#tw colonization

[satellites-halo]

Gold, Glory, God

Credit to @ Micorazonmexica on Instagram for the central pattern I colored green- his art is gorgeous, please check it out and support him through his Etsy shop if you have the chance!

[rottenappleinthebox]

Spain: Imagine going through the work of colonizing native cultures just for other countries to call your ex-colony a "second Italy"

Romano with a Best Dad mug: Sucks to suck

[vampirekissingbooth]

please correct me if i’m wrong or missing something, but a term I hear a lot about native communities is that european colonizers “stole their land,” which, I understand what they mean, but doesn’t seem like the right term?

my understanding is that (at least in the USAmerican regions) for many native peoples, land did not “belong” to anyone. the terms i would use would be “pushed out of their homes” and “genocide.” maybe “fenced in,” in some cases.

[needcake]

@hetaberia-week

Day 3: university

.

.

1550,

Valladolid

He had sent him a letter with an invitation to attend the debates held in the Colegio de San Gregorio, but, as often happened with the letters he sent to Portugal, he had not expected him to respond, much less show up.

What was Spain’s surprise then, when he spotted his black-clad somber figure sitting on the last row of the audience chamber like a sinister crow, watching de las Casas argue for the fifth day straight.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he told him honestly and excitedly, coming to find him outside of the audience chamber at the end of the day while the crowd dispersed and conversation about the day’s discussions sparked loudly all around him. Intellectuals and theologians debating amongst themselves the merits of Aristotle’s definition of the natural slave and if it could and should be applied to their American colonies. Spain felt that they had made incredible progress since the beginning of these talks, but there was still so much more that he hoped would be accomplished.

“You invited me,” Portugal said simply, his voice sounding a little too dry to Spain’s ears and he looked him over a little more carefully, squinting his eyes slightly at him, his excitement giving way to wariness.

“Did you enjoy today’s debate?” he asked guardedly, but Portugal shrugged, glancing back at the open door to the debate chamber. “Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner,” he offered, diplomatically, testing the waters. Portugal was spending more and more time overseas these days, he hardly saw him for most of the year unless it was for official business between their crowns.

“What exactly do you hope to achieve here?”

It was the way he said it, in retrospect, that made Spain angry, not the question itself. It was how it sneaked under Spain’s excitement and attacked his unguarded sensibilities, how it poked at his insecurities until they were raw and swollen and inflamed. It was the way Portugal looked at him when his eyes returned to his face after glancing at the now empty space where he had seen his best philosophers and theologians discuss the rights of their new subjects in the colonies for the better part of the last few days and speak of it as if it had no more consequence than a debate on the merits of building their churches with two or three bell towers. Suddenly he felt foolish, gaping at Portugal without response, which in turn only made him angrier.

“What do you mean?”

Portugal shrugged again, glancing at the chatting groups around them, Spain’s anger building and building the longer it took for him to make his point.

“You’re letting de las Casas argue for five straight days while his opponent only had a few hours to state his case, it seems like you’re favoring one more heavily than the other. Why have a debate at all if your King has already made up his mind? Why not just have him decree it as law?”

“Because it’s important,” Spain said, shoulders set and jaw tight, and he could see Portugal straightening his back in front of him in response to his evident rising anger. “It’s important that these are ideas are discussed and accepted, not just imposed.”

“But they’re not being discussed with the colonists, are they?” Portugal countered, leveling him a hard look that only fueled the fire growing inside Spain. “What’s to stop them for disregarding your orders?”

“Because we’ll have them arrested if they do!” he shouted, attracting the curious glanced of the nearby scholars, feeling his face heat up with his temper. “They’ll have to obey or they’ll be facing the consequences!”

"And what consequences will those be?"

He glared at him, but Portugal continued to look at him with that infuriating calm, that maddening calm that made him want to throw a punch at his serious circumspect expression, made him want to get under his skin and make him feel as exposed and hypocritical as Spain felt.

“I’ll ask again,” Portugal said, and Spain had to curl his hands into fists by his sides not to hurt him, his anger corrupting the pull he felt on the bottom of his stomach that insisted on gravitating towards Portugal, making him want to push him away instead of bringing them closer together. “What are you hoping to achieve here?”

He glared at him through tightly clenched teeth and Portugal huffed softly through his nose, glancing around.

“If you don’t have the stomach for an Empire, you probably shouldn’t have one.”

He commended himself for keeping his composure until Portugal's dark figure had turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall, only yelling out a long string of curses after he was well out of earshot.

