests are open for thoughts, drabbles, etc etc for all the Yellowjackets girls— dead or alive !

[the-fiction-witch]

Little Wolf

Media - Game Of Thrones Character - Rickon Stark (Age Up / Raise By Wolves) Couple - Rickon X Reader Reader - Unnamed Rating - 12 DARK Word Count - 750

Skane was an unforgiving landscape, dominated by towering cliffs and jagged rock formations that seemed to scrape the sky. The terrain was riddled with dark caves and deep fissures, their yawning mouths concealing the secrets of the past. Many of these passages meandered aimlessly, leading to dead ends, and were strewn with the remnants of those who had dared to venture into their depths skulls and bones standing as grim reminders of their folly.

Water cascaded down the mountainsides in shimmering waterfalls, the sound of rushing liquid echoing through the valleys below. Small streams wove their way through the rocky expanse, carving out intricate channels and creating natural pools. The caves, meanwhile, were transformed into magical realms adorned with shimmering stalactites hanging from the ceilings like icicles, while stalagmites rose from the ground, their formations resembling ancient sentinels watching over the darkness.

Skane was the third largest of the northeastern islands but was abandoned by men. The larger beastly men from Skargos had come and taken all the women, feasting on the men on a grand cannibalistic night one dark winter.

Ships at times ran aground on Skane but no survivors ever found their way back to the mainland with no tales or songs of what they saw there.

The old gods held a home on these islands, heart trees and Weirwoods grew taller than anywhere else in Westeros, but the faces carved into them were not the cold, uncaring and serene faces often seen on the bark of Westerosi Trees.

On Skane, all the trees were screaming, and crying blood like sap.

Animals called Skane their home, a delicate balance of feasting on one another to survive the harsh place.

And in the darkest nights, two voices could be heard, howling against the wind.

The two voices were different and yet the same in strange ways, One voice belonged to a large dire wolf with thick all-black fur, sharp bloody teeth and bright green eyes. Often he moves without sound or sight through the thin passages, many who have found themselves on Skane’s last memory were two bright green eyes staring out from pure darkness, with a single angry growl before they met their gods. Once his name was Shaggydog but that seems lost to time.

The second voice, tries to replicate the first but belongs to a man. But he could barely be called a man at all, he was once Rickon Stark but that was a long time ago, he walked on all fours, nails long and dirty with soil and blood, his hair grown thick and matted over his body, his teeth harsh and sharp into points, he growled, howled, and barked having truly become the wolf of his house’s sigil. Having lost the humanity he once had, forgetting the common tongue and learning that of his direwolf. The two bounded like brothers to hunt in the night side by side.

One afternoon, the two hunted and foraged around the island for their usual food.

Shaggydog let out a grunt and growl towards the beach,

Rickon climbed up the rocks to peak down onto the beach.

A small, weathered boat bobbed gently on the rocky shoreline, its hull scratched and chipped from years of use. As the tide lapped at the pebbles, three figures emerged from the vessel. Two robust men, their muscular frames evident beneath their rugged clothing, clutched fearsome axes and heavy machetes. Beside them, a woman stepped gracefully onto the uneven ground, her thick dress swirling around her ankles. The fabric was vibrant, suggesting a heritage entwined with the lands they had come from. Her presence added an air of intrigue as she adjusted her shawl against the cool breeze, ready to accompany her companions into the wild unknown.

Rickon leaned down in fascination, he had not seen a woman since Osha had been killed on the road and that was many years ago,

Shaggydog growled in warning,

But Rickon snapped his jaw back still watching in interest, crawling as close as he possibly could before he’d topple off the rocks,

One of the men began to build a fire far enough up the beach that it would be unaffected by the waves,

The other man began working to build some hammocks and storage for food, proving they would be staying here for at least a while,

But Rickon watched the woman as she looked around the beach, licking his lips at the possibility of a fresh hot meal and perhaps something even more delicious,

[epicthemusical]

Alright I’m actually so bad at writing, and this wasn’t beta read, so any feedback is appreciated!

The noise and heat of the celebrations faded, beat back by the limbs and lengths of the black poplars. I was glad for their shade, even under the darkening sky - after the days before, any number of gods could’ve been watching. Usually said number was only one, hovering at the edges of my attention, right at the line of divinity. If not for the lingering remnants of my own godly heritage, I wouldn’t have been able to sense my patroness’s eyes.

But enough of the gods as, for the time being, I was just a man. My hands were stained, and I had no hope of ever cleansing them.

The day had been beautiful, cool and damp in the wake of spring. I’d tried to enjoy it: the lovely weather, the doling of spoils and treasures from Priam’s rich city, the sacrifices and feasts that followed. Most of it I’d spent crouched in the hold of a ship though, tallying supplies and calculating how many days of rations we had. Not enough, but with any luck we’d find an island on the way home and resupply our stores. I had gold enough to pay now, and men to hunt and forage.

After ten years, I’d learned the landscape of the forest bordering the Achaean camp. The trees soon gave to rocks and boulders, cliff overhangs and lichen. Just past these one could find a gentle stream, clear and cold as it eddied along its banks. Here, sat in the silence, I could truly think (even if that thinking traced one well-worn path).

Astyanax, his name had been, a boy of only a few months old. His blankets had been crisp and white and embroidered finely along the edges. His eyes, large and dark as the sky above. The King of the Gods spoke, voice ringing like the crack of thunder through mountain gorges. Astyanax was tiny in my arms, soft against bronze plates, softer still against the ground below. No one forced my hand.

These were the facts, indisputable and true as my own title. Still, was I to solely bear the blame? The King of the Gods had given me a task, threatened my family, denied my contrary offers. What choice did I have? But it was my steps that had taken us to the edge of the wall, my hands that released their hold in his swaddling. My eyes averted during the fall, sparing myself the view.

Something crunched at the treeline a few dozen yards away. Something, or - no, definitely someone. The sounds came in connected pairs, with definite breaks between. This was all that kept me from turning my head, whipping around and seizing the sword at my hip. That, and the knowledge of my advantage if I could take them by surprise in those first few seconds.

They moved delicately, but not stealthily - with caution if not cunning. So, if not to attack, what were they there for? If not an attacker, then who?

I wagered a guess. “Polites?” My voice was far too loud in the night. I could practically hear his smile behind me, beaming bright as the sun.

“What’re you doing away from the festivities?” I continued as walked past my side, “I thought you of all people would have fun.” It was not a pointed remark. Someone, at least, might enjoy the night, I’d hoped.

My friend settled just in front of me, perched at the edge of the stream. He seemed to truly ponder his answer, humming lightly as he leaned forward to dip a finger through the water. Finally: “Same as you, I guess. I’m all for celebrations, but not like this. I’m just glad it’s over.”

“And on that, we’re agreed. We’ll be home before we know it though, my friend.” White lies slipped out as easily as breaths.

Polites paused a few seconds. “So how bad is it, exactly?”

I narrowed my eyes, though he didn’t see from where he sat. “What do you mean?” All innocence.

“Nothing,” his voice was easy and light, “just that you don’t speak like that unless something is wrong.”

“Like what? I didn’t even say anything!” My indignation surely gave me away, but I didn’t seem to care when it was him.

“‘We’ll be home before we know it, my friend,’” Polites said, his voice slightly lowered in imitation. “It’s unlike you. If everything was fine, you’d be going on and on endlessly about maps and charts and labor division. You’re an awful liar, Ody.”

“Says you,” I retorted automatically, dully.

He reached back and fiddled with the ends of his headband, which were limp in the still air. “So, what’s wrong?”

I sighed. “I wish you’d let me pretend everything’s alright.”

“No can do!” His words were bright with victory; Polites usually didn’t try to ‘win’ in banter, but on occasion he’d best me.

“I can tell. Anyways, we only have a few weeks of food. We could maybe get to Ithaca on it alone if nothing else went wrong…”

“But the gods are angry,” he supplied. “We have the sea god on our side, at least!”

“There’s that, I suppose.”

We lapsed into silence, my words inviting no further conversation. Polites continued anyways. “There’s something else, huh?”

“No.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

He seized upon this, quicksilver bright. “So there is something else!”

“No! Polites, stop. It’s nothing. It’s not up for discussion,” I snapped and stood up from where I’d been sitting. “Goodnight.”

My friend didn’t follow me, didn’t even glance back when I did. He did call out, though, “You know you can tell me anything, Ody, right?” The nickname, one I usually didn’t mind from him, only fed the guilt flaring in my chest. For a heartbeat, I wished he didn’t care, that he’d never asked, even if it was unlike him.

Then, softer and more distant as I reached the tree line, “Please. I can’t stand to see you like this.”

I clenched my teeth and froze just as the shadows began to slide over my skin. It would be easy, so infinitely easy, to head back to my tent and forget this conversation. Polites might’ve even had the tact to not bring it up for a while. I’d win a few more days or weeks of guilt, but he’d still love me for that time. If he knew what I’d done… well, Polites had never had the stomach for war like me, and even I was struggling to swallow the facts. He’d never keep them down.

Still, when I glanced back over my shoulder at him, curled up with knees to his chest by the stream, I found myself unable to leave. The water and stone and his unstained clothes seemed to glow in the moonlight, which softened the world, turned it a bit kinder. It wasn’t like I could leave him, I reasoned, not without a weapon of his own. It only made sense for me to go back.

Polites had moved away from the water, so when I sat we were companionably side by side. He glanced back at me, one arm lifting from where it held his knees and settling so his palm cupped my shoulder.

“You’ll hate me if I tell you,” I said, my voice thick and clumsy.

His eyebrows lifted in acknowledgment. “So there is something?”

“Polites-“

“Just shush. For half a second, please. I could never hate you, Ody, you know that. I’m probably physically incapable of it,” he joked gently.

“You don’t know that! You’ve… never really had a reason to hate me before this.” I’d started too loudly, volume dropping at the end of my second sentence.

His voice lowered, lost its joking edge, “We’ve all done awful things, my friend, things we wish we could take back. Even me, even your men. You didn’t choose this war. I know that nothing is certain, but I trust that whatever you did, it was the best you could’ve done at the time. I’ve never known you to be cruel.”

