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[havellsindia001]

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[eretzyisrael]

In the week of Rabbi Sacks zt"l's matzeiva (stonesetting), it is very fitting and a sheer coincidence that his Covenant & Conversation essay on this week's parsha of Nitzavim is entitled 'Defeating Death'.

In the essay, pasted in full below, Rabbi Sacks wrote the following:

"How then do you defeat death? Yes there is an afterlife. Yes there is techiyat hametim, resurrection. But Moses does not focus on these obvious ideas. He tells us something different altogether. You achieve immortality by being part of a covenant – a covenant with eternity itself, that is to say, a covenant with God. When you live your life within a covenant something extraordinary happens. Your parents and grandparents live on in you. You live on in your children and grandchildren. They are part of your life. You are part of theirs."

How true that has proven to be over the past nine months since Rabbi Sacks passed away. The outpouring of love for him, his teachings, and the Judaism he taught and personified has been so moving. 

As we approach Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, when we each take stock of our own lives, we can look to his example of what it is to live a life of meaning and purpose and to embrace, and be embraced by, the Shechinah.

On behalf of The Rabbi Sacks Legacy Trust, we thank you for your continued support and wish you and your families a Shana tova u'metukah.

---

DEFYING DEATH (NITZAVIM 5781)

Only now, reaching Nitzavim, can we begin to get a sense of the vast, world-changing project at the heart of the Divine-human encounter that took place in the lifetime of Moses and the birth of Jews/ Israel as a nation.

To understand it, recall the famous remark of Sherlock Holmes. “I draw your attention,” he said to Dr Watson, “to the curious incident of the dog at night.” “But the dog did nothing at night,” said Watson. “That,” said Holmes, “is the curious incident.”[1] Sometimes to know what a book is about you need to focus on what it does not say, not just on what it does.

What is missing from the Torah, almost inexplicably so given the background against which it is set, is a fixation with death. The ancient Egyptians were obsessed with death. Their monumental buildings were an attempt to defy death. The pyramids were giant mausoleums. More precisely, they were portals through which the soul of a deceased pharaoh could ascend to heaven and join the immortals. The most famous Egyptian text that has come down to us is The Book of the Dead. Only the afterlife is real: life is a preparation for death.

There is nothing of this in the Torah, at least not explicitly. Jews believed in Olam HaBa, the World to Come, life after death. They believed in techiyat hametim, the resurrection of the dead.[2] There are six references to it in the second paragraph of the Amidah alone. But not only are these ideas almost completely absent from Tanach. They are absent at the very points where we would expect them.

The book of Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) is an extended lament at human mortality. Havel havalim… hakol havel: Everything is worthless because life is a mere fleeting breath (Ecc 1:2). Why did the author of Ecclesiastes not mention the World to Come and life-after-death? Another example: the book of Job is a sustained protest against the apparent injustice of the world. Why did no one answer Job to say, “You and other innocent people who suffer will be rewarded in the afterlife”? We believe in the afterlife. Why then is it not mentioned – merely hinted at – in the Torah? That is the curious incident.

The simple answer is that obsession with death ultimately devalues life. Why fight against the evils and injustices of the world if this life is only a preparation for the world to come? Ernest Becker in his classic The Denial of Death argues that fear of our own mortality has been one of the driving forces of civilisation.[3] It is what led the ancient world to enslave the masses, turning them into giant labour forces to build monumental buildings that would stand as long as time itself. It led to the ancient cult of the hero, the man who becomes immortal by doing daring deeds on the field of battle. We fear death; we have a love-hate relationship with it. Freud called this thanatos, the death instinct, and said it was one of the two driving forces of life, the other being eros.

Judaism is a sustained protest against this world-view. That is why “No one knows where Moses is buried” (Deut. 34:6) so that his tomb should never become a place of pilgrimage and worship. That is why in place of a pyramid or a temple such as Ramses II built at Abu Simbel, all the Israelites had for almost five centuries until the days of Solomon was the Mishkan, a portable Sanctuary, more like a tent than a temple. That is why, in Judaism, death defiles and why the rite of the Red Heifer was necessary to purify people from contact with it. That is why the holier you are – if you are a Kohen, more so if you are the High Priest – the less you can be in contact or under the same roof as a dead person. God is not in death but in life.

Only against this Egyptian background can we fully sense the drama behind words that have become so familiar to us that we are no longer surprised by them, the great words in which Moses frames the choice for all time:

See, I have set before you today life and good, death and evil … I call heaven and earth as witnesses today against you, that I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse; therefore choose life, that you and your children may live. (Deut. 30:15, 19)

Life is good, death is bad. Life is a blessing, death is a curse. These are truisms for us. Why even mention them? Because they were not common ideas in the ancient world. They were revolutionary. They still are.