-

The Valladolid debate (1550-51), sometimes called the Valladolid controversy, was one of the earlier examples of discussions centered around slavery and whether or not Europeans should enslave the natives of the Americas. Despite Bartolomeu de las Casas arguing against the use of indigenous labor and the enforced conversion of the natives, his position being supported by the Spanish crown, little was done to actually enforce it and one consequence of denying colonists the use of indigenous labor was the import of enslaved labor from Africa, which was being done by the Portuguese.

[ariadosanon]

I know I’ve said shit about RELIGION. But if someone tried to take away my belief in CELEBI or THE SWARM from me— I’m not even sure. What I would DO.

Its such a big part of being ORRISH to me.

[quatraine-in-c-major]

just realised i forgot to set my poll to a week instead of a day i’m crying

[yandere-wishes]

aaa i love ur anamoly fic ❤️❤️ that and another fic is the only mtp/reader fic ive read that has a foreign s/o so im sosososo happy 🥲🥲

I'm so glad you liked it!! I really wanted to explore how a reader coming from one of England's colonies would share Moriarty's disdain for how poorly the British Kingdom treated people. Not just its own citizens but also the people from the countries forcefully under its control. My country was never colonized in name. But a lot of our states were separated by Britain, France, and Russia. What was left was divided between Britain, France, and Russia, and under heavy military control.

[octahedral-chaos]

I'm still absolutely loving Asterism Borealis so far!

I kinda want to hear more info about the intelligent species in this world. (What is their culture and customs like? What do they specialize in? Do they get along with the other species? Stuff like that).

If They is dead (since this is post canon), then who imprisoned Sonnet? Was it an elder who got upset with them, or is it something much more sinister...

Also, not to intrude personally, but have you started drafting it? (It's okay if you haven't! I'm just curious.)

Glad you love it! Unfortunately I'm still drafting stuff, but I might actually write the first chapter today.

For intelligent species, there's a few of them. There's humans, they pretty much remain almost unchanged from our world's history... just a tad bit more peaceful in modern times.

There's the several subspecies of elves, who are basically humanoid ungulates (Thought they were going to be in the same family as humans, didn't you? /pos) that are descendants of Chalicotheres. They're the only surviving member of that family AND they look very much like humans, except with pointy ears, hooves and maybe a short tail. They're a bit uncanny looking, resulting in them getting quite a bit of mistreatment from humans during the 1300s to 1900s, but they ended up getting rights during the 1940s, when the International Court of Sapient Species was established.

Due to this, elves are pretty much THE allies in this setting. They don't understand why humans judge each other so much, so they try to help the underdogs in any way they could. There's several subspecies, which are Boreal, Woodlands, Pairie, Desert and Dwarf, going from North to South. They live in Eurasia, America and Africa during the Early years, but now with international travel being a thing, they live everywhere.

Then there's the mousefolk, who are literally 3-4 feet tall rodent people, and they usually appear similar to jerboas, although there are some exceptions across ethnic groups. They are pretty much nomadic and live in deserts, but European colonisers were pretty terrible to them too. But! They're still a proud species who love music and theatre.

There's also harpies (Derived Non-Avian dinosaurs that are somewhat closely related to Dromaeosaurus), centaurs (Some kind of close relative to elves, perhaps? Or maybe they're a weird type of Pterosaur?), fairies (Basically moth/ butterfly people. Literally looks like anthromorphic moths), merfolk (Derived from a species of fish similar to Epaulette sharks!), orcs (Similar to elves in that they came from an ungulate ancestor, most likely pigs or Entelodontidae) and Cynocephalus (Mesonychids!), but they're all background races and I may or may not try to expand on them later.

Oh and there's the starfolks... but we know some things about them...

Sonnet is actually much, MUCH older than you think. In starfolk terminology, there's three distinct "Age ranges" of starfolks: Third generation, Second generation and First generation, in the order of oldest to youngest. Sonnet is a Third Generation starfolk, meaning that they're around the same age as Edda and Aven, if not slightly younger. They were around when TOFA still existed. And they did get punished by Them due to the accidental killing of their fellow starfolk.

[e-xolite]

Alternative universe where lycanthropy is essentially just a recessive genetic disease, and early humans freaking the fuck out which lead to them tryna kill the werewolves which subsequently created the myth of man-killing werewolves.

Modern day it’s treated more-so as a medical condition, whereby if the lycanthrope is just given a small, natural space to spend the full moon in they are completely docile and even friendly

Imagine: two main lineages of werewolves, one that arose in Europe and one in North America, due to the genocide and colonisation of indigenous peoples the North American lineage is super rare, but you can essentially have cross-breeds between the two lycanthrope lineages

[meadowlarksabove]

Tales from Arizona 3/??

