#Common is definitely a barbaric language

[thestarsandnightskies]

fyi i do NOT give a fuck about the white person's definition of terrorism. so when you got them calling muslims, palestinians and h*um*us terrorists i do not give a fuck and will not try convincing them otherwise.you all should do the same. these are the people that defined the black panther party and movement as an "extremist", "beastly", "barbaric" organization, eventually equating it to terrorism and these are the people who have yet to declare the KKK one.

So ya i do not, did not and will not define my words from the common white man's dictionary so forgive me (sarcasm, do not forgive me) for not speaking their language, i refuse to speak in their tongue because why is it that they can not speak in mine

[thorgans-guide-to-thedas]

Can you guys re-imagine the culture(s) of the Chasind?

Hey anon!

That's a fantastic suggestion! Our campaigns have been taking place mostly in northern Thedas, so we didn't even have Chasind people/Kocari Wilds on the map yet, but you're so right. I didn't know much about the Chasind before reading up on the Bioware Wiki (BW for short) and.....yooof.

We'll definitely do a more thought-out and 'official' entry, but since a lot of our re-imaginings move at a snail's pace, I'll share some of our immediate thoughts after discussing this:

Geography:

It's giving BIG bayou vibes, and we're taking that and running with it, nodding at inspiration of early Black-American culture that emerges in the southern USA and the greater Caribbean Islands. Visuals of the Florida Everglades and Bayou Bartholomew in Arkansas, with a majority of the villages being built on stilts or the massive trees that are similar to the ones seen in the Frostback Basin (Jaws of Hakkon DLC specifically). There are settlements on more solid land, but most of the population and the 'civilians' live inside the swamp, as the tricky terrain doubles as protection and security.

The People:

Based off the BW, we're seeing patterns of love for nature and the seasons, and the mention of "animalistic goddesses" is making us think....DND druid style. (we took one look at the "barbaric" descriptions and tossed it all out, thank you)

Animal companionship is common among Chasind, whether they are "working animals" that warriors and hunters may keep that help them in their tasks, or companions for your local shopkeep or fisherman. Big or small, smart or.....lovable...animals are all around and children may even receive their companion at very young ages, growing up with their animal friend.

Some more magically gifted Chasind can even transform and take an animal form.

Chasind are bonded by clan systems, not blood or background. Meaning that if someone needs help in the village, people will band together to support that person. Once you settle in the swamp, you're family.

The Chasind have a large population of people with darker skin tones, but people with lighter skin tones are not uncommon either.

The Culture

Being situated on top of it, of course, water is EVERYTHING.

Navigating the bayou is no easy feat, and children are taught from a young age through legends, stories, and all sorts of oral histories how dangerous the water can be.

There are definitely some pretty cool eldritch beings living out in the swamp, and there are definitely stories about them.

Fishing culture is HUGE. Fishermen are taught a very sophisticated type of navigation and tracking, most commonly using the stars as a guide to chart the swamp, because the landscape can be incredibly difficult to navigate, especially after dark.

According to the BW, the Chasind have "developed their own language, but are capable of speaking the King's tongue", so we took this as they've managed to blend an older language like the one spoken by their Alamaari ancestors and merged it with the King's tongue (not unlike real-world languages, such as Haitian Creole, Jamaican Patois, or Michif)

People also traverse the swamp on stilts to keep out of the water and out of the way of other water predators. Whether they are walking across the village or going out to the fishing holes to get a daily catch.

Please feel free to add your own comments or thoughts on this re-imagine! This entire project is a joint effort, and having perspectives from other backgrounds is always helpful to make it more inclusive.

[onsomekindofstartrek]

It’s weird. English/Anglophone exceptionalism in popular culture seems to have come 180 degrees around from colonial chauvinism (English is uniquely good/civilized) to the opposite (English is uniquely bad/hard/awkward/“barbaric.”)

And it’s like… bizarre to me because English is just… some language.

Like, sure, there’s a long history of colonial conquest making it one of the most common second languages in the world. That’s not unique. French and Spanish have both done that. And yes, owing to the long period and wide range of countries in which it’s been spoken, and the prestige which English has been given in print, it does have one of the largest documented lexicons of any language, to the extent that it’s often claimed that it’s “the biggest language.” But I genuinely think that’s just situational.

And like, sure, it’s a little notable that it has lexical influences from both Norse and Medieval French, owing to different conquests of the Isles, and from Latin, owing largely to the Catholic Church. But it’s not unique for a language to pick up words from conqueror’s languages, and in fact this happened more recently to Modern Norse, as well as like… most of the common languages in the colonized parts of the world.

Or we can discuss some popular American misconceptions about English spelling and grammar, most of which are down to the fact that in America, English grammar and phonetic reading are literally no longer taught in most schools.

Like, yeah, it’s a little weird that our spelling has a really poor phonetic correspondence to pronunciation and lots of wildly irregular words in the common vocabulary. But so does Danish! It’s not even unique among the Germanic languages much less among languages in general. Vowels in Arabic vary wildly from region to region and can be more or less strictly correspondent to the written or implied letter. There are languages where you have to memorize the pronunciation of most words because they’re written with one or two characters per word.

And our insistence on using present participles to form the unmarked present tense of verbs (is doing, is going, is walking, etc.) is not unique or even particularly strange or clunky either, it’s just that not many West European languages do it. Spanish can do it but it’s not the unmarked form. German technically can but it’s rare. And those are just the two that I speak. I don’t know about the other common ones.

And Christ, no, English is not unique because of [weird pseudolinguistic hypothesis that I heard someone say once and took as fact.] Why are there like a million of these?

So I really wonder why this narrative of English being so exceptionally weird and bad sticks around.

Like, again, I do have to stress how badly most US citizens under a certain age have been failed by the public school system. They’re taught very little grammar and a lot of them are taught to read in elementary school by a completely fallacious method where they don’t sound out a world letter by letter, but instead try to recognize the whole word at once like an adult fluent reader would, or guess from context if they don’t recognize it. Which is not how you acquire literacy. Your average US citizen under 35 has an impoverished formal education in language. Actually I’d go so far as to say that the average US citizen under 35 has an impoverished education about the humanities in general.

But this alone doesn’t account for the prevalence of weird scurrilous myths about the English language.

Is it… is it an attempt by European-American L1 anglophones to paint themselves as victims of cultural imperialism? Because if so… oh boo hoo, the two most powerful empires in history imposed our native language all over the world. How terrible for us, we surely don’t benefit from that all the time. Oh, it’s such a terrible language? Oh wow, you’re right, you’re the real victim.

But that feels like it’s not entirely true either. I mean there’s definitely some useless liberal self-flagellation involved but I don’t think that’s entirely it either. And I get that there’s some amount of overcorrection for the old English-chauvinist narrative, but that doesn’t feel like enough of an explanation either.

Does anyone have a better explanation?

[unicorn-elvis]

yeah sorry colloquial use doesn't in fact matter if the 'colloquial use' is literally just a common misconception. to give an example from a different academic discipline, people colloquially using 'medieval' to mean 'barbaric and uninformed' doesn't mean the middle ages were actually like that, does it?

You're wrong here too. Widespread usages always matter, even when they're incorrect, as they are in this specific sense of 'medeival' you mention. In fact, after decades of pretending otherwise, medeivalists have come to grapple with pop-culture definitions of medieval because they learned that if they don't, white supremacists will BUT! that's irrelevant, because fuck taxonomists and apologists for taxonomists. Their scientific work is fine and good but LANGUAGE IS NOT AND NEVER SHOULD BE BOUND BY TAXONOMISTS. When people who are clearly aware of taxonomixic disticnations say "I want a category defined by coloquial usage" then that is fine.

TLDR: linguistic prescriptivist bullshit is always linguistic prescriptivist bullshit and biolgocal taxonomy doesn't change that.

[bedlessbug]

https://ir.canterbury.ac.nz/server/api/core/bitstreams/1e4f6476-2e5e-44b2-b041-ff33fc85c6ba/content

This combination of estrangement and cognition is important as a tool of distance or tension: placing action or concerns in a remote time or location is a common tactic that allows the familiar to be critically assessed.

Such tactics of defamiliarisation and refamiliarisation are especially crucial within utopian fiction as part of a central strategy of contrast and criticism with the immediate.

For Fredric Jameson, utopian desires are often framed in relations of antinomy: each text presents what is desired as opposed to that which is not, and one utopia may be the antithesis of another.

As part this focus, the utopian body is a site of multiple significance in speculative literature: at once, utopian tropes encourage regard for society, where the utopian body is a body corporate or social body, but community goals and form can also be revealed in the individual body. In utopian fiction, viewing the body is viewing a sign or relation to the whole, whether a representative microcosm or transgressive example

: from Descartes onwards Humanism has been constituted by anthropocentric definitions of the human against the other: sometimes other humans, but particularly against that which is not human: the mechanic or the animal, for example (through traits like rationality, opposable thumbs, tool-use and language).

In the last decades, different forms of posthumanist thought have arisen that challenge this centrality and latently static position of the human, either through emphasizing the ex-centric nature of the human alongside other subjects, or even promoting “becoming other”.

posthuman recognition of non human subjects as part of a wider community

I draw a sharp line between the schizoid personality and actual schizophrenia, which I have the utmost respect for, and for the people who do it--or have it, whatever. I see it this way: the schizoid personality overuses his thinking function at the expense of his feeling function (in Jungian terms) and so has inappropriate or flattened affect; he is android-like. But in schizophrenia, the denied feeling function breaks through from the unconscious in an effort to establish balance and parity between the functions. Therefore it can be said that in essence I regard what is called "schizophrenia" as an attempt by a one-sided mind to compensate and achieve wholeness: schizophrenia is a brave journey into the realm of the archetypes, and those who take it--who will no longer settle for the cold schizoid personality--are to be honored. Many never survive this journey, and so trade imbalance for total chaos, which is tragic. Others, however, return from the journey in a state of wholeness; they are the fortunate ones, the truly sane. Thus I see schizophrenia as closer to sanity (whatever that may mean) than the schizoid is. The terrible danger about the schizoid is that he can function; he can even get hold of a position of power over others, whereas the lurid schizophrenic wears a palpable tag saying, "I am nuts, pay no attention to me.”

The novel’s protagonist, Gurgeh, ironically displays boredom with the safety of the Culture’s taste and sensibilities and is tricked into engagement with the nostalgic appeals of the “organic” primitive: the embodied appeals of barbarism, violence and sensual agency of a fully-immersive and highly-complex game played in a distant, byzantine empire of Azad.

[blogrussianworld]

WHAT IS THE RUSSIAN WORLD OF ALEXANDER DUGIN ABOUT

Being multilingual in both Romanian and Russian as a child, he quickly had the advantage of thinking and speaking simultaneously in two whole distinct languages. For the typical Moldovan household, it is the norm. Romanian, a Romance language related to French, Spanish, and Portuguese, and Italy's Italian have nothing in common with Russian, a Slavic language written in the Cyrillic script. Many Moldovans, like him, are proficient in both languages despite the obvious differences. Like many multilingual kids, he was able to move freely in the linguistic river that had two banks on each side. What it would be like to just speak one language was something he could never have imagined. And to this day, he is still unable. Although Russian is not an official language in his multilingual birth nation, you might claim that "barbarism" - a phrase the Greeks used to characterize those who cannot speak Greek by hearing just their "blah blah" ("bar bar") - is already strange to it. When he was younger, he used to spend each summer at a lively location on the Nistru River that included vibrant wooden camp homes. One summer stands out from all the others, however. To spend a few weeks with the local kids in Moldova, a sizable group of Russian kids traveled as far as Syktyvkar, a city in the Komi Republic in northern Russia. Despite constantly speaking their language, it was the first time in his life that he had ever encountered Russians. Our cities are far apart geographically, yet there aren't many differences in the way we speak Russian. We became close quite fast. When they heard his flawless Russian, they exclaimed, "So, you are Russian?" (Ty russkiy?) He said, "Yes. At the moment, he didn't give that word's definition any thought. He was aware that the term "russkiy" denoted a Russian speaker. Thus, we are all Russian in that sense (russkie). The distinction between them and him is that they are all rossiyane (Russian citizens), but he is just a Russian who lives far from the Russian border. This sounds complicated in English. Both an Englishman and a Scot speak English, yet neither one is an Englishman. Belgians who speak French are neither Swiss who speak German or French. The term "speaker" is used as the major complement in each of these examples. A Swiss may at the very least refer to himself as Swiss-German, but he will never state he is German, German, Teutonic, or whatever. A universal term that conceptualizes such a vast category is available in Russian. Russkiy is located there. In Moscow, Yerevan, or Almaty, one may simply get Russian citizenship. In his current wrath against the West, Vladimir Putin brought all the Anglo-Saxons together, and he seemed to come from the same unending classification that russkiy supplies to him in his own language. The phrase "collective West," which does not discriminate between the Portuguese and the Swedes, the Greeks and the Americans, became well-known in Russia thanks to Putin. The fictional "collective West," according to the Russian president and many of his followers, has always had at least one common goal: a plot against Russia. Even though Google translates both of these phrases as "Russian," russkiy in Russian refers to a far larger idea than rossiyanin. Additionally, russkiy, which has just two syllables and is simpler to say than rossiyanin, which has four, is used considerably more often. Any distinction between the two may first seem to be a mere hair-splitting pedanticism. Nevertheless, it is difficult to miss the fact that practically all post-Soviet nations, including his own, have territorial conflicts with Russia based on language and identity. Simply because Russia is now publicly pursuing its Russkiy Mir (Russian globe) by "legally" annexing additional overseas areas, there is a greater need to pay attention to the concept's fundamental significance from the outset. It's even possible to surmise that this one unidentified word is the root of many problems.

