#Black Magic Removal in scotland

[hollowed-theory-hall]

do you think it’s strange that the uk monarchy is, as far as i remember, never mentioned in the books? it seems so weird to me since, for better or worse, it’s such an integral part of the concept of “britishness” - even if wizarding society seems pretty removed from muggle society, the monarchy has such a long history that it seems weird for the two societies to not intermingle in it. has wizarding society cut ties with it after the issue of the statute of secrecy? how many of the crown jewels are actually magical items? how *noble* is the house of black, really? were there ever kings or queens who were wizards?

there’s so many questions i have about this! such a world building plot hole!

Ok, so there are a lot of questions here and I'll try to answer them to the best of my ability. I will note there are a bunch of my own headcanons in this post. They are based on what we know about Wizarding History and what I know about irl UK history but they are still headcanons.

So, we know the Ministry of Magic was founded in 1707 after the Statue of Secrecy was enacted in 1692. The ministry was an immediate response to said statute since wizards needed a more uniform government to enforce their secrecy and cover up any slip ups. This means that before the Statue of Secrecy, the muggle government or monarchy earlier was the governing force for wizards as well as muggles. Yes, the Wizengamot already existed, but it seemed to behave differently from how it does in the modern ministry.

I wrote about the Wizengamot and how I believe it works along with some of its history here although I learned more UK history since, so this post is more accurate on the history front.

Now, I hope you won't mind me going into some medieval history of the UK in general, since the monarchy has changed over time, and in the early Middle Ages, the UK was comprised of multiple smaller kingdoms. Wales had 3 big kingdoms, but also a bunch of smaller ones (there were also warlords that took over abandoned Roman fortresses after the Romans left Britain in eastern Wales), England had the Anglo-Saxons settling in after the Romans left and creating multiple Anglo-Saxon kingdoms (like Wessex and Marcia). Scotland and Ireland were similarly divided. There were the biking invasions and a whole Viking kingdom in north-east England that's referred to as "The Dane Law". England did unite under King Aethelstan eventually, but with all these fractured kingdoms and warlords, I'm sure there were some wizards among them. Then, of course, there is the Norman monarchy and nobility established after the Norman conquests, which officially settled in 1066.

My point with all of this history is that like muggle society, wizarding society changed and evolved and that the monarchy in Britain wasn't the same throughout the entirety of history. So, the status of wizards and wizard nobility changed based on the specific time period we are discussing. But let's look at post-normans pre-Statue of Secrecy wizarding high society, and for that the Pottermore article about the Malfoy family is incredibly helpful:

Like many other progenitors of noble English families, the wizard Armand Malfoy arrived in Britain with William the Conqueror as part of the invading Norman army. Having rendered unknown, shady (and almost certainly magical) services to King William I, Malfoy was given a prime piece of land in Wiltshire, seized from local landowners, upon which his descendants have lived for ten consecutive centuries.

(from Pottermore)

Most nobility in England after the conquest were normans close to William who arrived with him and were given muggle noble titles, lands, and status. irl, the first Peverell in England, William Peverell was similarly given lands as he was said to be a son of William the Conqueror. That being said, some Anglo-Saxon nobility (mostly from the south of England since the northern Anglo-Saxon nobility were mostly killed after their rebellion) were kept in place by William as long as they swore fealty to him. Families like the Blacks and Longbottoms (both having Anglo-Saxon surnames) are likely among this leftover Anglo-Saxon nobility.

Now besides the muggle nobility, which is very much aware of wizards and even includes wizards (like the Malfoys, Peverells, Lestranges, and the Gaunts) we have the Wizangamot. The Wizaengamot, which I wrote more about in the post I linked, have likely been around and acted as a council of wizard nobility alongside the muggle one before the Norman invasion since around when Hogwarts was founded (around 990). The Blacks and Longbottoms (and the Notts who also have a Germanic name dating to the Dane Law I referenced earlier and King Knut who ruled that portion of England) were probably in this council.

We also know the Malfoys aren't in the Wizengamot in the books, meaning the circles of nobility for each council were different. This is easily explained by the Wizengamot being there earlier and being Anglo-Saxon rather than Norman. The name Wizangamot is, in itself, from old English which supports this speculation.

Since the Wizengamot continued existing after the conquest, I assume William the Conquerer left it as it is, wanting to ally himself with the local wizarding community rather than going to war with them. Wizards are, after all, really fucking useful, and irl he did keep some of the Anglo-Saxon nobility, so that's in character.

I think, after the conquest the Wizengamot either grew in the number of families there or that the families that opposed William were replaced with Norman wizard nobles that William trusted to represent him in the magical community.

The same Pottermore article about the Malfoy family also notes:

Historically, the Malfoys drew a sharp distinction between poor Muggles and those with wealth and authority. Until the imposition of the Statute of Secrecy in 1692, the Malfoy family was active within high-born Muggle circles, and it is said that their fervent opposition to the imposition of the Statute was due, in part, to the fact that they would have to withdraw from this enjoyable sphere of social life. Though hotly denied by subsequent generations, there is ample evidence to suggest that the first Lucius Malfoy was an unsuccessful aspirant to the hand of Elizabeth I, and some wizarding historians allege that the Queen’s subsequent opposition to marriage was due to a jinx placed upon her by the thwarted Malfoy.

(from Pottermore)

This means the monarchy throughout history was well aware of wizards and that the magical nobility was also muggle nobility and allowed in the same circles, but not vice versa. It seems to me, that the Malfoys had a muggle noble title from William I, and once the Statue of Secrecy was enacted they lost their title since they weren't also Wizarding nobility (Wizengamot members). (The Malfoys did keep all their money though).

Considering what Pottermore implies, it seems to me, there is a high chance of some crown jewels being magical. I mean, Lucius Malfoy I proposed to Queen Elizabeth I, and in my headcanon the aforementioned Willaim Peverell is the father of the three brothers of the Deathly Hallows, and in this headcanon, William Peverell is a half-blood wizard. Point is, yeah, the monarchy was well aware of wizards and seemed to have been in an alliance with the Wizengamot and the magical community. Although, I'm sure attitudes changed over time and differed from monarch to monarch with some being closer to the Wizarding community than others, but in general the Wizengamot and the wizarding community as a whole were under the governance of the muggle monarch.

It's actually possible there were a few wizards who ruled the UK (or any of the earlier kingdoms that eventually united) across the Isles's history. I think it's even likely if we're being honest. Egbert the Egregious, for example, might've been a king of Kent or Wessex (two of the older kingdoms before England united) as kings of the same name are recorded in both.

Once the Statue of Secrecy was enacted the wizards drew away from muggle society and wizards who held muggle noble titles likely lost them. But we know some muggles are aware of wizards' existence. We see at the beginning of HBP that the muggle Prime Minister is informed of wizards' existence and obliviated when they leave office. If I had to bet, the monarch (and perhaps more in the royal family) are similarly aware that wizards exist but aren't really involved. Like, the monarch probably knows but is only informed when something in the Wizarding World spills out to the muggle one. So, the monarch knows wizards exist, but not much more than that.

As for how noble the House of Black really was, I mentioned I believe they were nobles of the Wizengamot and Anglo-Saxon nobility before the Normans. I think all magical families in the Wizengamot that were around before the Normans would be considered: "Noble and Ancient". We see the Blacks being referred to as "The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black" compared to the Gaunts who are just: "House of Gaunt" which is how wizard nobility from after the conquest would be titled in my headcanon.

The name Gaunt is one that arrived in Britain with the Normans as stated in a survey of England's land done by William after the conquest (this survey is known as the "Doomsday Book" and it essentially details which land belongs to which lord. The book names both Norman lords and Anglo-Saxon ones and is a super useful historical document. It occasionally even mentions which Anglo-Saxon lord was deposed for the sake of a new Norman one). Gilbert de Ghent (standardized spelling wasn't a thing yet), named in said survey was the nephew of King William I's wife and as such received lands. A lot of them, actually:

"Few among the Conqueror's companions of arms were so splendidly rewarded as Gilbert de Ghent, who held one hundred and seventy-two English manors."

(Manors refers to actual manors, but also the land surrounding them. Basically, it refers to a family seat)

As the Gaunts were so favored, it's likely William I placed his nephew's family (who I headcanon at least some are wizards) in the Wizengamot. I believe the Slytherins married into the Gaunt family around the same time to add legitimacy to the Gaunts' status in the wizarding community.

The Malfoy Family that doesn't have a magical noble title and lost their muggle one is just referred to as: "Malfoy Family" and never "House of Malfoy" which again, to me, suggests this is how these titles work.

The aforementioned Doomsday Book does mention a William Black with 5 manors in Devon. William Peverell, as a son of King William I is mentioned to have 153 manors given to him and another 75 to Ranulf Peverell (not sure of the familial relationship). Reginald Cnut (older spelling of Nott) is also mentioned in the Doomsday Book to have 26 manors. Malfoy is a name JKR made up and isn't mentioned in the Doomsday Book or any other survey of UK landowners done in the Middle Ages. I did read a legend about one Guy Le Strange who participated in a tournament at Castle Peverell around 1083 and won the hand of Mellette, the niece of William Peverell. Although the Lestranges are not mentioned in the Doomsday Book and this legend likely dates from the 13th century a good 200 years after the supposed events it details.

So, to summarise, wizards don't seem to have or ever had a royal family of their own but there were most likely wizard royals throughout the various kingdoms that existed in history. Some wizards do have a noble status that I headcanon/speculate is connected to their status as members of the Wizengamot. These Wizengamot titles were also muggle titles and there were wizards with muggle titles that weren't part of the Wizengamot. These wizards probably interacted very closely with the muggle nobility and even shared family trees and were all probably considered half-blooded if you asked a Death Eater. After the Statue of Secrecy, the muggle titles became irrelevant and stopped being used leaving only the Wizarding titles behind (I headcanon "Ancient and Noble houses" refers to Anglo-Saxon nobility, and just "noble houses" refers to Norman nobility among wizards). The UK monarch likely is informed about the wizarding world to a similar degree as we see the muggle prime minister is informed. Blood purity probably only became relevant after the Statue of Secrecy as before that we see intermarriages with muggle royalty and nobility being practiced (I talked a bit about the timing of the witch hunts and the Statue of Secrecy here).

Sorry for the nerdy history talk, but, I answered this after a few weeks of medieval UK research and I have so many thoughts about medieval wizarding society in Britain.

[blocklists-just-4-u]

hi, have you made a gimmick account blocklist? I know it's a MASSIVE ask, but it could be so so so useful to people who don't ever want to be gimmicked

What is a gimmick blog here as well as a good list there are two types of gimmick blogs imo, one is the listing blog, such as how many 7's, identifying blogs ect, the other is character blogs such as @black-magic-osha or @sans-in-heat, ill be covering the first kind as holy fuck its hard to tell sometimes... Also anon you owe me, I've basically invited hell onto this blog @alphabetcompletionist completes the alphabet @dailyquests daily quests @t-counter @q-counter @e-counter @r-counter @y-counter @i-counter @a-counter @k-counter @z-counter @c-counter @b-counter @identifying-cars-in-posts @identifying-scotland-in-posts @identifying-horses-in-posts @identifying-planes-in-posts @identifying-guns-in-posts @identifying-phones-in-the-post @identifying-trains-inposts @identifying-pokemon-in-posts @identifying-typewriters-in-posts @identifying-uk-trains-in-posts @identifying-ssobreeds-in-posts @identifying-spacecraft-in-posts @identifying-sharks-in-posts @identifying-dogs-in-posts @identifying-dinosaurs-in-posts @identifying-dolls-in-posts (look i could keep going but this post would be 600 @'s long so no?) @how-many-letters @punctuation-completionist @numberscompletionist @asciicompletionist @seven-counter @one-counter @two-counter @three-counter @four-counter @five-counter (no six counter??) @eight-counter @periodiccompletionist @rainbow--completionist @in-the-bible @colourpickingpride @post-store @free-post-store @i-remove-color-from-posts @i-say-ok @orange-content-rater RIGHT IM DONE, enjoy anon you owe me one

[blairstales]

Scottish Folklore of Cursed “Dolls”

There is a rarely talked about (though seemingly uncommon) historical custom in Scotland that will likely sound a lot like the exaggerated “voodoo dolls” (which, despite the name, are not prominent in Haitian Vodou or Louisiana Voodoo) of media.

The Scottish version is a doll that is a form of sympathetic magic(a magic category invented by Scottish folklorist James George Frazer).

Sympathetic magic has two varieties; one of which requires similarities, and the other requires contact or “contagion.”

“The former principle may be called the Law of Similarity, the latter the Law of Contact or Contagion. From the first of these principles, namely the Law of Similarity, the magician infers that he can produce any effect he desires merely by imitating it: from the second he infers that whatever he does to a material object will affect equally the person with whom the object was once in contact, whether it formed part of his body or not.” “The Golden Bough” by James George Frazer(1878)

The dolls of this topic are a form of imitation type sympathetic magic. For these, the dolls were crafted with ill-intent in the likeness of the person you wanted to curse, then what was done to the doll was thought to harm who it was made to look like.

While they are called dolls, they are not really what you might expect a child to have. Instead, they are sculpted of clay but not cured in an oven.

“An image of the victim was made of clay, and because it had a certain resemblance to him (likeness denoting real connection), it was believed that whatever was done to the image would produce a similar effect on the person whom it represented. “ “The misty isle of Skye : Its scenery, It’s people, Its story” by Eneas Mackay, Stirling, (1927)

It could be stuck with pins and needles to cause aches and pains, or you could do far worse. For example, if you put the doll into a stream, as the clay broke up in the water, so was said to gradually happen to the targets health.