A decanus learns about the death of his son and it puts everything into perspective. (Notes: Hortensius is Gabban's decanus previously featured in the first TfA story. For reasons implied in this story, Hortensius renounced his birth name to better fit into the Legion, which is why it's never used or mentioned here. His son's birth name is used because 'Florus' wasn't chosen by his son, but a romanization forced upon them.)

(PLEASE LOOK AT TRIGGER WARNINGS IN THE TAGS!!)

______________________________________________________

…It is with great pain that I have learned of the death of your son. Of all the hardships in building our great empire, chiefest is the loss of great men such as your son. There is no consolation one can offer a father when he has lost their true and rightful heir. Let yourself, at least, be relieved in knowing that every man who gives their life for the Legion lives forever in honor. Do well by his memory, tend to your duties, and do as is right of a man in rebuilding your family- 

Decanus Hortensius raised a hand to the courier before they could recite the rest of the message. Whatever had flashed before the eyes of the warrior, whether sharp or gruesome, had been enough to forewarn the messenger of their great emotion. Without another word, they placed the letter onto the war table and hastily left the tent. Everything thereafter was silent, none of the decanii scheduled to meet with Hortensius could be admitted into his tent without incurring the clearest offense. The soldiers were also forbidden from passing the flap without the expressed approval of their master. In only a matter of hours the entirety of the camp knew something terrible had happened, as a dark and oppressive cloud seemed to shadow their spirits on an otherwise sunny day. Many wondered and looked over their shoulders, thinking rightly that death had given its news. They shivered to think what would become of them, as loss rarely tempered but instead inflamed a man’s character. 

Hours passed and none had seen their decanus save for his closest in command who imparted orders in his absence. While Hortensius had never inspired tenderness in any of his men, they respected his leadership and wisdom, and greatly depended on his fortitude. To see him detained by whatever had stricken him was enough cause for worry. On the other hand, it meant their plans of quitting Phoenix were temporarily put on hold. Though they were eager for their next battle, they had gotten little to no rest in the past month of their campaign and were grateful for even a day of no traveling. Still, their rest had come at an unspeakable cost, and none of them felt any real pleasure for it. They looked at his tent wearily and thought he would burst through the camp hot with rage, ready to ease his pain by spreading misery. Yet nothing came through the flap but a sad and unfortunate quiet. 

Quiet was exactly all the decanus could bear. For the rest of that day he had sat at his table and invariably taken the letter in his hands, only to let go of it when it had lingered too long between his fingers. The message, delicately scrawled across the paper, was useless to a man who’d never learned how to read or write. Yet he understood the truth of its account and of the tragedy he was now forced to face head on. His son, Florus- No, let them be named in his heart by their true name! He was in his right, now more than ever, to remember them by the name he and his wife had given them at birth. Aster, his one and only son, was dead. Aster, who had only been nineteen years old, was dead. 

The thought of his son’s age sent him into another fit. Though no tears welled up in his tired eyes, he felt his lungs swell to the point of making it impossible for him to breathe. He gasped for air, just as his body turned stiff and cold. He was like a dying man himself, lamenting the loss of someone just at the cusp of manhood. But would he have suffered less if his son had died any younger, or older? Would it have made any sense to cry less at the loss of an infant or a middle aged man? Yet his having died at nineteen felt at the moment like the greatest injustice of all, a sentence only thought up in nightmares. They had survived the coming of the Legion into their territory, survived the aftermath of their shameful surrender, survived battles forced upon them by their captors, only to die before he’d been given the honor of a title. However, would they really have wanted such an empty gesture?

Aster, how they must have hated fighting for the bull. Ever since Caesar had drawn them all into his ranks, they had always looked wretched and full of rage. Though that same anger had inadvertently served them at war, in peace it would have only festered and grown into an even greater poison. Hortensius had seen the disdain in his son’s eyes when all of their tribesmen relinquished their arms, as if to say they would never be so easily tamed or made a dog of. His son, he knew, had been a struggle for other decanii, and an even bigger terror towards their peers. No crack of the whip or glaring branding iron could have broken his will. He admonished his son’s behavior in the face of his superiors, but in his heart he praised them with all the spirit a father could give. Though he had long stopped believing in the fall of the Legion, he believed his Aster was capable of attaining real freedom. 