In addition to their different pronunciations, rossiyanin and russkiy vary in that the first term comes from Rossiya (national country), whilst the latter word comes from Rus—historical ancient Russia, motherland spirit, without boundaries of Kievan Rus'. The coordination of nations and the world community come to an agreement on the boundary for a rossiyanin. However, in Putin's opinion, these things are very susceptible to historical errors. As a result, the Russian president decided to reconsider the Ukrainian state's whole status and blamed Lenin for that "error" and "injustice". Rus' does not fall within this category. For Putin, the traditional Rus' is Russia's true boundary.

Tất nhiên, Kiev là nơi bắt nguồn của nền văn hóa cổ xưa này. Putin đề cập đến văn hóa của Rus khi ông tuyên bố rằng Nga có một "nền văn hóa 1000 năm tuổi", chứ không phải Rossiya. Một russkiy không bị hạn chế bởi địa lý hoặc các hiệp ước, trái ngược với một rossiyanin sở hữu hộ chiếu. Trên bản đồ, Rus' không tồn tại. Ý nghĩa thực sự của tiếng Nga không được tìm thấy trong các tài liệu bằng văn bản. Nói một cách đơn giản, Mẹ Nga có thể được tìm thấy ở bất cứ nơi nào ngôn ngữ mẹ đẻ của bà được sử dụng rộng rãi. Sự khác biệt nhỏ nhưng quan trọng giữa nói tiếng Nga và thực sự là người Nga là đây. Một người không chỉ là người Nga; họ cũng nói ngôn ngữ này. Bản sắc và ngôn ngữ vô tình trở thành một. Hình ảnh Shaman trẻ tuổi đang đi trên cánh đồng lúa chín vàng dưới bầu trời xanh (đại diện cho lá cờ Ukraine) trong video âm nhạc cho bài hát ủng hộ chiến tranh của Điện Kremlin Ya Russkiy ("Tôi là người Nga") Sự tự do tiếp tục nói tiếng Nga mà không nhất thiết phải trở thành công dân của nhà nước Nga là điều mà Ukraine đang đấu tranh trong cuộc xung đột này. Không phải tất cả người Nga đều là người Nga, cuộc kháng chiến của Ukraine lớn tiếng và rõ ràng tuyên bố.

[draegonkin]

Beneath Shadowed Wings: Chapter 7 – The 2.4.1 Deal

(Alternate Title: A Jewel in the Desert)

The group had a few minor details to clear up before leaving the city.  First, they stopped by their tavern and left one of the Rocky Talkies with Selkie, who they gave the radio handle “Seal”. Next Olek and Bitsy stopped by their favorite armorer: Killa.  Olek gave him the vivisector pieces to include in a piece of armor from the smith, while Bitsy asked for a unique set of gauntlets that could be worn when she was in beast form.  Killa was a little bit taken back the request, but he agreed to try.

Finally, they went to Khaless’ representative to the Consortium and signed up as a group, while Bitsy agreed to remain on as an independent contractor.  After a little bit of discussion, inspiration from Olek’s coupon idea to sell two for one drinks at their new bar, and an interesting in advertising their business, they agreed on the name “2.4.1. Drinks”.  The representative thought they might be joking, but when assured they weren’t, he signed them on as the Consortium’s newest protector group.

The next morning, they met with Korvis Blazebeard, journeyman of the Consortium and his caravan members, Nell Brant the driver, Alistar and Riva Keen the animal handlers, and Ipsen Rillis their quartermaster.  Korvis explained to them that they would need to stay with the caravan at all times. He was glad to have a cleric of Ariss with them and made an arrangement with Kizzy to fill up their water each day in exchange for a bonus at the end of their trip.  Soon they set out, Bitsy taking the form of a Coyote as long as she could before resting, ranging out ahead of them to scout.

Eventually they came to some ruins that the vague road they were on passed through.  Curious, Thyme moved on slightly ahead to check them out, Bitsy coming with to keep watch on him.  The ruins appeared to be little more than eroded old buildings and some four armed, insectoid humanoids disguised as stones among the ruins.

Underestimating their prey the creatures, known as Thri-kreen, attempted to take the two by surprise.  Unfortunately, both proved much heartier than they expected and they fought back. Thyme sent up a series of sparks into the sky to signal the others, drawing them into the battle.  The others arrived, moving in to help.  As Bitsy killed the first of the two attackers, and one leapt to the walls of the ruins to flee, three more jumped from the stones and immediately moved to attack the caravan.  Olek, using the powers of his new axe for the first time imbued his strike with the power of a lion and leapt at his foe, his axe felling the creature.

The remaining Thri-kreen stuck at Nell and the water within the cart.  The third attempted to kill Absinthe, but an arrow from Thorn killed it, pinning it to the wagon.  The bard used magic to be sure that Nell did not die from her wounds.  Desperate now, one grabbed a barrel of water, and one dragged of the form of Nell, paralyzed by the venom of the creature.  Fortunately, Bitsy was quicker, killing one, while Kizzy used a blast of divine power to kill the other.  Safe, Nell thanked them profusely, and soon they headed off again.

After a total of six days they arrived at the intimidating Gabran stronghold.  A massive manmade pit surround the entire fortress, a bridge spanning the gap across.  The fort was made of red stone and iron, and a decrepit shanty town was built in the surrounding pit.  An arena was there, as well as a market for the servants and prisoners.  Outside the pit was a small organized town belonging to the Consortium, known by the inhabitants as Gateway Outpost.

The group stopped in at the Gateway Outpost, an extension of the Consortium here in the wasteland. Once there Korvis pulled them aside and gave them a few words of advice.  He warned them that crime here was punished by stints as indentured servants in the mines or arena run by the Gabran clan and that they would need to be careful to stay on the good side of the Legions.  Indicating that he knew they had some business beyond their Consortium contract, he said he’d been informed by Khaless to wait for them before heading back to Jarmaulk.

Knowing they had a contact to meet here they headed to the local tavern: The Last Oasis.  There were a few people there, a human and a few assorted members of the Consortium, a few workers from the Gateway outpost.  Beyond that were two individuals that stood out: A half-orc wearing a finely crafted breastplate of mithril and a giant falchion, and a kobold wearing a fine hat on his head with a whip at his side.  After a brief awkward conversation, they determined this was indeed Rastin’s contact at the stronghold.  Olek sat beside the other half orc.  The large armored man looked at him and said, “Thog think needs drink.” Olek wholeheartedly agreed. Smiling, Thog asked, “You speak orc?” Olek replied in orc, with a smile. Thog let out a sigh of relief and said, “Thank goodness. Common is such a barbaric language, don’t you agree?  So few words for such important things!  It is so refreshing to speak a civilized tongue again!”

They became fast friends.

Meanwhile Rufus the kobold was telling the party that with their information about the general location of Gbranth’s tomb, he was able to focus his information gathering.  He knew that there was a monolith in a city called Cliffkeep, at the edge of the desert, that spoke of the entrance to the tomb. The Ember Chief of the Gabran had found it, but Rufus did not know what it said.  He also gave them more information about the situation with the clan’s laws. Everything in this desert was theirs, in their own eyes.  Everything in, above and under belonged to the Gabran clan.  The group deduced that telling them about the amulet was likely a bad idea, to which Rufus agreed enthusiastically. He told them that to enter the desert without permission of the clan was a crime that would land them in the mines for decades.  They would need to get permission of the Ember Chief or one of his War Masters, and would need a good reason to be entering the desert.

Thog also indicated that because he was one of the Champions of the arena he could get an audience with the Ember Chief, though he would only be able to bring two of them with him. This gave them some things to think about.

As evening settled, Thyme pondered their problem.  He thought about what he knew of men in power and thought that appealing to man’s baser nature might get them somewhere, so he thought about finding out what kind of partners the Chief preferred.  The obvious conclusion was checking in at a local brothel might shed light on the information he sought.  And despite Kizzy begging the young man not to go – and telling him he couldn’t because he was too young; it was past his bed thyme – he went anyways, as a rebellious teen does.  Olek and Thorn went to watch and see what would unfold.  Bitsy went to keep an eye on things, disguised as a mouse.

Eventually they entered the Common grounds, even worse up close than it looked from the rim of the pit. It was a rundown district where workers in the mines, mostly slaves and indentured servants, lived.  Those that lived there were weary and a bit on the hungry side.  In a district like that the brothel they were able to find was equally terrible.  Thyme went in undeterred.

What followed was perhaps one of the most awkward exchange in the history of the world of Alia.

Thyme entered and saw at once that the woman running this establishment was part of the Wildfire legion that ran this part of the town.  She could tell immediately that he was out of his depth.  As he awkwardly pressed for information she demanded that he pay for a girl, or get out.  He was hesitant to choose a girl, so the Mistress of the house chose one that would suit a “first thymer”.  A middle-aged gnome known as Jewel came forward and after Thyme paid the Mistress 50 gold pieces led him to a room in the back.  Mouse-Bitsy followed.

For the next few minutes Thyme avoided the suggestive advances of Jewel, even going so far as to offer her some dried trail rations if she was hungry.  He learned that few from the stronghold came here, and that they had their own places for that kind of entertainment there.  They were more likely to come to the arena than here, though a few might visit and spend their winnings.

Once he’d learned that he left her room.  The house Mistress gave him a pitying look.  Olek patted him on the back consolingly letting him know that it happened to everyone.  Thorn pointed out it was his first time.  Later Mouse-Bitsy was sympathetic, telling the young man that she wouldn’t tell anyone what really happened if he wanted.

The four of them made a quick stop by the arena, watching an orc fight a dire wolf.  Thorn lost five silver on a bet when the orc knocked the wolf out cold.  Curious they asked a few denizens of the city about the arena and found out that anyone could join if they proved themselves against some weaker beasts.  A member of the legion offered to show them some of the beasts they had, rather proudly.  Bothered, Bitsy, no longer a mouse, went with the others to see them.  She found them in small cages, scarred, feral, and mad. It ate at the deepest part of her nature.  She clenched her jaw and left with the others, for now.

Back at The Last Oasis, Kizzy waited for Thyme with a look of disapproval.  Absinthe watched the frustrated Tiefling, keeping her company. When Thyme returned, he was very quiet about what had happened which only seemed to confirm their beliefs.

Eventually Kizzy told them that the temple to Ariss here could put them all up for the night. Absinthe and Thyme took her up on the offer.  Olek wanted to spend some more time drinking with Thog, and Thorn was more comfortable at the inn.  Bitsy, to Kizzy’s surprise stayed at the inn as well.  She told Kizzy it was because she preferred it, but in all honesty, she didn’t feel comfortable around gods after being raised to believe in the Old Way her whole life.

They rested for the night and agreed to meet in the morning to determine a course of action.

After a restless night, Thyme woke early and was met outside the temple by a hulking goliath name Bron. The man, a carpenter in the city, handed Thyme a crate containing a new lute, and instructions for his next one. The young Tiefling went back into the temple and played a few notes on the beautiful crystalline lute, the color of it shifting with the notes he played.

Thyme was not looking forward to how jealous Absinthe was going to be…

[peculiar-lover]

Appreciated

A.n: I noticed that I didn't have much fluffy stuff when it came to our lovely Neville. So hope you enjoyed this quick writing I literally wrote in like 30 mins, so sorry if it's kind of bad. I got the idea from the tik tok "I just wanna be appreciated"

Y/n notices Neville Longbottom as everyone in Hogwarts is buzzed out on the Triwizard tournament. Neville tries to help put his friend as best as he can but is brushed off, y/n notices this.