As long as I’d known him, Polites had a seemingly-genius way of always cutting to the heart of the matter. He was like a perfectly sharpened blade, leaving behind minimal pain and a wound healing without a scar. To extend the metaphor, he didn’t hide behind pretty, cunning insignias and jewels that caught and tore in flesh, nor was he dull and hacking.

Still, this one would leave a scar. It was simply buried too deep.

“Then you’ve never known what I’m capable of.”

Polites inhaled slowly. “Not unnecessary cruelty, then. You don’t burn fields and claim women for the fun of it. You fight to get your men home, and no more.” His grip tightened on my shoulder in a gentle squeeze.

I sighed deeply. “If you insist. During the taking of Troy, I received a vision from the Sky God.”

My friend didn’t interrupt. He stared with solemn, owlish eyes as he scanned my face.

“I’m not even certain what it was of. Someone stabbing me from behind. It would come true if I didn’t kill a certain enemy, I was told.”

I felt tears filling my eyes, but forced myself to continue, “A foe who won’t run.”

“Oh no,” Polites barely breathed.

“Hector’s son- just an.. an infant. I did it. Right off the Trojan wall. They - the gods - said he’d kill my family if he lived.”

The tears came freely now, choking any further words I might’ve used to justify myself. Polites watched me, and I swore I saw on his face disgust, horror, malice, shame. I looked down at my hands, unable to face him any longer.

It took him a few seconds to say anything, and I’d prepared myself for the harshest rebukes. When he spoke, however, his words held only grief. “I’m sorry.”

There had been no need for me to worry, really. I’d never known Polites to be cruel.

“What?” I managed to force out through sobs. He wrapped an arm tightly around my shoulders and, despite my guilt, I leaned into the embrace.

“I’m sorry that you had to make that choice. That’s an awful thing to have to do.” I had to strain to catch some of his words, soft as they were and muffled by my shoulder. Hesitantly, terrified that Polites might come to his senses, I hugged him back.

We stayed that way for a few minutes. When I trusted myself with words, and him not to leave in utter disgust, I spoke, “So you don’t- you don’t hate me?”

“Not at all. I told you I couldn’t, right? I don’t lie.”

“No,” I sighed, wiping my face, “you don’t. You should try it sometime. Add some excitement.”

“I’m good, thank you. You’re evasive enough for the both of us.” He stood, leaning down to offer a hand.

“Thank you,” I echoed quietly. “We should be heading back. We’re leaving early tomorrow, you know.”

Polites nodded, but didn’t respond, just squeezed my shoulder once more and disappeared into the trees. I didn’t follow for a few long minutes but, upon returning to my tent, I slept better than I had in days.

omg I am screeching this is so good! I love it so much! Ahhhhh Polites and Odysseus deserved so much better than they got😭 I saw a few spelling errors and the wording was a bit awkward at times but in general it's beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing this! If you would like a more in depth review I would be happy if you DM me! But seriously this is such good hurt/comfort 🥹 feel free to share any future writing with me as well!

[fordphilipsfictionlibrary]

Ronin, Book 1, Chapter 06

It had only taken Ronin a few hours to catch up to the others. Odon had been trying to drag an exhausted and traumatized Tentaki behind him, but to no avail. Ronin appreciated the young cat not abandoning the difficult monk, but had not been able to allow either a respite. A few hard slaps to the monk’s furry face had woken him up enough to keep moving and they had hardly stopped for two days since. They made cold camps each night and all any of them had eaten in this time were some berries Tentaki had foraged for them.

At the dawn of the third day, Ronin had scaled a decent sized tree to try and get his bearings. The mountains were a constant landmark for anyone on the island and he quickly saw that they were only slightly off course. A bit of a northern correction would see them in Akita territory, possibly by tonight. Scampering down the tree, he found the other two looking completely exhausted. 

“We’re almost there,” Ronin said, patting Odon hard on the shoulder to rouse him. “Another hard press today and we’ll be in a much better situation. Then you can both rest for a week if you like. I’m sure the Akita won’t begrudge you that.” 

“And I’m sure the commander will,” Odon said grumpily through a wide yawn.

“I don’t think I can go on,” Tentaki said weakly. “My legs are too sore and my lungs burn Ronin.”

“Then get on my back,” Ronin said. He didn’t normally use the trance when traveling, but it would lighten the burden and stave off exhaustion for a while. If nothing else, it was a good exercise. Ronin did not want to end up like Tenachi, afraid of his gift and hamstrung when he was the most vulnerable.

The morning was hard going. The trance made Ronin very single minded and he often forgot about Odon, leaving the poor cat far behind and not hearing his calls to wait. Luckily his young companion wasn’t taking it personally. They stopped periodically so Ronin could scale a tree and make sure they were still on course, but these were short pauses, hardly the sustained rest the other two desperately needed. Ronin was quickly forced to acknowledge that while they may be getting closer, his friends might not have it in them to go on. What he would do then was undecided, but none of his options seemed good.

Around midday, they stopped near a stream for food and water. Tentaki wandered off to forage, while Ronin and Odon took the opportunity to spear one of the large fish in the stream with Odon’s new polearm. Grilling their catch would have been preferable, but with no time they simply decapitated it, halved it and tucked in. Luckily they finished before Tentaki returned and spared him the worst of their feast. As the monk dipped his feet in the stream and munched on his stash of berries and mushrooms, an unpleasant smell wafted across Ronin’s nostrils. The rank odor instantly made his hair stand on end.

“Do you smell it?” Ronin said to Odon, suddenly alert.

“Smells bad,” Odon said, his nose in the air as he sniffed. “What is it?”

“Rotting flesh,” Ronin said. “Tentaki, get yourself into one of the trees, now.”

“Why, Ronin?” Tentaki said around a mouthful of berries, a confused look on his pudgy face.

“Do it,” Ronin said, drawing his swords as the smell grew stronger.

The sight of the blades seemed to get Tentaki moving and he scurried to the nearest tree, scaling it clumsily, but competently enough. With the little monk relatively safe, Ronin switched his focus to his young companion. “Unless a corpse is stalking us, we have Old Guard on our tails,” Ronin said quietly.

“Old Guard,” Odon groaned and with good reason. The Old Guard were a source of shame for the Hokkaido, a remnant of the before-time when base instinct ruled over all else. All that lived on the island knew stories of the mad wolves the Hokkaido let roam their forests, but none could have imagined they would be loosed on the other clans. “How can you be sure?” he said in a shaky voice.

“They are the only true hunters on the island,” Ronin said. “That smell is the smell of a predator’s maw. Odon, we need to leave this place and the monk. When I start running, you keep up with me and don’t stop until your legs give out on you. Hopefully that will be far enough.”

“Tentaki won’t make it alone,” Odon said.

“We’ll come back for him. Lose your armor. I’ll guard you while you do.”

“Lose my armor?!” Odon said. “Why would I do that?”

“We need to be light and fast. We can come back for it too.”

Odon looked mortified but did as he was told. Standing there in nothing but his fur, he looked even smaller than usual. Hefting his polearm, he took watch as Ronin left his belongings and his father’s armor in a neat pile next to Odon’s. It pained him to do so, but he would not die for sentimentality. Keeping only one of his swords, his own, Ronin tried to figure out where the wolves were coming from. They could simply dart headlong for the Akita border, but Ronin doubted the Old Guard would allow that. They were master hunters and likely knew where their prey was headed.

“Maybe we should find ourselves a tree?” Odon said.

“They’ll just cut them down,” Ronin said. “Tentaki is only safe because he’ll be overlooked. We are the targets here, not him.”

“Oh,” was all Odon could say, but Ronin knew he was losing the younger cat. 

Then they appeared, three of them, on the other side of the stream directly in the way of where Ronin and Odon needed to be going. Ronin knew the Old Guard only by reputation, but seeing them now put a fear in him he’d never known before. They too wore no armor or garments, but the effect was far different; they looked positively beastial, not naked or exposed. They stood a good foot taller than most wolves, which was two feet taller than Ronin, and had massive, clawed paws that Ronin knew could end his days with one swipe. The heads and fangs too were much larger than normal and long tongues lolled carelessly from their drooling jaws.

They began fanning out immediately and Ronin realized they might have to stand and fight. “Get to a tree,” Ronin said in a low voice and Odon obliged. One of the Old Guard shot after him, but Odon was fast enough to be halfway up the trunk before the wolf reached him. Unperturbed, the wolf rounded on Ronin and soon they had him surrounded. 

“Amur cat,” the largest of the three said in a rough speech that betrayed an unfamiliarity with forming words and sentences, “you have been sentenced to die for the murder of Prince Hokorashi. Your pelt will hang in Hokkaido halls from now until the last days. It has been commanded.”

As the wolves moved to take him, Ronin made a run for it. The wolf that had chased Odon was slightly out of position from the effort and the gap between him and the wolf to his right was enough for Ronin to squeeze through. The wolves were hot on his tail though and it soon became obvious he could not outrun them. Zig-zagging and using the trees as obstructions, Ronin did all he could to keep out of the Old Guards’ clutches. Everywhere he turned he was met with claws and fangs. Ronin soon realized he had stopped making any sort of forward progress and was merely staving off the inevitable. Using his sword awkwardly while on the move, he began trying to remove clawed hands from wolvish wrists all while avoiding being trapped or caught. It was going to be a futile effort, but the only other option was to simply lie down and die.

“Hit the floor cat!” someone barked out from beyond the hell of fur and limbs that Ronin was trapped in. Electing to trust the voice for no other reason than desperation, he stopped fighting and fell quickly to the floor. He felt large bodies closing in around him and prepared himself for life-ending pain, but it didn’t come. The new sound of arrows whooshing overhead and thunking into trees around him brought a smile to his dirt and sweat covered face. 

When the sound of projectiles had stopped, Ronin struggled to get to his feet. His legs quaked under him from both exertion and fear, but the sight of Akita warriors marching towards him in tight formation allowed him to let out a ragged sigh of relief.

“You there,” the Akita commander said, looking Ronin up and down. “Amur clan?”

“The last, as far as I know,” Ronin said, bowing slightly and nearly falling.

“You’ve caused quite a stir in the Hokkaido power structure,” the dog said with a bit of a grin. “I’m not surprised they sent those monsters after you.”