How then do you defeat death? Yes there is an afterlife. Yes there is techiyat hametim, resurrection. But Moses does not focus on these obvious ideas. He tells us something different altogether. You achieve immortality by being part of a covenant – a covenant with eternity itself, that is to say, a covenant with God.

When you live your life within a covenant something extraordinary happens. Your parents and grandparents live on in you. You live on in your children and grandchildren. They are part of your life. You are part of theirs. That is what Moses meant when he said, near the beginning of this week’s parsha:

It is not with you alone that I am making this covenant and oath, but with whoever stands with us here today before the Lord our God as well as those not with us here today. (Deut. 29:13-14)

In Moses’ day that last phrase meant “your children not yet born.” He did not need to include “your parents, no longer alive” because their parents had themselves made a covenant with God forty years before at Mount Sinai. But what Moses meant in a larger sense is that when we renew the covenant, when we dedicate our lives to the faith and way of life of our ancestors, they become immortal in us, as we become immortal in our children.

It is precisely because Judaism focuses on this world, not the next, that it is the most child-centred of all the great religions. They are our immortality. That is what Rachel meant when she said, “Give me children, or else I am like one dead” (Gen. 30:1). It is what Abraham meant when he said, “Lord, God, what will you give me if I remain childless?” (Gen. 15:2). We are not all destined to have children. The Rabbis said that the good we do constitutes our toldot, our posterity. But by honouring the memory of our parents and bringing up children to continue the Jewish story we achieve the one form of immortality that lies this side of the grave, in this world that God pronounced good.

Now consider the two last commands in the Torah, set out in parshat Vayelech, the ones Moses gave at the very end of his life. One is hakhel, the command that the King summon the nation to an assembly every seven years:

At the end of every seven years …  Assemble the people – men, women and children, and the stranger living in your towns – so that they can listen and learn to fear the Lord your God and follow carefully all the words of this law. (Deut. 31:12)

The meaning of this command is simple. Moses is saying: It is not enough that your parents made a covenant with God at Mount Sinai or that you yourselves renewed it with me here on the plains of Moab. The covenant must be perpetually renewed, every seven years, so that it never becomes history. It always remains memory. It never becomes old because every seven years it becomes new again.

And the last command? “Now write down this song and teach it to the Israelites and make them sing it, so that it may be a witness for me against them” (Deut. 31:19). This, according to tradition, is the command to write [at least part of] a Sefer Torah. As Maimonides puts it: “Even if your ancestors have left you a Sefer Torah, nonetheless you are commanded to write one for yourself.”[4]

What is Moses saying in this, his last charge to the people he had led for forty years, was: It is not sufficient to say, our ancestors received the Torah from Moses, or from God. You have to take it and make it new in every generation. You must make the Torah not just your parents’ or grandparents’ faith but your own. If you write it, it will write you. The eternal word of the eternal God is your share in eternity.

We now sense the full force of the drama of these last days of Moses’ life. Moses knew he was about to die, knew he would not cross the Jordan and enter the land he had spent his entire life leading the people toward. Moses, confronting his own mortality, asks us in every generation to confront ours.

Our faith – Moses is telling us – is not like that of the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Romans, or virtually every other civilisation known to history. We do not find God in a realm beyond life – in heaven, or after death, in mystic disengagement from the world or in philosophical contemplation. We find God in life. We find God in (the key words of Devarim) love and joy. To find God, he says in this week’s parsha, you don’t have to climb to heaven or cross the sea (Deut. 30:12-13). God is here. God is now. God is life.

And that life, though it will end one day, in truth does not end. For if you keep the covenant, then your ancestors will live in you, and you will live on in your children (or your disciples or the recipients of your kindness). Every seven years the covenant will become new again. Every generation will write its own Sefer Torah. The gate to eternity is not death: it is life lived in a covenant endlessly renewed, in words engraved on our hearts and the hearts of our children.

And so Moses, the greatest leader we ever had, became immortal. Not by living forever. Not by building a tomb and temple to his glory. We don’t even know where he is buried. The only physical structure he left us was portable because life itself is a journey. He didn’t even become immortal the way Aaron did, by seeing his children become his successors. He became immortal by making us his disciples. And in one of their first recorded utterances, the Rabbis said likewise: Raise up many disciples.

To be a leader, you don’t need a crown or robes of office. All you need to do is to write your chapter in the story, do deeds that heal some of the pain of this world, and act so that others become a little better for having known you. Live so that through you our ancient covenant with God is renewed in the only way that matters: in life. Moses’ last testament to us at the very end of his days, when his mind might so easily have turned to death, was: Choose life.