Everyone around you seemed riled up, going crazy about how each of the four "lucky" contestants were going to get through the next tournament or who was going to win. You on the other hand thought that the whole tournament was barbaric and an instant death call, you didn't want to see anyone get hurt. You couldn't get any quiet anywhere around your dorm or common room, so you were now sitting by yourself at the library hoping to get some school work done.

You were finally free from all the talking about the Triwizard tournament, or so you thought. Before you knew it, you heard Harry, Ron, and Hermoine talking about the tournament on the other side of the bookshelf. You felt frustrated and annoyed once again, but couldn't seem to ignore them. There was a small section in the bookshelf that was slightly empty and small enough to be able to see the trio clearly, but not big enough for them to notice you watching them, snooping into their every word. You didn't hear much until you saw both Hermoine and Ron being asked to leave. You saw that professor Moody called in a boy.

"Neville, help Harry put away his books." A boy walked awkwardly to Harry. Your eyes widened slightly as you saw his face. Cute. You thought to yourself seeing Neville for the first time. You decided this time to stop snooping and focus back on your school but your ears started listening as Neville started to talk about wood?

"You know if you're interested in plants, you'd be better off with a gersherks guide to herbology, " Neville started. His words hooked you only because you were going to take his advice and look into the book yourself. You were not doing too well in Herbology.

You peeked again through the bookshelf to look at Harry's Reaction, he didn't seem too interested. It made your brows furrow a tad but you kept listening as Neville continued.

"There is a wizard, i-in Nepal who is growing gravity-resistant trees--" Harry interrupted him.

"Neville, no offense but I really don't care about plants." His words seemed to obviously upset Neville. Harry got up from his seat, looking frustrated, and left. Through the small hole, you could see Neville start stacking his books.

"I think that's fascinating." You stated softly enough for Neville to search where the voice came from. You stood from your spot and went around the bookshelf and showed yourself. Neville blushed a bit realizing that you heard Harry brush him off. "I-im sorry?" Neville mumbled, trying to confirm if you were talking about his previous topic.

"T-the gravity resistant wood. I think that's fascinating and might be quite useful information one day considering I really like to play quidditch." You smiled at him, while slowly grabbing a few of Harry's books and helping Neville stack them up.

"R-really? I just found out about it i-in the daily prophet. They always have the latest herbology news." Neville continued. You giggled, realizing that Neville was pretty passionate and well acquainted with Herbology.

"That's nice to know, I'll definitely look more into that section from now on. I may not be so good at Herbology, but I do appreciate how fascinating and powerful the subject is, in my opinion of course. Very complex." Neville's faced beamed. He felt excited that someone was interested in his words.

"I've always said the same. I-i love herbology, though my grandma doesn't really like that. B-but I try to learn as much as I can."

"That's nice." You smiled kindly not really knowing how to answer him. You didn't want to barge into his relationship with his grandma so quickly especially since you've just met him. He also kept quiet trying to find a way to continue the conversation. Not because he wanted to talk about his favorite subject, but because he wanted to continue talking to the cutest person he has ever met.

Neville noticed your body language and saw that you were planning to leave. "I can show you more!" He quickly said, quite loudly enough to catch your attention. "About other plants, I-if you'd like of course." Neville was nervous, embarrassed that he really just asked you that. He felt dumb knowing that you wanted to leave and not hang out with him anymore

"I'd love that actually." You cut him off from his panic. His eyes widened in shock and smiled giddily.

"Brilliant! I'll just put away the rest of these books." He started to say while rapidly stacking up books and carrying them. He then looked up from the stack that was in his hands and saw you carrying a stack of books that were higher than your head. You popped your head from the side of the stack.

"No need to do it all alone. This way we can get started much faster." You smiled. Neville smiled excitedly realizing that he will get to talk to you more.

A.n: hope y'all liked it! Please request other things you would like me to write! I'm realizing how hard it is now to come up with stuff lol. Please REBLOG! I love the hearts but if I see more reblogs I know that I need to update more!!!!

[gravityflops]

Parent Guidance Recommended

word count: 3,281

focus characters: Pacifica Northwest, Fiddleford H. McGucket

warnings: child neglect, implications of alcoholism, implications of infidelity, mugging, knives, threatening, generally awful people

summary: On the worst birthday she’s ever had, Pacifica finds herself seeking support from a source she’d least expect; the new owner of the once-Northwest Manor, her own former home.

Pacifica was turning fourteen on the Fourth of July. A perfect birthday. Perfect girl. Perfect family.

Her parents would throw a party. Like any Northwest party, with gorgeous, itchy lace ball gowns and impeccable etiquette, each word in every conversation spoken with flawless flow, with purposeful posture and respect-demanding mannerisms. A perfect party for perfect people, with perfect food prepared.

After claiming her designated ruby-studded chair at the dinner table, she would be shocked when her plate was revealed to her. Deep-fried Roareos. Stacked in a small sweet-powdered delicious heap in front of her, chocolately, cream-filled cookies, dipped in batter and deep-fried to perfection. Sugary. Messy. Pacifica had never had it before. How did her parents know she wanted to try it?

She turned her head to cast a quizzical look to her parents, who’d been watching her, holding each other with loving smiles directed at her. A warm feeling spread inside her like warm butter. She reached for a fork.. but hesitated, and hovered her hand over the plate instead. She casted another glance at her parents to see their reaction. No cold response was elicited so far. In fact, she could have sworn her father nodded in approval.

She delicately picked one of the cookies up with her thumb and forefinger, and raised it to her lips to nibble at it. Her senses were flooded with warm, sweet goodness. Just as amazing as she imagined. She stuffed the rest in her mouth, going so far as to lick her fingers. Her lips were coated with melted cream. She neglected the napkins beside her plate to instead lick the sugar mixture from her lips. Barbaric. But her parents didn’t seem to mind either of the actions. She thought she even heard an amused giggle from her mother.

“Sweetie, would you like your presents now or after you’re finished?” Priscilla— no, this was Mom— asked. Pacifica paused. She had a say? Were they not on a schedule? She supposed if she was given the option, she would love to open gifts while she snacked on the rest of the Roareos.

“Now, please,” the young blond girl responded. On cue, one of the butlers was beside her, placing a neatly-packaged gift box on her lap. A beautiful purple silk ribbon sat on top, holding it together. She couldn’t recall the last time she felt so eager to reveal its contents.

What was inside? Some comfy clothes? Paint, perhaps? A cute animal plush that would contrast the creepy porcelain dolls in her room? The possibilities were endless.

Delightfully, she tugged at it. The box opened. As she peered inside, her excitement dissolved. The warm feeling turned to ice.

The bell. The one her father carried on his person at all times. The one that willed his command in the mansion. The one Pacifica hated. Suddenly Preston was standing over her, slowly picking the bronze item up.

Loving smile gone, replaced with a disapproving, even disgusted scowl. She shrank in her seat.

“Pacifica Elise Northwest,” he boomed. “So it’s true. You’re mingling with the common, ignoble crowds these days.”

“No!” she found herself crying out. “It’s not like that! I have to!”

“Have to what? Work a lowly job as a waitress in that slobbish cesspit? At that- that disgusting, sorry excuse for a dining destination? THAT’S NOT ACCEPTABLE EVER. How can you call yourself a Northwest? How can you call yourself our daughter?”

The very first thought she woke up to was that it was too good to be real.

Tangled in her sheets, warm tears trickling down her cheeks. She sniffled and quickly wiped them away before slipping out of bed.

The house was dark. Silent. The clock on the wall read 7:52. Her parents’ bedroom was empty as she passed. It smelled of wine. They would not be back for a while. Pacifica found herself releasing a sigh, her tension easing a little, even if that meant she’d be spending her birthday alone for the very first time. She leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes, trying to recall the good part of the dream, trying to revive the taste of the sugary treat, but it was gone. Soured by the unreality of it. All it was doing was making her hungry belly ache.

When checking the refrigerator, cabinets and pantry and coming to the realization that all that was left was a loaf of bread, a half-empty tube of Bringles and a couple dinner kits. No breakfast food. Not even a single egg. Not even leftovers. Something like despair and disappointment blossomed inside her. She would have to eat at the diner again…

She snagged her wallet from the counter only to find her twenty had disappeared, leaving only a couple measly ones and fives and whatever coins were loose inside. She felt the tears building a little again and slapped the wallet shut to try to stifle them. There was a time she had nearly everything, but now after Weirdmaggedon, she couldn’t even trust that her own hard-earned cash wouldn’t be snagged if left around her own greedy birthgivers. Her strength was being sapped by the will not to burst into a sobbing fit. There was enough in there to cover breakfast at work when she got to Greasy’s, at least.

With her belly still growling, she changed out of her nightwear, threw on her apron and a pair of aviators and began the walk to work.

The day was a bright one, sunny and a little breezy. A pleasant temperature. It did not reflect how Pacifica felt. Despite the summer weather, she pulled her scarf over her head, casting shade over her face. The neighborhood streets were mostly void of people, every house gated off. Just because they lost the mansion did not mean the Northwests were living in squalor, but her spending money was strictly monitored. Her parents now enforced that any money she spent, she’d have to earn. A fourteen year old. A child. Just so her birthgivers could ensure a few extra dollars in their account.

Pacifica couldn’t help but feel the fanciness of the neighborhood was almost deceitful. Her own household was a prime example. Her own rumbling tummy was a prime example. She wondered if there were others who lived in these houses that had similar problems as hers. Unlikely here.. however there were definitely others, people who’d been pushed to extremes just to get by.

Whether that was the reason behind why Pacifica soon found herself being followed halfway through the trip, she didn’t know. The feeling of being watched intensified by the minute, and glances into the reflections of shop windows told her there was a person. They refused to let up for at least a couple of blocks, the likelihood that they were just going the same direction by chance was steadily decreasing. They probably saw her leaving the wealthier neighborhood. The young girl picked up her pace. It did her no good.

The next moments were a blur. Her arm was snatched. When she struggled, a slice put a stop to it. Her arm began to bleed. Something sharp pressed to her throat, stiffening every muscle in her body. Vulgar language was hurled at her, demanding cooperation before her purse was yanked from her shoulder, and she was thrown to the curb. She was left winded, bruised, panicked and hyperventilating. She struggled for her breath back.

Mugged. She’d been mugged for the few measly dollars she had on her. And the fact that her first thought after all that was concern for what her parents would think that she let those precious dollars be nicked in the first place.. it only increased her distraught. Her breaths hastened more and more, and she didn’t realize her tears had finally started to flow until she was already sprinting down the street, her vision muddled. Every step felt like thunder to her ears. Home. She just wanted to go home. Maybe she couldn’t be herself as much, and maybe she was always busy, under constant supervision. But at least there was stability. At least there was certainty of the future. At least it was comfortable, at least there was always food on the table, breakfast, lunch and dinner. At least her father never stumbled around reeking of alcohol while only Lord knew where her mother was. Maybe her parents weren’t the best to other people but at least she could be certain they were true to each other. At least she could pretend everything was fine.

Pacifica wasn’t sure how far she’d gone. She was sweaty, she felt gross and sticky. Her legs were sore, threatening to give out if she went any further. She was still bleeding. She ached everywhere. But she’d reached her destination. She stood at the bottom of a familiar, long driveway, and at the top, sitting on a large hill, towering over the town stood the proud family mansion. Waves of nostalgia and sorrow crashed over her. Everything felt so gross. Every memory tainted by the knowledge of her parents’ true nature. She couldn’t even speak to anyone, not even her parents. Who would listen to a rich brat whine about how she used to be richer? Certainly not any of the townsfolk.

She found herself staring at the manor for a while, not entirely sure what to do.

“...What am I doing here…?” Pacifica whispered, sniffling and reaching for the tissues she kept in her purse, only to be hit with the whirlwind of events that had just happened again. Her arm stung. She could barely hold herself upright. She felt so… so tired. She meekly wiped her nose on her sleeve, and started to turn around when suddenly she bumped into someone.

“Wo-ah there, kiddo, careful, better watch where ya—” a cheerful voice piped, before cutting itself off when the sight of Pacifica in her disheveled state registered. “Huh? Hey.. Ah’ know you.”

Color drained from Pacifica’s cheeks. This guy again.. Why was he here? She quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks as she tried a witty remark, but — “Y-y-ea-h, well-, wh-o w-ou-uldn’-t-” — ultimately failing when her quivering body wouldn’t stop heaving sobs. Again she sniffled. Disgusting. In front of the hillbilly too.