Death at the height of war wasn’t freedom, however. He couldn’t pretend to think his son’s spirit were any less enraged than they were in life, or think them satisfied with having given their life for a cause so against their own. Survival had been their way of fighting against the odds, the fact they’d lived after every fight, every punishment, had been a foil to the Legion’s wishes. But death had put a stop to that. Death had freed his son’s decanus of a “bad seed”, one less “wildling” to worry about when there were many like Cicero or Vulpes to contend with. Hortensius struggled to keep thinking in this way. If Aster’s dying had done even a single person of the Legion a modicum of good, then he’d have to count his son’s death a shameful one. Another failure. 

What had been the point in their surrender anyway? Decanus Hortensius moved to his bed as if lost in a haze, and looked up at the red burlap ceiling of his tent. He thought back to their last night as a free tribe, and on the words of their elders. There was rebellion in survival, if they held on long enough they would someday outlive the red flames of the Legion. Though the bulls were strong, stronger still was the good in the rest of the world. Hortensius had understood the wisdom in their message then, but years spent in the service of beasts had weakened his resolve to the point of finding the good as well as the evil in it. To win they would have to be patient, and with that resolve they had survived and shown themselves stronger than any of the weapons turned against them. But how deep were the scars, and how lasting! The youths of his people were reduced to pawns, and the best of his generation were made into war criminals like himself. Pillagers, raiders, scourges of the earth. People he’d known for years were newly made strangers under the influence of starvation, thirst and oppression. So many had forgotten their old names in favor of appeasing the census dogs that patrolled the streets and kept tabs on all the annexed tribes. It was harder now, more than ever, to remember why they had actually chosen to live.

Aster, you see me now from your place in the Far Away. Can’t you tell me what you know? 

The tears finally came as he tried to think of his Aster standing beside the spirits of his father and grandfather. They would have to guide his son in whatever he had failed. Even in the Far Away they would have to be raised, and he was glad they had found themselves once more in the company of their heroes. Though strangely enough, the image of that blessed meeting remained foggy in his mind, as if drowned into obscurity by the sheer force of his weeping. His body seemed to refuse it like a bad herb. Instead, his thoughts shot in the opposite direction, and where his son had stood were now the children fallen into rank in his encampment. 

Tribeless, parentless, with no hope of a better tomorrow, these were the children the red armies had spat out from the corpses of worthier people. They were miserable creatures with newly given names they could hardly pronounce for themselves. He’d never seen children in the service of war before joining the Legion, and could scarcely provide the heartlessness it took to train them. Hortensius avoided looking at them, in fact, and delegated that charge as often as he could to the rest of his command. But even his ignorance of their presence couldn’t save him from the painful sight of their bodies, or the knowledge that he had played a role in their demise. For every cog in the machine, no matter how small, was implicated in the disposal of these children. 

Then as he imagined them in Aster’s place, he feared they would tell his son of his negligence and of his shirking responsibility. It was to Decanus Hortensius they were assigned and not his second in command. But how could a man be a father and a guide to children he hadn’t sired? They were strange, frightening even, and fragile in ways that depressed his heart. None of them were ready to face violence on the battlefield, and those who’d survived up to this point had done it through chance alone. Despite what the Legion would have everyone believe, weapons were made out of metal, not brittled flesh.

Though was that enough to justify abandoning his post? They, like his son, had been someone’s heir once. 

In a way, Hortensius had denied these children of fatherly guidance, and as sick recompense he was denied a son. No longer would he be a real father to anyone, he would refuse to produce an heir and pretend infertility if questioned. Make another son? (For them to die? For them to pointlessly toil like these children?) It was out of the realm of possibility, he’d had his chance and with it he paid for his own crimes. He’d taken his position as decanus and his responsibilities to the soldiers entirely for granted. To his son, he’d shown himself a coward on the day of their surrender, and to these children he’d revealed himself an incompetent leader. This had been his comeuppance for forgetting the wisdom of his elders and faltering where he should have ardently rebelled. 

Everything was suddenly so clear. Hortensius began to understand why he saw these children in the place of his son. He had marked these boys as strangers out of the bounds of his past tribe. But where was his tribe now? A powerless people, scattered throughout the entire state of Arizona, their name an illicit whisper in the dark. How could he pretend to hold himself in higher regard than the orphans left behind in the bull’s passing? Wasn’t he also tribeless, parentless, with no hope of a better tomorrow? He’d blinded himself to the fact that all children were everyone’s charge, that no baby had cried any different to his own. Why hadn’t he seen this before? He wept into the coarse fabric of his cot and clenched his fists until they drew blood. The elders had told them to survive, but not alone. 