[1] Arthur Conan Doyle, “The Adventure of Silver Blaze.”

[2] The Mishnah in Sanhedrin 10:1 says that believing that the resurrection of the dead is stated in the Torah is a fundamental part of Jewish faith. However, according to any interpretation, the statement is implicit, not explicit.

[3] New York: Free Press, 1973.

[4] Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Tefillin, Mezuza, VeSefer Torah 7:1.

The Rabbi Sacks Legacy Trust 

[paladin-andric]

Character Bio: Tourthun, the Red Dragon of Palethorn

“I am guided by the philosophies my father taught me. There is much you may find strange about me. I shun a traditional...lifestyle. I do not prey on your cattle, or gather a hoard, or have servants...my abode is humble. It is why I was not sought out by the beasts of Palethorn before the accursed demons arrived. I did not bother them, and I had no treasure for would-be heroes and thieves to steal. Why slay a dragon if you have nothing to gain? Unless you are Salign, of course...”

Born to a mother and father in the wilds of Geralthin, Tourthun has little to no memory of his mother. She was killed by another dragon shortly after his birth. His father, Tamis, had to provide for and raise the hatchling by himself. Tamis the Placid, as he was called by other dragons, had shunned his kin after his mate’s death. He lived in isolation in the wilderness, with only his child. He didn’t gather treasure, as he felt he had no use for it. He refused to take minions, as it made him feel like a slavemaster, something he saw the other dragons as. For Tourthun’s early childhood, he saw almost no other life as he lived in the mountaintop cave his father moved to after the death of his mate.

Tourthun didn’t spend a long time with his father, but the time he did is cherished dearly by the dragon. The two of them flew the skies together, ate together, spoke about life and myth all day...they only had each other, after all.

Tamis began encouraging his son to follow a certain lifestyle at a very young age. He drilled the child on the importance of kindness, humility, temperance, and peace, imploring his son to treat the smaller creatures of the world with respect. He also spoke poorly of other dragons to Tourthun, calling them bloodthirsty and cruel, something that would deeply affect the child’s worldview for ages to come.

After several years in isolation, disaster struck once again. Another dragon attacked the two in their cave. He had apparently heard of the father’s softness and decided he would make an easy first kill. Many dragons tried to assert their power and importance by testing their might against other dragons. This young, inexperienced dragon wanted to boast of killing another dragon without taking much risk, which led him to choosing Tamis as his opponent.

Sensing the end drawing near, Tamis cried out for his son to flee to the wilds right away, and not to stop. Tourthun was hesitant to leave his father, but when he saw the other dragon cut him down, Tourthun knew he had no choice.

He flew as far as he could, convinced the other dragon would come for him next. His luck turned around somewhat, as the other dragon either lost him or simply had no interest in boasting over killing children. He began aimlessly wandering the wilds, hysterical over his father’s death. With nowhere to go, and no one to go to, the child hid out near a human town, seeing it as the safest bet. Humans were skilled monster slayers, so nothing would come for him here.

He was still reeling from his father’s sudden death however, and struggled to provide for himself. He had never hunted, and he didn’t want to. Initially fleeing when spotted by the humans, his ravenous hunger had finally made him desperate enough to seek them out. He could only hope they were as kind as his father made them out to be.

Luckily, the townspeople were amused by the small dragon. After landing in the crop fields, instead of demanding tribute or scorching them like they thought he would, he begged for their help. The people of the town agreed to help the child, and set him up with a daily offering of plants and berries to munch on.

The people of the town of Havel were generally amused and cheery about the situation, jokingly claiming that they had “adopted” the dragon. They called him “the mascot of Havel”. Tourthun slowly warmed up to this role, entertaining people who wandered into his cave a short trip from Havel and regularly speaking with the townspeople.

Years passed, and the dragon grew and grew, now an adolescent. The town of Havel began struggling to provide for the growing dragon, and so Tourthun learned how to make his own meals. Despite his newfound self-reliance, his bond with the town grew. People still came every now and then to talk, wayfarers stopped by to witness the Dragon of Havel themselves, and the children of the town snuck into the cave to see the mythical beast, awestruck.

A small tribe of kobolds made themselves known to Tourthun. Seeking a dragon to claim as their guardian, the creatures began sneaking into his cave to offer him tribute. He turned them away each time, but they persisted. He slowly grew to accept this, though he barked at them to leave the people of Havel in peace each time they visited.