“When any one wished evil to another he made a clay image of the person to be injured, and placed it in a stream with the head of the image against the current. It was believed that, as the clay was dissolved by the water, the health of the person represented would decline. The spell, however, would be broken if the image was discovered and removed from the stream. In the counties of Sutherland and Ross the practice survived till within the last few years.” “Folklore of Scottish Lochs and Springs” by James M. Mackinlay (1893)

It is perhaps no surprise that this was not a type of magic talked fondly about, and is instead classified in books as an evil act of black magic.

[amaranthhiding]

Regarding Sam

by Hiding Amaranth

Words: 7,292 (finished) Rating: Teen Relationships: Rowena/Sam, Rowena & Amnesiac Dean

Tags: Canon Universe, Episode 12x11, Missing Scenes, Angst with Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Life-or-Death Stakes, Magic, Witches, Rowena Realizes She Cares, Pre-Relationship, Sam Being a Prisoner, Amnesiac Dean Being Chaotic, Humor, Soft Rowena, Rowena Teaching Herself to Drive a Car to Save Sam

Point-of-View Characters: Rowena

Summary: When they hear Sam's blood-curdling scream over the phone, Rowena is far more affected than she thought possible. She has to make up her mind whether or not to turn her back on the Winchesters in their dire need—and how far exactly she'll go to save them. (Or my version of what happened in episode 12x11 between Sam's scream and the moment we see Dean wake up in the Impala, plus two additional new scenes at other blank spaces where the episode faded to black. And all of that from Rowena's point of view!)

Written for the Sam Winchester Rare Ships Week 2023 Day 6: "Missing Scene / Episode Tag" hosted by @spnrareships

Banner created by the author Read Regarding Sam on AO3

If you'd like to be added/removed from my taglist for Samwena and/or other SPN content, let me know in a reblog, reply, or personal message. :) @spnrarepairbunker @fanficlounge @panthera-dei @samsrowena Excerpt under the cut

"Age nunc intellectum," Catriona's lilting, obnoxious voice said over the speaker, casting a spell unknown to Rowena despite her vast knowledge of the arcane. Perhaps it stemmed directly from the Grimoire. "Age nunc intellectum atque voluntatem omnem meam."

The spell created a terrible, high-pitched noise, loud enough that Rowena had to lower the phone's volume lest they'd risk damage to their eardrums even from afar.

Sam screamed.

Screamed like she'd never heard him before.

His agony seemed to resonate somewhere deep within her muscles, shaking that barely contained landslide out of its constraints once more. She could swear she felt something shatter inside herself.

Then his scream broke off abruptly.

A blockage in her chest refused to let her breathe. Completely taken by surprise over her own reaction, she didn't know what to do or even think.

Nobody had ever—

She wasn't supposed to—

Clinging to the flickering movement of candlelight on the table, she swallowed against the lump in her throat and tried to make sense of what she was feeling. The weak attempt to ground herself failed miserably.

"Sam?" Dean's quiet, doubtful question condensed her thoughts far more effectively than she herself could have.

Sam, was he truly—

Too overwhelmed by the chaos in her head, the sound of Catriona's voice over the speaker actually made her wince.

"Tie him to that chair before he wakes up. I'll be right back."

Before he wakes up.

Heavens above.

She only just had enough sense to press a hand in front of her mouth to stifle the sound of relief that threatened to escape her.

It took another few seconds and several deep breaths until she regained control enough to think clearly. The first thing she did was mute their microphone, so that the ongoing connection would hopefully remain undiscovered, no matter how much noise they caused.

"What do we do?" Dean asked of her, looking at her with open trust as if she held all the answers in the world.

To the echo of hounds in her mind, she realized how much the lad's behavior reminded her of her time in Scotland, back when Fergus had been but a wee thing.

Casting a glance over to the motel room's door, she knew that she could turn her back on all this and be on her merry way. A past version of her would have done just that.

There was a sensation of wetness clinging to the corners of her eyes. Who knew if it had been caused by the memories of times long gone or by the mistaken conviction that Sam Winchester was no more.

At a distance of just a handful of steps, the door still beckoned her. But she wasn't the same woman anymore.

The things the supposed end of the world did to you.

Getting rid of the unshed tears with a hasty swipe of her hands, she squared her shoulders and straightened her posture before meeting Dean's gaze.

"Why, we save him, of course," she said, as if it was the most logical conclusion in the world. Perhaps it was. Or perhaps she'd finally lost her mind.

Dean smiled like a child who'd found the candy. "Oh, good, yeah, that's—" In a mood change as sudden as a lightning strike, he frowned instead. "How?"

Read Regarding Sam on AO3

[a-forbidden-detective]

The snowball fight

—

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial with the prompt #FFF235 Little Pink Houses

Fandom: Kamonohashi Ron no kindan suiri / Ron Kamonohashi’s Forbidden Deductions

* Saw two men playing on the street throwing snowballs at each other and suddenly I had the urge to write a RonToto fic situated in London after they visited the Scotland Yard’s Crime Museum. They looked like they were having fun these two… then the taller one attacked the other and they vanished. Got carried away as the word count surged to 995!!! (Beware of the spoilers if you don’t or haven’t read the manga.)

—

There are six different ways to describe snow in Japanese, thought Toto. Of all those six, the sight of snow-covered streets reminded him of the untouched yuki-boshi. He grabbed a handful of lily-white snow from someone’s hood of a car and like a ritual began to mould it in a way Toto knew by heart as a small child in Tokyo.

The reminiscences brought a smile to his face, but right now he couldn’t be much happier spending New Year’s Eve in London with none other than Ron. It was not on Toto’s bucket list more than a year ago, yet here he was in the UK capital enjoying the sights with his friend, discovering its nooks and crannies away from the touristic places.

Accompanying the forbidden detective had been natural now for the Tokyo police officer after all what they had been through. To witness his friend donning a toga to officially graduate from the BLUE Academy was already a privilege.

The gruelling events in the late October at the cruise ship and the murders that followed were enough to be a good excuse to stay away from Japan at the moment, to give them the chance to heal from physical wounds and mental exhaustion, thus, to be alone together far away from his hometown.

Toto couldn’t help asking himself the real score between the two of them, but somehow there was something that was hindering him to take action.

It was only 4:45 pm, but already dark when they left the New Scotland Yard’s Black Museum. The snow on his black gloves started to melt. Ron looked at him fondly and was still shaking from excitement of meeting some of the Scotland Yard staff members that he learned to know as a student at the BLUE.

The immaculate white flakes blanketing the whole city still fascinated Toto even if he was already in his early 30s. The streets that they walked turned magical. Strange that the weather stopped the outpouring of a crowd where they were. They were almost alone except from one or two bystanders.

“Come to think of it, I don’t think it is more different than in Tokyo. My grandmother sent me pics from their balcony. The whole landing was full of snow as well,” Toto showed several pictures taken by his grandma.

“Whoah those!” Ron just exclaimed.

Toto wondered what made his friend astounded.

The image of little pink houses emerged from his view that he himself was dumbfounded seeing the landscape.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Toto said. The images were taken during the sunset. The reflection of the sun’s weird angle against the fresh snow decked on the roofs rendered the whole scenery with a pinkish hue.

Ron happily glanced at it again only to smack Toto’s face with snow. It took the police officer by surprise, but he was ready to avenge himself.

“You devil!” Toto scooped more snow from the parked cars and threw them nonstop at his friend who did the same thing.

Soon enough there was a barrage of flying snowballs in the air to and fro. The two behaved like children and the almost empty streets of London became their oyster.

Ron then got a hold of Toto’s coat collar and without further ado kissed him full on the lips as he poured bits of snow inside his shirt.

Stunned both from the amorous action and the cold temperature that engulfed Toto, removing his gloves, he then gripped Ron’s face to ultimately kiss him back. To hell with the melting ice running down his spine. The world stopped as Toto sucked Ron’s tongue and licked the insides of his mouth.

Laughing, Ron struggled to let go as he dragged Toto to an alley where no one could see them at all. Leaning on the abandoned store window, he then proceeded to kiss Toto again whilst taking off his scarf then lifted Toto’s shirt wiping away the wetness on his friend’s back.

After the initial contact, the younger man caressed his friend’s cheeks and kissed his forehead, nose, ears, the top of his head and back to his lips again.

“Apologies, Isshiki-san, it is taking you so long to get your act together.” Ron whispered, his voice two octaves lower than usual. His long hands travelled from Toto’s neck down to his lower back that made Toto shiver.

“Cunning devil…” Toto could only say as he smiled and gave in to Ron’s tender hands.

“So that settles the score, ne?”

Toto nodded and placed his head on Ron’s chest. With the forbidden detective’s fingers behind Toto’s back, Toto wished they could stay like that forever away from the madness of the M Family and gruesome crimes in Japan. But he knew that it would make his now lover sad and useless. Ron loved and lived for sleuthing, puzzles and crimes.

His phone beeped, a message incoming.

Toto searched for his left pocket where his iPhone was.

“Not yet, Toto…”

The messenger was insistent. Ron loosened up his hold on Toto so the latter could maneuver his hand.

“Oh shit! It is Spitz! He and his companion are already at the pub,” Toto couldn’t stand it when he forgot something, but on the other hand, he couldn’t pass up this moment with Ron.

“Ack! Oh well, we must take our leave, I guess…” Ron didn’t give any sign of moving at all.

“It is Spitz, Ron. He promised us to give more information concerning the M Family,” Toto looked at his friend-lover, who reached for his nose to stroke gently.

“Ron, we have to go now.”

“All right. But remember, we aren’t done here yet,” Ron seized Toto’s hand and placed it on his crotch. It made Toto’s eyes bulge.

“Oh my god, I created a monster…”

“Heh,” Ron showed Toto his winning smile.

Ron and Toto then tread the path leading them to Soho holding hands to meet up with their friend.

~ fin ~

[carewyncromwell]

“My father wasn’t around -- (My father wasn’t around) I swear that I’ll be around for you. I’ll do whatever it takes; I’ll make a million mistakes; I’ll make the world safe and sound for you... We’ll come of age with our young nation -- We’ll bleed and fight for you... We’ll make it right for you! If we lay a strong enough foundation, We’ll pass it on to you -- we'll give the world to you, And you'll blow us all away... Someday, someday...”

~“Dear Theodosia (cover)” by Regina Spektor and Ben Folds

x~x~x~x

partially inspired by a conversation with @dat-silvers-girl​​ // featuring a quick reference to Katriona Cassiopeia @kc-and-co​​ 💜

x~x~x~x

The summer of 1998 had felt warmer than it had in years. The warmth seemed to ripple from the outside in, given the immense relief that came with the death of Voldemort and with it the end of the Second Wizarding War. And even though yes, there was a lot of work still to do to restore balance to the world, right the wrongs committed during the War, and move forward toward a brighter future, everything still seemed to shine that touch brighter. 

Hope, it seems, can make even the most unremarkable rocks shine like diamonds.

It was in the summer, and right as Carewyn began what would be a long crusade to try and convict every ex-Death Eater for their crimes, that Carewyn received a letter from her old school friend and associate Orion Amari. He and his nearly two-year-old daughter Eos had recently returned to Montrose, Scotland, after being in hiding from the Death Eaters for several months. With the financial reimbursement he’d received from both the Ministry and the League as post-War damages, Orion had just managed to scrape together enough money to purchase a run-down old cottage in the woods outside of Montrose, which he was now working to fix up and obscure with the proper enchantments for himself and Eos to live in.

As much as I have never lamented living in a small one-room flat by myself, Orion’s letter explained, I realize that for a young child, such a place would lack stimulation and even less chance for freedom and exploration. Perhaps a home in such a quiet and green place, as opposed to the suburbs or in the country, could provide a sanctuary for Eos: one where she can experience many wonderful new things and experiment with her own magic away from prying eyes. And perhaps, on a more selfish note, being more physically removed from town could give me some cover from more overzealous members of the press, who I’ve only been able to keep at bay in the past by living alongside Muggles. 

Carewyn was touched by how much her old friend thought of his daughter’s happiness. She wished she’d had the freedom with her own job and income to consider moving into a larger space herself -- she loved her tiny flat in London, but recently she had had to make some layout changes, so as to give her new ward -- twelve-year-old Erik Apollo -- some space of his own. 

Mum came over to give me a hand with turning the hall closet into a second bedroom last week, Carewyn confided to Orion in a letter of her own at one point. She had to do the same thing for me when I was young, so she has plenty of experience with such magic -- but I was only a bit older than Eos, back then. Erik is set to start his first year at Hogwarts next month: he deserves some space of his own, and privacy at that, and he can’t have that in such a small room. Erik’s been referring to the new room as his “shoebox” as a joke -- even if he’s said multiple times that its size isn’t a problem and I know he means it, I still hope I can find a safe way to expand his room a bit more before he comes home for the holidays. 

In September, Carewyn brought Erik to Platform Nine and Three Quarters to start his first year at school. Despite the sticky, unpleasant heat clinging to the air, the curly blond-haired boy was dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans -- Erik didn’t like the looks he got from passerby for the magical burn scars around his neck, which had been inflicted on him by Death Eater Thorfinn Rowle. 

“Do you have everything you need?” Carewyn asked him. “Your trunk? Your wallet?”

“Everything and everyone,” said Erik with a wry smile, indicating the black-and-white tuxedo cat yowling in his carrier at his side.

Carewyn offered her ward’s new familiar a pitying smile as she brought a hand up to the bars of his cage, petting the top of his head with a single finger.

“Aww...it’s all right,” she said gently. “Erik can take you out on the train.”

“Only if he agrees not to claw anybody,” Erik said dryly. When the cat yowled unhappily again, he added, “Sorry, Han Solo, I don’t have enough to pay off the train conductor if you cause any permanent damage.”