McGucket’s face morphed into something like sympathy. He kneeled down to her height. “Ah- hey, what’s goin’ on kiddo? Are ya alright?”

Pacifica parted her lips. She wanted to say yes. Her instincts screamed at her to say yes. She could practically hear her birthgivers demanding her to say yes. She had to be perfect. She had to be flawless. She had to be stoic, proud, happy, for her family.

But that’s not what came out.

“n-NO!” she cried, her knees finally buckling as if the years of abuse weighing down on her shoulders finally came crashing down on top of her. Her face buried in her hands, sobbing violently into them. She wasn’t okay, she wasn’t okay, she wasn’t okay. Wails and cries escaped. She couldn’t stop the tears anymore. She was in so much pain, she was so alone. The sobs wouldn’t stop. The raging storm of emotion only continued to demolish her walls, clawing at her pride and self esteem. Everything she pretended to be crashed and burned at that moment.

Fiddleford had been a little stunned by the sudden breakdown, but he started to piece the situation together from the bits and pieces the poor girl was babbling. He didn’t get up and walk away like Pacifica was expecting him to. He stayed put, even placed his hand on her shoulder to try to console her. When she didn’t flinch away from him, the old man started rubbing circles on her back as she cried and cried. Fiddleford never was the best at comfort.. though he could only imagine how long this outburst had been bottled up, and he thought it best that Pacifica let it all out before trying to say anything.

It was a while before Pacifica’s sobs began to calm enough to allow her to speak in more coherent sentences. The story became clearer. She spoke about how her parents had mistreated her, like she was an accessory rather than a human being, a literal child. How things had been getting worse this past year since they were forced to move due to her father’s irresponsible stock market decisions during Weirdmaggedon, to preserve what fortune they had left. How she felt more at home at the diner than she ever did at her own residence. How she hardly saw her parents anymore. How everything had changed for the worst. The way her parents had become about money, even how they scolded her for ‘nagging’ about her birthday the previous day, when it had been the first time she brought it up in half a year. It all hurt terribly to speak of but Pacifica couldn’t help but notice the sudden weightless feeling after getting everything out. She was surprised to find Old Man McGucket was still listening.

“Y’know,” he spoke finally, “Ah knew a fella once who thought ‘e had everythin’ before ‘e lost it all too. ‘Should’a been there for ‘im like he needed.”

Pacifica was quiet for a moment. “..W..ho was he?”

Fiddleford only waved his hand. “Ol’ college buddy. Doin’ mighty fine these days. Now whaddya say we get off’a the street an’ patch up that lil’ ol’ scratch a’ yours inside?”

It tooka moment to register the question through his southern accent, but when she did, her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “..I- inside..?”

Inside the mansion. Pacifica almost couldn’t believe it. Old Man McGucket was the one that bought the Northwest Manor. She wondered how on earth a former homeless man was possibly able to afford such a grand purchase, until peeks into a couple rooms along the hallway that had been filled with computers and strange machinery told her she didn’t know nearly as much about McGucket as she previously thought.

It was so strange walking through the hallways again. Everything was the same, but different. Was the grand rustic architecture and furniture always so beautiful? And… were those.. raccoons she was spotting out of the corner of her eyes?

McGucket led her to a room with a couch- a familiar silver-themed room with a certain carpet pattern. It looked nearly the same, except for the banjo leaning against the couch’s armrest, and maybe a few more stains than its previous flawless condition “for guests- that is, for guests to look at”. Despite her emotional state, she found herself smiling at the memory of her adventures with Dipper Pines, trying to bust that ghost… until she recalled the punishment her parents had made for her after that was all over. She began to feel a little sick. Her gaze dropped to the floor as McGucket trudged into the room, plopped onto the couch and patted the cushions beside him. Hesitantly, she followed him and did as gestured. It was.. weird to be back. She wiped her eyes again.

“How’d that’a happen?”

“..What?” the question hit her like a slap.

“The cut.” He gestured to the bleeding injury with a bandaged hand.

“...Oh.” Again, her gaze dropped. Her eyes began to mist again before she shut them. “..I-I.. I was.. um.. mugged on the way here… They stole my favorite purse…” Shame burned at her belly. She didn’t see any sign of judgement in McGucket’s reaction, though. He didn’t ask why she let that happen, or why she wasn’t responsible enough to bring someone with her. There was only concern for her.

“Oh.. ‘Ahm sorry that’a happened. Gravity Falls’s usually safe.. er- ah..” The old man scratched the back of his head. “‘least, it’s not the people ya gotta usually worry ‘bout.”

“Heh.. yeah..” Shrugging, the old man pulled out a full-blown first aid kid, temporarily baffling Pacifica for a moment. “Wai- were you just carrying that—?”

The question went without a response as McGucket went straight to disinfecting the cut. “‘Doesn’t look terri-bubly deep,” he piped. “Should’a stopped bleeding by now but we’ll patch it up ta’ keep it safe while it’s a-healin’.”

“Wait.. how do you know how to do this..?” Pacifica asked, furrowing her eyebrows a little. The old man gave her a cheery grin.

“Well, ‘gotta pick up somethin’ ‘bout it after livin’ in the dump buildin’ evil whatsits and thingamajigs outta rusty metal for a couple’a decades.”

..Oh. Well, that would make sense, she supposed.. Briefly, the question as to why he was being so nice to her after the way she and her family treated him crossed her mind. She wondered if that friend he mentioned had something to do with it… Suddenly she found herself wishing she’d paid closer attention to the details of the relationships between the other people involved in the zodiac. She guessed it could be that hotter Mr. Pines (or.. Dr. Pines?), she recalled seeing some kind of emotional exchange between him and McGucket during Weirdmaggedon.

Occupied with her thoughts, she hardly realized McGucket had completely finished with the bandage until he announced it.

“Done!” he cheered, stuffing the first aid kit back into the oblivion from which it came. Weird. More Gravity Falls weirdness. “...Thanks.”

“Anytime, sweetie. Y’always got’a listenin’ ear right here if ya’ need it.”

Pacifica gave him a small, grateful smile. The old man would never know what that meant to her.

“I.. I don’t know..” she sighed softly. “Today was just… awful… It’s the first birthday I’ll be spending alone, and I guess it’s… getting to me…”

“Yer birthday’s today?? Ah, Ah’m sorry, sugerbun,” McGucket spoke. “Awful break, goin’ through somethin’ like a’this on’a birthday mornin’. Say, ya always got a place right ‘ere if ya need. Plenty a’ empty bedrooms.”

Pacifica raised her head. “...R...Really..?”

McGucket beamed. “Why sure! Ya remind me a’ my lil’ Tator Tot, Ah’ miss ‘em somethin’ terrible. It gets a lil’ lonely in this ‘ere big ol’ mansion sometimes and ah wouldn’t mind a visit from some young folk from a’time ta’ time.”

She could… she could visit. Whenever she wanted? Her old home, without her parents around. McGucket was that okay with her? Even going so far as to compare her to (presumably) his own kid? That was… incredible. Before thinking it through, she threw her arms around the old man, chorusing her ‘thank you’s with a bubble of laughter. Though startled, Fiddleford slowly returned the hug with a warm smile.

He stank quite a bit. Pacifica recoiled a little at the realization of what she was doing. Ew. What would people think of her if they caught her doing something so unthinkable? Willingly embracing this stinky old man who…. gave incredible hugs.. Her concern suddenly dissolved. In its stead, a certain safety appeared, and she melted into it a little more. It was the same feeling she craved in her dreams. Dirt didn’t matter at all anymore. The feeling of a parental embrace shielding her from the unpleasantness of the world was all she could bring herself to care about at that moment. It felt so warm… Before she knew it, she was tearing up again.

“...Thank you, McGucket..”

“Heheh, anytime, sugarbun. Say, since it is yer birthday, whaddya say we hit th’ town an’ find somethin’ ta’ cheer ya up?”

Pacifica wiped her eyes with her palm. What an offer... To think a year ago she would never had even considered walking around with the old kook as a possible option, but.. She found herself looking forward to it. “I… I would love that.”

[Part 1 of ??? possibly 2??]

[youneedasoultraveller]

Is the popular headcanon that Nicky was illiterate, stupid and barbaric fitting in the stereotypes about Southern Europeans / Mediterraneans ? I’m guessing it’s from the American part of the fandom that’s choosing to not respectfully write Nicky since he is white while being virulent towards anybody that doesn’t perfected and accurately write Joe because he is MENA.

Hello!

Mind you, I am neither a psychologist, a sociologist nor a historian, so of course be aware these are my own views on the whole drama.

But to answer your question, yes, I personally think so. It definitely comes from the American side, but I have seen Northern Europeans do that too, often just parroting the same type of discourse that Anglos whip out every other day.

There is an abysmal ignorance of Medieval history – even more so when it concerns countries that are not England: there is this common misconception that Europe in the Middle Ages was this cultural backwater full of semi-barbaric people that stems unfortunately not only from trying to (correctly) reframe colonialist approaches to the historiographies of non-European populations (that is, showing the Golden Age of Islamic culture, for instance, as opposed to what were indeed less culturally advanced neighbours), but also from distortions operated by European themselves from the Renaissance onwards, culminating in the 18th century Enlightenment philosophes categorising the Middle Ages as the Dark Ages.

Now this approach has been time and time again proven to be a made-up myth. I will not go into detail to disprove each and every single one misconception about the Medieval era because entire books have been written, but just to give you an example: there was no such a thing as a ius primae noctis/droit du seigneur; people were aware that the Earth was not flat (emperors, kings, saints, etc, they were depicted holding a globe in their hands); people were taking care of their hygiene, either through the Roman baths, or natural springs, or private tubs that the wealthier strata of the population (and especially the aristocracy) owned. The Church was not super happy about them not because it wanted people to remain dirty, but because often these baths were for both men and women, and it was not that in favour of them showing off their bodies to one another. Which, you know, we also don’t do now unless you go to nudist spas. It was only during the Black Death in the 14th century that baths were slowly abandoned because they became a place of contagion, and they went into disuse (or better, they changed purpose and became something like bordellos). And, lastly, there was certainly a big chunk of the population that was illiterate, but certainly it was not the clergy, which was THE erudite class of the time. It was in monasteries and abbeys that knowledge was passed and preserved (as well as lost unfortunately often, such as the case for the largest part of classical literature).

So what does this mean? According to canon, Nicolò was an ex priest who fought in the First Crusade. This arguably means that at the very least he was a cadet son of a minor noble family (or a wealthy merchant one) who was part of the clergy. As such, historically he could have been neither illiterate nor a dirty garbage cat in his daily life.

Let’s then talk geography. Southern Europe (and France) was far, far more advanced than the North at the time and Italy remained the cultural powerhouse of the continent until the mid-17th century. Al Andalus in the Iberian Peninsula, the Italian States,  the Byzantine Empire (which called itself simply Roman Empire, whose population defined itself as Roman and cultural heirs of the Latin and Greek civilisations): these places have nothing to do with popular depictions of Medieval Europe that you mainly see from the Anglos. Like @lucyclairedelune rightfully pointed out: not everyone was England during the plague.

Also the Middle Ages lasted one thousand years. As a historical age, it’s way longer than anything we had after that. So of course habits varied, there was a clear collapse right after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, but then things develop, you know?

Anyway, back to the point in question. Everything I whipped up is not arcane knowledge: it’s simply having studied history at school and spending a few hours reading scientific articles on the internet which are not “random post written by random Anglo on Tumblr who can hardly find Genoa on a map”.

Nicolò stems from that culture. The most advanced area in Europe, possibly a high social class, certainly educated, from Genoa, THE maritime superpower of the age (with…Venice). It makes absolutely no sense that he would not be able to speak anything past Ligurian: certainly Latin (the ecclesiastical one), maybe the koine Greek spoken in Constantinople, or Sabir, or even the several Arabic languages from the Med basin stretching from al Andalus to the Levant. Because Genoa was a port, and people travel, bring languages with them, use languages to barter.

And now I am back to your question. Does this obstinacy in writing him as an illiterate beast (basically) feed into stereotypes of Mediterranean people (either from the northern or the southern shore)? It does.

It is a typically Anglo-Germanic perspective that of describing Southern (Catholic) Europeans are hot-headed, illiterate bumpinks mindlessly driven by blind anger, lusts and passions, as opposed to the rational, law-abiding smart Northern Protestants. You see it on media. I see it in my own personal life, as a Southern Italian living in Northern Europe for 10 years.