Aster shouldn’t have had to die for him to learn this lesson. It shouldn’t have come this far, yet he would work the rest of his life if it meant making amends for his cruelty. If his son watched him from the Far Away, then he wouldn’t give them any more cause for shame or disappointment. To the boys in his encampment, he owed a lifetime of service. They should survive long enough to see what his son couldn’t. 

The fall of the Legion couldn’t be enjoyed from the seat of death, only by living could they feel the retribution from a life rotted with grief. They will survive. From the strongest to the weakest, they will all survive. He swore by the blood under his nails and the persistence of his beating heart, that he would see every one of them alive and strong enough to fight. Even strong enough to turn against the hands that trained them.

[cjbolan]

Anyone else see parallels between...

*WARNING: EMILY WINDSNAP AND THE MONSTER FROM THE DEEP SPOILER BELOW*

King Neptune sending his former prisoner Jake to the Bermuda Triangle?

and

British/French Empires sending political prisoners to the Caribbean?

[fun-twisted-tales]

Have you ever wondered what America would be like if the colonization never happened and the indigenous people were left alone? Where would we be now? What would the towns look like? How would the government work? What would the culture be like? I’m not native myself so I’m not 100% sure what would happen but it’s still something I wonder

[espers-n-espurrs]

your mahy would not be a kingsmen i dont think? the kingsmen and equirexians are an indigenous people, with the kingsmen having had their culture nearly completely erased some time ago before the wolves were wiped from history too. we do not even know what they called themselves anymore, they were not known as kingsmen until recent years. but due to the equirexians some of their history and culture remained and there is now an activate effort to restore the culture and its people.

and that maybe a story somewhere, but it is not one i know. the equirexians never forgot our king and its steeds, at least the ones still connected to their culture never forgot. once again, due to colonization, the amount of people connected to their equirexian roots was quite low outside of spikemuth. but ever since the darkest day where the wolves saved the region many are reconnecting with their roots as kingsmen or equirexians!

but, yeah, for a long time the amount of people who believed in calyrex and held their faith in it was low,,, but in recent years it is increasing quickly!

taffeta and fauna were playing tag (or chase?? they were playing smth.) earlier. <3.

[spiderdungeons]

new educational show to combat PragerU Kids. featuring my pet spiders

[rainy-daze1]

Taneesha doesn’t understand why everyone treats grave robbing like it’s such a big deal.

Like, they all do it, whether they wanna admit it or not. No matter how much Sausage insists that “Oh, I’m sure the spirits don’t mind!” (what??), or Drift says “at this point, it’s archeology, not grave robbing!” (okay, sure, that’s actually fair), or Lizzie casually comments “It’s not stealing? These are literally mine.” (what????), all of them were taking things from a burial site, and well, why shouldn’t they? Not like the dead guys are using this stuff. She’ll take better care of it all, thank-you-very-much.

She doesn’t get why the catacombs are such a big deal in the first place, actually. She knows that they are, from the way that some of her fellow misadventureres react to them. Jimmy gets all huffy about the names on the caskets being wrong (didn’t clock him to be a history nerd, but it’s good for a guy to have hobbies, she supposes), and at one point, Martyn leaves a room in a solemn mood that she doesn’t think was just the result of bad loot. And like, maybe it’s just some kind of… aura of weirdness around the place? Some kind of magic that her lingering relation to the void negates, or something. She doesn’t really want to think of it as a haunting, despite that definitely being the most appropriate word considering the literal actual reanimated corpses wandering the halls. Still. Whatever it is, she doesn’t get it.

And she’s tried! Really, she has! She’s checked every room she could find, lingered in doorways, opened coffins only to find that most are empty. She pauses every time she leaves a room, just briefly, incase there are any ghosts or feelings or things in-between that want to make themselves known to her, but there never are, or at least, none that she can see.

There’s nothing haunting her here. Nothing buried in these walls means anything. It’s just a bunch of dead things. Maybe they’re significant for other people, but it’s finders keepers, and she’s not interested in getting sentimental with ghosts.

So yeah, Taneesha doesn’t get why everyone’s so fussy about graverobbing, but to each their own. They can have their little moments, their pieces of closure, but that bell doesn’t toll for her. Not anymore.

[prof-snakewood]

Dahara tried this.

We did not succeed in the ‘Autonomy’

Huh I wonder if you guys have islands off the coast of Paldea that are just like. "The Autonomous Region of Paldean Isles" or some shit