Carewyn laughed softly behind her hand, which made Erik’s light blue eyes sparkle with that bit more satisfaction. 

“I’d best be off,” said Erik stridently. “Train’s leaving in ten.”

Carewyn nodded in agreement. She brought a hand onto his shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. 

“Send me an owl if you need anything,” she said seriously. “There’ll be plenty of owls in the owlery you can use to send me a letter...and even if you end up in Hufflepuff or Slytherin, there are collection trays where post can be delivered down to you, outside of mealtimes.”

Erik nodded. “Thanks, Ms. Cromwell.”

Carewyn gave him a brave smile. Then, opening her arms, she encircled the small boy in a full, warm hug -- Erik, even despite the straightness of his posture, accepted her hold and even gave her a light squeeze before releasing her and dashing up to the open train door, hoisting his trunk up after him. Then, with one last wave, he retreated into the train car to get settled for the trip to school. 

It was a strange, bereft kind of feeling, watching the train with Erik on board pull out of the station and out of sight. Even if the boy truly was only twelve years younger than her and was of an age more like a younger sibling than a child, Carewyn couldn’t help but wonder if her own mother felt like this, watching Jacob and her leave for school all those years ago.

Later that September, Carewyn received another letter from Orion. This one’s contents, however, surprised Carewyn more than any of the others they’d exchanged.

Carewyn,

I realize that for someone as enamored with plans and order as you, this request will be very abrupt -- but would you be able to visit Eos and me here in Scotland at all tomorrow evening? Any time around sunset would be suitable.

Please do not hesitate in your response. Even if it must be no, I will simply be happy to receive a letter from you so quickly.

Orion

Carewyn read the letter several times in slight confusion. The request was definitely a bit out of left field. Orion had come to see her several times, both as she helped him secure legal custody of Eos and when he came to the Ministry as a representative for the Quidditch League. Carewyn had even let Orion sleep on her couch overnight without planning ahead, simply because he had to report back to the Ministry right away the next morning. But Orion hadn’t ever asked her to come to his place before -- if nothing else, it was still very newly “his place,” as it was. Him suddenly inviting her over without explaining why...it signaled that his reason had to be important...

Carewyn’s eyes lingered on the last line as she took out some parchment and wrote out a quick response of her own.

Orion,

I should be able to finish up with my casework by 8:00. I could Floo from my office right over to you, if you’d like.

Let me know,

Carewyn

The Ministry lawyer folded the short note into thirds, closed it with a seal, and held it out to the owl so it could snatch it up in its beak and fly off, back out of her office and out of sight down the hall.

Orion’s response came mere hours later. It was even shorter, and its flowing, yet messy penmanship -- typical to Orion -- was a bit more slanted, as if it had been written very quickly.

8:00 is a lovely time to look forward to. While making your trip, simply ask to be brought to “Dawn’s Haven.”

Until tomorrow,

Orion

The following night Carewyn didn’t even bother changing out of the dress robes she was wearing into her spare Muggle clothes, as she did whenever she walked home from work. She instead headed straight for the closest Ministry fireplace, tossing some of the spare powder into the grate at her feet before clearly declaring Orion’s directions:

“Dawn’s Haven!”

The emerald green flames flared up around her, encompassing her vision as she was hurtled through space. About twenty seconds later, she found herself reaching another much less polished grate, out of which she exited. When she did, she had to brush aside a strange curtain of hanging green and violet beads just to climb up and out of the grate.

When Carewyn looked up and around, she found herself in a very small, but quaint little cottage. The walls were all made of stained oak and it was decorated eclectically, with a stylized sunflower-printed rug, several mandala floor pillows, a footstool shaped like a turtle, a tiered indoor water fountain, and hanging plants and Arabian-style glass lanterns attached to the beams overhead. There was even a star chart, enchanted with glowing stars and constellations, carved into the ceiling. The lighting was very dim, and yet as warm and colorful as sunlight through a stained glass window. The whole place also smelled of soothing incense -- lavender and sandalwood.

And standing right in front of Carewyn to meet her was Orion himself. He immediately took her hands and helped her straighten up, since she’d bent down to brush the soot from her robes.

“Carewyn,” he said. “How good it is to see you.”

The size and brightness of his smile startled Carewyn. She didn’t think she’d seen him look so happy since she’d agreed to rejoin his Quidditch team back in her sixth year.

“...It’s good to see you too,” she said, still slightly stunned.

She glanced around for Eos. She found the newly-two-year-old girl sitting on her knees at the window across the room, biting her lower lip as she smiled broadly at Carewyn too.

“Your shoulders appear very tense,” said Orion.

Carewyn glanced back awkwardly toward the small stone fireplace she’d just walked through. “Well, from your letter, I’d thought maybe something was wrong, but...”

She brought a hand through her ginger bangs, feeling a bit chagrined.

Orion’s expression softened.

“I see,” he said, his face becoming a bit sheepish despite himself. “Forgive me, Carewyn. It seems in my eagerness, I neglected to reassure you that this was merely a social visit, rather than a fire you had to put out...”

“I didn’t think that,” Carewyn said very quickly, “I just -- well, I just assumed that you had something serious on your mind -- that you needed my input on something...like about your custody of Eos, or the Quidditch League, or...”

“Carewyn.”

Carewyn paused when Orion gave the hand of hers he was still holding a light squeeze. She looked up, just as Orion quickly released her hand, bringing his hand up through his own unevenly cut hair to brush it out of his face.

“I realize you’re trying to reassure me,” he said, sounding rather self-effacing, “but...it’s not comforting, to know I have left you thinking that I would only ever summon you here to ask for your help. And for that, I am sorry.”

Guilt flooded through Carewyn. “No! I don’t think that! It’s just...well, everyone’s needed more help, these days. I’ve had to help a lot of people lately...”

“Me included,” said Orion with a small, sad smile.

“It’s nothing I’ve done unwillingly,” Carewyn said fiercely. “I like helping people, Orion -- it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, to help those people I care about...those people who need my help.”

She couldn’t look him in the eye, so she settled for his shoulder instead.

“...I’ve liked helping you,” she murmured. “You and Eos. Seeing you with her...hearing about what you want for her future...I want to help you achieve that happiness, for her.”

Orion’s black eyes seemed to gleam with a strange, almost deeper glint. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could conjure up any response --

“Caywhen!”

Both Orion and Carewyn straightened up abruptly, and then immediately looked down. Eos had uneasily climbed down from the window ledge and toddled over across the room over to them -- and in that moment, the tiny girl flung out her arms and grabbed onto Carewyn’s right leg through her robes.

Carewyn stared, open-mouthed, from Eos to Orion, who looked just as surprised as she was.

“Did...did she just say my...?”

Eos’s black eyes, identical in color to her father’s, were shining like gems as she pointed urgently up at the window behind her with her pudgy little finger.

“Caywhen!” the little girl said again.

She gave a tug to Carewyn’s leg.

Still faintly stunned, Carewyn let the little girl lead her over to the window. Eos tried to hoist herself up onto the windowsill -- Carewyn helped her climb up, and Eos tapped the glass meaningfully.

Carewyn looked out, to see nothing but darkness. Through the glass, however, she could barely make out a strange sound -- an ethereal sound, echoing through the night...

Almost like music...

Moving the beaded curtain aside to reach the window latch, Carewyn undid it and opened the window so as to better hear.

Sure enough, it was music -- a beautiful, melodic, haunting song, played by instruments she almost thought she recognized: something like a harp, as well as something like a lute...

Carewyn was left mesmerized, just leaning over the window ledge with Eos and listening. The little girl was entranced, her mouth slightly open and her wide black eyes drifting around the window and over the dark woods. She’d clearly never heard anything like it before and could do nothing but just drink it in.

Orion was so quiet that Carewyn didn’t even realize he’d come up alongside her to stand over Eos until his muscular arm brushed up beside hers. When Carewyn looked up, his black eyes were locked on her face and his lips were spread in a gentle smile.

“It’s a turning of the seasons,” he said softly. “From what the previous tenant told me when I bought this house, the selkies that live near the shore like to mark the equinoxes. And now that autumn has officially begun in the eyes of the stars...so have the selkies returned to shore, to play music through the night in celebration.”

Carewyn’s eyes widened.

“Then...then this is why you invited me,” she said in understanding. “So I could hear the selkies’ music?”

Orion’s eyes trailed over Carewyn’s face with something fonder. “Of course. I knew if there was anyone on this Earth who would appreciate it, it would be you, Carewyn Cromwell.”

Carewyn felt her cheeks warm with a happy blush, unable to hold in how very touched she was by this.

“Caywhen?”

Carewyn looked down at Eos. The little girl had taken hold of her sleeve and given it a light tug as she looked back out the window. Carewyn could sense both awe and curiosity coming off Orion’s daughter through the eye contact they’d made, and it made her bright red lips spread into a smile.

“Those are selkies, Eos,” she said gently. “They’re playing music.”

Eos was listening to Carewyn with rapt attention, even as the two looked back out the open window.

“They sound pretty, don’t they?” said Carewyn.

Eos smiled and nodded, settling herself down on the sill on her stomach and resting her face in both hands so she could lean a bit out the window and listen.

Carewyn smiled fondly down at the little girl, looking back over her shoulder at Orion. Waves of undiluted pride and warmth rippled off of the Montrose Magpie as he gazed down at his daughter. When his eyes flitted up to Carewyn, that warmth seemed to settle slightly as he tried to compose himself, but it still seemed to flood out of Orion’s eyes, accompanied by flickers of memory -- cradling a newborn until she stopped crying -- covering her eyes to tell her to be quiet as they hid together in the shadows --

“Eos listens far more than she speaks,” Orion said very softly.

Carewyn smiled slightly. “Like her father?”

Orion smiled too, but only briefly. “Yes...but not for the same reason. She learned how to be silent at such a young age that, now, I fear she may be more comfortable being silent than in expressing herself openly. She does not mimic sounds others make. She does not experiment with forming words, as other children I’ve seen do. She doesn’t speak much at all, aside from very specific words. ‘Here.’ ‘No.’ ‘Help.’ ‘Dad.’”

Something strange flickered over Orion’s face -- was that shyness?

“...Even...other people’s names are quite rare. Just the ones she’s heard me say before, with some frequency. ‘Skye’ -- ‘Nully’ -- ‘KC’ -- ‘Wath’ -- ”

“And ‘Caywhen,’” Carewyn finished, unable to keep herself from smiling. She even felt her cheeks warming with a charmed blush.

Orion’s face seemed to flush a bit too despite himself. “Apparently so.”

Carewyn tilted her head at him in confusion.

“I was just as surprised to hear your name emerge from Eos’s mouth as you were,” Orion admitted, smiling through the flush in his cheeks. “...I suppose I didn’t realize just how often I’ve spoken of you, as of late...”

Carewyn smiled a bit more kindly. “Hmm...well, we have spent a lot of time together, these last few months.”

She reached out and gently took his hand.

“I’m glad I’ve been able to see you again,” she said, “instead of just writing letters. Even if the circumstances haven’t been exactly ideal.”

“...Indeed.”

Orion’s gaze drifted down at their hands. His thumb lightly slid along the back of her hand as he secured his hold.

“It’s...been a blessing, to reconnect with you after so long, Carewyn,” he said softly. “To...spend time with you like this...without any threat looming over us...nor any mantle of heroism thrust upon you.”

His eyes gained something a bit more solemn as he met her gaze. She could sense something soothing coming off of him -- something akin to a hand over hers, lowering her wand for her...

“As much as you have helped Eos and me...and as grateful as I shall always be for that,” Orion said softly, “I want you to know...that my wish to see you can be just about want, and not always about need. And that even when it is the second...you can always say no, with no regrets.”

Carewyn stared at Orion for a moment, a bit taken aback. She could practically see him as a young man again, asking her multiple times to rejoin his Quidditch team, only for Carewyn to have to regretfully decline the invitation, in the face of her pursuing the Cursed Vaults and saving Jacob.

The memory made Carewyn’s lips curl up in a bittersweet smile as she glanced away.

“...Thank you. But honestly...I’m just glad that I’m in the position now that I don’t have to say no.”

At Eos shifting slightly, Carewyn looked down, to see the little girl adjusting underneath her and Orion so that she was more comfortably nestled between them. His black eyes softening fondly, Orion extended his hand not holding Carewyn’s and rested it beside his daughter, creating an almost canopy over her as he rested his chin lightly on top of her head and looked out the window. Carewyn watched the father and daughter with fondness before she too looked back out the window, listening to the sounds of the selkies’ mystical, celebratory melodies echoing through the trees.

The three sat there by the window for a long while. As the night wore on, the music evolved and changed. Soon it’d gotten late enough that Eos was getting restless, so the three shifted over to the living space. Orion brewed himself and Carewyn some lavender tea and Eos some hot water and lemon, while Eos sat in the papasan chair with Carewyn and she told Eos about the different musical instruments she could pick out in the selkies’ music.

“You hear that high, clear, echoing sound? Ahhhh, ahhhh, ahhhh. That’s something glass -- like a glass armonica.”

Eos smiled whenever Carewyn sang along with the selkies’ playing. The sight made Orion’s eyes sparkle with warmth as he came back over with two mugs of tea and one of hot water and lemon.

“Come get your narwhal, Eos,” he said amusedly.

This statement made more sense when he held up Eos’s mug, which was shaped like a ceramic blue narwhal.

Eos bounced right out of her spot next to Carewyn so she could take her mug from her father. She then toddled over to the pile of pillows on the floor, where she plopped herself down on her stomach, pointedly blew on the hot water three times, and took a long sip from her mug.