“Did you kill them?” Ronin said, but he could see no corpses in the area.

“Peppered them, but that’s about all we managed,” the Akita commander sighed. “Is there another cat with you, an Odon of the Irotomi?”

“Yes, he’s back there in a tree,” Ronin chuckled. “I’m Ronin by the way,” he said, extending a paw to his savior.

“Tengo,” the Akita said, accepting it with his own. “We can talk more once we’ve gone a few miles into safer lands, but first, let’s go retrieve your friends. Then we can get on the move. We’ll need to travel fast I’m afraid. Koga will want you at council.”

“Council?” Ronin asked wearily. “What council?”

“The war council,” Tengo said seriously. “I’ll tell you more on the road.”

“Well?” Koruguchi asked the mangy looking wolves before him. They were huddled together and seemed focused on removing as many of the arrows from their thick hides as they could. None of the wounds looked serious, but this had been a major defeat.

“What do you think, tamed one?” their leader, a nameless brute like all the others, said. “Do we look flushed with victory?”

“You look a sorry excuse for hunters,” Koruguchi said coolly. This got their attention. 

“What would you know about hunting, pet?” the runt of the pack said as the three closed in on him, arrows still jutting from their shoulders and backs. 

“Enough to secure my kills,” Koruguchi said, undaunted. He was untouchable as far as these things were concerned and they knew it. “I’ll need to report your failure to the Shogun.”

“Report what you will, but keep your insults to yourself,” the pack leader snarled. 

“Do your jobs correctly and slights will hardly be necessary,” Koruguchi countered. “So the Akita have them now?”

“Yes,” the pack leader said, his eyes unable to continue meeting Koruguchi’s.

“Unfortunate,” Koruguchi said. “Leave me.”

The sullen barbarians skulked off and left Koruguchi with only the various surviving rat and marten captains from the week’s earlier endeavours. “Have your soldiers broken up into patrols and make sure no other beasts pass this border,” Koruguchi sighed. “The Akita must be cut off. Hokkaido reinforcements will be here soon enough to relieve you. Until then, do what you’re being paid to do.” A handful of odd salutes and a few bows told him his message had been received. 

Soon Koruguchi was alone and wondering just how much of an error the Old Guard had made today. The Shogun would make this personal now, that was without doubt; Koruguchi only hoped the fallout would be short lived. The Hokkaido had much more important matters to attend to and Kyokan hardly needed any more distractions.

(Chapter 07)

[tahomawhisperingwind]

Traditional Recipes Featuring Piñon Nuts in Apache Cuisine

Image generated by the author

The Heart of Apache Cuisine: Celebrating Piñon Nuts

The Scent of Tradition As the sun dips below the rugged horizon of the Southwest, a warm breeze carries with it the earthy aroma of roasted piñon nuts wafting from a nearby gathering. Families come together, hands stained with the remnants of a day spent foraging, laughter mingling with the crisp air, as they prepare to share a meal steeped in history and tradition. What is it about these small, unassuming nuts that weaves such a rich tapestry of culture, community, and sustenance? For the Apache people, piñon nuts are not just a food source; they are a vital thread in the fabric of their culinary heritage, embodying stories of resilience, connection, and reverence for the natural world.

Traditional Food: A Communal Feast

Piñon nuts, harvested from the evergreen piñon pine trees dotting the arid landscape, are a cherished staple in Apache cuisine. Their rich, buttery flavor and high nutritional value make them a prized ingredient, but their significance runs much deeper. The act of harvesting these nuts is a communal activity, a celebration that fosters connections among families and with the land itself. During the harvest, laughter echoes through the trees as children scurry about, collecting the fallen nuts, while elders share stories of the past, imparting wisdom learned through generations.

One can imagine the sight: baskets overflowing with glistening, brown nuts, their fragile shells holding the promise of nourishment. These gatherings are not merely about food; they are about preserving Apache traditions and passing them down, ensuring that the profound respect for nature and its bounty lives on in the hearts of the younger generation.

Culinary Heritage: The Art of Cooking with Piñon Nuts

The innovation within Apache cooking is evident in the traditional recipes that showcase piñon nuts. From hearty stews to delicate pastries, every dish tells a story. The nuts' rich flavor enhances a variety of meals, serving as a bridge between the physical and spiritual realms. One cherished recipe is the Piñon Nut Stew, a hearty concoction where tender pieces of meat meld with spices and the nutty crunch of piñon, creating a meal that warms both body and soul.

Another beloved dish is Piñon Nut Bread, often baked for special gatherings. The bread, infused with crushed piñon nuts, becomes a symbol of togetherness—a literal and figurative staple of the Apache table. And who could forget the sweet delight of Piñon Nut Pudding? Made from crushed nuts and cornmeal, this dessert is a festive treat, often prepared during celebrations, embodying the joy and spirit of Apache culture.

Each recipe is a testament to the ingenuity of Apache cooking, reflecting a profound respect for the ingredients sourced from their environment. The rituals surrounding meal preparation and sharing elevate eating to a spiritual experience, where food becomes a medium for connection, storytelling, and remembrance.

Historical Context: The Role of Native Nuts

The historical reliance of the Apache on their natural surroundings for sustenance is a compelling narrative of resilience and adaptability. Piñon trees have long served as a vital resource in the Southwest, their nuts providing nourishment and sustenance in a harsh landscape. The gathering of these nuts is a practice that transcends mere survival; it is an act imbued with reverence for nature.

With each harvest, the Apache people honor the land that sustains them. This deep connection to their environment fosters a sense of stewardship that is evident in their culinary practices. The sacredness of ingredients is a recurring theme in Apache cooking; piñon nuts, in particular, stand as a symbol of this relationship. Harvesting events often culminate in communal feasts where meals prepared with piñon nuts reflect not only the resourcefulness of Apache cuisine but also the respect for nature's gifts.

Cultural Significance: More Than Just Food

In Apache culture, food is not simply fuel; it is a vessel of spirituality and connection. Piñon nuts hold deep meaning, representing resilience and the bond between the people and their environment. Sharing meals enriched with these nuts fosters a sense of kinship, reinforcing community ties and shared identity.

Consider the story of Nixon, a skilled healer revered within his community. As the tale unfolds, Nixon leads a gathering of families to collect piñon nuts, a task that becomes a sacred ritual. The act of gathering transforms into a celebration of life, where the nuts symbolize sustenance, both physical and spiritual. As Nixon prepares a feast, every bite serves as a reminder of ancestral teachings—of patience, gratitude, and the importance of sharing.

This narrative illustrates how meals incorporating piñon nuts reverberate through Apache society, echoing the values of connection and respect for the earth. Each dish becomes a testament to the wisdom of generations, reminding all who partake of their heritage.

Practical Applications: Bringing Piñon Nuts to Your Table

Incorporating piñon nuts into modern diets is an accessible way to celebrate Apache culinary traditions while enhancing flavor and nutrition. Whether tossed into a vibrant salad, baked into cookies, or used as a crunchy topping for savory dishes, the versatility of piñon nuts invites creativity in the kitchen.

Imagine a fresh salad adorned with roasted piñon nuts, the nutty crunch complementing the crisp greens and vibrant vegetables. Or consider the warm, comforting aroma of freshly baked piñon nut bread, its golden crust inviting friends and family to gather around the table. The possibilities are as endless as the stories shared over these meals, each bite a nod to the Apache tradition.

Modern Relevance: A Returning to Roots

As modern consumers increasingly seek healthier, more natural food sources, traditional Apache recipes featuring piñon nuts resonate more than ever. These dishes not only offer nutritional benefits but also invite individuals to reconnect with the land and honor the wisdom of indigenous cultures. Sharing meals made with piñon nuts fosters connections across generations, creating a dialogue that transcends time.

In a world often disconnected from its roots, the culinary practices surrounding piñon nuts encourage a return to nature in our eating habits. They remind us of the importance of sustainability and respect for our environment, urging us to adopt values that honor the interconnectedness of all living things.

Conclusion: A Culinary Invitation

As we reflect on the significance of piñon nuts in Apache cuisine, we uncover a deeper connection to a culture rich in tradition and wisdom. Embracing these recipes is more than about enjoying delicious food; it is an invitation to share stories, preserve heritage, and celebrate the relationship between the land and its people.

So, the next time you encounter a piñon nut, remember—it's more than just a snack or an ingredient; it's a connection to a legacy of resilience, respect, and community. As you savor the flavors of Apache cuisine, consider the stories behind each dish and the cultural significance that enriches our shared human experience. In doing so, we honor not only the Apache people but also the natural world that sustains us all.

Further Exploration

To deepen your understanding of Apache culture and cuisine, consider exploring questions like: How do we honor ancestral traditions in our modern lives? How can we integrate ecological knowledge into our eating habits? And how do we celebrate the richness of tribal ceremonies? These inquiries not only foster appreciation for indigenous cultures but also encourage sustainable practices that benefit our planet.

About Black Hawk Visions

Black Hawk Visions preserves and shares timeless Apache wisdom through digital media. Inspired by Tahoma Whispering Wind, we offer eBooks, online courses, and newsletters that blend traditional knowledge with modern learning. Explore nature connection, survival skills, and inner growth at Black Hawk Visions.

AI Disclosure: AI was used for content ideation, spelling and grammar checks, and some modification of this article.

About Black Hawk Visions: We preserve and share timeless Apache wisdom through digital media. Explore nature connection, survival skills, and inner growth at Black Hawk Visions.