Does it sound familiar? Yes, it’s the same harmful stereotype of Yusuf as the Angry Brown Man. But done to Nicolò as the Angry Italian Man (not to mention the fact that, depending on the time of day and the daily agenda of the Anglo SJW Tumblrite, Italians can be considered either white or non-white).

Now, the times where Nicolò is shown as feral are basically when he is fighting (either in a bloody war or against Merrick’s men) or when Yusuf is in danger. Because, guess what, the man he loves is being hurt. What a fucking surprise.

Nicolò is simply being reduced to a one dimensional stereotype of the dirty dumb angry Italian, and people are simply doing this because they do not seem to accept the fact that both he and Yusuf are two wonderfully complex, flawed, fully-fledged multidimensional characters.

So I am mainly concentrating on Nicolò here because as an Italian I feel more entitled to speak about the way I see the Anglo fandom treating him and using stereotypes on him that have been consistently applied to us by the Protestant Northerners. I keep adding the religious aspect because, although I am an atheist who got debaptised from the Catholic Church, a big part of the historical treatment towards Southern has to do with religion and the contempt towards Catholic rituals and traditions (considered, once again, a sign of cultural backwardness by the enlightened North).

I do not want to impose my view of Yusuf because there are wonderful Tumblr users from MENA countries who have already written wonderful metas of the way Yusuf is being depicted by non-MENA people (in particular Americans), especially (again) @lucyclairedelune and @nizarnizarblr.

However, I just want to underline that, by only ever writing Yusuf as essentially a monodimensional character without a single flaw, this takes away Yusuf’s canon multidimensionality, the right he has to feel both positive but also negative feelings (he was hurt and angry at Booker’s betrayal, allegedly his best friend, AND HE HAD EVERY RIGHT TO BE – and I say this as a Booker fan as well).

I have not been the first to say these things, it is nothing revolutionary, and it exactly complements what the MENA tumblr users in the TOG fandom have also been trying to say. Both of us as own voices people who finally have the chance to have two characters that are fully formed and honest representations of our own cultures, without stereotypes or Anglogermanic distortions.

And the frustration mounting among all of us comes from the fact that the Anglos are, once again, not listening to us, even telling us we are wrong about our own cultures (see what has happened to Lucy and Nazir).

What is even more frustrating is that everything in this cursed fandom – unless it was in the film or comics – is just a bloody headcanon. But these people are imposing their HCs as if it were the Word of God, and attacking others – including own voices MENA and Italians – for daring to think otherwise.

I honestly don’t expect this post will make any difference because this is just a small reflection of what Americans do in real life on grander scale, which is thinking they are the centre of the world and ignoring that the rest of the world even exists regardless of their own opinions on it.

But still, sorry for the length, hope I answered your question.

[dgfhhgh]

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[textsfromthetofu]

8 Things We Might See in Wakfu Series 4

I sometimes get asked what I think will happen in series 4, and I have genuinely never thought about it much. So I’ve taken a little while to watch the last few episodes of series 3 to refresh my memory and take some time to write down my thoughts and predictions. Given the questions that the end of S3 brought us, this could all be way off base, but I’m going for what I think is most likely to happen. This is quite long so click below to read the whole lot.

1) A darker tone

As ToT mentioned in his blog, the series was dropped by France Télévision in part because it had become too adult, and series 3 continued in that vein - we had Pinpin literally murdered in front of his family, a pregnant Eva impaled by a ‘spell’ and a lot of violence. I think series 4 will go further. I didn’t watch the original OVAs (Noximilien L’Horloger and Goultard le Barbare) until much later after Wakfu, and I was surprised at how dark they were. Nox’s descent into madness in the former is genuinely disturbing, and Goultard le Barbare is full of blood, stabbing and his dead wife and kids hanging from the ceiling WHAT THE HELL ANKAMA.

While I don’t think Wakfu will go quite as dark as those, it’s an indication that, when free from the restraints of a TV channel or Netflix, the creators will lean to a slightly less kid-friendly audience. So I’m expecting more violence (and possibly blood), more mature themes and almost certainly more sex jokes.

2) No English (or any non-French) Dub

This one is something that I pray won’t happen, but I can easily see it. The limited budget for S4 means that Ankama will need to keep their costs to a minimum, and I fear this means that not hiring VAs for overseas dubs will be a way to do this. I’m sure there will be an English subbed version, so it won’t be entirely French-only, and maybe some dedicated fans may step in. But I’m not expecting to hear it in English. 

That said, it’s not all bad. The French VAs are brilliant - even if you don’t understand them, the sound of their voices and the way they speak give you a real sense of emotion and the character.

3) Yugo’s fear

Throughout S3, Yugo’s story has been plagued by the negative effects of him trying to do the right thing. The fallout from using the Dofus in the OVAs (both in terms of the argument with Adamaï and the creation of the Eliotropes), the mind games Oropo played with him over defeating Nox (and feeling responsible for his death) and banishing Qilby will have given him so many regrets. 

That’s why I think the big struggle of S4 will be that of Yugo with himself. He’s still a kid, yet wields huge power that has the potential to destroy lives - he’s saved countless lives too, of course, but he has (indirectly) killed because of it, and that’s what he focuses on. Yugo wants to save everyone, and those he doesn’t haunt him. His fear of doing the same again will make him reluctant to fight, maybe even refuse to get involved, and he’ll need to beat his inner demons and use his power for good to help the rest of them. But he won’t be the only one who can help...

4) The Gods

Since S3 ended with our heroes and the Brotherhood stranded in Inglorium, the realm of the Gods, it’s very likely we’re going to meet them. Initially, I think this will give us a bit of light relief (I mean, imagine Ruel meeting Enutrof!), but ultimately, its their power that will be needed to help return everyone to the World of Twelve. I can’t imagine convincing them to use that much power will be particularly easy.

5) Return of the Eliatropes

I’m not entirely sure how this will link into their being in Inglorium, but I’m reminded of what Balthazar said at the end of S2: Yugo is not ready to rule over the Eliatropes, and the World of Twelve is a dangerous place to have the Eliacube. Well, great news Balthazar, the Eliacube was destroyed (I assume). I think that Yugo ultimately winning the battle with his fears, and being instrumental in saving the gods will become proof that he is ready to assume the responsibility of being King again.

6) A happy ending... but definitely an ending

I love a good happy ending, and I’m sure we’ll get one, unlike S3. Here’s why - the season 3 we got, according to ToT, was the first half of the season he had planned, so the ending was written with the intention of it being continued. Of course, it wasn’t, so we got a real cliffhanger and that’s why everyone’s so desperate for closure! 

Season 4 will be written with the intention of ending Yugo’s story. There almost certainly won’t be a season 5, so they’ll need to wrap up the story. That, to me, means a happy ending - it’ll happen, but we’re going to go through a lot first. But eventually, everything will return to a peaceful, happy life.

7) Yumalia Endgame

Come on, it’s going to happen. Yugo’s rejection of Amalia during S3 really hurt, but that smile he gave her right at the end... he loves her!

I think they will sort out the awkwardness fairly early on, but Yugo will remain adamant that he and Amalia can never be together. As the season progresses, I think either he’ll change his mind, or the power of the gods will come into play. Could they make Amalia age as slowly as Yugo - remember the time trap where Oropo tells her that her beauty can never be tarnished by time? Maybe she already has the slow aging thing down!

Either way, I’m fairly certain that they will be together by the end of the show. And talking of the end, I’m afraid to say that I think Amalia will return to find her father has died. I’m not sure how the monarchy of the Sadida works, but could she become Queen? And with Yugo King of the Eliatropes, their relationship would be a united force!

8) If it doesn’t happen...

Of course, all this is dependent on the upcoming crowdfunding being successful. I hope to God it is, but I worry that the amount it takes to create even half a dozen episodes will be more than we can manage. However, if it doesn’t, I can imagine there being a graphic novel or something similar to round off the story. I know ToT wants to finish the story as much as we want him to!

The downside to this is that, in common with the last couple of books of Wakfu: The Manga, it’s unlikely to be released outside France or in any other languages. The upside is that I’ll probably translate it in some way (doing a whole scanlation of Book 5 of the manga was a time-consuming task, so whether I’ll do that again is debatable), so in the event they substitute the series for the printed word, if Ankama won’t do it, I will make sure the English-speaking fans won’t go without.

--

So that’s what I think. I’d love to hear what you think will happen (and why you think I am so very wrong about everything!)

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: Don’t you miss London in any way since you are British? Wouldn’t you love to come back especially after Brexit? Do you think London has changed for the worse that its not worth living there anymore?

Yes, I do miss London. I do want to go back....but not yet. I’m enjoying living and working in Paris. Brexit doesn’t affect me as I also have a Norwegian passport and I qualify for carte de séjour (a sort of residential work permit).

It was the wit Stephen Fry who said “The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too, common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane.” He captures the essence of London it’s so diverse that anyone can fit in. That is its strength and its weakness compared to other maga cosmopolitan cities like New York in the West or Shanghai in the East as its only rival.

But to my mind London has  more - arguably the same as New York but definitely more than Shanghai - in terms of energy and vibrancy with a very unique English topping of eccentricity. Something you would never find in Paris for instance where things are quite socially stodgy and snobbish. The dinner parties I attend in London are far more down to earth and vibrant as well as eccentric and very fun compared to the ritualised boerdom of super pretentious dinner parties of the Parisian crowds I get roped in - a caveat, most but not all.

London to me is like city state much in the spirit of a medieval Florence. It has no moorings to the rest of the country or the nation. It’s a bubble. or I should say bubbles within a giant bubble. There a diversity of communities each rubbing up against each other. Mostly for the good but some times not so good. Despite urban problems that affict growing mega capitals London for me still remains a wonderful place to live. 

When people ask me about if I enjoyed living in London I have to ask which London? We all live in our concentric social circles in London and people as much as place help define our sense of belonging and happiness. I don’t look at London in an abstract way in terms of favourite places but in terms of the bonds of friendships made and sustained from childhood onwards. 

Samuel Johnson said “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” In my case, it’s because I wanted to expand my life experiences that I left London. I get bored easily and I have restless feet. I left London because it became too small for me. Or rather the world I inhabited became too socially claustrophobic for my tastes. I needed to get out and seek adventure and challenges elsewhere at least for the next chapter of my life.

I do love London and I often go back there for work reasons as well as personal ones when I can. I am a member of a few gentlemen clubs (many allow women in now) and its old genteel atmosphere centres me and paradoxically helps me to see London in slow motion even as London around me is fast moving and changing. I also don’t miss key events that I can only experience in London like the ballet and the theatre which is unrivalled in the world. And of course there are some events on the social season calendar which I can’t miss because of family obligations.

Every city has its unique charms but only a few touch the heart and soul. London - or at least the London of my childhood - is one of them. But for how much longer I don’t know.

London seems to be galloping towards a new and uncertain identity, one that puts ‘stuff’ before substance, and more importantly, money before class (as in good taste). Brexit’s impact on London doesn’t bother me in the slightest as London will adapt as it always does. It will muddle through which has always been the English way to solving any problem: just muddle through.

Still, it’s the little things I notice rather than the obvious macro ones. It niggles me and prey on my mind long after I witness the offence.

So let me give you an example of what I mean.

I did a hard day’s shopping in Knightsbridge and was waiting to meet a dear old friend from boarding school to play catch up. She’s always bringing me up to speed on the gossip in our circles and most of it goes in one ear and out of the other as I’m bored by it but interested and polite enough to listen if only to feel happiness and relief that I actually do live away in Paris.

So there I was waiting for her. She was late as usual. I was sitting in a quintessentially English hotel restaurant in Knightsbridge over Christmas. I watched a young man about the same age as me approach the door. He was dressed in a wool long coat with a velvet collar that looked a little snug, although it was beautiful and had the look of Turnbull and Asser about it.

My heart soared, as he held the door open for an elegantly dressed woman who was on her way out, then approached the restaurant and confirmed he was there and waiting for a guest, a living illustration that manners maketh man.  When he took his coat off it was to reveal what was the uniform of my father’s generation, right down to the waistcoat, bottom button left open, and polished shoes. The suit he was wearing could well have been inherited from his father - probably Savile Row - but the whole was a thing of modest beauty and seemed to fit with the Christmas decorations and season of traditions. This was a well groomed young gentleman who had dressed for the occasion, and the occasion was a treat, an extravagance, something not of the every day.

I ended up at a table diagonally across from him and his companion, probably his wife or partner, excited to be there and also impeccably dressed and I watched as a party of flashy men of indecipherable East European origin arrived five minutes later. They didn’t speak much English and were wearing a selection of very tight floral shirts with white cuffs and collars. Block printed, purple and lime and many other colours unsuitable for December, but there you have it and while my suited object of admiration sat unserved, the party in the middle of the restaurant made up for their lack of fluent English with magnificent finger clicking skills.