Orion walked over to Carewyn and held out two mugs of tea with a wry smile -- one white with a black octopus printed on it and the other black printed with the white words “I’d Rather Be Playing Quidditch” on it. With a laugh, Carewyn reached out and took the one decorated with the octopus.

“Was that other one a present?” she asked.

Orion grinned. “They both were. From McNully and Skye, respectively."

“And the narwhal?” asked Carewyn.

“Adopted by Eos -- paid for by KC,” Orion said with a grin.

Carewyn covered her mouth as she laughed. “I was thinking of ‘adopting’ a mug for Erik too, at some point.”

“Does he also enjoy tea?”

“Not so much -- but I thought some hot chocolate or butterbeer would be appropriate around Christmas.”

“A reasonable thought. Hot apple cider could also be a nice alternative.”

Taking a sip of the lavender tea from the black mug, the Chaser settled himself down next to his daughter on the pillows. Eos snuggled up beside her father, and Carewyn smiled seeing how gently Orion’s black eyes shined as he lightly ruffled her bangs with one hand.

“Orion?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for this,” Carewyn said softly. “All of this...the tea, the company, but also...well, the music. It’s just...”

She shifted herself in the chair, her hands holding the mug of tea in her lap as she looked back over toward the window wistfully.

“...It’s so beautiful,” she murmured.

After such a long War, full of fear and fighting and work and worrying -- after focusing solely on helping as many people as she could, with what little power she had to try to make things right...sitting in a comfortable, lavender-and-sandlewood-scented cottage, listening to selkies celebrate the season through song, was medicinal to Carewyn’s spirit in a way she couldn’t put into words.

Orion was quiet for a very, very long moment as he watched Carewyn. At one point, he even caught his little daughter biting her lip as she grinned up at him and Carewyn, and he quickly averted his gaze, trying to bite back a self-conscious smile of his own.

“...You’re welcome.”

Always, he never said aloud, but he hoped dearly would still come across. You will always be welcome, here. ...Always...

[esoxy]

The fabled blue UK passport is 3 years old today

So this is the perfect time to do a proper, page-by-page comparison of both the old and the new passports, to see how much better the new one is.

Let's start with the front cover

Although neither of them says anything about the EU anymore, the new one contains the words "BRITISH" and is also (a very dark shade of) blue. 0-1 so far to the blue one

Opening up the pages you can start to see some changes.

The first thing you'll notice that the second page is now in HARD plastic, hard as the Brexit that allowed this passport to become blue.

Since EU rules don't apply anymore so you could also remove all of those 22 extra pesky translations of our great country, only leaving English, Welsh, Gaelic, Irish, French and Spanish freeing up the space to include your face not just once, but two times!

We also got rid of the map of Cardiff in the background, and the references to seafaring. The latter was recently banned anyway.

2 points to the blue one so far

Not much change on the next page, apart from the use of hard plastic on the photo page, and the fact that I gained weight. Getting rid of the map of the UK was also a nice change as it was showing Scotland too prominently. They don't deserve this.

In any case this is a tie, so 1-3 points so far

Next one up some notes and some security notes on the old passport, while the translations of the previous page on the new one. There is a watermark of Shakespeare on the old old one, and a map of Edinburgh, both which were replaced with a watermark of the floral emblem. This at least contains reference to all four countries, so that's definitely a nice addition, but so far this is also a tie. 2-4 points so far

Next up on the old design we had to fill up two whole pages with translations. Completely superflous, we could have just used up the same space to allow for extra visas to be added to the passport. With the abolishment of the Freedom of Movement having two extra pages for visas is definitely a worthy addition, so 1 point extra for the blue passport. 2-5 so far.

(We also got rid of the map of London and Belfast. Who needs them)

Page 8 and 9 shows John Harrison and his invention of the marine chronometer that revolutioned sea travel. On the other hand sea travel is dangerous and we just recently banned it, so it's good that this has been removed in favour of a much more stylized clock-like image. Note that it's hand aligns nicely with the page number, showing 8 and 9 respectively. This is definitely a nice touch, much more self-referential than the image of John Harrison, so a win to the blue one. 2-6 so far.

On the old passport the next two pages show John Constable, someone who pursued a lesser career like painting instead of becoming a much more important member of society, like banker or a CEO. There is no need for this kind of vice in our society, so thank this has been removed.

On the new design you can see that the hand of the clock jumped to the 1 position, instead of pointing at 11 and 12 respectively! And it remained in the same position on both pages. This choice must have saved the artist designing the passport some work, so extra points for keeping the design cheap and affordable. 2-7 so far

Next two pages show references to the Royal Mail including the iconic post box, and the first adhesive stamp, the Penny Black. On the other hand spending two pages on this archaic institution is just a waste of paper, especially as they do nothing just strike all the time nowadays.

On the new design? Look, there are now TWO HANDS on the clock! What a lovely addition, it definitely took me by surprise, 2-8 so far.

Next up on the old one are trains, you know that things that are always late, if not cancelled. They are also expensive as hell compared to car ownership, so no need to promote them anymore.

Look a magical line of UNITED KINGDOM has appeared in the background. Hats off to yet another surprise change in design, 2-9!

Next two pages feature Sir Giles and his architectural designs. Unfortunately for him he designed too many well known things and therefore now the page simply looks too cramped for the average viewer.

Unlike the new design, which is still clear, spacious and easy to understand. 2-10

Next two pages feature the London Underground, which will definitely give PTSD to anyone who ever used it during peak hours. London was already featured in the passport with Greewinch and Battersea already anyway, while we haven't seen anything from Wales, Northern Ireland or Scotland yet.

No such issue from the new passport, clean and clear with no surprises, and representation from all corners of the UK inside the watermark. 2-11 of course

Architecture yet again, this time from a woman. Also England again, Triple boring.

Seall! The design on page 21 is the same as the one on page 12 albeit the colour difference. This duplication hopefully has yet again driven down the design costs! 2-12!

Antony Gormley. Yet another useless artist who could have become something great during his lifeteime, like I don't know, a Conservative MP, but has chosen not to.

On the other hand we have yet another page where we have design reuse - with page 20 and 22, but this time the colours match as well! Must have been some great savings, 2-13

Come on, didn't we have enough artists so far? And featuring one of the most hated artist of all time? And he is also an immigrant? Yuck!

Thank god we got rid of all of this perversion! 2-14

Arts, Architecture, Shakespeare and London, all on the same page. Everything we have seen so far. Space could have been used for something much more important.

Like this nice and plain design we can see on the new passport. 2-15

Edinburgh Castle? Bagpipes? Who allowed Scotland to be present in the design, we definitely need to fire them and never let them design passports anymore. Also the dragon on the corner looking at the girl like that? That is definitely sexual harassement, let's get rid of this carnality!

On the other hand we can see another clean and nice design, a perfect place to put your last remaining few visas before you need to get another one for £82.50 + shipping fees. 2-16

Finally no more arts or achitecture but something useful: Computers! Internet! The stuff bankers use to do important stuff! No idea why they had to put a women on this page though, but let's just disregard that.

Watch that elements from new design can be seen on the computer screen in the old one. This must have been some great foreknowledge. Let's make this one a tie! 3-17

Buildings? Again? And why so many? Ah, yeah we forgot to include Wales and Northern Ireland in the designs yet, so let's quickly sort them out, before the nationalists notice! Let's still make sure the London eye is centre and front, not to give them too much credit though.

The new one? Same old same old. You can see some art reuse on page 33 (vs page 30) as usual.

However since both designs feature all 4 countries, let's make this one a tie as well: 4-18

Final page! Yet again, only Scotland and Northern Ireland above, but the whole of the UK on the new one. Blue one is a clear winner here: 4-19

And finally the back page. Plain burgundy on the old one, a nice embossed floral design on the blue one. The winner is clear.

So this takes our total to 4-20! A clear and massive victory to the new passport, an exquisite masterpiece, perdectly designed and ideal to the new place of Global Britain in the world, far away from the woke dictatorship of the European Union, and the best Brexit dividend so far (apart from being able to buy cheep booze at airports again)

[eviswriting]

Fandom: Harry Potter (pre-Golden Trio Era) Ship/Character(s): Genfic, Ginny Weasley & Ron Weasley Tags & Such (Tropes, etc): Fluff, character study/development, short oneshot? Main Idea: They don't get chocolate frogs often, but when they do, Ron and Ginny Weasley, the youngest, rush to check what card they have. Vibe: fluffy, excited, childlike Extra Notes: Really just a cute, short fic between ginny and ron and their relationship pre-sorcerer's stone!

thank you :)

word count: 1.4k Characters: Ronald "Ron" Weasley and Ginerva "Ginny" Weasley Fandom: Harry Potter

notes: I called this "Chocolate Frogs", I hope that's okay! I love this idea! Not sure if it's clear, but it happens when Ron is 10 and Ginny is 9. Thank you for being the first person to request <3 it should be up on A03 either today or tomorrow!

THEY DON’T GET CHOCOLATE FROGS MUCH ANYMORE.

They never did, to begin with, surviving on their dad’s meagre salary, but lately, they’ve been getting them less and less. This doesn’t mean Ron doesn’t like them — love them, in fact. Their mum’s call always, “Ron! Ginerva! I have a surprise for you!” always gets the kids running. It’s tradition, at this point — Ginny’s insistence that her name is ‘Ginny’, never ‘Ginerva,’ Ron’s detective smell of each box, and their “three, two, one, card!” upon opening the frogs’ boxes. 

It’s been so long — a year, in fact. Ginny, barely eight, still cannot really fathom the lack of money they have. Ron sort-of understands. And this morning feels just like any other. The birds chirp as he wakes up, pleasant calls, and just like every other morning, Ron remembers his great-great-aunt Muriel’s tale of the birds calling for their lording phoenix. They wish, he thinks bitterly as he, not wanting to be caught in the red flame of his mum’s ire, changes out of his pyjamas and into ratty, passed-down clothing. The only thing that marks it as his is the faded strip of paper with just the bare markings of the word ‘RON’ in nearly-whitened ink. It was rich in colour, black, once. 

But like everything he owns, it’s not in prime condition. He’s just in the process of pulling on a pair of maroon socks (yes, he does hate the colour maroon, and yes, he will be wearing the socks) when his mum’s voice filters through the door. “It’s time for breakfast, dears!” has never sounded as frightening as it has in the past two years. As money grew tighter and tighter (Ginny kept growing and they didn’t have much clothes to fit her), breakfast meant chores afterwards, so their mother could focus on the bit of ‘freelancing’ she did — an odd sewing project here, a knitted sweater-and-bonnet set for a next-door neighbour. 

Langly legs leading him down the stairs, he joins the mob of red that heads to the kitchen. The Burrow, their home, is held up only by magic. How else would the additional rooms protruding from the original structure stay up? 

“Hi,” he says to his brothers, George and Fred, though they wink at him before returning to their hushed murmurings. Twins and devious, Fred and George would be heading for their second year at Hogwarts (the brilliant wizarding school in Scotland) on September 1st. 

Sometimes, Ron feels excluded from his family. His eldest siblings, Bill and Charlie, have each other, Percy’s the most studious out of all of them and is always contemptuous about remaining with his books, and Fred and George have each other. So Ron sticks by himself or Ginny, his younger sister. It’s a bit embarrassing for his best friend to be his younger sister, but he does it. 

“Hey, buddy!” As Ron perches precariously on one of the stools, Charlie — who was apparently already downstairs — reaches over to mess his hair. Ron smiles cheerfully, loading oatmeal, sugar, and cream into his bowl. 

After breakfast, they receive chore lists. Ron sighs in relief when he realises he just has to clean out the chicken coops, remove the hens’ eggs, and make sure no gnomes are hiding in the area. It seems that Ginny isn’t as lucky, as she gives a very dramatic sigh and pouts at Mum. Luckily, Mum isn’t facing her, so she isn’t swayed by her only daughter’s child emotions. 

With a kiss on each child’s cheek, Molly Weasley watches her kids leave the room to complete their chores. Smiling softly, she starts preparing a casserole she needs to make for the Lovegoods. 

Ron rushes out to the yard and towards the coops quickly, so none of his siblings can rope him into helping with their chores. He completes his tasks quickly yet efficiently; when he comes back to the Burrow to give his mum the filled egg basket, Ginny is huffing about only being on her second task — the second out of five. Sucks for her, he thinks, grabbing one of their mum’s concoctions that is supposed to help in warding off gnomes. 

He completes that task quickly, and after he carefully replaces the foul-smelling potion, he contemplates his options for a second. He can either go back to Mum and get a new list or go upstairs to his room. Instincts win out and he carefully creeps up the stairs. He’s about to pump his hands and whisper ‘yes!’ when his toes push into a hard stair. The creaking stair, and the bane of Fred and George. Shoot. The squeak is loud, and Ron pauses, not breathing. What fib can he come up with if Mum comes to check? 

Thankfully, his mum doesn’t move from the kitchen and Ron, a bit more careful, tip-toes to his room, shutting the door softly behind him. “Success!” he laughs as he falls onto his mattress, letting it wrap him. Ron stays there for a while, staring at the ceiling until his eyelids flutter close once, twice, thrice, before settling into a light sleep. 

Three hours later, he’s awoken by a call of, “Ron! Ginny!” He doesn’t move, and Mum calls the iconic “Ron! Ginny! I have a surprise for you!” Ron is up in an instant. It doesn’t matter that the small flame in his heart is re-awoken with hope, the smallest part that hopes reverently that it’s a chocolate frog. 

He’s already downstairs, standing at the table, white knuckles clutching the back of a chair, when Ginny finally makes it down. The nine-year-old has an adorable pout on her face, and Molly softens at the sight of it. 