[writer59january13]

A civil war ferociously raged...

within complex edifice... derelict hulking corpse delineated courtesy seared, singed, smoldered smithereens formerly robust warrior slain during prime of his life heavenly corporeal outstanding entity subjected to fateful foragers courtesy camping buzzfeeding carrion - fancy feast for famished uber twittering, jump/kick starting crowing angry birds

made short shrift decayed discarded detritus filched flesh from felled soldier denuding human legendary poet picked bone clean his once powerful promising physique skeletal remnants displayed burnt offerings abandoned sun bleached, petrified lovely bones strewn across a field of shattered dreams desiccated skull detached situated askew

athwart castoff liberated phalanges impossible mission to envision former formidable specimen fallen hero pronounced earthen imprint traced impression outlining his outsize stature bonafide definition where his corpse laid only memory remains of doodling yankee, (a Norwegian bachelor farmer wannabe) harkening back and plucked from the "little town that time forgot and the decades could not improve." Composite character sketch of arbitrary conjured fighting

jaunty opportunistic understudy

strong likely to be template of actual anonymous template forgotten in the aftermath melee of battle

subsumed by and belonged to history,

a bit part he played after

North and South pitted against each other,

though the former named Union soldiers

during the War Between the States

acquired many names and nicknames,

especially by the Confederates: They were called Billy Yank, blue bellies or blue coats, which spontaneously generated idea came to my mind linkedin to a personal affinity for aforementioned rebellion to some people after Confederate troops fired

at 4:30 a.m. April 12, 1861

on Fort Sumter April 1861 initially President Lincoln

described the situation as an “insurrection.”

But within months,

he instead adopted “rebellion.”

That word evoked

a more distinctly negative connotation

then than it does today,

or rather prior to the heavily armed,

Trump-incited mob attack

of Jan. 6, 2021, an attack (premeditated in my humble opinion)

not just on the U.S. Capitol building,

but also on democracy and the rule of law. Though at no time did I enlist

in the armed services,

(although after high school

my parents coaxed, goaded,

and loathed their second born

and only son intimating becoming a nonconformist, and nonestablishmentarian, ne'er do well, (which outcome adequately sums up how mein kampf evolved), nevertheless yours truly exhibits

psychologically traumatic wounds synonymous with the horrors of mortal kombat, and clear out of the blue behavior associated with deadly carnage oozed out from every one of my pores, misleading an observer to deduce

writer of these words experienced and underwent text book example

being shell shocked under heavy bombardment.

At present attention of mine plugged into a biography titled Custer's Trials | A LIFE ON THE FRONTIER OF A NEW AMERICA | storied author T.J. STILES, current reading material populates thought processes of mine with trappings of internecine bloodshed forever wrenching fledgling United States of America away from slave holding Southern lifestyle. Enslaved people in the antebellum South constituted about one-third of the southern population. Most lived on large plantations or small farms; many enslavers owned fewer than 50 enslaved people. Landowners sought to make their enslaved completely dependent on them through a system of restrictive codes.

[aforerime]

Hansol's question whisked Uraume into the depths of their memory from an eon ago. Frail, bruised feet trekked the ivory blanket of snow, unaffected by the merciless chill. They scavenged and foraged beneath the snowdrift for their meal. Several years had passed since the divorce. They cared not for the life they left behind, nor the humans that once plagued their conscious, only their perennial future.

"Survival endured my existence. Night and day, I scoured the lands, feasting on the remnants of beasts. I was nothing more than a scrounger... pathetic pest. Our Lord Sukuna recognized the power that I had not yet defined. I stood at the edge of my evolution, blinded by the possibilities. Remaining stagnant would be my own folly. He lifted the self-induced veil and encouraged my everlasting existence. I no longer bar myself from my potential, and will devour the weak to ensure my continuous evolvement." Uraume's ruddy eyes turned towards Hansol, "He's pushed you in a similar manner, and yet..." they trailed off, "why bar yourself?"

"Oh! Only one?" She feigns a pout, but she understands why. As MUCH as she'd like to hear of Uraume's and Sukuna's past, she chooses against it. She would love to learn MORE about Uraume.

"Only one question, huh." Hansol slowly nods and gestures to Uraume. "What was your view on the world? What was it that Sukuna challenged you on that...maybe effected everything around you? I-I know these are probably another two separate questions, but I just want to get to know you more. I'm very interested."

[antiquatedsimmer]

**TW: TRAUMA WITH PHYSICAL ABUSE**

As the first rays of dawn pierced through the frost-kissed window, Eddy roused himself from his makeshift bed. The bitter cold of the impending winter hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of their dwindling supplies and pressing need for sustenance. With a determined resolve, he prepared himself for the arduous task ahead—hunting.

Winter was closing in fast, and they knew that their survival depended on their ability to secure enough food to see them through the long, harsh months. Eddy and Helena would forage for whatever sustenance nature could offer—clovers, dandelions, and the remaining tufts of fresh grass that had managed to withstand the biting cold. It wasn't a feast by any means, but it staved off the gnawing hunger that threatened to consume them.

Their meager garden plots held the promise of future nourishment, but the sprouts of onions, spinach, and sage remained elusive. They had planted the seeds with hopeful anticipation, knowing that their growth would be slow in the harsh climate. As the weeks of fall slipped by, Eddy and Helena remained vigilant, tending to the tiny shoots and praying for their resilience against the elements.

Each day closer to winter was becoming more difficult.

The following day the sun had yet to breach the horizon as Helena stirred from her slumber, her body enveloped in the warmth of the worn sleeping bag. Reluctantly, she emerged from its comforting embrace, her bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. The furnace had done its best to ward off the chill, but the frigid air outside the covers reminded her of the harsh reality they faced.

Casting a glance towards the empty space beside her, Helena knew that Eddy had risen long before her. He was out there, braving the elements in search of sustenance to keep them going. His unwavering dedication to their survival both impressed and comforted her. It was in those solitary moments, with the cabin still and the weight of their circumstances heavy upon her, that she appreciated the quiet strength that emanated from him.

Helena pushed herself up from the worn sleeping bag and took a few groggy steps towards the vanity. The morning chill nipped at her skin, reminding her of the pressing need to get ready for the day ahead. She sat down on the makeshift wooden crate that served as her chair, her hands resting on the worn surface.

As she gazed at her reflection in the cracked mirror, her tired eyes met their own reflection.

For the first time, Helena allowed herself to truly confront the remnants of the recent turmoil etched onto her face. Her eyes fixated on the bruised contours around her neck and the fading discoloration near her right eye, silent reminders of the violence she had endured.

Her gaze shifted to the healing cuts on her lips and the bridge of her nose, testaments to the physical pain she had weathered.

Her memory seemed shrouded in a fog, a protective veil shielding her from the haunting images, It was as if her own subconscious sought to preserve her sanity by suppressing the most harrowing moments, sparing her from the full weight of their impact.

Helena's heart clenched with a mixture of anguish and rage as she recalled the brutal assault that had brought her to the brink of oblivion. The echoes of previous battles and encounters with cruel men paled in comparison to the sheer savagery of that fateful encounter.

The tunneling darkness she saw, that eerie descent into the abyss, lingered in her mind like a haunting specter.

Helena's gaze shifted to her bandaged and bruised arms and hands, igniting a fierce flame of anger within her. The pain she felt merged with a resolute determination, fueling her resolve. Her voice, filled with righteous indignation

"Never again."

[rwby-redux]

I just saw a video by cognito about the history of beer and it brings forth the idea of civilization as we know it exists at all because beer apparently was worth the downsides of switching over to an agriculture based lifestyle. How do you think that would hash out in a world like remnant

Hiya! I think I found the video you’re referring to. This one, right?

For those who aren’t familiar with this idea, it’s called the feasting hypothesis, proposed by archeologist Brian Hayden. It’s a pretty sound explanation for why cereal-domestication would’ve driven Neolithic hunter-gatherers away from a nomadic lifestyle.

See, grain production is extremely labor-intensive. The work involved (gathering, winnowing, husking, and grinding) relative to the number of edible products derived from it would have needed to be worth the hassle to those early agrarian societies. Otherwise, why bother with switching over to a sedentary lifestyle that depended on a diet with decreased food diversity?

Alcohol as an explanation justifies that shift. The early consumption of fermented drinks is strongly correlated with festivals, holidays, celebrations, and feasts the world over. Today, it’s one of the most-widely used recreational drugs because of just how good it is at inducing euphoria and reducing anxiety. And it’s addictive, too. It’s no wonder that our ancestors went through all that effort to farm grain.

There’s a biological basis for this hypothesis, too. A random genetic mutation in a digestive enzyme (ADH4), acquired in our recent primate ancestors, made it 40 times better at digesting ethanol. It allowed early primates to scavenge fruits from the forest floor without becoming sick from the adverse effects of fermentation. Our sense of taste might have also contributed to our love of alcohol. Hominids lost the ability to produce their own vitamin C, or ascorbic acid, so it’s thought that our perception of sour evolved to compensate. Foods that are rich in vitamin C are often sour-tasting—including alcohol. The sour flavor of fermented drinks might have predisposed us to enjoying alcohol by virtue of it signaling to early hominids that it was an important source of an essential nutrient. Fermentation can also be thought of as a form of pre-digestion—as in, microbes begin breaking down organic matter, and thus reduce the metabolic cost of digesting food in our guts. The existence of fermented dishes around the world (kimchi, yogurt, pickled cucumbers, hákarl) reinforces its importance.

Once people made the jump from foraging to farming, civilization as we know it began to exist.

Agriculture requires land usage, which in turn means having to manage the land. Crops need to be watered, which means inventing irrigation. Excess production of grains means building architecture for storing them, like silos. Surplus product can then be used for trade. Commerce requires having a system in place for regulating the market, which leads to the development of government. Protecting those resources (and the people who make them) requires a military. And so on.

Granted, the production of grains (and by extension, alcohol) isn't the sole driving factor for complex societies, but it is undoubtedly an important one. As Hayden puts it, “It's not that drinking and brewing by itself helped start cultivation, it's this context of feasts that links beer and the emergence of complex societies.” Alcohol wasn’t just valued for its psychological effects—the energy, resources, and time that went into making it would have made it a status symbol. Its inclusion in cultural events, like holidays, would have helped build and reinforce social bonds and support networks.

With all of that in mind, it begs the question—how would cultivation of grains, and production of alcohol, have affected Remnant? Would it have the same measurable impact as it did in our world?

Well, assuming that humans in RWBY are similar to IRL humans, and not a race of convergently-derived squid-people, it’s safe to assume that alcohol benefits them the same way it benefits us. It’s a feel-good drink that helps you relax and conveniently forget about the monsters hunting you on a 24/7 basis. Ancient societies on Remnant would have probably gravitated toward alcohol consumption just for this reason alone.