You might say this is and always has been the way of the world, the wallets were on the table, money clips clearly visible through the skintight shirts, but one thing was different about this picture, something unpleasant. The restaurant staff fawned on them, and the couple opposite me sat, waiting politely for the two gin and tonics they had ordered.

Meanwhile, gaudy bottles of Ace of Spades Champagne arrived stage centre, possibly the world’s flashiest wine container, gold and shiny and terribly gauche. They were closely followed by four sets of twins, female ones, who sat down at the table amongst the flowery shirts and were each poured a glass of fizz which they silently sipped in minimal clothing.

Meanwhile in the other corner, the unassuming couple who had come in first were still waiting for their drinks, and I watched while the gloss went off their day, and the pall of poor relations settled on them in the corner.

This scene will be familiar to anyone who lives in Central London and it’s sad. The bottom line has always been a vital consideration in the London restaurant scene, there has always been a special table for regular customers, that’s the way of things. Until recently however there has also been that very British recognition that the chap who has saved up all year to take his wife to a special lunch should be treated as if he is also a regular guest and one of equal value at that.

It’s these little acts of tradition and custom that are the life blood of the civic life of a city. Lose this and you slowly erode the pillars of civility.

This obnoxious veneration of money to the exclusion of everything else has reached fever pitch. Restaurants that used to be just that, dining rooms that you could sit and eat lovely food in, providing a bubble away from the day to day stresses that we are all party to, are now restaurants with private clubs upstairs. Meanwhile private clubs that used to be simply  private clubs now have VIP areas – VVIP areas – which is at least a bonus in that you can avoid the more ghastly members as they are all in those bits.

What does this all mean? Does it mean that everything from eating out to where we shop is now Instagrammed or Facebooked, leaving us defined by our purchases and spending habits alone? It is certainly starting to feel like it in London (and worryingly small signs of it Paris too with rich Russians and Arabs buying up most expensive aprtments in the city), where a hundred pounds is the new tenner, and consumption has reached improbable proportions.

Strangely though, no one seems any happier, quite the contrary. Are the new Rich Kids of Instagram really something to aspire to? Is bad taste the new good taste?  Strange times are upon us, when 16 year olds sit in a cordoned off areas of clubs and restaurants flashing their cash and getting on and off jets. I see this first hand as I sometimes get to fly on private jets purely for work reasons at the largesse of my corporate clients. I always thought the Euro trash aristocrats girls at my Swiss boarding school were entitled airheads but the present nouveau riche incarnation don’t even have a sense of ironic self awareness or taste.

Human beings love a boundary, well they have for the whole history of mankind to date, anyway. If in one generation we get rid of all the traditional social conventions, from buying our own homes, saving, working hard, not buying whatever we want whenever we want it, where will we be?  Perhaps instant gratification will lead us all to a new kind of life, a new place where we all live for experiences instead of taking out a mortgage, where nothing we do is our fault and no consequences to our actions.

I have always loved the quote ‘Don’t give up on what you want for what you want now’ and believe that delaying gratification is the defining characteristic of mature adulthood.

Perhaps values, traditions, less is more and simple kindness will make a comeback. In the meantime, restaurants will empty of customers like the well mannered gentleman on the corner table, and I will continue to feel uncomfortable that we are losing something vital not just in London but increasingly elsewhere in great European cities I travel to.

Thanks for your question.

[arsmara]

Captive Prince model AU

-

Damen flinched at the loudness of his steps. He slowed his paced a little bit but he knew it couldn’t really be helped since this particular corridor in all its majestic arches and tinted windows seemed to be as deserted as the previous one he came through.

Damen didn’t know if this precise quietness in the whole campus was a constant state of the University of Vere or if it was merely a consequence of everyone already being gone to save the seats for the tournament that was about to take place in about an hour. He didn’t mind the silence, to be honest. The building was quite the sight to see, so being on your own and lost was not really an issue as much as a risk of finding yourself overwhelmed in its extravagance and detail with the turn of every corner.

The only problem was he couldn’t remember the way to the locker room and there was no soul around to ask.

He had been walking for the better part of the last hour and the daylight had already dimmed to a bright orange hue all around him.

Damen could vaguely recall Nikandros telling him to go across the first courtyard and past the fountain (“Wait, an actual fountain?” “Yes, Damen, a fountain with colored fishes. Pay attention”) and take the north corridor, so he had walked with no luck through not less than four courtyards with different sets of ostentatious gardens and although there were definitely people there frolicking about in the private sections, that was the kind of scene he’d dared not interrupt. Not even in desperate need for indications, as he was.

Veretians, he thought when a barely concealed giggle followed by a moany ‘ow’ rose from behind a neatly trimmed flowery bush. For all the fuss on nudity, Veretians were really a case in study on disregard for privacy when dealing with their perversions.

When finally spotting the exuberant fountain (hidden between a thick clump of blue hydrangeas) Damen found himself before two doors that he assumed divided men and women’s room. With a relieved sigh and after readjusting the heavy bag on his shoulder he opened the door in the left.

He suddenly found himself in a very illuminated space with tall windows that reached the ceiling in the entirety of the wall across from the door. The atmosphere was warm and thick with the smell of something chemical in nature, acidic and strong, that Damen could not identify but weirdly reminded him of the lemony cleaning products to scrub bathroom floors. Looking around he saw that there were no chairs or benches but a wide circle of easels each with a wooden stool placed behind.

And then, inevitably, his attention was dragged to the very center of this arrangement. There was a pale and luminous effigy of some sort, human sized and with white feathered wings, sitting on a makeshift dais right in front of him.

‘Alright, this is…definitely…not the locker room.’

Damen blinked into the scene so as to command the view to rearrange into something logical. A pale fraction of skin was visible in between feathers and creases of white fabric that wrapped around its slender body and pooled around it on the dais. Even partially covered by the wings one could see the strands of fair blond hair in the nape of a very human head.

Of all the things he would have expected to find when crossing a doorway in a foreign building in a foreign land, this was the farthest from it.

Then the creature turned his head slightly to the side and Damen saw that it was, actually, a man. A beautiful blonde half-naked winged man sitting in a pose that seemed elegant and tiresome at the same time. A halo of sunlight burned through the edges of his head and feathers making it seem as he had a glow coming from within. A true celestial vision right out of an akielon myth.  

Or one of his weirdest sexual fantasies.

“You’re letting the draft in.” The blonde spoke without lifting his eyes from the phone in his hand and with a hint of annoyance in his voice of someone who has repeated this too many times before.

Damen was actually letting the draft in, though. He had been holding the door handle this whole time frozen in the entrance for the whole minutes that it took him to make sense of the scene. Damen rushed to shut the door and the loud sound echoed in the vastness of the room. He soon realized that he should have stepped outside before doing so but he quickly brushed the thought away. It was too late for that.

“Sorry.” said Damen in veretian. He had been in Vere for the whole day and the language came naturally to him at this point. “I-- got lost.”

The other man turned to properly look at him for the first time. He had striking blue eyes that scanned him from head to toe only to stop at his chest. Damen felt like he might have been doing something to his heart because it skipped a beat in the process. He wondered how all of this could be so unusual but so enticing at the same time.

“I’m afraid you are way off route, sweetheart.”

Damen looked down to realize that the focus of his attention was at the insignia on his jersey.

He offered a slight smile “I know; I came to represent my university in the sport summit.”

“Did you now.”

“Yes, I’m looking for the locker room.”

The blonde stared at him for some more seconds before turning back to his phone “Next door.”

“Thank you,” it seemed like the polite thing to say instead of ‘what the fuck are you supposed to be’ as he so fervently wished to ask.

Who was Damen after all, to question veretian worshipping practices. Or whatever this was.

“Do you need instructions to leave the room too?”

With a start Damen saw that the blonde was again staring sideways at him with those grave blue eyes edged in displeasure at his presence. “I – thanks. I know my way out.”

“¿Do I have to escort you out then?”

In spite of the provocation, he felt the corner of his mouth rise. “I would very much like that, but I’m afraid your wings might not make it through the door.” He saw the slight shift in the blonde’s gaze and Damen savored the pinch of satisfaction to notice he did not expect an actual response, “they’re quite large.”

The man tilted his head like a cat assessing a confusing behavior in his prey.

“But you did make it through.”

Damen couldn’t help but laugh at that. The veretian was spikey, he wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting any of this, really.

“Feeling better now that you took that off your chest?” said Damen drunk in the thrill of the rare moment. He knew that his size could be striking outside of Akielos. It was even in Akielos at times.

A smirk appeared in that pale face and he felt a shiver run down his spine, “It’s always a pleasure to welcome our rival brothers from Akielos,” the blonde continued, “especially since you all always seem to be on edge in matters of patriotic honor to my outmost enjoyment.”

Veretians and Akielons weren’t enemies and they hadn’t been for centuries, but there was always a natural rivalry that rose whenever the nations crossed each other paths in any scale. Never going beyond teasing but often shifting into subtle statements of one’s superiority over the other in matters of politics, sports and arts. Anatomy was also a favorite topic, apparently.

This seemed like the usual friendly banter, although it was common knowledge that Veretians seemed to enjoy disguising their true intentions under flourish and sweet voices.

Some poisons are inconspicuous, he reminded himself.

“I’d say you don’t know enough Akielons to back your remarks” said Damen.

After a moment the blonde spoke. “You’d be right.”

He felt, strangely, slightly pleased by this notion.  

“Although you could still prove me right” The blonde continued with a defiance set in his stare “I haven’t even yet pointed out your barbaric tradition of stripping naked to fight on the dirt like animals trying to assert dominance.” he then faked a surprised look “Oh, is that what you came to do?”

“Wrestling, yes.” Damen felt his grin widen in wit. “And let’s not pretend that you had the cultural equivalent back then, only it ended in rape.”

The blonde glared at him “Someone has done his homework I see.”

“Someone is a political science major.” And had studied veretian language and culture for three semesters.

“Really? I was just wondering what your major was. That wasn’t my first option though.”

“What was it?”

“Barbarian.”

The barbed words of the veretian did nothing but encourage him to fight back, to keep the mood weird and spicy and see where it would take them. He held his tongue, however, as he now was noticing what he had overlooked in his initial shock. In a quick glimpse he noticed the canvases on the easels. There were splotches of colors starting to become shapes and some strokes giving volume to a close impression of the winged figure. Many shades of white, yellow and red. Blue for the sky behind, peeking in the background.

And for his eyes.

Ah. Everything was finally falling into place.

He had approached the easels in a seemingly unconscious impulse to study the paintings better, and when he raised his eyes he saw the man had followed his movement with a quiet tension locked in his jaw and frown. Damen felt a rush of regret at his own boldness. He should have asked before getting closer when they were alone in a room and he was still a stranger. He cleared his throat to casually ease back into conversation.

“So, are you a model?”

A pale eyebrow raised in his direction. “Do you think I’d wear wings and an open dress for personal choice?”

“Well,” Damen openly studied the attire, earning a scorn of the guy himself in return, “that is actually a chiton, a traditional Akielon attire,” he smiled as he stepped a little closer, “and I wouldn’t dare judge you on choosing to wear it.”

“Is it?” His lips curved in a cold smirk, he seemed to be holding an insult somewhere in there.

“Yes.” Damen shrugged, and then his mouth quirked helplessly. “It suits you.”

The blonde rolled his eyes. “Spare me the compliments, I’m not able to kick your ass from this position.”

Damen felt his smile widen. “Even if you could move, you probably couldn’t beat me,” and added “I’m really good at wrestling.”

The model huffed a humorless laugh.

“I guess we’ll never know.”

‘I guess you could know if you wanted to’ Damen didn’t say. He wasn’t supposed to flirt with Veretians, he knew. He almost could hear Nikandros scolding him. And Kastor. And his father…

A sudden realization caught his eye as he looked around one more time. “Why would there be paintings and model but no artists present?”

“We're on a 20-minute break,” the model said, “but technically there is an artist present now,” he turned his blue gaze back to him. "I also attend this class.”

"Oh? And how do you manage to paint yourself while modelling at the same time?"

He stopped himself from answering right away, visibly hesitating as he likely realized that he was interacting with a stranger on private matters.

"We," he finally pointed at the easels around him "all have to model for this class." A frustrated look. "It’s my turn today.” He let his displeasure show in every word.