Molly beams at her children. She loves them, through anything. Anything. Even though they don’t have much money, she makes due with what she can. She tries to give them all they’d ever want. And she knows it's not ideal, but she works with what she has. Clearing her throat, misty-eyed, she says, “I have a surprise for you.” Ron’s grip on the chair grows tighter, and Molly smiles even wider. She knows that her youngest son is probably aware, and trying to repress his hopes — and it hurts her so much, like a million thorns sticking themselves into her heart, that he can’t wish for some simple chocolate. She’s tried before to recreate the iconic frogs, but they never turn out as well as the original. 

“What is it?” Ginny asks with the pretence of boredom, but Molly sees her only daughter’s confusion and faint hope. It hurts. 

“Well…” Molly trails off, removing her hands from behind her back. Two chocolate frog boxes are held tightly in her hands. It’s why she baked the casserole and knitted Pandora Lovegood and her daughter Luna matching cardigans for the grand sum of fifteen galleons. (Not that the chocolate frogs cost so much — only a galleon together; the rest of the money, fourteen galleons, would go to Ron and Ginny’s Hogwarts funds.) 

Ron’s face lights up with pure, child joy that makes it all worth it. So does Ginny’s, though she tries to hide it. “Thank you!” they both squeal (though they’d both deny that), and each grab one. Together, with a, “Three, two, one, open!” from Ron, they tear through the packaging, carefully putting the box to the side, and pulling out the card. 

“Cool!” yells Ginny, brandishing her new, first-ever Jocunda Sykes card. 

Ron, grinning, says, “I got bloody Devlin Whitehorn! First one!” 

It has been a while since Molly has seen her youngest two so joyful. It always makes all of the extra work worth it — plus, she’d be doing that work anyway, trying to maintain a cosy home. They both repeat extravagant thank you’s, and Molly can’t help but chuckle. Such simple, childish behaviour that would disappear in a few years as they went to Hogwarts and learned more responsibility. 

Ron is first, but then Ginny joins. Soon, all three of them are hugging, holding on to each other tightly. Molly feels like never letting go. She loves her family so, so much; she does, like Arthur, everything she can for them. This? This is family. 

Family means sticking to each other through thick and thin. 

It means never, ever giving up in difficult situations. 

That you should always keep pushing to be a better, healthier version of yourself. 

Family is such a precious thing.

have a great day/night! :)

[ausetkmt]

BBC News: Can ‘enhanced rock weathering’ help combat climate change?

6–7 minutes

Jim Mann calls the rocks that could help cool our planet his "magic dust"

In a quarry surrounded by the din of heavy machinery Jim Mann crouches down and picks up a handful of tiny black rocks.

"This is my magic dust," he says with a smile, gently rubbing them between his fingers.

He's holding pieces of basalt. It's a hard volcanic rock that is neither rare nor particularly remarkable.

But through a process known as 'enhanced rock weathering' it could help to cool our overheating planet.

UN scientists are now clear that reducing greenhouse gas emissions alone won't be enough to stop dangerous levels of warming. They say there will need to be some carbon dioxide removal - actively taking it out of the atmosphere.

Planting trees is the most natural way of doing this but has its limitations; the CO2 that's captured is released when the wood rots or burns and there are limits to how widely trees can be planted.

Direct Air Capture (DAC), meanwhile, mechanically sucks CO2 out of the atmosphere and stores it underground; it's permanent - but does it make sense to build such an energy intensive process when we're trying to wean ourselves off fossil fuels?

Enhanced rock weathering lies somewhere in between the natural and the man-made. It takes the naturally occurring but very gradual weathering process and turbo-charges it to remove the carbon faster.

Orrock quarry in Scotland does not look like the source of a green solution

I've come to a quarry just across the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh to see Jim, whose enhanced rock weathering company UNDO has just secured £12m of new investment and is looking to scale up operations.

Around us the black hillside is being steadily eaten away, scraped by enormous diggers to make concrete and asphalt for roads. The vibe is more post-nuclear apocalypse than saving the planet.

But the tiny pieces of basalt rock that are left over are prized by Jim's company. They have a useful property - when they weather in the rain they remove carbon dioxide from the atmosphere.

The basalt rock of the quarry, has a useful property - when it weathers in the rain it removes carbon dioxide from the atmosphere

For millennia volcanic rocks and cliffs have been removing carbon slowly while weathering in the rain. Enhanced rock weathering uses tiny pieces to increase the amount of contact between the rain and rock and hence the amount of weathering and carbon removal.

As a cliff, or piled up in the quarry, the basalt weathers very slowly. To maximise the carbon removal it needs to be spread across a greater area.

And that's where local farmers come in, helping the planet while getting free fertilizer in return. As well as locking away carbon, the basalt has been shown in trials to improve both crop yields and the quality of grazing.

Half an hour's drive from the quarry I watch it being scattered on a field.

It requires no specialist equipment. A trailer is loaded with 20 tonnes of basalt before a tractor drags it up and down, a rotating wheel at the back scattering the tiny rocks.

"It's free of charge which is quite important to a farmer," John Logan tells me with a chuckle as the basalt is put on his field. He'd seen UNDO's trials on a neighbouring farm.

"It looks like it's going to make the grass better, so that can only be good for the cattle because they're eating better grass."

UNDO says one 20 tonne trailer load of basalt absorbs about 5 tonnes of CO2.

Some experts worry that carbon removal techniques like this might distract people from the more urgent priority of cutting emissions and even be used as justification to continue living our carbon intensive lives.

"CO2 reduction has to come first," Jim tells me as we watch the tractor move up and down guided by GPS, "but we also need to be developing these technologies that can do removal at scale. And the nice thing about what we're doing with enhanced rock weathering is it's permanent."

The maths, it must be said, are daunting. UNDO's scientists calculate that four tonnes of basalt rocks are needed to capture one tonne of CO2.

With a typical Brit's CO2 emissions estimated at about 7 tonnes a year that means each of us needs about thirty tonnes, or one and half trailer loads of basalt to be scattered annually just to break even.

UNDO has plans to rapidly scale up over the next few years and has attracted some serious supporters. Microsoft has agreed to pay for 25,000 tonnes of basalt to be scattered on UK fields. As part of the deal Microsoft will also help audit the project and verify that it is working as intended.

"The essential chemistry of it makes sense," Dr Steve Smith, an expert in carbon removal from Oxford University, told me.

"Measuring how much CO2 would be taken out and where that ultimately goes, is one of the key challenges, and there's no standardized system at the moment."

Ultimately Dr Smith thinks the idea could end up just a standard part of the way land is farmed.

"It's something that can be folded into the way we use land at the moment and deliver a carbon removal benefit alongside other benefits in terms of the way we use land for food and crops," he says.

There are still many questions about just how scaleable it is. UNDO's projects uses by-product from the local quarry - but if this is massively expanded the energy and emissions it takes both to grind up the basalt and then transport and scatter it will need to be factored in.

"At this point in time, there's no downside, It's a win win for everybody involved." Jim Mann tells me.

This year UNDO is planning to spread 185,000 tonnes of basalt and hopes by 2025 to have removed a million tonnes of CO2. It's still a drop in the ocean compared to emissions. In 2022 its thought the world discharged about 37 billion tonnes of CO2 into the atmosphere.

Scientists say current levels of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere are the highest in at least two million years

[wickedsrest-rp]

NAME: Moosleute

RARITY: ★☆☆☆☆

THREAT LEVEL: ★★☆☆☆ | Small but often found in large numbers; their touch and swarming can be dangerous but they tend to ignore people.

HABITAT: Populated areas in a wide variety of microhabitats. Can also be found in the woods, especially areas with a lot of moss.

DESCRIPTION: Moosleute are fae composed of moss that range anywhere from the size of mice to the height of a human child, vaguely in the shape of bipedal humanoids. They make effective nuisances, though aren’t intentionally malicious. They’re indifferent to the existence of non-fae beings and single-minded in their drive to spread the fae variety of moss from which they spring. Someone can safely walk through a colony of moosleute, as the little moss fae silently go about their business fertilizing and spreading fae moss across every surface, plant, and building they can find. 

Moosleute remain passive unless their moss is harmed or a traveler is holding fire, iron, or bread, in which case they all immediately attack. Their moss is charged with natural fae magic and will quickly spread across the outsides and into the insides of buildings, which can cause structural damage. The moss then grows more moosleute, creating a cycle that speeds up the moss’s spread. Humans often don’t realize this moss is unusual, and attempt to remove it in order to stop the damage, resulting in violence. Moosleute hate bread and will attempt to destroy any bakeries they encounter.

ABILITIES: While they aren’t formidable by themselves, they multiply incredibly quickly and use their sheer numbers to swarm opponents. Moosleute spend most of their time using fae magic to spread the growth of moss to grow more of their kind; they always appear hard at work. Their lack of any organs mean that piercing weapons and bullets aren’t very effective. The most dangerous aspect of moosleute is the disease they spread on contact with non-fae skin. This disease grows moss across the skin that gradually consumes the victim until they become a mossy reanimated corpse. 

WEAKNESS: Moosleute are easily destroyed by fire. Iron is also incredibly poisonous to moosleute and their moss, and moss won’t grow on or near iron surfaces. They’re more instinctual than they are intelligent, and a colony’s reactions tend to be predictable to anyone who has encountered them before. Eating caraway bread or carrot bread will cure victims of a moosleute’s moss infestation disease. 

OTHER VARIANTS:

Buschgroßmutter: This stooping figure made of white moss is often mistaken for an elderly woman at a distance. A buschgroßmutter’s long “hair” and “dress” are actually lice-infested lichen. They’re usually surrounded by chilly mist, and their touch can cause severe frost burns. Buschgroßmutter are aggressive towards non-fae and will unleash a breath weapon of disease spores that causes the moosleute infestation disease.

Ghillie Dhu: First encountered by wardens in Scotland, this exceptionally tall, unnaturally slender fae is composed of black moss. Ghillie dhu are neutral or even helpful towards children, but murderously territorial towards all non-fae adults. In contrast to the smaller moosleute it often shares a colony with, ghillie dhu are very strong and strangle intruders to death.

(Art credit: ANicB on dA)

[astrologerinuk]

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[magalidragon]

paris is always a good idea | a Jonerys Drabble

Thank you @youwerenevermine​ for my wonderful birthday gift, I love it so much and I love Paris so much and Jonerys and you for making this for me so I felt inspired and wrote a quick little drabble thing, lol. It’s only the fourth time I’ve written Jonerys in a modern, non-Westeros world, but it was fun!  And I wanna’ go back so much!  Paris, je t’aime!

They met while in university, oddly enough, as fate would have it, on her birthday.

She had been there to study art, for a year abroad, savoring every last second wandering the wide, arched hallways of the Louvre, staring at grand masters for hours on end, burning the vibrant colors and mesmerizing brushstrokes into her memory, wishing she could be as good as them one day.  One day, someone would have her art in their house, and proudly boast they'd gotten it back when she was but a nobody, painting on the streets or in the grassy parks.  

Since it was her birthday, she decided to treat herself, and instead of heading straight to the university to get some time in the studio, she decided to get an ice cream at Berthillon, heading to the Ile-St-Louis instead of to the metro, taking her time to admire, as she often did, the glory of Notre Dame, it’s gargoyles and buttresses.

At the glacier she took her time selecting a flavor, did not even mind paying the exorbitant price and shouldered through tourists taking refuge from a cold rain that had begun to fall. She savored it, the clean water bouncing off her peat coat and the beanie she’d tugged over her silver hair.

She was about to set off, to eat her ice cream and wander into the Marais, perhaps drop down into the Latin Quarter— maybe take a trip to Chanel or Dior or Celine to admire the creations she couldn’t afford— when her ice cream went flying, straight onto the wet sidewalk. Where a mass of pidgins attacked it with gusto.

“Merde! Faites attention!” she shouted, stomping her Doc Marten on the ground in petulant annoyance.

The man who had bumped her because he’d been roughhousing with another friend had been apologetic.  He bought her another and said his name was Robb Stark. He was from Scotland, was on spring break with his buddies, which she didn’t care about. To apologize he invited her for a drink, especially when the worker who she’d told it was her birthday had commented on it again when she got another ice cream.

She figured why not?  He was attractive, sorry, and nice enough so she agreed, although she had commented his French was terrible best to speak English. “You’re English?” he had teased.

“Half and half,” she answered. English father, French mother.

At the comptoir where she suggested they meet, in Montmartre, she brought her roommate Missandei and Missandei’s boyfriend Grey. It was just a drink and they’d leave and go to the dinner Missandei planned to take her to anyway.

Except that’s where she met him.

The dark, brooding figure at the tiny table in the corner, ignoring Robb and Robb’s friend Theon, and a couple others, favoring silence and his drink. He was in all black, barely acknowledging her and slipped out for a smoke when Robb began to shamelessly flirt. She didn’t care about Robb, she cared about him.

Jon.

She exited, saw him lighting a cigarette against a lap post. She flicked her coat collar up and sidled towards him. “Puis-j’en avoir un?”

“Sorry I don’t speak,” he began, and his eyes— black in the orange lamplight glow— flicking to her. He smiled gently “French.”

She smiled and repeated her question in English.  “Can I have one?  A smoke  that is?”

He stuck the cigarette between his pouty, sinful lips, framed with a cropped dark beard, and reached into his coat pocket, removing a pack. She took one delicately and he lit it, cupping his hands around the tip so the wind didn’t blow it out.

A stream of smoke escaped her nostrils when she puffed and she smiled up at him, hoping he got the hint. “Do you like Paris?”

“Not especially.”