But—and this is an important but—grain production requires arable land; abundant, fertile soil. People on Remnant are limited in where they can live because the Grimm restrict their expansion to a handful of defensible places. Canonically, those places are either mountain ranges (Vale, Mistral), tundra (Atlas), or deserts (Vacuo). None of which are terribly convenient for growing cereal crops.

It’s not unreasonable to assume that, based on RWBY’s worldbuilding premise, people on Remnant might not always have access to the climates or geography conducive to grain-farming.

This leaves us with a few interesting questions:

Would people on Remnant have farmed alternative crops that don’t require the same amount of land usage?

Would alcohols derived from grains be disproportionately uncommon, compared to beverages like cider, mead, and pulque, which come from different sources?

Would terraced farming, paddies, and andenes be more common than open fields, due to many of Remnant’s societies being concentrated around mountains?

What if people found ways to integrate Dust into their agriculture, in order to optimize space? Like using Gravity Dust to create levitating gardens, which would allow people to farm vertically, and free up land for other purposes?

Because nomadic groups still exist on Remnant (like Kenyte and the Branwen Tribe), is it possible that these groups didn’t develop agriculture? In which case, perhaps they acquire alcoholic beverages through trade with sedentary populations, or they steal them from their neighbors.

Given the existence of Faunus with traits like caudal fins, maybe people developed technology for farming underwater?

TL;DR - Alcohol would have definitely influenced agriculture, and by extension, civilization on Remnant, but the crops that people grow—and the way that people grow them—won’t necessarily look identical to agriculture in our world. Grimm and Dust would've had an impact on farming, among other things.

[lilitophidian]

Hummock & hollow.

Root of the cage.

Little rabbits dig a burrow to be secure and warm while waiting for their mother to return from foraging. She would put them there as soon as theY emerged frOm her womb. It was a good thing she chose sUch a location; the Wolves could poke theIr noses into LittLe areas of the BranchEs but could not fully connect with the feast.

However, the wolves eventually becoMe INtElligent. They'd found how brittle the roots were, and in no type, they gobbled up Mama rabbits' precious babies in short swallows. Mother rabbit heard each crunch of bones come with fleshY bits glistening from their jowls, yet she Did not wEEp. Instead, she examined the Remnants of the small nest of grass and fur. It did not smell as if her young, and boy was she hungry.

She would eagerly take the wolves' scraps. Y o u c A n a l w A ys ma ke mor e

The fable teaches the values of purity, goodness, gentleness, and nurture.

Inexistent. God had faltered.

And now it was the stag who fell victim to such a hollow of carnage as the root grasped his hand, spreading tendrils in invitation. Should he be a wild rabbit or a wolf clad in venison pelts?

I T F E E L S S A F E

When connection became intertwined through pull, she'd climb through the door he had open. The clasp of softer hands as crimson colors looked him down in the dark like a wolf, virtually pinning him to the springs like an angel of death. She would tilt her head with a Chelsea grin, one he would grow to recognize as his own in the recorded future.

" My sweetheart, are you hungry? "

[la-colette]

The timely, unhurried thudding sound on the cold expanse of marble floors echoed in the vastly wide and empty room. His gait, unchanging, mirrored one of royalty; of a stealthy hunter careful not to scare his prey.

He inched in until the shadowy figure of the one who summoned him came into full bloom, the flames of the candles- which were placed on a majestic table at the center of and round the chamber- played a dance of incandescence. With his right hand hanging lazily on the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip, he stopped a measly ten feet away, eyeing through scornful and detestable slits, the back view of the very person who had thought it wise to steal his evening rest away.

Not eager to use words to announce his presence nor urge his master to state the purpose of his summoning, he maintained his glare, hoping that it would somehow alert him and will him to speak. His scornful dark eyes, however, narrowed the more when his master nonchalantly threw a glance at him over his shoulder before continuing to sip the wine from his silver goblet. 

"Aah you look excited as usual." Gulping the remnants of his wine in one solid go, he set the empty goblet on the large rectangular center table, finally turning his attention to the frowning man. "Had enough rest, I presume?"

"..." 

His words fell on deaf ears.

"Word I hear is that Y'dore is yet again without central authority. Do explain to me how and why you have failed to conquer that region." Gradually, he dared to close the gap between them, sliding the rough fingertips of his right hand against the cold surface of the table, eyes trained on the unyielding obsidian orbs of his personal knight.

Once again, Raven maintains his peace, only looking at his approaching master, eyes betraying nothing despite the imposing gesture.

"You do understand why that forsaken area is important to Helvrulm, my province!" He paused for effect, balling his right hand into a solid fist. Eyes ablaze, he sneered at Raven. "How it houses my blades and treasures; how it sits on the borderline of Chadine, lying at the mercy of their filthy clutches?"

Alas, he stood toe to toe with his personal warrior, chin up due to Raven's alluring height. "Do I simply dispose of you for having no worth?" He clicked his tongue and went around him, walking in short, calculating strides. "Were it as simple as that," he ventured, "the House of Raven would have severed its ties with my fathers centuries a-"

"Foragers…" Raven cut in, unwilling to pay heed to his usual blather. "They fear no man nor weapons."

The middle-aged master turned on his heels, not surprised to find his rude underling still rooted in his former aloof position. "A myth?" Quietly, he peered at Raven as he made his way back to face him, this time ensuring a decent amount of personal space. "You would cower at a myth?"

Dark eyes stared down at him in silent, shameless agreement.

At that, the older man let out a short mirthless chuckle. "Heavens be with me! That the Raven accrued to my seigniory be a foolish coward!"

Raven remained unfazed by the insult.

"You believe barbaric men hide out in the forest through seasonal blight and hunt and feast on human flesh for game? That they do not fear men or weapons? This... is your belief?" He questioned, "Pray tell, how is it then that Y'doreans yet remain, if they were human fodder?"

"The forest is their territory. Nothing which crosses their paths leaves whole." Raven's baritone voice responded.

"That's a Chadinian folktale, you imbecile. Your sister would have known better!" His master piqued with an irritated tone.

Raven's eyes darkened at the utterance. His master paid no heed.

"Men stationed at the mountains and forests leading to Y'dore have decreased in their numbers." He retorted calmly, mildly enforcing sass in his tone as he spoke with intent to reason with his master. "No one would stay long enough to serve as your figurehead. No, not unless this problem is addressed."

"Nonsense!"

"Choose another leader over your fief and bear the same result."

"I would watch that insolent tongue of yours or, heaven help me, I will have it." The older man censured eerily, appeased by Raven's silence. "I, Severin Doltemore, will not have my lands be ruled by savages and will certainly not lose them to Chadinian myths." He walked back to his silver goblet and helped himself with another round of wine. "You will go to Y'dore. Find out to whose authority the people heed and report back in three day's time."

Again with the mindless torment. A task well beneath him. For he was more a soldier, less a messenger. 

"You leave at dawn."

Severin knew no bounds. For the vainful master, he was a hound, a dog bound with a leash around its neck.

"You are dismissed."

Once again, his master had pulled at his reins and again he obeyed.

~×~

"Dear goodness sister, has it come to this? Cutting your flawless hair? What would mother say?" The reflection of the beautiful Ivette emerged from behind her as she continued her venture with her blade. 

Not in the mood to play to her tune, her depressed jade eyes, unwavering, followed the movement of her fallen ginger tresses through the mirror. 

"Irvina," her sister, Ivette, placed a comforting palm on her shoulder, "a penny for your thoughts?"

"By the skies, there is no better way than this." The said lady conceded, "You see how they look at me. How they look at us."

"Yes, but surely that is not reason enough to cut my hair." Ivette flaunted her silky, straight blonde locks. Her sister never failed to notice her note of confidence.

Dropping her hands on her laps, she smiled sadly. "I'm not like you, sister. I'm not like you or mother."

"Nonsense." Ivette dismissed with a wave of her hand. "There is no stopping a crowd of gossip, sweet one." Catching jade eyes in the mirror with her blue orbs, she continued, "Do they whisper? Let them! The only person whose very whisper, whose very breath should bother you... is me."

At that, the ginger-haired lady let out a shy, childish smile.

"... and the man after your heart."

Irvina rolled her eyes. "Oh stop it! Is there such a man in Y'dore?"

"Heavens forbid you settle with a Y'dorean man! These lots are a sack of hairy sods and men sweat. Hardly anything here is worth a second of your heartbeat."

"Ivette!" She cautioned, covering her mouth as she laughed.

With her spirits uplifted, the realization of what mess had become her hair, she heaved a strained sigh. May the lord skies punish her impulsiveness. It appeared her sister had the same train of thoughts and, without a second's haste, she said, "Oh dear, hand me that blade, will you?"

How lucky she was to have such a good-natured sister in her life. The only gift the lord skies gave to her. Unbidden, she stared adoringly at the serious face of her sister in the mirror as she trimmed the tips of her now chin-length locks.

"Short or long, you remain pretty, sweeting." Ivette cast a wink at her little sister.

In response, Irvina giggled for yet another time that night.

~×~

It's my first attempt at writing a romance story. It's set in a dystopian Victorian theme. Not sure where I'll go with this but I'll scribble as it comes to me 😂

[sciencespies]

Ancient humans tended the world's most dangerous birds, because of course we did

https://sciencespies.com/nature/ancient-humans-tended-the-worlds-most-dangerous-birds-because-of-course-we-did/

Ancient humans tended the world's most dangerous birds, because of course we did

With powerful legs tipped by dagger-like talons, capable of eviscerating you with a single kick, cassowaries are the bird that most lives up to the moniker of a modern dinosaur.

But surprisingly, these strikingly unique avians may have been humanity’s ‘chickens’ – long before we kept actual chickens.

Eggshell remnants suggest that as far back as 18,000 years ago, humans seemed to be collecting cassowary eggs for something other than just a tasty meal.

“This is not some small fowl, it is a huge, ornery, flightless bird that can eviscerate you,” Penn state anthropologist Kristina Douglass explained. 

These hefty fruit eaters maintain their rainforest homes in Australia and Papua New Guinea, with many plants relying on them for germination, dispersal and fertilization of their seeds.

Some, like the cassowary plum (Cerbera floribunda), cannot propagate without these birds, and their gardening role is so critical, the decline of cassowaries is contributing to the shrinking of Australian rainforests.