One day, the tribute stopped. Curious, Tourthun took a short trip to their lair to see what happened for himself. The entire tribe was dead, apparently having drawn the ire of the nearby human settlements, after one heist too many. Tourthun was upset over the loss of life, but he soon wandered back to Havel. He felt small pangs of guilt, thinking that perhaps if he had taken them under his wing, he could have steered them onto a better path, preventing their deaths.

Upon reaching adulthood, Tourthun began to think about where his life was headed. Should he strike out on his own and travel the world, to gather knowledge and become wiser? Should he declare himself the Guardian of Havel? Or perhaps he should track down that horrible dragon, and avenge his family...

His path was decided for him, however, when the Exile began. All non-humans were to be exiled to Palethorn, effective immediately. A massive contingent of dragonslayers arrived to deliver Tourthun an ultimatum; come to Palethorn, or be hunted. The townspeople of Havel gathered in an angry mob to resist the dragonslayers, screaming and pelting them with rocks. Seeing a massacre in the making, Tourthun hurriedly pledged to join the exile in Palethorn, to protect the people of Havel from the kingdom’s wrath.

Many tears were shed, but Tourthun angrily went along with the exile. He had now been forced from his home twice, everyone he cared about was gone. He was furious, hurt deeply and craving vengeance...but memories of his father tempered his wrath. He had to live up to the morals his father pleaded with him to follow. He couldn’t bring him back, but he could honor his wishes, at least.

Tourthun set up his lair in a mountainous cliffside near Palethorn. When he first arrived, Tourthun was met by another dragon, who was seeking friends among exiles. Although seeming friendly and innocent, Tourthun refused him. He had never forgotten what his father told him, and witnessing his death firsthand solidified his perspective. He demanded the dragon leave, to never return. The dragon seemed upset, but relented, reminding Tourthun that he and his family would be in the city’s natural caverns if he ever needed anything.

Tourthun stewed in bitter dejection in his new home, isolated and angry at the people of Geralthin for separating him from everything he cared about. Anyone curious enough to brave the mountain and enter the cave was sent running with angry demands to never return. Tourthun was still soft-hearted, and wouldn’t harm any interlopers. He did however, feel betrayed, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.

A lengthy stay in the cave made him slowly lose this mindset. After scaring off the first few explorers, no one else dared enter. He spent his days foraging and sitting around in his cave, nothing to occupy him but his thoughts. This slowly took its toll on him, driving him into grief with loneliness. After a lifetime spent close with others, this self-imposed isolation was too much for him to handle.

Just as he felt he might go mad, and considered going to investigate the dragon that tried to befriend him, the attack happened. Tourthun awoke to panicked screams, and the scent of smoke and death. Demons had invaded the world, and they chose Palethorn as their starting point. It looked as though he would be forced away from his home once more.

No.

Every time he fled, he lost everything. He wouldn’t be driven away again. He wouldn’t stand by while his life was decided for him. He wouldn’t let yet another act of evil stand unopposed by him.

This time, he would fight.

Tagging list: @thereisnothingwrongwithbeingmad, @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword

Want to be tagged whenever I post about Blackheart? Just let me know and I’ll add you.

[witchabroad]

Trip to Ireland

a little travel log if some of you are interested (I apologise for the grammar)

The weather was windy in Prague on the day we took off. We flew to Dublin where we were greeted by sunshine and continued our journey to Galway.

There our little adventure, in a sense of our uneventful office day jobs, could begin. The travelling took nearly whole day even thought Dublin is only 2,5 hours by plane. We arrived at night, most of Galway citizens were already counting sheep. The next day we took a bus to Cliffs of Moher. The Irish scenery is a remedy for tired eyes. The pictures can hardly capture the beauty of the place.  

The odds were in our favour, no storm or strong wind happened on that day. We walked from Visitor Centre to Hag’s Head followed by her faithful spy. 

There is a stone 'fence' around the first few hundred metres of the trail, then there are some pieces in a few places, but mostly you are walking on the path without railing or any other dumb proof system to keep you falling from the ledge. The Cliffs range between 120 - 210 metres high. Little did I know I will compete for a nomination to the famous Darwin Awards. If you ever go to visit the Cliffs and you slip from the path, please do NOT try to save your camera before checking where the edge is :D (unless you want to give a heart attack to the people walking around)

The Cliffs are must see if you ever plan a journey to Ireland. 

We had spent there whole afternoon and got on the bus in the evening, back to Galway. The town was more lively and we could roam around without our luggage. 