“Aw come on,” she teased. She hummed, closing her eyes and taking in the cold night. The electric buzz is people on the street and at the cafes and bars around them. “Paris is always a good idea.”

“Someone famous said that.”

“Audrey Hepburn.”

He sucked on the cigarette and smiled, a tiny one, the curve of his lip sly rather than shy.  “You aren’t in there with the rest of them.”

“Because it’s my birthday and I want to do what I want to do.”  She stubbed the cigarette out on the post and turned, disposing it in the bin by the door.  A quick text to Missandei: I’m going to skip dinner, I think I have a date, she turned and studied him.  “I’m…”

“Dany,” he said. He shrugged, finishing his smoke. “I remember.”  

Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think you were listening when Robb introduced me.”

“I was.”  He pulled the tartan scarf around his neck tighter.  He glanced towards Sacré-Cœur, illuminated white in the lights around its base. He smirked at her.  “You going back in?”

She shook her head. “No,” she drawled. She followed his gaze to Sacré-Cœur. “Have you been up there?”

“No.”

“You should. Some of the best views of Paris.”

He chuckled, voice tight. “You should invite Robb.”

“I think he might be a third wheel.”

It took him a second, the gears in his mind turning, understanding what she was saying. He cocked his head. His black curls were in a mess around his face. A few scattered rain drops landed on them, and he shook it free like a dog. Or a wolf, she thought, noting the animal embroidered on the edge of his scarf.

He narrowed his eyes again. “I told you I don’t really like Paris.”

“Why?”

“It’s loud. Busy. Dirty.”

She laughed. “Every city is like that but in Paris it’s different.”

“Why?”

Her bravado got the better of her and she stepped towards him, linking her arm through his. If he didn’t get it now, he was a stupid fool who deserved it when she kicked him into the gutter. “Because,” she murmured, rising to her toes, trying to gaze as directly as she could into his eyes, which she now saw were actually gray. His breathing quickened. “You’re with me.”

The wolf got the point with that comment. He allowed her to keep her arm around his and lead him towards the cathedral.  They spoke of nothing and anything on the long walk through Montmartre to the highest point in the city.  

He was in Paris for a research trip.  He was studying medieval weapons and was going out to Bayeux to study some relics. His cousin Robb and friends came along for the free trip.  They spoke about being starving artists in their field-- her literally an artist as it were.  They talked about Paris-- how much he disliked it, how much she adored it.  The top of Sacre-Coeur might have changed his mind, but he pretended he still didn’t get the appeal, so she dragged him back down to the streets, to her favorite all-night boulangerie, into the metro and across town to the Eiffel Tower, spinning in circles on the Champs du Mars.  They ran across the Pont-de-la-Concorde and across the Tullieries.  They wandered down the Seine, smoked cigarettes in the doorsteps of old buildings in the Latin Quarter, and drank cheap wine in one of the tourist-cafes near the Jardin du Luxembourg.  

They meandered back through the streets, the city oddly quiet, the rain stopping, and she brought him to her garret studio in the Bastille, up the six flights of stairs to the top of the building, where she shed her coat and boots adn scratched her fat cat Drogon’s ears, leading him to the wrought-iron bars in one of the four windows she had, pushing the window open and crawling out, up onto the roof where she wanted to show him something.  

“Look,” she directed, when he climbed up next to her-- less gracefully-- pointing to the lit-up Eiffel Tower.  

He cursed under his breath.  “It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s my favorite place in Paris.  The rent is steep, but it’s worth it for this.”  She chuckled.  “And it has the best view.”

He whispered.  “Yes, it does.”  

And to her surprise, since she didn’t realize the time, the tower began to twinkle, the 20,000 lights across its metal beams flickering and she glanced sideways; he wasn’t watching the tower, but her face.  She arched her brows.  “You know, the lights twinkle for five minutes every hour, on the hour.”  She smiled and shrugged, whispering.  “It’s a sign that you’re supposed to return to Paris.”

Instead of saying anything, like how silly that was, he leaned in and cupped her face in his wide palm, callused and warm, bringing her face to meet his, kissing gently, in the twinkly glow of the lights.  He pulled back a moment later, breathing, “I think I like Paris.  And you’er right...this place has the best view.”  His eyes were wide on hers, focused.  She chuckled, nodding in agreement, and pulled him back to her for another kiss.

That night she savored every moment with him, as they pulled each other’s clothes off slowly, kissing and touching, every smooth curve and muscle of each other, each hard ridge and plane of his strong, muscular body or her soft, lean one.  He touched her and kissed her and stroked her in ways she’d never experienced, bringing her to heights she’d only dreamed about.  It was intense, the lights behind her closed eyelids when she came, over and over, gripping his shoulders, hair, the bedframe behind her.  He rose up and over her, in and out, their bodies moving as one, thrusting and arching.  

She didn’t know if she’d see him again; if this was a one-time, romantic Parisian adventure, but in the morning when she woke, she found him coming back inside from getting pastries and coffees, the faintest scent of cigarettes and her toothpaste on his lips when he kissed her good morning.  

They exchanged their information, vowing to speak daily, and he would see her when he got back from Bayeux.  She couldn’t believe when he did call and he kept his word.  “When you lie, words lose their meaning,” he’d explained, obviously reading her surprise.  

And when her year ended in Paris, she found herself in London, back at university, dreaming of their magical time there, even when they made time for each other, going back and forth from London to Edinburgh; and he from Edinburgh to Paris during the last couple of months of her year there.  

They made it a priority; every single year they spent time in Paris, like they were students again, on that magical night.  

They grew older, no longer needing to find the cheapest drinks and cigarettes, or staying in studio garrets, eventually able to experience some of the best hotels and restaurants the city had to offer, as he sold books and became a well-known author and professor, and her dream of becoming a famous artist came true, when sure enough, someone bought one of her paintings on the side of the Seine, someone who happened to be an art dealer in New York.  

It was their city, where they met, and where they could remember.  

After they married, about fifteen years after that fateful birthday, they visited again, and spun together on the Pont-Neuf, kissing and murmuring how they loved each other and always would, and he took her back to the tiny studio garret, which was now theirs, and sat on the rooftop and watched the Eiffel Tower sparkle.  

“Paris is always a good idea,” she murmured, head in the crook of his neck, her back to his front, wrapped in a warm blanket, and his arms tight around her middle.  She tilted her face up to his, sated, and still hopelessly in love with him.  “Take me to Paris, Jon.”

He nuzzled his nose into her cheek, whispering.  “You are Paris, Dany.”

As it was the city where they’d met, fallen in love, and found true happiness, she grinned, because that was his way of saying how much he loved her.  She brushed her lips over his, sighing, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”  

And they kissed, as the Eiffel Tower lit up, and she curled up into him, falling asleep in the city of love and lights.

[lailoken]

“Elder (Sambucus nigra), also known as boor or bour tree.

Elder is one of the most enigmatic plants in British folk tradition. On one hand it is feared and associated with WITCHES and on the other it is valued for its protective qualities, as a fly repellent, and for its use in many herbal remedies.

The whole plant hath a narcotic smell; it is not well to sleep under its shade. [Withering, 1776: 186]

[In Leitrim, Waterford and the south of Ireland] the elder or 'bore' tree is believed to have been the tree from which Judas Iscariot hanged himself. The proof of which is the fact that its leaves have an 'ugly smell', and, moreover, that its fruit has since degenerated from its original size and excellent flavour, and become worthless both as to size and taste. [Anon., 1916: 425]

It was said at Beckley that if you burn elder wood you will become bewitched. You never cut it down. In Wootton they say that the elder is a witch tree. You should not mend a wattle hedge with it, as it will give the witches power. If you cut it, it will bleed. [Oxfordshire Women's In- stitute groups, 1950s]

Unlucky to burn Tramman [elder], it is the FAIRIES’ tree. [Lezayre, Isle of Man, c.1975; Manx Folklife Survey]

Normally in the Isle of Man elder is the fairies' tree which is unlucky to cut down, or burn when fallen. I was told in 1992 by a forestry worker of his pleasure that a large elder had blown over into the field adjoining his garden and thus relieved him of the need to find someone willing to remove it. [Union Mills, Isle of Man, October 1993]

Elder flowers—it is alright to pick the flowers for wine or culinary use, but the tree is a friend of witches and the wood should never come into the house. [Ashreigney, Devon, July 1983]

Elder—unlucky to bring either flowers or wood into a house: (a) because it is the witches' tree, (b) because it was believed that Judas Iscariot hanged himself from an elder tree, (c) because if you fall asleep under elder flowers the scent will poison you or you will never wake up. [Driffield, Humber- side, March 1985]

Collecting firewood from the hedges surrounding the cottage and returning happily laden, but being accused of bringing bits of elder into the house—it was considered unlucky to use these to light a fire. [Bow Street, Dyfed, October 1984]

The only unlucky plant which I have heard of is the elder tree, which the old people looked upon as unlucky. As I have heard the old people say, it was unhealthy to have an elder tree growing near the house as it was often noted the inhabitants seemed more prone to TUBERCULOSIS or 'Consumption' as it was known in Ireland in the old days. However, as TB was rampant all over the country at that time, I don't know if the belief would have any significance. My own people however would not cut down an elder bush or burn it no matter how old or rotten it was. Nor allow an elder stick in the house, and it would be an unforgivable act to strike a child or even an animal with one. [Kill Village, Co. Kildare, October 1984]

The family name dies out on the property where the elder grows in the kitchen garden. [Skibbereen, Co. Cork, January 1993]

Do you know the Rollright Stones in Oxfordshire? You can't count them; you never get the same number twice. In the next field there is a big stone called King Arthur, and there are various stones called after his Knights around. There are some elder bushes nearby. We used to go there as children on our bicycles and try to count the stones. We were told that if we picked a flower or a berry from these elderberry bushes we would be turned into stone. We used to dare each other to pick a berry or a flower, but no one ever did. [Mitcham, Surrey, May 1986]

However, in the early part of the nineteenth century:

On Midsummer Eve, when the 'eldern' tree was in blossom, it was a custom for people to come up to the King Stone and stand in a circle. Then the 'eldern' was cut, as it bled 'the King moved his head.' [Evans, 1895: 20]

Sometimes it was thought that wood, berries, or flowers could be safely taken from an elder only if the tree's permission had been sought first.

Hearing one day that a baby in a cottage close to my own was ill, I went across to see what was the matter. Baby appeared right enough, and I said so; but its mother promptly explained. 'It were all along of my maister's thick 'ed; it were in this how: t'rocker cummed off t'cradle, an' he hedn't no more gumption than to mak' a new ’un out on illerwood without axing the Old Lady's leave, an' in coorse she didn't like that, and she came and pinched t'wean that outrageous he were a'most black i' t' face; but I bashed 'un off, an putten an' esh 'un on, an' t'wean is as gallus as owt agin.' This was something quite new to me, and the clue seemed worth following up. So going home I went straight down to my backyard, where old Johnny Holmes was cutting up firewood—‘chopping kindling,' as he would have said. Watching the opportunity, I put a knot of elder-wood in the way and said, 'You are not feared of chopping that are you ?' 'Nay, he replied at once, 'I bain't feared of choppin' him, he bain't wick (alive); but if her were wick I dussn't, not without axin’ the Old Gal's leave, not if it were ever so'.. . (The words to be used are): 'Oh, them's slape enuff.' You just says, 'Owd Gal, give me of thy wood, and Oi will give some of moine, when I graws inter a tree.' [Heanley, 190I: 55]

If you chop an elder tre e or fell it, you should bow three times and say:

Old Woman, Old Woman, Give me some of your wood And when I am dead I'll give you some of mine. [Whitwick, Leicestershire, August 1983]

[Staffordshire, 1930s:] my mother said it was the thing if one wanted blossoms or fruit from an elder tree to say 'Please Mother Elder may I have .. .' [Ponsanooth, Cornwall, November 1993]

In addition to records of elder being inauspicious, there are many rec- ords of it being a beneficial, protective tree.

[In Northumberland] an old man told me that his aunt used to keep a piece of bour tree, or elder, constantly in her kist (chest) to prevent her clothes from malign influence. [Hardy, 1895: 325]

In south Wales it was deemed very dangerous to build any premises on or near the spot where an eldertree stood. In the past an elder planted before the door of a cow-shed or stable protected the cows and horses from witchcraft and sorcery. [Trevelyan, 1909: 103]

[In Scotland elder was] often planted near old crofts and cottages as protection from witches. [Webster, 1978: 342]

[In Guernsey elder] had to be planted as near as possible to the back door, the most used entrance, since it was a sacred tree and a good protection against witchcraft. [McClintock, 1987: 33]

[In Ireland] it is considered lucky to have an elderberry bush grow near your house, especially if it is "self-set'. [Bracknell, Berkshire, August 1984]

Mother used elder leaves to make a pattern on the floor-bricks. Painting around them with red paint. Making the cross with elder leaves. This was an old custom, going back to her grandmother's time, so the custom had to be continued despite the time-consuming nature of the work. [Bow Street, Dyfed, March 1984]

Elder: this was called Boortree... The leaves were boiled and the water used to dose pigs. For this purpose, and because it was supposed to be a protection against LIGHTNING, there was a tree of it at every house. It can still be seen growing in places where there are no houses now, but where houses were years ago. [Lenamore, Co. Longford, April 1991]

Family folklore passed on to me includes . . . one should plant a ROWAN and elder tree and never cut them down, in order to keep witches away. [Parkstone, Dorset, June 1991]

I can remember as a child elder growing around the wooden bottom-of-the-garden 'lavvy' at my uncle's farm near Brentwood, Essex, and many other similar loos with elder adjacent. I was told that the elder would live 'almost for ever', as if one root died off another would spring from a fallen branch or twig. They were treated with 'respect' as they kept away bad magic—no one used the word 'witches'—but the inference was there. [Yafforth, North Yorkshire, January 1990]

More usually elder trees were planted around toilets and other build ings to deter FLIES.