Researchers studying how humans from the late Pleistocene to early Holocene managed their resources in Papua New Guinea’s (PNG’s) mountainous rainforests, discovered that these people harvested cassowary eggs far more than the adults of these birds. These were likely eggs from the dwarf cassowary, which weigh 20 kilograms (44 pounds) as adults.

Cassowaries use their feet as weapons. (Dezidor/Wikimedia Commons/CC BY 3.0)

Douglass and colleagues constructed a model of eggshell development using 3D microscopy of ostrich eggs, to identify key characteristics across time. After successful tests with other bird species they were then able to apply this model to more than 1,000 cassowary eggshell fragments from PNG’s National Museum and Art Gallery, collected by New Zealand archeologist Susan Bulmer.

“A large majority of the eggshells were harvested during late stages,” said Douglass, concluding with her team that these people were intentionally harvesting eggs at the stage the embryos had fully formed limbs, beaks, claws and feathers.

“The eggshells look very late; the pattern is not random. They were either into eating baluts or they were hatching chicks.”

Baluts are a street food in Asia – embryonic chicks that are cooked and eaten from the shell. While there were signs that some of the eggs had indeed been cooked and eaten, they were eggs from earlier in development – their shells retained burn patterns. The shell fragments from eggs that were closer to hatching, however, were much less likely to contain traces of having been cooked.

“There are enough samples of late stage eggshells that do not show burning that we can say they were hatching and not eating them,” said Douglass.

“This behavior that we are seeing is coming thousands of years before domestication of the chicken.”

Chickens were domesticated around 9,500 years ago, according to genetic evidence. So while it’s highly improbable that humans ever domesticated cassowaries, this is now the earliest known example of humans rearing birds.

“These findings might radically alter the known timelines and geographies of domestication that tend to be the most widely understood and taught,” Hunter College archeologist Megan Hicks, who was not involved in the study, told The New York Times.

“Where mammals are the best-known early cases (dogs and bezoar ibex), we now know that we need to be paying closer attention to human interactions with avian species.”

Cassowaries are generally quite shy and prefer to avoid humans, but they are territorial and very dangerous if they feel threatened. Despite this, people in PNG today still raise and trade the birds, making use of their meat, bones, feathers and eggs. There’s also a long historical record of these birds being traded.

“Cassowary chicks imprint readily to humans and are easy to maintain and raise up to adult size,” the team writes in their paper.

A modern day cassowary chick in PNG. (Andy Mack/Penn State University)

Humans reached this part of the world around 42,000 years ago; compared to the later impacts of farming, hunter-gatherers were thought to have had a relatively minimal impact on their environment. But this study suggests foraging communities did shape their environment in unexpected ways.

“Intergenerational knowledge of many Indigenous peoples, which indicates that traditional land owners and their ancestors have intentionally and intensively cultivated expansive landscapes, in some cases for millennia,” the team writes.

Around the world, most ratites – the group of large flightless birds that also includes ostriches and elephant birds (Aepyornis maximus) – went extinct soon after humans arrived in their regions. Cassowaries are a rare exception. 

The eggshell analysis used here has the potential to help us understand why many other large flightless birds did not make it, the team said.

For now, at least, cassowaries are still feasting on fruits in Australasian rainforests, making weird noises as they go.

This research was published in PNAS.

#Nature

[andreagillmer]

Mother Nature Forges Ahead: Macroeconomics and Precious Metals

Source: Michael Ballanger for Streetwise Reports   08/24/2020

Sector expert Michael Ballanger discusses the recent week in the precious metals markets.

I was sitting with my partner on the porch this evening watching the squirrels and chipmunks and cardinals and blue jays all feasting upon a smorgasbord of sunflower and other assorted seeds amid a conflagration of floral colors exploding in our front garden. As I was trying desperately to nail down a topic for this week’s missive (with great difficulty), I must have counted no fewer than fifteen different creatures; at least five different breeds of birds, three different rodent types and even a couple of reptiles, all gathering furtively around two feeding stations while insects of every imaginable shape and size blanketed the grass and patio tiles in an effort to expunge any remnants of seed left unattended by the other creatures.

Watching this beehive of activity, each creature setting out to fulfill a mission—forage, feed, return to the nest—I was suddenly slammed with yet another 2020 epiphany. To the flora and fauna of our planet, there is no “pandemic;” life for them consists of waking up, foraging, reproducing, and do their damnedest to stay out of the path of humans, who invariably contribute to either threats to their survival or the extinction of their species.

The small town in which I currently reside is 90 minutes northeast of the city of Toronto, located on an island largely the property of the Mississauga First Nation. It is a farming region and to no one’s surprise, the corn and soybeans are having a good season because nobody told them to “Stay Home and Stay Safe,” as wearing a mask might block the sunlight. We fill up my big Dodge Ram (457 Hemi under the hood) at the Fill-up Fuels station owned and operated by the First Nation people. As a full-service operation, I must tell you that the good people manning the station are the most polite and helpful people on the planet.

The small town of Port Perry basically opened all the bars and restaurants about a month ago and commerce is slowly returning. While it can’t really be deemed as “normal,” it is still greatly-improved,” and while masks are being worn and man-hugs are a no-no, there have been zero new cases of COVID-19 since June.

So, I see all life surrounding the human population going about their business in a manner not terribly different than any prior August since (probably) 1841, and all I can envision are we pathetic humans socially distancing and donning “designer masks” in order to please our governors, the majority of whom have never taken a course in either first aid, preventative medicine or emergency response training.

I have refrained from calling “bull ” on this government-promoted reflation effort, all in the name of “saving jobs,” but I am no longer able to even whimper out as much as a squeak of sympathy for these banco-politico waifs, whose “call to action” consists of standing in front of TV cameras feigning “decisiveness.” All I see are clueless politicians “winging it” while masked henchmen (and henchwomen) stand at attention in the background in a feeble attempt to convey the “command and control” state of readiness.

Meanwhile, the red squirrel in the front yard has just landed on the bird feeder after a six-foot leap from a tree branch, and rather than chase him off, I applaud his acrobatic skill and watch him devour the sunflower seeds. These non-human denizens of the North care not about pandemics; they simply adhere to rituals of survival that have kept their species around for thousands of years. It is a shame that we humans are unable (or unwilling) to let our immune systems do the job they designed for, which have kept us around for thousands of years, instead of dutifully saluting the local politicians, standing in long, overheated queues like kindergarten children waiting for the juice box to be handed out. It is revolting.

I will refrain from waxing eloquently any further on the last six months of monetary and fiscal insanity, which has exploded both deficits and central bank balance sheets across the globe in an upward reflationary spiral the likes of which have never before been seen. There is today a clear perversity in seeing all-time highs in global stock markets despite record unemployment and the crumbling small business sector. You have all heard the gold bug narrative that holds that we are about to see “the greatest wealth transfer in history,” the inference being that the paper merchants (stock and bond investors) are going to the slaughter while the fine and noble patriots in precious metals flourish. Sadly, they are absolutely correct in the “transfer of wealth” idea but it is from the small business sector to the mega-corporations.

You see, the megalodon corporations like Walmart and Costco can access bank credit because it is backstopped by the Fed, whereas the local shoe manufacturer whose plant has been shuttered and whose employees have ordered to “stay at home” do not have the same access to these credit lifelines. When all this phony “GDP” (gross domestic product) is spent and the punchbowl drained, there is going to be a “Wile E. Coyote moment” where we look down and see nothing beneath us except air. That V-shaped recovery is lauded and extolled and promoted by the behavioral pitchmen like Larry Kudlow, who should go back and read up in the French Revolution and google search the word “guillotine” to learn the true definition of “unexpected outcomes.”

Speaking of books, for any of you too young to have had the pain/pleasure of reading Ayn Rand’s 1,000-page epic 1957 novel “Atlas Shrugged,” I strongly urge it. In fact, if you are a sexagenarian and were forced to read as a school project fifty years ago, pick it up and read it again. The favoritism behind government interference being displayed for large corporations over entrepreneurial endeavour is a major theme in the book, and it is exactly what is happening here in the summer of 2020. Read it.

As for the precious metals, I am now up to fifteen hate-mail messages per day from the gold and silver bugs, with particularly acidic vehemence from those that have only just recently joined the precious metals parade. One e-mail from someone I have never met gave me a stern lecture on my current “cautious” (as opposed to “bearish”) “short-term stance” (as opposed to “long-term conviction”), citing a myriad of pro-gold biases and ending with the line, “We are in a new paradigm of investment parameters,” which was another way of saying “it’s different this time.” Never since the invention of the Internet and e-mail messaging have I ever relished hitting the “delete” button more eagerly and with such satisfaction.

I sent out an Email Alert to subscribers on Tuesday of this week, with gold trading at $2,020, repeating my message of “caution required,” and explained in detail that such guidance is not a message of “sell everything.” This is a snippet of what I wrote, with gold and silver screaming northward and the Twitterverse pumping newsletters like umbrellas in April:

“I am not a ‘bear’ on either gold or silver, which is why I continue to own and add to the junior developers, but I am not trying to re-establish long positions in any of the Gold Miner ETFs (GDX/GDXJ; exchange-traded funds), nor am I trying to get back into SLV or GLD calls. We need a real good cleansing—one that chases the Johnny-come-latelies from the PM (precious metals) space—before I will even think about jumping back in.”

Gold chart sent Tuesday to subscribers

Friday morning gold showed a quote at US$1,920 per ounce—a US$100 drop from Tuesday’s euphoria—and the way it is trading (this has “Freaky Friday” written all over it), a $100 crash would not surprise me in the slightest. After all, we are now in the final countdown to “Four More Years!” for Donald Trump, or a new regime of leftist mouth-breathers, and if Trump is listening to Kudlow, orders to Mnuchin will involve, shall we say, the “mobilization” of some of the sovereign gold holdings in order to maintain the illusion that the U.S. economy is being handled in a highly presidential manner.

Silver has been a spectacular performer since the March lows, and through our holdings in Aftermath Silver Ltd. (AAG:TSX.V), we have treated quite well. However, that in no small way changes the near-term outlook for silver, as it was emitting multiple warning signs, the most severe of which was the plethora of “Silver to $100!!!” e-mail blasts sitting every morning in my inbox.