A startling sound erupted from the door behind him. Someone was trying to push it open quite unsuccessfully. Damen arched an eyebrow to the other man in the room and he just gave a look that seemed to say do as you please and went back to scroll through his phone. ‘alright’ thought Damen as he went to open the door and a dark haired man entered the room with two steamy paper cups in his hands and walked past Damen to sit on one of the stools beside the model.

The winged man groaned a protest. “Lazar, could you please not let the door open while I’m in this state of nudity?”

“Vannes is coming behind me,” said the man as he handed him one of the cups and with a mischievous grin and a bow added, “Your highness.”

“Thank you,” said the blonde without acknowledging the mocking title. “Vannes, close the door.”

Damen turn around and saw a woman standing in the doorway staring intensely at him to then stop at the blonde man.

“My my, Laurent has a visitor,” she declared with a hint of provocation in her charming tone.

Laurent.

Damen couldn’t stop the rush of triumphant satisfaction from showing in his face at this new piece of information, but he could feel the curious gaze of the newcomers piercing him still, so he smiled and said, “I was just passing to admire Veretian aesthetics.”

“I see. Did you find something pleasing to the eye?” she asked, ignoring the poorly concealed scowl in her direction.

“He was just entertaining me while you left me to rot here.” intervened Laurent in a calmed tone.

“Quit being a bitter old man, you’re gonna wrinkle” said Lazar.

“Grampa Laurent” added the woman sipping from her own cup.

“Do you realize” retorted Laurent “that I have the power to ruin your work just by slightly shifting my leg to the side” he smirked at the pure horror that showed in both their faces. “Yeah, I thought so.”

Damen very deliberately did not entertained the thought of his legs parting underneath the cloth.

“You’re really playing your cast iron bitch card today.” Said Lazar with a cold grin.

“What I’m doing,” Laurent retorted, “is merely trying to protect my remaining dignity.”

“I say you must be hallucinating as to believe you still have some dignity left.”

“I say that’s probably because I’ve inhaled all the turpentine in the air.”

“It is quite heavy to breath in here.” Damen noticed.

“Oh no, that’s just the sexual tension in the room.” Lazar said in a low voice to Damen.

Laurent pretended not to hear.

“Is your friend gonna join us the rest of the session?” asked the woman, eyeing at Damen’s full body while producing a case from her bag where she seemingly kept her brushes.

“He was leaving for the sport summit to celebrate the new alliance between us and the university of Akielos.” He stopped talking just to add. “And he’s not my friend.”

“Really?” asked Vannes with renewed interest. “Tell me, are there Akielon women among your team?”

“A few, yeah. Although it’s mostly men.”

Vannes and Lazar exchanged a look.

“Are you really considering dropping the session to go check on some sweaty muscles.” Asked Laurent.

“Laurent,” Lazar said “It’s Akielon sweaty muscles. In the nude.”

Damen blinked in amusement at that. “We don’t really compete in the nude anymore, you know.” At least not since a couple centuries ago.

“Anyway” added Vannes, “consider this a better alternative to an anatomy class.”

“We’re doing it in the name of art and beauty.” Said Lazar already heading to the door. “Tell Berenger we’re failing the class for a good cause.”

“I’m not telling him anything on your behalf.”

Damen saw them leave and then they were alone in the room again.

They stared for an awkward instant until Laurent broke the silence, “So?” Why are you still here, he didn’t have to articulate.

The truth was, Damen didn’t even know why he hadn’t left yet.

He wasn’t going to tell him that, of course.

“It seems you’re to remain here for a while longer.”

“Well, it seems like you are doing exactly the same thing still.”

Damen looked at his position on the dais. “You are not allowed to move at all?”

“Nothing escapes you, does it.”

“Do you need anything?” asked Damen. “Before I go, I mean.”

Laurent closed his mouth suddenly taken aback by the offer, like kindness was the last thing he would expect from Damen. He narrowed his eyes as trying to read into his real intentions.

Damen shrugged. “Fine.”

“Wait.”

Damen froze in place having already turned away. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch in an attempted smile but he knew better than to aggravate Laurent any more. Judging by all the words exchanged today, he seemed to be on edge by his situation.

He heard Laurent give a long-suffering sigh. “Would you plug my phone?” He held his phone up as to illustrate the request.

Damen was beaming to comply but he held back just enough to look as pleased as he felt but not as much as to rush into his proximity. He reached for the phone and the accidental brush of fingertips with each other brought a sudden spike in his heartbeat.

“Where’s the charger?” he asked.

Laurent pointed at one of the bags hanging on the nearest wall. “Outer pocket on the left side.”

Damen plugged his phone and when he did, the screen lighted up for a short moment. The picture displayed was a painting of a very green landscape with a brown horse looming in the background. The brush strokes where rough and noticeable in certain areas but it held a lot of detail in others. It was eerie and delicate and probably it was Laurent’s work. It felt very intimate to see it, it probably was rude to do so. Damen looked away.

Laurent cleared his throat.

“Thank you.”

Damen raised both eyebrows at him. “What, are you so humbled by me plugging your phone that you decide to yield now?”

Laurent gave a soft chuckle and Damen thought he would never recover from the ecstasy of it.

“I think we are both running out of time to continue our tête-à-tête.” Laurent smile seemed honest now.

Damen conceded with a nod.

“I should really go now. My team can’t hold up without me” And Nikandros most likely must be wishing a slow painful death upon him right now.

“Aren’t you confident.”

“I know it.”

“So you think you’ll do well?” Laurent added with a hint of amusement.

Damen let his determination show in his expression. After all, he knew the extent of his capabilities.

“I intend to win.” Todays was only a friendly match, the real competition came on Thursday, but Damen meant it all the same. He always aimed for victory.

Laurent’s gaze fell on him. “That is,” he said with a defying undertone “if you ever leave.”

Damen smiled “Goodbye, Laurent.” He made the word roll in his tongue with a touch of heavy accent that made the blonde blush slightly, or so he wanted to believe.

He made his way out without looking back, feeling a warm hint of euphoria in his chest that he blamed on the anticipation of the tournament instead of the brief encounter with the amusing scene in the art studio. The darkness outside the bright room suddenly felt too unappealing compared to the scrutiny of the pair of blue eyes left behind.

It almost made him forget once again where he was supposed to be right now.

This was already becoming ridiculous.

-

Laurent stretched his limbs to let the blood reach every corner of his aching body. Curse Lazar for suggesting the costume.

Of course, if he hadn’t wear anything he could have taken a break with the rest of them, and he blatantly refused to pose nude. But such an attire required not only to not cover himself for warmness sake in between sessions (blame the blasted feathers and their proneness to fall away), it also made it impossible to move at all, for if a dressed model broke the pose all the creases and exact placement of the folds could never be replicated again and the image would be compromised for the artists. It was, utterly, a deadly trap.

At least he got to keep his underwear on. Small victories, he thought.

The numbness of his legs after spending the last two and half hours sitting in the same position had luckily dimmed away as he discarded the wings and finally made his way to the locker room to get dressed.

It was dark outside and the campus was quiet now that the tournament had finished.

He wondered if the Akielon won. Then he stopped himself from thinking in the Akielon.

Laurent walked to his locker and opened it. He considered taking a shower for a moment, but it was late enough to risk losing the train. He could relax later, at home.

He let the fabric fall around him –the chiton, he thought with a bitter grin –, and shivered in the cold air on his skin. He then proceeded to look for his clothes inside.

A rush of fast paced steps cut through the silence and the sound of someone storming into the locker room set his senses on alert, tension locking into his limbs, ready to act.

Laurent waited for a second, assessing the possibilities, before he peaked from behind the locker row to see who it was.

“Oh” a familiar voice. “Hi, again.”

Of course it was him. Laurent rolled his eyes at his own bad luck.

He noticed Laurent standing in just his underwear and quickly averted his gaze with a sudden blush darkening his cheeks.

“Sorry, I um…” he then pointed forward and disappeared through the adjacent locker row.

“You seem to really be angling for eloquence, I see.”

He heard the man snort softly in reply. Laurent was silently grateful for his tact to not step into Laurent’s space when he was, impossibly, in a more exposed state of dressing that the previous one they'd encountered each other.

Or where he had encountered Laurent, more precisely.

“I came to retrieve something; I’ll be leaving right away.”

Laurent ignored him to continue working himself into his clothes. It felt amazing to have pants on after so many hours of just the nothing. He was focused in getting inside his oversized grey jumper that had been Auguste’s before, when he heard the other man clear his throat as looking for an opening in conversation.

"Yes?"

“Are you heading home?”

“I am.”

“Alone?”

Laurent stopped in his track. He went round the lockers to face the Akielon properly.

“Why?”

The man frowned slightly at this, “It’s late.”

“The train station is nearby.” Laurent shrugged.

The Akielon smiled reassuringly and showed a pair of car keys, “I had left my keys on top of the lockers.” He explained, and then, “I can take you.”

Laurent stared intently at him. He was positive the man, either moved by his noble Akielon code of honor or just his own kindness held no ill intentions beyond the offering. He showed an openness that was hard to ignore once you managed to look past all of that body (and honestly, there was a lot of it). That didn’t meant Laurent had to easily go with it.

“I’m perfectly capable of going on my own.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I didn’t expect to find you again here and now I did, I won’t be able to rest easy knowing that I left you to go on your own at the risk of getting mugged or kidnapped.”

Laurent fought down a chuckle.

“Have you ever listened to yourself talk? I don’t know you, you could be a terrible driver and doom me to a very tragic accidental death or you could be a criminal, for all I know, luring me into your car to get your way with me.”

Something passed over the Akielon’s face then. For all his determination and air of leadership displayed before he now looked truly defeated by the mere thought of him hurting Laurent. Or maybe the thought of Laurent distrusting him.

“I would never touch you without your consent.”

Laurent deliberately brushed away the thought of the possible scenario in which he actually consented.

“Yes well, that isn’t happening tonight or ever.” Laurent grabbed his bag to walk out. It was late alright. “It’s not personal, it’s just a matter of common sense. I don’t even know your name.”

The Akielon’s eyes widened a fraction at this notion. Of course he had not realized.

“I’m Damianos,” he then added with a smile, “but my friends call me Damen.”

“Damianos” he tilted his head in acknowledgement. Not that it would matter, he still wasn’t going to go with him and this would likely be the last he’d see of Laurent.

He let the moment stretch as he checked on the time in his wrist watch. And when he turned for the door Damen interrupted once again his attempt to escape the overwhelming presence of him.

“What if,” he spoke slowly as to not scare Laurent any further. Not that Laurent was actually scared of him in the first place, “You drive us there.”

Laurent blinked into the picture of Damen purposely handling the keys to him in an act of foolish misplaced trust.

He truly would get himself killed at some point in his life.

“And you can hold on to my wallet and passport the whole time.”

Laurent gazed back into the Akielons honest expression. He didn’t know if the sudden interest he felt was towards the idea of him openly putting so much trust in Laurent or just the fact that he seemed to have the whole control of the situation; he knew that if he just told him to fuck off he’d leave him alone and yet –

He was actually starting to see the appeal in getting home earlier than expected.

-

[thehollowprince]

Penny Dreadful: City of Angels

Episode 1: Santa Muerte - Recap and Review

SPOILER WARNINGS ARE IN EFFECT BELOW THE CUT

The episode opens with a Mexican standoff (ba dum tsh) between Santa Muerte (Lorenza Izzo) and her “sister” Magda (Natalie Dormer), who seriously has to be roasting under the Southern California sun in that black leather outfit.  (Sidenote, how does a Mexican folk spirit/deity have a British woman as a sister?  Guess she was adopted.)  Anyway, Magda is monologuing, as villains tend to do, saying “All mankind needs to become the monster he truly is, is being told he can.”  They go back and forth for a minute, and I was eerily reminded of the movie Constantine that came out many moons ago.  Y’know the one, right?  Loosely (and I mean loosely) based on the comic character?  Played by Keanu Reeves?  That was the vibe I go here, with Santa Muerte and Magda making some kind of bet about the “worthiness” of mankind.  (I also got strong jealous ex vibes from Magda in this scene, but we’ll see how that goes).

So we start the action by showing a field of Mexican-American laborers working the fields with a little boy sitting on the truck, picking the music they listen to.  His father jokes about his choice of music before getting back to work.  Now I’ll be the first to admit that everything that played out next was just this side of tone deaf.  I understand that Magda is the villain here, and wants to see humanity burn, but having a white woman set fire to a field full of brown people, resulting in several deaths kind of defeats the message they’re trying to send with this show, but I will suspend my disbelief for a little while to see how all of this plays out.