Elder bushes are invariably to be seen outside the dairy windows on the north side of old-fashioned farmhouses in the Midlands. This was done because elder-leaves are supposed to be very objectionable to flies, wasps and other insects, the tree thus provided both shade and protection. For the same reason a switch of elder with leaves on is used when taking or driving a swarm of bees. [N &Q, 11 ser. 12: 489, 1915]

When inspecting a slaughter house [in Cornwall] a summer or two ago, I commented on the absence of flies, and was told that this was due to a large elder bush growing some feet away and that branches of elder in any building would keep flies away. [Peter, 1915: 123]

An elderberry tree was always grown near the house—I think it was to keep flies away. [Didcot, Oxfordshire, February 1991]

According to some friends of mine elderberry bushes were planted by water butts and outside privies so that the smell would keep the flies away. [Horseheath, Cambridgeshire, April 1991]

As a youth my late father worked on the land...Often handling horses it was common practice to tie bunches of elder leaves to the harness to ward off flies. [St Osyth, Essex, February 1989]

My wife, who comes from Northumberland, tells me that her mother used to make up a concoction with elder flower when she was a child. All the family washed their faces in it to keep virulent Northumbrian midges at bay. She remembers it smelling not too pleasant, and tended to keep other children away as well, so she would take the first opportunity to wash it off! [Hexham, Northumberland, June 1988]

About twelve years ago in Girton, Cambridge, a small swarm of bees (apparently known as a 'cast') settled on a plum tree in our garden, about six feet up. A neighbour, Mr C. G. Puck (now 84 years old), a retired shepherd and lifelong beekeeper, came to collect the bees. He removed the queen bee from the swarm and placed her under a small open wooden box inverted on the ground under the tree. He then asked for a sprig of elder and laid this about nine inches above the swarm, saying that the smell of it was disliked by bees, and by the early evening all the bees had moved into the box . . . He had learned of the use of elder in this fashion from his beekeeper father, in his native village of Thriplow, south Cambridgeshire. [Girton, Cambridge, May 1988]

On the Isle of Man:

Each old cottage has a 'trammon', or elderberry tree, outside the door. This is used by the 'Phynodderree' to swing in. He is a kind of faun who can bring much luck, and even helps materially in outside work. [Daily News, 27 January 1926]

[Fairies] liked most of all to swing and play in the elder trees, and these were always thought of as fairy trees in the Isle of Man. There wasn't a house or farm that didn't have its 'tramman' tree planted by the door or in the garden 'for the fairies'. Many of them are still to be seen; the single tree will soon have grown into a thicket, hiding the old ruined house, but a sure sign that a house once stood there . . . When the wind was blowing the branches, it was then that the fairies were believed to be riding the tramman trees, but it was said that they would desert a house or a farm where the trees had been cut down. This must have happened only very rarely: no-one would cut a branch of the tramman, let alone the tree itself, but if it was done the fairies grieved. [Killip, 1975: 35]

Regardless of whether elder is considered to be malevolent or protec- tive, most of the folk beliefs associated with the tree appear to be con- cerned with its protection and preservation. Two quotations from herbalists writing in the 1940s demonstrate the value of the elder tree.

[According to my [g*psy] friend] the healingest tree that on earth do grow be the elder, them sez, and take it all round I should say 'twas. [Quelch, 1941: 78]

[Elder has] the unusual distinction of being useful in every part. [Ransom, 1949: 55]

Thus it is possible that the various folk beliefs associated with elder were due, at least in part, to efforts to protect a valuable resource.

The period when elder flowered was sometimes considered to be a time when the weather was poor. In the Basingstoke area of Hampshire this time was known as the elderbloom winter [Maida Hill, Lon- don, December 1982], while in Cheshire:

Weather prophets say that if the weather breaks while the elder-flowers are coming out, it will be soaking wet (in Cheshire parlance, drabbly) until they fade. [Hole, 1937: 49]

Francis Bacon (1561–1626) recorded: 'They say' WARTS can be removed by rubbing them 'with a Green Elder Sticke and then bury- ing the Sticke to rot in Mucke' [Bacon, 1631: 258]. Similarly:

A 15-year-old girl, writing in 1954, says that her grandfather told her to pick a small twig of elderberry, touch her warts with it, chant the words, “Wart, wart, on my knee, Please go, one, two, three” and put it 'down the toilet'. [Opie, 1959: 315]

Elder is, perhaps, the wild plant most widely used in folk medicine.

Queen of all Forest [of Dean] remedies was 'ellum blow tea'...The flowers were gathered in the spring and hung up to dry in closed paper bags ... in the kitchen ... You dared not sneeze in the winter or down came the bag, a good handful was put in a jug, covered with boiling water, covered with a tea towel, and left to infuse. One had to force this evil-smelling brew down one's throat willy-nilly. I loathed it, and to this day can recall that smell of cats which emanated from it. Poultices of the mixture were used for SPRAINS, aches, etc., in joints, also for boils and 'gathered' fingers—whitlows and so on. It seemed to be a universal panacea; the only use it didn't have was for constipation . . . Elder berries were favoured too; they were boiled up with sugar, the resulting syrup strained, bottled, and used in winter for coughs and colds . . .There is not a Forester alive over the age of 70 who does not know ellum blow tea. [Cinder- ford, Gloucestershire, November 1993]

Elder berries when fried with mutton fat are used for BOILS and ULCERS. [IFCSS MSS 414: 43, Co. Clare]

Elder root when boiled and the water drank supposed to cure RHEUMAT- ISM. [IFCSS MSS 700: 35, Co. Meath]

An infusion of elder flowers in boiling water will alleviate PILES. [Horsted Keynes, West Sussex, February 1991]

A green ointment could be made from the leaves, based on mutton fat, and the creamy white flowers made Elderflower Water for the complexion. The flowers, dried in the sun and stored in a paper bag make a good remedy to break a hard COUGH and bring up phlegm. I always pick and dry some when they are in bloom, put the full of your fingers (one hand) in a mug, pour boiling water over and let it infuse for ten minutes. A little milk or fruit juice can be added. [Lenamore, Co. Longford, April 1991]

For flus and FEVERS

40 oz whiskey bottle. Pick, clean, weigh, one pound ripe elder berries. Delete the strings (most strings anyway) using a fork, and put berries into empty bottle. Add 4 lb sugar. Top up with a bottle (or most of a bottle) of whiskey. Seal well. Store for 3 months and strain. Use strongest spirit. Dose—Strong glass of this 'Elderfire'—add hot water (as hot as possible) and drink. Take 2 or 3 spoons of honey with drink. Repeat each night (or more frequently)–usually two nights is sufficient to clear the flu/fever results guaranteed. [Killarney, Co. Kerry, September 1991]

[My mother, who was 94 when she died in 1987] used to collect elder-flower in the spring, and dried it. In the winter if we had colds or flu, the elderflower was put in a jug covered with boiling water and put on the hob to stew. At night we were given this (strained) with sugar and a few drops of peppermint oil added. We were given a teacup full of this at night, and in the morning we had to drink half a cupful of this cold mixture. It was supposed to sweat out the fever. She used to tell me how she pulled me through PNEUMONIA by poulticing with hot flannel and sips of elderflower tea, day and night. [Hill, Worcestershire, October 1991]

When my three children were small and we had wintery weather (and it can be very cold up here at the foot of the Cairngorms), I made elder-flower wine, and when it was time for them coming from school I had three cups, bowl of sugar, bottle of elderflower wine and the kettle boiling, and I gave them a tody; they never had colds or flu. [Boat-of-Garten, Inverness-shire, November 1991]

Elder flowers and berries are widely collected by makers of homemade wines. The flowers can also be used in cooking [Ó’Ceirin, 1980: o1), and the fruits have been recommended as a substitute for currants [Ransom, 1949: 55]. Elder leaves have been used as a TOBACCO substitute.

Myself, my brother and a friend always smoked elder leaves when money was not available for tailor-made cigarettes. We spent much time in the woodland of Thetford Chase, where on our regular walks we would break down, but not completely snap off, small sprigs of the elder. We found that if we severed the supply of sap completely the leaves on the sprig would dry out resulting in a hot strong smoke. We found that if the leaves remained just slightly damp they were a quite pleasant smoke. It was obviously trial and error, sometimes they remained too wet to burn properly. We would stuff the leaves very lightly into the stems of various umbellifers...We actually prefered these cigarettes to the tailor-made, but they were not available during winter. [West Stow, Suffolk, November 1992]

Elder wood is characterized by its pith, which can be easily removed.

[On Colonsay] boys aspiring to be pipers made chanters of the young branches [of elder], which are full of pith and easily bored. [McNeill, 1910: 130].

Haw-blowers are made by scooping the pith out of an elder branch. Haws are blown through these. [IFCSS MSS 700: 338, Co. Meath]

The people of the parish were able to make toy guns. They got an elder stick about one and a half feet long and scraped out the inside. Then they got a stick about the same length and made it fit into the hole and then the gun was made. [IFCSS MSS 867: 132, Co. Kilkenny]

At the the beginning of the century children in parts of Devon used to make pop-guns' out of elder: they would force a hole through the pith, and then fashion a ram-rod out of HAZEL WOOD. Chewed paper would be rammed down the hollowed elder sticks, and pressed out with considerable force. Great sport ensued. [Lafonte, 1984: 35]

There was another use for the Boor tree in olden times. A suitable length was cut and seasoned, then the white pith in the centre was scraped out, lead was then melted and poured in. When set, this made a good weapon for protection on a journey or out walking at night...My aunt who was born in 1894 remembered one man who had such a stick. [Lenamore, Co. Longford, April 1991]

[In Horsefield, Cambridgeshire] for winter feeding one beekeeper used to make little troughs out of elder wood; he cut pieces about the thickness of a finger and five or six inches long, tapered off one end and removed the pith, and used them for replenishing the bees' honey by inserting this end in the exit hole. [Parsons MSS, 1952]”

—

Oxford Dictionary of Plant-Lore

by Roy Vickery

[wolfuckstar]

Handmade Heaven

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31377314/chapters/77593565

1st august, 1986, Friday, 4 days till New Moon.

Day after Harry's sixth birthday.

Keiss, north end of Sinclair's Bay, east coast of Caithness, Scotland.

Summer.

7 AM.

"When you learn to ride the bike, I will let you use the broom."

"I don't understand why I got a broom if I can't use THE BROOM."

Remus laughed from where he was sitting, the Daily Prophet covering his face from the wind, his winter robe over his sweatshirt.

"For the fifth time" Sirius yawned, probably still indignant at having risen with the sun on an unusually cloudy Friday for a summer. The man ran his hand over his beard, opened his mouth to continue talking, but seemed to think better of it and gave up.

"I want to fly on the broom!" As irritating as the boy could be, the two missing teeth in front of his mouth would not let any of the men present take him seriously.

"Well, I want a new record, are you going to give me one?"

Remus put the paper down and gave Sirius a dismayed look.

"I don't care about your record." Harry's bottom lip was almost quivering now.

"Don't you care about David Bowie's Labyrinth?"

The boy seemed to be in doubt now. And Sirius looked more awake than he did 5 minutes ago, which was great. But not that great, since he had forgotten the packet of cigarettes inside the house and the only place he could smoke was outside.

"Don't you care about Queen's Kind of Magic?!" He asked, his voice emphatic and a playful, slightly insane look on his pillow-stained face.

The six-year-old boy seemed to think for a moment, but his green eyes behind the round lenses of his glasses soon found the Nimbus 85 leaning against the entrance door of the house and his expression went rigid again.

"I want to fly! Moony!’’ Harry called.

"Harry, dear" Remus had already given up on finishing reading the news, and threw the newspaper on the woody floor of the porch while answering loudly so that they could hear him from the small road after the fence "If you manage to ride the bike till the lamppost and back three times, we'll let you ride the broom, okay?" He reached over to the small table beside him to reach for the cup of tea, trying hard not to sigh at the stinging pains in his ribs and elbows. The happiness he'd felt when they figured it out that the full moon was over a week before Harry's birthday had passed, and all he could feel were the consequences of the damage. He knew he should remain optimistic, there was no point in brooding over his sufferings, he and Sirius had learned that over the past six years. He could allow himself to feel the pain, but at some point, you just have to let it go.

Keiss had an elementary school, which was a surprise at first. On the outside, the building looked like just one of the small houses on High Street, two stories, two windows, simple plant pots made of clay scattered on the asphalt of the sidewalk. Harry had started attending school a year ago and frequently went to the small park next to it even on weekends, when they were too tired to walk to the ruins on the beach or when they just didn't want to eat sandwiches sitting on the stone wall of the harbor. Sometimes, they visited the field next to the school to teach him how to play football. Remus would teach them while Sirius would make contemptuous comments about how much better Quidditch was and how Muggles didn't use their imagination, but in the end, it was just because he didn't know how to play.

There was a church on South Street, parallel to High Street. And, like everything else in Keiss, you could see the church from the school, and the beach from the church, and the beach from anywhere in the village. There, the vastness of the sky, the grass, and the sea seemed to swallow up everything else, suffocating them with peace, freedom, and salt air.

They did not live exactly in Keiss’s downtown, but just a few minutes walking would take them there. They didn't have a car either. There was no need. They owned an old, faded blue and rusty bicycle that they used when they needed to go shopping. And now, there was the red children's bicycle, bought in Wick, a town to the south, also in Caithness County. Remus and Sirius had agreed to give Harry the broom, as long as the boy also learned to ride a bicycle. Once the two men understood that this was what Lily would like, it had been easy not to worry about the money that would spend on the present.