On Thursday, we went sightseeing. Galway has everything you would expect from an Irish town and more. (I don’t have many pictures from that day, wanted to be more ‘present’ and simply enjoy the atmosphere)

We took the bus (again) to Dublin in the afternoon. As we were getting closer, the sun started to follow us. We were prepared for rainy/cloudy weather. Nah, it was so sunny the following days, no one back home wanted to believe us (hence we had to take some overly sunny pictures as a proof).

I’ve visited Dublin a few times. It is always nice to come back. It is a busy city even outside the typical touristy season. It was a very first visit for my friend, she was excited, even thought Galway and Cliffs of Moher made great impression, wasn’t sure if it wasn’t overkill right in the beginning.

We have started our evening with a geocaching hunt (so glad it was already dark), it led us to interesting places to see, can’t spoil the locations, check them when you are there :)

When we got back to our hostel, our roommate has been already there, a cheerful girl from Hong Kong, it was great to have a chat with her. Some part of my introvert personality enjoys to meet new people from time to time.

The next day we have started to walk around the city, just to name a few places: Trinity College, Garden of Remembrance, St. Stephen’s Green Park, Temple Bar Road, Dublin Castle and many more.

The next stop was a tour and a whiskey tasting at Teeling Whiskey Distillery. Our tour guide Naill was funny, chipper guy, who talked us through the golden age of whiskey in Dublin to it’s downfall, and the reopening of the distillery. Coincidentally, we went for a tour on the exact day that they have opened their very first cask which matured for three years. The distillery was reopened after 40 years precisely three years ago, on Oct 26, 2015.

We walked back around St. Patrick’s Cathedral, just next to it is a memorial to our past president Václav Havel.   

It was our last night in Ireland. Halloween decorations were all over the city (back home we don’t celebrate it), Irish music was pouring on the streets from the bars, people were laughing and we had a jolly time.

Then the last day arrived so fast like we haven’t travelled at all. We walked closer to the docks and got some Irish tan.

In the afternoon, we were on our way to the airport, completely knackered, the walking around started to finally were us down to the point, where we departed from Dublin airport after sunset, and about half an hour later, I was thinking ‘the road is quite bumpy’ then I realised I’m on the plane :D

We landed to the grey rainy night in Prague. It was great trip. Looking forward to the next visit.

Side note: Thought we are going to meet more people with ginger/red hair, my friend said "I've met probably six of them, including you" :D

If you read to this point, thank you for your time and wish you a great day 💚

[thomasmarleyblog]

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[storiesbybrian]

You Live In A Zoo

Ken was riding alone in the elevator, holding a large black forest cake when he sneezed. He aimed his face away from the cake, but the volume of snot and spit oozing down the elevator’s wood-paneling suggested the cake had not escaped the sneeze’s blast radius. Well, Ken thought. Maybe the cake deserves it for preventing my hands from taking one for the team. So it was unsurprising to turn back and see the white-piped letters reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESSICA glistening with effluvia, but it was still dismaying. Ken would have loved to blame the person who insisted that cake boxes, with their thin cardboard and non-biodegradable plastic skylights, were preposterously wasteful, but that ever so environmentally ethical person was the same one who just exposed the cake to his own inner environment. He tried blowing the cake clean, which sent a flagella of mucus he hadn’t realized was dangling from his nose lashing across both Ps, just as the elevator stopped on his in-laws’ floor.

He stepped out and placed the slimy cake on the hallway carpet. Sounds of merriment  streamed from the cracked door of his wife’s childhood home. Sounds of merriment and his father-in-law’s favorite record, Extensions by the Manhattan Transfer. That damn record was going to play on repeat all night. Ken took a tissue from his pocket and poised a corner of it over the cake, hoping to absorb his nose’s unwelcome contribution without disturbing the calligraphy. He caught one substantial gob that way, but a few streaks still glared up at him. Using a different corner of the tissue, he swept these toward the nearest cherries where they could just blend right in.

When the most damning of the evidence was cleared, Ken stuffed the tissue into his back pocket and carried the cake the rest of the way to his mother-in-law’s 70th birthday party. Jessica and Boris’s apartment had five bedrooms and four and a half bathrooms, all centered around a dining room so large, Ken always expected Irish wolfhounds to come running in at dinner time, even though the building was pet-free. Ken was nearly sure he would have hated the art they slapped all over their infinite wallspace even if his in-laws’ rent wasn’t lower than what he and Caroline were paying for a one-bedroom 10 blocks away. But maybe he did feel more brutally assaulted by that economic outrage than he did by the enlarged ads for a French liqueur, the brown, crumbling opera announcements, the braille transcriptions of rap lyrics and poetry by Havel, the portraits of all six members of their immediate family, all those ornate frame corners poking from the mint green walls like dungeon spikes.