Silver chart sent Tuesday to subscribers

If the correction in the precious metals is orderly and without the usual shenanigans that have accompanied prior selloffs, then the market will be primed for a big year-end rally to all-time highs, well beyond Au $2,100/ounce and Ag $30/ounce. I hate making predictions, but I think that as soon as the late longs are flushed, gold will take out the 2020 highs and get a $2,350 print. Silver will get a $33.57 print at a GSR (gold-to-silver ratio) of 70:1. These are merely guesses and not a great deal different than tossing a coin. What is important is that I rate the likelihood of a year-end advance as “high,” but only if we get the flush. Otherwise, I see sideways, back-and-forth churning with bulls and bears growing more frustrated as it wears on.

This is now the precise time of the calendar year where I am in full accumulation mode of those junior developers (and a few explorers) that have been languishing. I have written about this before, so everyone knows that the voyages into the northern bays and inlets are rapidly coming to a close and the time to focus on the undervalued developers is now. I will be putting out Special Situation reports on several juniors in coming weeks that could mirror the performance of Aftermath Silver, first mentioned in July 2019 at CA$0.10/share. The chart below says it all:

To obtain copies of the Special Situation reports, you can e-mail me at miningjunkie216@outlook.com and I will send you instructions. Expanding on the category of “broken records,” it is the junior developers that will carry the biggest bang for your rapidly depreciating bucks, so going into the end of the year overweight a basket of gold and silver developers should prove rewarding.

Now the chipmunks are all lined up on the porch railing, so I guess the bird feeders need replenishing.

Originally published Aug. 21, 2020.

Follow Michael Ballanger on Twitter @MiningJunkie.

Originally trained during the inflationary 1970s, Michael Ballanger is a graduate of Saint Louis University where he earned a Bachelor of Science in finance and a Bachelor of Art in marketing before completing post-graduate work at the Wharton School of Finance. With more than 30 years of experience as a junior mining and exploration specialist, as well as a solid background in corporate finance, Ballanger’s adherence to the concept of “Hard Assets” allows him to focus the practice on selecting opportunities in the global resource sector with emphasis on the precious metals exploration and development sector. Ballanger takes great pleasure in visiting mineral properties around the globe in the never-ending hunt for early-stage opportunities.

Sign up for our FREE newsletter at: www.streetwisereports.com/get-news

Disclosure: 1) Michael J. Ballanger: I, or members of my immediate household or family, own securities of the following companies mentioned in this article: Aftermath Silver. My company has a financial relationship with the following companies referred to in this article: Aftermath Silver. I determined which companies would be included in this article based on my research and understanding of the sector. Additional disclosures are below. 2) The following companies mentioned in this article are billboard sponsors of Streetwise Reports: None. Click here for important disclosures about sponsor fees. 3) Statements and opinions expressed are the opinions of the author and not of Streetwise Reports or its officers. The author is wholly responsible for the validity of the statements. The author was not paid by Streetwise Reports for this article. Streetwise Reports was not paid by the author to publish or syndicate this article. Streetwise Reports requires contributing authors to disclose any shareholdings in, or economic relationships with, companies that they write about. Streetwise Reports relies upon the authors to accurately provide this information and Streetwise Reports has no means of verifying its accuracy. 4) This article does not constitute investment advice. Each reader is encouraged to consult with his or her individual financial professional and any action a reader takes as a result of information presented here is his or her own responsibility. By opening this page, each reader accepts and agrees to Streetwise Reports’ terms of use and full legal disclaimer. This article is not a solicitation for investment. Streetwise Reports does not render general or specific investment advice and the information on Streetwise Reports should not be considered a recommendation to buy or sell any security. Streetwise Reports does not endorse or recommend the business, products, services or securities of any company mentioned on Streetwise Reports. 5) From time to time, Streetwise Reports LLC and its directors, officers, employees or members of their families, as well as persons interviewed for articles and interviews on the site, may have a long or short position in securities mentioned. Directors, officers, employees or members of their immediate families are prohibited from making purchases and/or sales of those securities in the open market or otherwise from the time of the interview or the decision to write an article until three business days after the publication of the interview or article. The foregoing prohibition does not apply to articles that in substance only restate previously published company releases. As of the date of this article, officers and/or employees of Streetwise Reports LLC (including members of their household) own securities of Aftermath Silver, a company mentioned in this article.

Michael Ballanger Disclaimer: This letter makes no guarantee or warranty on the accuracy or completeness of the data provided. Nothing contained herein is intended or shall be deemed to be investment advice, implied or otherwise. This letter represents my views and replicates trades that I am making but nothing more than that. Always consult your registered advisor to assist you with your investments. I accept no liability for any loss arising from the use of the data contained on this letter. Options and junior mining stocks contain a high level of risk that may result in the loss of part or all invested capital and therefore are suitable for experienced and professional investors and traders only. One should be familiar with the risks involved in junior mining and options trading and we recommend consulting a financial adviser if you feel you do not understand the risks involved.

( Companies Mentioned: AAG:TSX.V, )

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[goldcoins0]

Mother Nature Forges Ahead: Macroeconomics and Precious Metals

Source: Michael Ballanger for Streetwise Reports   08/24/2020

Sector expert Michael Ballanger discusses the recent week in the precious metals markets.

I was sitting with my partner on the porch this evening watching the squirrels and chipmunks and cardinals and blue jays all feasting upon a smorgasbord of sunflower and other assorted seeds amid a conflagration of floral colors exploding in our front garden. As I was trying desperately to nail down a topic for this week's missive (with great difficulty), I must have counted no fewer than fifteen different creatures; at least five different breeds of birds, three different rodent types and even a couple of reptiles, all gathering furtively around two feeding stations while insects of every imaginable shape and size blanketed the grass and patio tiles in an effort to expunge any remnants of seed left unattended by the other creatures.

Watching this beehive of activity, each creature setting out to fulfill a mission—forage, feed, return to the nest—I was suddenly slammed with yet another 2020 epiphany. To the flora and fauna of our planet, there is no "pandemic;" life for them consists of waking up, foraging, reproducing, and do their damnedest to stay out of the path of humans, who invariably contribute to either threats to their survival or the extinction of their species.

The small town in which I currently reside is 90 minutes northeast of the city of Toronto, located on an island largely the property of the Mississauga First Nation. It is a farming region and to no one's surprise, the corn and soybeans are having a good season because nobody told them to "Stay Home and Stay Safe," as wearing a mask might block the sunlight. We fill up my big Dodge Ram (457 Hemi under the hood) at the Fill-up Fuels station owned and operated by the First Nation people. As a full-service operation, I must tell you that the good people manning the station are the most polite and helpful people on the planet.

The small town of Port Perry basically opened all the bars and restaurants about a month ago and commerce is slowly returning. While it can't really be deemed as "normal," it is still greatly-improved," and while masks are being worn and man-hugs are a no-no, there have been zero new cases of COVID-19 since June.

So, I see all life surrounding the human population going about their business in a manner not terribly different than any prior August since (probably) 1841, and all I can envision are we pathetic humans socially distancing and donning "designer masks" in order to please our governors, the majority of whom have never taken a course in either first aid, preventative medicine or emergency response training.

I have refrained from calling "bull " on this government-promoted reflation effort, all in the name of "saving jobs," but I am no longer able to even whimper out as much as a squeak of sympathy for these banco-politico waifs, whose "call to action" consists of standing in front of TV cameras feigning "decisiveness." All I see are clueless politicians "winging it" while masked henchmen (and henchwomen) stand at attention in the background in a feeble attempt to convey the "command and control" state of readiness.

Meanwhile, the red squirrel in the front yard has just landed on the bird feeder after a six-foot leap from a tree branch, and rather than chase him off, I applaud his acrobatic skill and watch him devour the sunflower seeds. These non-human denizens of the North care not about pandemics; they simply adhere to rituals of survival that have kept their species around for thousands of years. It is a shame that we humans are unable (or unwilling) to let our immune systems do the job they designed for, which have kept us around for thousands of years, instead of dutifully saluting the local politicians, standing in long, overheated queues like kindergarten children waiting for the juice box to be handed out. It is revolting.

I will refrain from waxing eloquently any further on the last six months of monetary and fiscal insanity, which has exploded both deficits and central bank balance sheets across the globe in an upward reflationary spiral the likes of which have never before been seen. There is today a clear perversity in seeing all-time highs in global stock markets despite record unemployment and the crumbling small business sector. You have all heard the gold bug narrative that holds that we are about to see "the greatest wealth transfer in history," the inference being that the paper merchants (stock and bond investors) are going to the slaughter while the fine and noble patriots in precious metals flourish. Sadly, they are absolutely correct in the "transfer of wealth" idea but it is from the small business sector to the mega-corporations.

You see, the megalodon corporations like Walmart and Costco can access bank credit because it is backstopped by the Fed, whereas the local shoe manufacturer whose plant has been shuttered and whose employees have ordered to "stay at home" do not have the same access to these credit lifelines. When all this phony "GDP" (gross domestic product) is spent and the punchbowl drained, there is going to be a "Wile E. Coyote moment" where we look down and see nothing beneath us except air. That V-shaped recovery is lauded and extolled and promoted by the behavioral pitchmen like Larry Kudlow, who should go back and read up in the French Revolution and google search the word "guillotine" to learn the true definition of "unexpected outcomes."

Speaking of books, for any of you too young to have had the pain/pleasure of reading Ayn Rand's 1,000-page epic 1957 novel "Atlas Shrugged," I strongly urge it. In fact, if you are a sexagenarian and were forced to read as a school project fifty years ago, pick it up and read it again. The favoritism behind government interference being displayed for large corporations over entrepreneurial endeavour is a major theme in the book, and it is exactly what is happening here in the summer of 2020. Read it.

As for the precious metals, I am now up to fifteen hate-mail messages per day from the gold and silver bugs, with particularly acidic vehemence from those that have only just recently joined the precious metals parade. One e-mail from someone I have never met gave me a stern lecture on my current "cautious" (as opposed to "bearish") "short-term stance" (as opposed to "long-term conviction"), citing a myriad of pro-gold biases and ending with the line, "We are in a new paradigm of investment parameters," which was another way of saying "it's different this time." Never since the invention of the Internet and e-mail messaging have I ever relished hitting the "delete" button more eagerly and with such satisfaction.