After a few minutes explaining the whole theory behind the practice, Harry seemed minimally ready to try it himself and Sirius removed his hand from the bicycle seat, where he was holding to balance it. The boy took half a step forward and fell to the side, falling obtusely on the asphalt.

The men waited a moment before making any moves or questions. They had learned that, depending on how they reacted, Harry tended to cry or not.

The boy rested his hands on the floor and looked at the godfather with a crease between his eyebrows as if he had understood something incredibly difficult.

"If I had fallen off the broom, it would have hurt more, wouldn't it?" Harry found out.

Sirius Black threw his head back in a laugh that reverberated through the silent properties around him.

"Come on" The man bowed, extending his hand, helping him to his feet. When Harry was already standing, Black ran his hands over his little legs, removing the dirt from the small pointed and scraped knees. Sirius saw that the glasses were slightly crooked and adjusted them, still laughing "If you pick up speed, the bike won't tip over."

"If I go faster ..." The boy thought out loud "How am I going to stop? I don't know how to stop.”

"Er ..." The man was clearly not a big bike connoisseur.

"Use the brakes, Harry." Remus replied as he approached, extending the second cup of tea to Sirius "Use the brakes and put a foot on the pavement slowly."

The boy nodded and picked up the bike from the floor. Black helped him to give momentum, accompanying him with his hand on the back of the bench to give balance. After a few steps, he released it again. Sirius went back to Remus and took the cup of tea as he said.

"Sometimes I forget that he is only six years old." He took a sip "He's so smart."

A few meters ahead, Harry fell again.

The boy stood still for a few seconds, probably wondering if any damage had been done that would be worth crying. Still lying on the floor, he looked back and smiled at the two men, then got up.

"At least, he thinks for a while before being dramatic." Remus smiled behind the cup "Unlike some."

Sirius shoved him lightly with his shoulder.

"Idiot."

They looked at the boy, who was now putting the bicycle in their direction to pedal back to the front of the house.

"I don't think I managed to say good morning to you with Harry jumping on the bed," Black commented, looking away from the boy.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to say good night too with the number of scratches that I will have to cure later." Remus replies, but leans in anyway, resting his chin on the other's shoulder, inhaling Sirius Black's scent until he feels ecstatic and whisper "Good morning."

"Good morning." As he leaned in to answer, Sirius' beard crawled along the side of his cheek, causing shivers on his back.

Some birds from the ocean sang above their heads. The green grass of the surrounding properties rustled in the wind. The sun was a bright spot in the cloud-covered sky. There were no mountains, just the immensity of fields interrupted by small lakes and the North Sea.

"Maybe we should tell Harry to start pressing the brakes now," Sirius murmured, his voice slightly concerned.

Lupin raised his head in time to see the boy speeding towards them.

“Moony! Pads! Look! Pads! At full speed!” Harry repeated the phrase his godfather had said. The wind laced his black hair back, and his toothless smile melted more than the surface of the hearts of Remus Lupin and Sirius Black.

"The brakes, Harry!"

Unfortunately, Remus had to heal scratches on more than one person that night.

[wickedsrest-rp-archive]

NAME: Moosleute

RARITY: ★☆☆☆☆

THREAT LEVEL: ★★☆☆☆ | Tend to be on the smaller size, but also swarm. Mossy boys like to make more mossy boys, and their touch can make non-fae mossy boy corpses. Fun!

ORIGIN: The moss people are woodland spirits in German folklore that are described as hairy and covered in moss. They are said to occasionally borrow items from people, ask for breast milk, and have a spiritual connection to trees in a manner similar to dryads. However they are also easily angered, particularly by caraway bread. Female moss people are said to both cause plagues but also provide cures. The moss people are also frequent targets of the Wild Hunt in German mythology and will meld into trees to escape.

DESCRIPTION: Moosleute are fae creatures composed of moss that range anywhere from the size of mice to the height of a human child. Although vaguely in the shape of bipedal humanoids, moosleute are indifferent to the existence of non-fae beings and single-minded in their drive to spread the fae variety of moss from which they spring. A human can safely walk through a colony of moosleute, as the little moss fae silently go about their business fertilizing and spreading fae moss across every surface, plant, and building they can find. Moosleute remain passive unless their moss is harmed or a traveler is holding fire, iron, or bread, in which case they all immediately attack.

Unsurprisingly, they usually start out as a nuisance. Their moss is charged with natural fae magic, and it quickly spreads across the outside and into the inside of buildings. This can cause a great deal of structural damage to to buildings, infrastructure, and machines. This fae moss eventually grows even more moosleute, which serve to exponentially speed up the mosses’ spread. Humans often don’t realize this moss is unusual, and attempt to remove it in order to stop the damage. This causes all nearby moosleute to fly into a murderous rage and swarm innocent landscapers or citizens just trying to pressure wash their roofs.

ABILITIES: While they aren’t formidable by themselves, they multiply incredibly quickly and use their sheer numbers to swarm opponents. Moosleute spend most of their time using fae magic to spread the growth of moss to grow more of their kind. Their lack of any organs mean that piercing weapons and bullets aren’t very effective. The most dangerous aspect of moosleute is the disease they spread on contact with non-fae skin. This disease grows moss across the skin that gradually consumes the victim until they become a mossy reanimated corpse.

WEAKNESS: Moosleute are easily destroyed by fire. Iron is also incredibly poisonous to moosleute and their moss. They’re more instinctual then they are intelligent, and a colony’s reactions tend to be predictable to anyone who has encountered them before. Eating caraway bread or carrot bread will cure victims of a moosleute’s moss infestation disease.

SUBSPECIES:

Buschgroßmutter: This stooping figure made of white moss is often mistaken for an elderly woman at a distance. A buschgroßmutter’s long ‘hair’ and ‘dress’ are actually lice-infested lichen. They’re usually surrounded by chilly mist, and their touch can cause severe frost burns. Buschgroßmutter are aggressive towards non-fae and will unleash a breath weapon of disease spores that causes the moosleute infestation disease.

Ghillie Dhu: First encountered by wardens in Scotland, this exceptionally tall fae is compromised of black moss. Ghillie dhu are neutral or even helpful towards children, but murderously territorial towards all non-fae adults. In contrast to the smaller moosleute it often shares a colony with, ghillie dhu are very strong and strangle intruders to death.

NOTES: Bread causes moosleute to fly into a rage. The colony will stop at nothing to destroy any bakeries they encounter. Milk is like miracle grow for moosleute and they will go great lengths to soak up any milk, including home invasion.

(Art credit: ANicB)

[off-in-the-moors]

Water Horses: more than just kelpies

Water horses as a mythological creatures appear in Celtic and Scandinavian folklore. They're shape-shifting water spirits, who lure and drag their unsuspecting victims to their demise. However, there are many types of water horses, differing from each other not only by places of origin but in behaviour. What they all have in common is: inhabiting bodies of water and taking the form of a horse. I'll try my best to present the best known and least known ones, in simple to understand fashion. In advance, I want to apologies for any mistakes made. I'm only one person doing this partly as a story research and partly as my love/fascination for those creatures. I advise taking this post as a starting point and encourage to look into the folklore yourselves. Also, I apologies for any grammatical mistakes, English is my second language.

Kelpie

Location: Scotland Other names: x Body of water: streams and rivers

the best known of all water horse

appears as a powerful and beautiful black, dark grey or white horse, with reversed hooves and, in some sources, equipped with a bridle and sometimes a saddle

if the kelpie was already wearing a bridle, "exorcism" might be achieved by removing it, which would be endowed with magical properties, like healing, and if brandished towards someone, was able to transform that person into a horse or pony

can shape-shift into a human figures, with water weeds in hair, such as old wizened man; rough, shaggy man; handsome young man wearing a silver necklace, which was its bridle; or a tall woman dressed in green

in the form of handsome young man, said to seeks "human companionship" and will woo a pretty young girl which is determined to take for its wife

if mounted, its skin becomes adhesive, in stories where a hand or a finger got stuck to the creature, the only way to break free was to cut it off

most stories say they only drown their victims, but some say they tear them apart and devour them, leave the entrails to washout to the water's edge

could entice victims onto its back by singing

some sources say, it can have a offspring with a horse, which would be impossible to drown and had ears shorter then normal

could be k*lled with a silver bullet or heated iron, and after dying, it’ll turn into turf and soft mass, like jellyfish

could be tamed with well placed halter, some sources say in should have sign of a cross on it

the noise a kelpie's tail makes when it entered water sounds like thunder

its howls and wails, as a warning of approaching storms

Each-uisge

Location: Scotland, Ireland, Isle of Man Other names: each-uisce/aughisky/ech-ushkya (Irish), cabyll-ushtey (Manx) Body of water: sea, sea lochs and fresh water lochs

the name means "water horse", literally

has been described as "perhaps the fiercest and most dangerous of all the water-horses", being unpredictable in nature

can shape-shift into fine horse, pony, a handsome man (water weeds, sand or mud in hair) or an enormous bird (such as a boobrie/great auk)

tears apart and devours the entire body of its victim, except for the liver, lungs or heart (depending on the source), and  some times pieces of clothing are also present

preys not only on humans but also cattle and sheep

could be lured out off the water by the smell of roasted meat

can be k*lled with red-hot iron and after being k*lled, leaves jelly-like substance

repelled by silver and fire

sometimes comes out of the water to gallop on land and, despite the danger, if caught and tamed then it will make the finest of steeds

most likely to come out in November

can be ride safety on interior land as long as they don't smell or gets a glimpse of water

because of their pr*datory hunger, they may even turn on their own kind, if the scent of a human rider is strong enough on the monster's body

Ceffyl Dŵr

Location: Wales Other names: x Body of water: mountain pools, waterfalls and seashore (few sources)

most stories say they're fresh water but some sources say there is a salt water version, differing mostly in colour

its characterisation depends on the region, in North Wales its represented as being rather formidable with fiery eyes and a dark forbidding presence, while in South Wales its seen more positively as, at worst a cheeky pest to travellers and at best, luminous, fascinating and sometimes a winged steed

appears as a pony or cob sized horse, dappled grey or sand colour, with hooves facing backwards; or large chestnut or piebald horse

though it appears solid, it can evaporate into mist or grown wings

some sources say, it could transform into frogs

can k*ll its victims by trampling them on the pathways they frequent; or by convincing someone to ride them, only to drown them; or fly them into the air only to turn to mist, dropping the unfortunate rider to his death

like with kelpies, they can be tamed by use of a well placed bridle, though it’s much harder, due to their ability to turn intangible

in some sources its connected with sea-storm: appearing with sea-foam white coat in storm seasons; dapple, grey or white, clumsily stomping about in the ocean waves prior to the storm (possibly brewing up the very storm its sighting precedes); and as large chestnut or piebald horse trotting along the coast after storm

Nykur

Location: Iceland Other names: x Body of water: lake, river, stream and sea

appears as a grey horse with backwards hooves and ears

could change itself into all forms, living or dead, e.g. lambswool or peeled barley

repelled by speaking its name or a synonyms of it (Nennir, Nóni, Vatnaskratti (“water demon”) or Kumbur)

appears on the lake-shore, with half its body in the water, and looks to be quite tame to its unsuspecting victims

if mounted, its skin becomes adhesive and its will ride into the water and drown its victim

its neighing is said to sound like ice cracking

could breed with a horse (giving birth like a normal mare, albeit in the water), its offspring were indistinguishable from those of a normal horse but had a tendency to lie down when splashed with water or when led through belly-deep water

Tangie

Location: Shetland Islands, Orkney Islands Other names: tongie Body of water: fresh and salt water

the name comes from 'tang', which comes from Old Norse "þang" meaning 'seaweed' (probably referring to seaweed of genus Fucus)

appears as a coarse-haired, apple-green pony or a black horse with seaweed or shells in its mane

in other forms, appears as an aged man or merman, also covered in seaweeds

known for terrorizing lonely travellers, especially young women on roads at night near the lochs, whom it will abduct and devour under the water

said to be able to cause derangement in humans and animals

best known for playing a major role in the Shetland legend of Black Eric, a sheep rustler

Nuggle

Location: Shetland Islands, Orkney Islands (few mentions) Other names: neugle, njogel, nuggie, noggle, nogle, nygel, shoepultie/shoopiltee Body of water: rivers, streams and lochs, beside watermills

nocturnal

always male, appearing as a attractive, generously fed and well-conditioned (Shetland) pony or horse, with wheel-like tail which it hides between its back-legs or arched over its back, and sleek coat from a deep bluish-grey through to a very light, almost white, grey

can take many forms, but never of a human

never strays very far from water

fairly gentle disposition, being more prone to playing pranks and making mischief rather than having malicious intents, like stopping the watermill's wheel

some stories state, only magical beings called Finns (Finfolk) were able to ride a nuggle without coming to any harm

Bäckahäst

Location: Scandinavian Other names: brook horse Body of water: rivers, lakes and ponds

appears as a majestic white (sometimes with spotted sides) horse

appears particularly during foggy weather

could be harnessed and made to plough, either because it was trying to trick a person or because the person had tricked the horse into it

Cabyll-Ushtey

Location: Isle of Man, Ireland Other names: glashtyn, cabbyl-ushtey, capall uisce (possibly Irish or Old Irish) Body of water: sea

there are very few tales about it

very similar to each-uisge, but not as dangerous

appears as a pale grey horse, but capable of change into a young man

mostly known for seizing cows and tear them to pieces, stampeding horses, and stealing children

If there are any mistakes or missing informations or questions, feel free to ask.