“Happy Birthday!” he said loudly enough, he hoped, for his mother-in-law to hear him anywhere in the cavernous apartment. He turned left, ducking under copper whisks and ladles hanging from the kitchen doorway to hand the snot-smeared cake off to his brother-in-law Gene, who ruled the kitchen with a despotism his cooking did not merit. Gene took it with one hand, without looking up from his phone. Caroline was pinned to the living room sofa by two of their nephews. Ken stood at the edge of the room, giving the entire party one more chance to herald his arrival, and maybe give him subtle guidance on who to kiss first, his wife, the birthday girl or scotch. Just in case any of Rebecca’s guests noticed he was there, he imagined them judging him most harshly if he greeted anyone before his wife so he wended his way past Caroline’s siblings and parents’ friends to the skirmish on the couch.

“Hi Uncle Ken!” his nephew Elijah said. “Can I tickle your armpits?”

Ken knew permission didn’t matter so after glancing disgustedly at the cluster of paintings, charcoals and lithographs, united in their celebration of 19th Century Japanese agriculture, he stiff-armed Elijah and leant over to kiss Caroline. He wanted to be able to confide in her about the splash he’d made on her mother’s cake, to have it be their dirty little secret, which made him think of Betsy, a girl he’d known years before getting married who, one winter, dared him to stick his tongue up her nostril, which he did. And while getting his tongue poked by her jagged, salty boogers wasn’t much of an erotic thrill, goddamn it was intimate! But Caroline’s devotion to her mother was too slavish to allow her to conspire, even mildly, against her so, with Elijah swiping away at his underarm and kicking at his shin to get closer, Ken just smiled and told her she looked nice, wondering why breathing in the chopped herring on her breath didn’t feel as intimate as Betsy’s boogers.

Elijah reached a few finger tips to Ken’s armpit. Ken clamped his arm down, trapping Elijah’s wriggling fingers against his ribcage. Ken smirked and said, “Still too thin to win, boy.”

“Uh, Ken?” Gene said, swatting his own torso with a spatula right where Joan Jett’s eyes squinted from his dark denim Meow Mix apron. “May I see you in the kitchen?”

Everyone at the party intoned her own version of, “Uh oh, what’d you do?”

Ken assured Caroline that everything was fine and dragged Elijah toward the kitchen ready to deny everything. Absolutely everything. Just before the utensil stalactites, Ken raised his arm and Elijah ran back to the sofa, stopping briefly to try crying but abandoning the project when no tears sprang forth. In the kitchen, Gene gave Joan Jett a break and pointed his spatula at a Royal Copenhagen gravy boat on a shelf he couldn’t reach.

“Gene,” Ken said.

“Yes, Ken?”

“You know I’m not the tallest one here. I’m not even your tallest family member.”

“Darling,” Gene’s father Boris said, poking a rare nude spot on a wall repeatedly. “I’m hungry.”

Boris tried to maintain deference to his son while also entering his own kitchen and sticking spoonfuls from every pot into his mouth, using a different spoon each time, and leaving it there, until it looked like he was trying to swallow a very fancy bicycle gear. Boris was almost elfin in his slightness, his ribbed turtle neck sagging from the slender limbs of his 4’ 9” frame. But then there were his eyebrows, which Ken believed could hold carnations by their stems.

“Daddy!” Gene said. “How is it?”

“That one’s great, that one’s pretty good, that one’s very good, that one’s too mushy and that one needs salt,” Boris said, extracting the spoon corresponding to each critique separately.

Ken felt like the entertainment value of the family schtick had reached its apex, so he handed Gene the gravy boat and made his way to the bar.

Boris had hired the same catering company that handled Ken and Caroline’s wedding, but only for beverage and waiting service. All of the food was courtesy of Gene, who bravely ignored the disappointment shrink-wrapping every thank you and congratulations his parents’ guests lavished on him. Gene’s menu was modeled on Boris and Rebecca’s first date, when Rebecca’s grandmother had served them beef stroganoff by candlelight on the fire escape of Rebecca’s childhood apartment in Middle Village. In addition to the egg noodles and beef stew, Gene had kasha varnishkes, steamed carrots, roast broccoli, cold potato leek soup, and fried zucchini blossoms stuffed with goat cheese. The shard of blossom batter Boris had hacked off with a spoon edge was what needed salt. Ken had never eaten Rebecca’s cooking, which led him to believe it was bad, and he wondered how Boris finessed deploying gusto on their first date with exiling her from the kitchen for the next 40 years.

“Scotch and soda?” Ken said to the bartender.