I sent out an Email Alert to subscribers on Tuesday of this week, with gold trading at $2,020, repeating my message of "caution required," and explained in detail that such guidance is not a message of "sell everything." This is a snippet of what I wrote, with gold and silver screaming northward and the Twitterverse pumping newsletters like umbrellas in April:

"I am not a 'bear' on either gold or silver, which is why I continue to own and add to the junior developers, but I am not trying to re-establish long positions in any of the Gold Miner ETFs (GDX/GDXJ; exchange-traded funds), nor am I trying to get back into SLV or GLD calls. We need a real good cleansing—one that chases the Johnny-come-latelies from the PM (precious metals) space—before I will even think about jumping back in."

Gold chart sent Tuesday to subscribers

Friday morning gold showed a quote at US$1,920 per ounce—a US$100 drop from Tuesday's euphoria—and the way it is trading (this has "Freaky Friday" written all over it), a $100 crash would not surprise me in the slightest. After all, we are now in the final countdown to "Four More Years!" for Donald Trump, or a new regime of leftist mouth-breathers, and if Trump is listening to Kudlow, orders to Mnuchin will involve, shall we say, the "mobilization" of some of the sovereign gold holdings in order to maintain the illusion that the U.S. economy is being handled in a highly presidential manner.

Silver has been a spectacular performer since the March lows, and through our holdings in Aftermath Silver Ltd. (AAG:TSX.V), we have treated quite well. However, that in no small way changes the near-term outlook for silver, as it was emitting multiple warning signs, the most severe of which was the plethora of "Silver to $100!!!" e-mail blasts sitting every morning in my inbox.

Silver chart sent Tuesday to subscribers

If the correction in the precious metals is orderly and without the usual shenanigans that have accompanied prior selloffs, then the market will be primed for a big year-end rally to all-time highs, well beyond Au $2,100/ounce and Ag $30/ounce. I hate making predictions, but I think that as soon as the late longs are flushed, gold will take out the 2020 highs and get a $2,350 print. Silver will get a $33.57 print at a GSR (gold-to-silver ratio) of 70:1. These are merely guesses and not a great deal different than tossing a coin. What is important is that I rate the likelihood of a year-end advance as "high," but only if we get the flush. Otherwise, I see sideways, back-and-forth churning with bulls and bears growing more frustrated as it wears on.

This is now the precise time of the calendar year where I am in full accumulation mode of those junior developers (and a few explorers) that have been languishing. I have written about this before, so everyone knows that the voyages into the northern bays and inlets are rapidly coming to a close and the time to focus on the undervalued developers is now. I will be putting out Special Situation reports on several juniors in coming weeks that could mirror the performance of Aftermath Silver, first mentioned in July 2019 at CA$0.10/share. The chart below says it all:

To obtain copies of the Special Situation reports, you can e-mail me at miningjunkie216@outlook.com and I will send you instructions. Expanding on the category of "broken records," it is the junior developers that will carry the biggest bang for your rapidly depreciating bucks, so going into the end of the year overweight a basket of gold and silver developers should prove rewarding.

Now the chipmunks are all lined up on the porch railing, so I guess the bird feeders need replenishing.

Originally published Aug. 21, 2020.

Follow Michael Ballanger on Twitter @MiningJunkie.

Originally trained during the inflationary 1970s, Michael Ballanger is a graduate of Saint Louis University where he earned a Bachelor of Science in finance and a Bachelor of Art in marketing before completing post-graduate work at the Wharton School of Finance. With more than 30 years of experience as a junior mining and exploration specialist, as well as a solid background in corporate finance, Ballanger's adherence to the concept of "Hard Assets" allows him to focus the practice on selecting opportunities in the global resource sector with emphasis on the precious metals exploration and development sector. Ballanger takes great pleasure in visiting mineral properties around the globe in the never-ending hunt for early-stage opportunities.

Sign up for our FREE newsletter at: www.streetwisereports.com/get-news

Disclosure: 1) Michael J. Ballanger: I, or members of my immediate household or family, own securities of the following companies mentioned in this article: Aftermath Silver. My company has a financial relationship with the following companies referred to in this article: Aftermath Silver. I determined which companies would be included in this article based on my research and understanding of the sector. Additional disclosures are below. 2) The following companies mentioned in this article are billboard sponsors of Streetwise Reports: None. Click here for important disclosures about sponsor fees. 3) Statements and opinions expressed are the opinions of the author and not of Streetwise Reports or its officers. The author is wholly responsible for the validity of the statements. The author was not paid by Streetwise Reports for this article. Streetwise Reports was not paid by the author to publish or syndicate this article. Streetwise Reports requires contributing authors to disclose any shareholdings in, or economic relationships with, companies that they write about. Streetwise Reports relies upon the authors to accurately provide this information and Streetwise Reports has no means of verifying its accuracy. 4) This article does not constitute investment advice. Each reader is encouraged to consult with his or her individual financial professional and any action a reader takes as a result of information presented here is his or her own responsibility. By opening this page, each reader accepts and agrees to Streetwise Reports' terms of use and full legal disclaimer. This article is not a solicitation for investment. Streetwise Reports does not render general or specific investment advice and the information on Streetwise Reports should not be considered a recommendation to buy or sell any security. Streetwise Reports does not endorse or recommend the business, products, services or securities of any company mentioned on Streetwise Reports. 5) From time to time, Streetwise Reports LLC and its directors, officers, employees or members of their families, as well as persons interviewed for articles and interviews on the site, may have a long or short position in securities mentioned. Directors, officers, employees or members of their immediate families are prohibited from making purchases and/or sales of those securities in the open market or otherwise from the time of the interview or the decision to write an article until three business days after the publication of the interview or article. The foregoing prohibition does not apply to articles that in substance only restate previously published company releases. As of the date of this article, officers and/or employees of Streetwise Reports LLC (including members of their household) own securities of Aftermath Silver, a company mentioned in this article.

Michael Ballanger Disclaimer: This letter makes no guarantee or warranty on the accuracy or completeness of the data provided. Nothing contained herein is intended or shall be deemed to be investment advice, implied or otherwise. This letter represents my views and replicates trades that I am making but nothing more than that. Always consult your registered advisor to assist you with your investments. I accept no liability for any loss arising from the use of the data contained on this letter. Options and junior mining stocks contain a high level of risk that may result in the loss of part or all invested capital and therefore are suitable for experienced and professional investors and traders only. One should be familiar with the risks involved in junior mining and options trading and we recommend consulting a financial adviser if you feel you do not understand the risks involved.

( Companies Mentioned: AAG:TSX.V, )

from https://www.streetwisereports.com/article/2020/08/24/mother-nature-forges-ahead-macroeconomics-and-precious-metals.html

[pradhandentalcentre-blog]

INCI- “DENTAL” - Hunter gatherer body – Modern world.

The doors opened, the draft of the air conditioner traveled down the steps as a customer climbed up and entered the food mall. Neon lights, soft music, row upon row of shelves stocked with modern foods all attractively packed with nutritional information and expiry dated clearly mentioned. But Mr Jarawa was unlettered, unable to read and terribly hungry. Having just lost his way from his island in the Andaman Islands off the eastern coast of India, Mr Jarawa short of stature, with tightly coiled peppercorn hair, shiny black skin, negrito in appearance resembling and African Pygmy, was desperately hungry. Shipwrecked in a modern city, armed with only a bow and arrow and ready for a hunt, Mr, Jarawa tentatively crossed the threshold.

His naked body covered with leaves and shells, he caught the attention of the shop girl who dropped her parcels and her jaw with shock and disbelief at what she was seeing.  Equipped with an arrow tip and hunting gear he was all set to hunt an animal or look for some fish or turtle to eat. All he was looking for was recognizable food to satisfy the extreme ache in his belly. Having recovered from her surprise the shop girl with an amused look on her face walked up to Mr Jarawa and offered her services.

The striking man was one of the few remnants of the Jarawa tribe of hunter – forager-fishermen that lived for perhaps 55000 years as a warrior and defender of his traditional tropical forest island. His nomadic tribe lived in harmony with nature hunting wild pigs, monitor lizards and other prey with bows and arrows. Fishing Mollusks and turtles and dugongs in the shallow waters for thousands of years he had satisfied his hunger and fed his family and tribe. Supplementing the protein with fruit, tubers and honey from the forest all his nutritional needs were met from the lush environment that he inhabited.

The wheels of time, civilization and population pressures had pushed him out of forest where his body was shaped by eons of evolution. Being a strict hunter gatherer Mr Jarawa was unexposed to the instant gratification and bounty of the agricultural and industrial revolution. Modern foods were unrecognizable and alien to him.  Walking in the bubble of cultural evolution Mr Jarawa was totally lost as to what modern food to eat?

Hunter gather bodies exposed to modern worlds is what explains why as a world, and a nation we are heading towards a health crisis of gigantic proportions. Obesity, diabetes, blood pressure, cardiac problems are potentially debilitating our world.  Evolutionarily clever as we are, we can at best superficially change our bodies without fundamentally altering our inherited form. It is man’s hubris to think that in 14000 years, at the advent of agriculture it is possible to re-imagine and redesign our bodies that were forged over hundreds of thousands of years in the jungles of Africa. Our, furless, bipedal, slightly fat form, with a highly developed brain and a long distance walking and running body structure  , is hopelessly out of sync  in a world of cars ,  processed foods, sedentary ways and overindulgence . Hopelessly addicted to salt, fat and sugar but actually capable of eating a diverse diet of fibrous fruits, and vegetables, nuts, seeds, tubers and lean meat our bodies are now paying the price of affluence and plenty.

Our caveman bodies are totally mismatched and un-adapted to the food and environment and culture that we are currently exposed to. From an age of fasting and feasting we are living in an era of overindulgence and plenty. Faced with a multitude of choices quite like Mr Jarawa our bodies stand shocked, our metabolism confused as to what choices we should exercise. A drastic change! A re-calibration! Or a back to basics strategy.

Where does the road to good health lie?