All in all, it was a beautiful shot, as gruesome as it was, with the flames, and then seeing Santa Muerte cradling the boy’s father as he died in the flames all while La Llorona played in the background.  The boy tries to save his father, but Santa Muerte uses the Force to push him away, despite not even two minutes earlier claiming she “had no heart for the living”.  Must be something special about this boy.

Cut to 1938 and the boy is all grown up.  Tiago Vega (Daniel Zovatto) just passed his exam to become a detective, the first Chicano detective in Los Angeles.  His Mamá (Adrianna Barraza) prepared him a cake to celebrate the occasion, and we get to meet the rest of La Familia Vega.  First there’s Mateo (Johnathan Nieves), who is seriously adorable.  Next is Josefina (Jessica Garza), who is the baby of the family.  And then finally we get the big brother, Raul (Adam Rodriguez), who “mysteriously” isn’t a part of the main cast.

Anyway, Raul is not happy about his baby brother being a detective, given the Mexican and Mexican-American relations with law enforcement, which... valid.  He has a point.  But Mamá quickly shuts Raul down when he tries to be a Negative Nancy and they celebrate as a family.  Cut to later, and Mamá is walking Tiago to the bus, and they remark about the construction equipment at the end of the street.  Here we’re introduced to the main conflict of the story.  Their neighborhood is set to be demolished to make way for construction for the Arroyo Seco Parkway, the first of the LA freeways.  Mamá remarks about the machines, likening them to animals baring their teeth at her, before Tiago gets on the bus to go to his apartment, because he’s the only member of the family to move away from home.

By the way, I will never complain about the size of my apartment again after seeing how tiny Tiago’s is.

Cut to the next morning, where the phone rings, waking Tiago up, and it’s his new partner on the phone.  Congratulations!  You get to start two days early with no prep time.  Said partner, Detective Lewis Michener, is played by Nathan Lane like you’ve never seen him before.  And as an aside, just hearing him drop the F-bomb made my day.  The reason they’re starting early is because their was a homicide, and the captain himself called them specifically.  The murder is a family of four, dropped in the Los Angeles river bed, their faces painted in Dia De Muertos makeup.  Also, there’s a message scrawled nearby in blood (or red paint)

TE LLEVAS NEUSTRO CORAZON TOMAMOS EL TUYO 

“You take our heart, we take yours.”  If you haven’t guessed it by now, the hearts of the four victims had been removed.  This all ties back to the Arroyo Seco Parkway and how it’s planned to cut through the heart of the Chicano community.  Michener makes the connection as to why they were called, “It’s a spick thing.”  (Fair warning, that kind of language, while not super common in this show, isn’t exactly uncommon.)

Elsewhere, Mamá is getting off the bus in a fancy part of town, because she’s a maid to Peter Craft (alum Rory Kinnear), who is a German immigrant with two sons and a wife that looks a little strung out.  This scene is pretty filler, but it establishes the dynamic of Craft’s household, with him talking to Mamá before his own wife.  He leaves for work, listening to tape recordings in his car as a way to practice on getting rid of his accent to blend in and “be more American”  It was kind of adorable.

Back at the police precinct, Tiago got blood on his cuff from the crime scene and MIchener tells him to just throw the shirt out.  Que the racist cops who harass Tiago, because the audience needs to understand just how unwelcome a Chicano detective is among his all white peers.  The two visit their captain and discover that their four victims are a wealthy family from Beverly Hills, which judging by everyone’s reactions in the scene is a pretty big deal for some reason.  There was a horrible moment where the captain says “You have no idea how much I wished those bodies were Mexican” before he realizes who is in the room and adds a halfhearted “No Offense.”  I have to say, Tiago has way more patience than I do for shrugging it off.  The captain decides that it’s obviously Mexicans behind the murders and Michener suggests pachucos. 

Now we’re back with Craft, who is a pediatrician, and his current patient is the son of... Natalie Dormer... but now she’s blonde?  Elsa is concerned about her son Frank’s breathing problems and talks with the doctor privately about it, revealing that she’s also a German immigrant, originally from Berlin, “but now we’re in Boyle Heights, with the Jews” (seriously not a fan of how she said that, which I’m guessing is the point, but only time will tell).  There’s a moment between the two, with him offering her his handkerchief when she starts crying.  

After she leaves, we get one of the most disturbing scenes I’ve ever seen.  It takes a lot to unnerve me, but this scene unnerved me.  If you’re going into this show blind, let this be the moment when you find out that all the characters played by Natalie Dormer are all Magda, who shapeshifts into other people to further influence the negative emotions of those around her, bringing out the worst in humanity.  Well, “Elsa” enters the elevator with her “son” and unbuttons her blouse before placing his head against her stomach.  She absorbs him back into herself like some sort of weird reverse-birth, taking him “back to the womb” as it were.  It wasn’t overly graphic, but it unnerved me nonetheless. 

Back at the doctor’s office, one of his nurses asks what he wants for lunch and he says he’ll be going out.  He walks over to his closet and opens it, revealing a Nazi flag and uniform.  Abort!  

Abort!

At the city hall there is a meeting of the City Council, or some division of it involving transportation.  Its a meeting to discuss the Arroyo Seco Parkway, with almost everyone in attendance being Mexican, led, of course, by Tiago’s older brother Raul.  Gotta have that brother-against-brother angle.  The guy leading the meeting is some douchebag named Townsend (Michael Gladis).There’s a standoff between him and Raul over this parkway, with Townsend telling them to “go back where they came from”, which Raul responds rather cheekily to the fact that he was born in the Los Angeles County Hospital, same as him.

Raul: “When progress becomes barbarity, it ceases to be in the public interest.  We are the public, sir, no matter the color of our skin, and we will not be moved.”

Townsend: “Then you will be pushed.”

Naturally from there it ends in police brutality, with the cops on scene beating Raul with their clubs as they drag him from the city hall, despite it being open to the public.  And people wonder why no one likes the police? Although, I do love the fact that they made Raul so well-spoken.  Given how they’re presented as poorer, it would have been so easy to fall back on that illiterate Mexican trope, but they shied away from that, and I’m grateful.

After the meeting, Townsend is walking down the hall with Natalie Dormer by his side, this time as a gray-haired, middle-aged woman?  Man?  It’s unclear at first, until we get a wide shot and we see that she’s wearing a skirt with her masculine suit and tie combo, so definitely a woman.  Personally, I would have been okay if this persona - Alex - had been a man, but that’s just me.  Anyway, Alex is just feeding this blowhard’s ego, and he equates himself to Mussolini, and then Hitler (ABORT!).  The topic turns to more motorways, stuff to keep Townsend in the papers for some unknown purpose.

And we’re back to the Michener and Vega hour, where the two detectives are enjoying their lunch break when we hear drums and look up to see Nazis - I’m sorry, the German-American Bund - walking down the street in full regalia with Craft at their head.  Craft gives a big speech about staying out of foreign affairs (it’s 1938 and WWII is just about to start), saying “America First”.  Michener is giving them the stink eye and it’s at this point I remembered that he’s Jewish, so odds are he knows full well what the ideology behind the Nazi Party, even if their worst crimes are still ahead of them.

Michener insists they go, with the two heading over to Beverly Hills to investigate the home of the murder victims.  Inside there’s a portrait of who I thought was Joseph Smith above the fireplace, which I guess means these people were Mormons.  The radio, when turned on, is playing some Radio Evangelist (this is before Televangelism became a thing), and I think the woman preaching is the last member of our cast, Sister Molly (Kerry Bishé).  The two investigate the house and determine that the family wasn’t murdered there, though they do discover that the father was one of the guys behind the Arroyo Seco Parkway.

The plot thickens.

Cut to a shadowy meeting at the bluffs between Townsend and Baron von Strucker from the MCU.  Ugh, more Nazis.  The new Nazi talks to Townsend about getting him the position of Mayor of Los Angeles, to further their own agenda, and warns him that his driver is a Gestapo agent and has been told to shoot Townsend if the meeting does not go their way.

Later that night, we’re in downtown L.A., presumably in a Mexican-American neighborhood where Mateo works.  There’s some hanky panky going on in the store where he’s stocking shelves where some random dude and his sister, Josefina, are getting to second base.  Mateo puts the kibosh on that quickly, chasing the boy from the store while shouting obscenities, before arguing with this sister, until Mamá shows up and sets them both straight.  There’s a poignant moment between mother and son where he remarks about how as a Chicano, his options for the future are limited, that Tiago was the exception, not the rule.

Speaking of Tiago, he shows up to ask about Santa Muerte and if his mother had heard anything about something going on, as he recognized the face paint on the murder victims.  It’s revealed that he doesn’t believe in Santa Muerte, though his mother does and remarks about him being “marked”, revealing that he was the little boy from the beginning.  We all know that something bigger is going on, but Tiago is unconvinced, and this is the one time we see him and Mamá butt heads.  There’s a moment where the two calm down before we get a really cute scene of Tiago dancing with his mother.

That moment slides into a moment between Los Hermanos Vega, which starts nicely but ends up tense and serious, as they talk about the construction of the parkway to begin on Monday, which requires Tiago to be with the police but his brothers will be with the neighborhood.  I think they’re taking this brother-against-brother thing a little far.

Mamá is praying to Santa Muerte, begging for help, and Santa Muerte actually shows up, calling Mamá “Old Coyote” (I think).  The two argue, with the former mentioning a prophecy and the Vega matriarch begging for any kind of help because she wants to protect her children.  After Santa Muerte leaves, Mamá goes to Tiago’s apartment and implores him to try and stop the protest the next day, before chugging his whiskey.

As the episode started, that’s how we end it, with a Mexican standoff, this time between the police and the residents of Belvidere Heights.  Tiago hands his gun to Michener and tries to talk down his neighborhood, to avoid bloodshed, facing off directly with his brothers who are at the front of the opposing crowd, but unbeknownst to all of them, Magda is there (in her “true” form) pacing in front of the police.  She finds one officer and we see her whispering in his ear, which leads to him firing his gun, killing one of the protesters.  Gunfire erupts and chaos ensues, leading to a full blown riot.  Magda ends up whispering to Raul next and he takes a gun and starts shooting police officers, eventually aiming his gun at Michener.  In a heartbreaking moment, Tiago shoots his own brother to stop him from killing his partner, all while La Llorona is once again playing in the background.

All in all, I’d give the episode an 8/10.  It was a great start, introducing most of the key players involved and getting the conflict started right away, but there are still a lot of questions.  Also, there were too many Nazis in this for my liking.  I understand the point they’re trying to make, being a parallel to today, with Nazis being everywhere and no one batting an eye about it, but it’s still unsettling.

Can’t wait to see how this all turns out.

[sayedhusaini]

By Pepe Escobar

Greece invented the concept of barbaros. Imperial Rome inherited it as barbarus.

The original meaning of barbaros is rooted in language: an onomatopoeia meaning “unintelligible speech” as people go “bar bar bar” when they talk.

Homer does not refer to barbaros, but to barbarophonos (“of unintelligible speech”), as in those who don’t speak Greek or speak very badly. Comic poet Aristophanes suggested that Gorgias was a barbarian because he spoke a strong Sicilian dialect.

Barbaru meant “foreigner” in Babylonian-Sumerian. Those of us who studied Latin in school remember balbutio (“stammer”, “stutter”, babble”).

So it was speech that defined the barbarian compared to the Greek. Thucydides thought that Homer did not use “barbarians” because in his time Greeks “hadn’t yet been divided off so as to have a single common name by way of contrast”. The point is clear: the barbarian was defined as in opposition to the Greek.

The Greeks invented the barbarian concept after the Persian invasions by Darius I and Xerxes I in 490 and 480-479 BC. After all they had to clearly separate themselves from the non-Greek. Aeschylus staged The Persians in 472 BC. That was the turning point; after that “barbarian” was everyone who was not Greek – Persians, Phoenicians, Phrygians, Thracians.

Adding to the schism, all these barbarians were monarchists. Athens, a new democracy, considered that to be the equivalent of slavery. Athens extolled “freedom” – which ideally developed reason, self-control, courage, generosity. In contrast, barbarians – and slaves – were childish, effeminate, irrational, undisciplined, cruel, cowardly, selfish, greedy, luxurious, pusillanimous.

From all of the above two conclusions are inevitable.

Barbarism and slavery was a natural match.

Greeks thought it was morally uplifting to help friends and repel enemies, and in the latter case Greeks had to enslave them. So Greeks should by definition rule barbarians.

History has shown that this worldview not only migrated to Rome but afterwards, via Christianity post-Constantine, to the “superior” West, and finally to the West’s supposed “end of history”: imperial America.