“Single malt or blend?” the bartender asked. Ken was slightly perturbed to be delayed by further consideration, but this was a special occasion so maybe Boris had sprung for some of the good stuff.

“Single malt,” he said. “Hold the soda.”

The bartender poured a slug from an oddly shaped bottle of a brand Ken never heard of into a wine glass. Tattooed flames rose above the cuffs of her tuxedo shirt, licking at her palms, making Ken feel warmer.

“Hey,” he said. “Have I seen your band play? At the Mercury Lounge?”

“Nice try,” she said. “But I don’t think so.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ken saw Caroline’s twin brother Tommy watching him get his drink and somehow Ken knew that Tommy had already made the bartender tense about getting hit on.

“No really,” Ken said. “I’m… married, but I do get out to see music pretty often.”

The bartender nodded with all the polite contempt she could contain within the boundaries of professionalism. Ken had his drink and now she’d really like to stop interacting with him. Have a nice day, sir. But Ken felt embarrassed and protected by his connection to the payer of tonight’s bills, so, beneath the shroud of his own bullshit version of decorum, he declared himself the arbiter of when this little chat would be over.

“Drums?” he asked.

“I’m not in a band,” she said. “You don’t recognize me.”

She looked past him to someone else who wanted a drink. Ken turned to see who, hoping it was somebody he didn’t know. In five minutes, he’d secretly ruined the birthday cake and meta-cheated on the birthday girl’s youngest daughter.

“Two red wines please,” Caroline’s sister Gretchen said.

“Hey,” Ken said. “Elijah’s really getting stronger!”

“Yeah,” Gretchen said, taking her wines. “I really wish you’d help me discourage his more violent tendencies, Ken.”

Am I crushing it or what? Ken thought. Well, the scotch was very good. Time to move on to the next exhibit and pay tribute to his mother-in-law.

Rebecca was in a group that included her brother Alan, and her department dean at CUNY. They stood by Boris’s large oil of a barn in Vermont. Ken couldn’t look at the painting without picturing two farmers holding Boris by the ankles so they could paint the barn with his eyebrows.

“No!” Rebecca said to her brother.

“Oh yes,” Uncle Alan said. “Ken, maybe you’ve heard about this.”

“About what? Happy birthday, Rebecca.”

“Thank you, Ken,” she said, extending her cheek to be bussed. Ken never found Rebecca attractive, but her hair was well-coiffed and her jawline was strong and she usually smelled nice. “How’s the cake look?”

“Like a potential fire hazard,” he said to a heartening amount of chuckling. “What am I supposed to settle here?”

“Well, Alan says there was a guy on his flight who was whittling. Whittling! On an airplane. Is that really a thing now?”

“Oh yeah, I have heard something about that,” Ken said. He had not.

“See?” Alan said. “And it was a full-on bowie knife too!”

“Must’ve been a service knife,” Rebecca’s dean said, waiting for his subordinate to laugh at his wit. Rebecca nodded without mirth and Ken tried staring at the dean, daring him to be petty enough to make a note of Rebecca’s defiance, but wary that the dean might mistake his look for a ha ha I’m funnier than you taunt. Someone tapped Ken’s shoulder. It was Tommy, beckoning Ken into the bedroom where he still lived.

“Boys,” Rebecca said. “No vaping!”

Tommy closed the door. Ken had never been able to square Tommy’s bedroom decor with his personality. Floating shelves jutted from one burgundy wall, holding several dozen coffee table books on subjects ranging from wartime photography to arctic wildlife photography, none of which Ken had ever heard Tommy talk about, even when relevant subjects came up in family conversations. The opposite wall was dominated by a wide oak desk that held three monitors across which Bloomberg financial data perpetually ticked. His bed was a stately four-poster that Ken doubted ever saw any action. Tommy sat on it and invited Ken to sit next to him. Ken declined.

“I do have a pen, if you want some,” Tommy said.

“No thanks.”

“So… uh, just thought you should know that the reason Gene called you into the kitchen was to settle a bet we had.”

“Uh huh?”

“Ken,” Tommy said. “You know Caroline tells me everything, right? Like, everything.”

“Well I’m sure there are some-”

“Everything.”

“I see.”

“So, like, my bet with Gene,” Tommy said, now fiddling with the vape pen. “Gene says he can smell how long it’s been since somebody’s… you know. Had sex?”

“Um, for just how much was this bet?”

“Five bucks.”

“Ooh, high stakes!”

“Hey, you can make fun of me if you want Ken, but has it ever occurred to you that I might be helpful to you here?”

Ken tried to leave the room and Tommy yanked him by the arm til he was sitting on Tommy’s plaid comforter with the edge of a sham pillow under one buttock, Tommy’s weight by the foot of the bed seesawing Ken till his feet didn’t reach the floor. And sure enough, Caroline had told Tommy everything, everything being that Ken had not had sex with his wife in several months, and that she correctly surmised it was because he had gotten so tired of being the sole initiator of sexual contact with his wife that he had vowed to leave his balls in her court until she was ready to pick them up and play with them of her own volition. And even with Tommy’s spin on the state of his sister’s marriage, it all sounded pretty reasonable to Ken. What Ken was afraid to say, to Caroline or Tommy or anyone, was that he just wanted to be wanted, that he was tired of doing all of the wanting, so tired, and ashamed of how unwanted he felt and further ashamed of how hopeful he was that his wife’s overweight twin brother might actually be able to help him out here. So they talked some more. And vaped. Ken was about to ask Tommy to put on some music when his phone chirped. It was a text from Caroline reading CAKE!

Ken and Tommy emerged from the bedroom to see everyone gathered and facing Boris and Rebecca. Boris signaled Gene to turn down the music mid-Coo Coo U. Ken stood next to Caroline, trying not to seethe at her for exposing his private foibles to what now felt like the entire party. Did everyone around them seem extra gentle and sympathetic with him? Or was that Tommy’s pot?

Boris gave a bland speech about how thrilling it was to share this milestone with so many of his and Rebecca’s nearest and dearest. Ken estimated the toast was about 15% too long, but Rebecca managed to keep her smile looking genuine the whole time.

Ken went off to use Gretchen’s bathroom, because it was the only one with a door that shut completely. Gretchen’s room was being used for changing and storage by the caterers. Among the various duffels and totes was one Hello Kitty backpack scaled with buttons featuring ostensibly rebellious slogans: Save the Rainforests, They/Them, Fuck White Supremacy, Stop All Wars, People Over Profits, Health Care Is A Right, Leave Britney Alone, Oil Kills and more, plus a few that were just pictures or symbols. Ken used his toe to undo the backpack’s zipper, and then the same toe to widen his view into the backpacks contents, just enough to see the scarred blonde wood of a few drumsticks. He tried his best to not feel ashamed by how good this vindication felt. But with that much joy for a triumph that frivolous, the shame could not be kept at bay. Out of fury at the flame-wristed bartender for her role in his present difficulties, he did not bother to rezip her backpack.

Gene was waiting for him outside of Gretchen’s bathroom.

“Best lock?” he asked, handing Ken a piece of birthday cake.

Ken nodded and took the cake without eating it. They ambled together back to within earshot of the Manhattan Transfer. Ken pretended not to notice Gene’s pretending not to notice the guests smiling more widely over the cake than they had over his fare.

“Saw you talkin’ to Tommy,” he said. “And I dunno what he told you, but if you want the advice of somebody with a more robust love life?”

“You mean you,” Ken said.

Gene stopped walking for a millisecond, as if to warn Ken that he was about to blow his shot at the gems Gene was feeling generous enough to offer. And while he was still hiding how desperate he really was, Ken put enough remorse on his face for Gene to continue.

“You’ve gotta be an animal Ken! You know? Primitive! Find something deep within yourself and just let it out. Rowr! That’s sexy.”

Ken nodded agreeably. Too agreeably, like, give me a medal for being such a good agreer.

“Thanks Gene,” he said. “Here. You can have my cake.”

[badassindistress]

The letters of Freddy Langvinger (V)

The continuing adventures of Arcane Trickster Freddy Langvinger and Champion Brunhilde, as told by Freddy in her letters to her cousin:

Letter I, Letter II, Letter III, Letter IV, Recap of the session

Dear Mira,

Easy money doesn't exist. Neither do adventures free from death and disaster apparently. The nice quiet escort mission Brunhilde found for us started out delightfully. Professor Landy is a nice woman with a proper appreciation for apricot tarts. Her cousin has an apricot Orchard, which might help our issues with our current seller. You know how Mr Bree always tries to sell us overripe ones. Sadly, our pleasant journey found its end at the  inn at Havel's Cross. Quite a nice inn, if it wasn't for the partially eaten corpses of beast and men strewn about. We hid the professor and split up to try and find the elf we were supposed to meet. Brunhilde immediately found herself in a fight with four goblins led by a hobgoblin, I found a back way through a window, only to find her striking a deal with the hobgoblin. Apparently Brunhilde had impressed him enough he was willing to share the treasure. And impressive she was. She just walked in there and said "We can talk, or you can die" and proceeded to give them a thrashing. course she would never take that money, even though no one owned it anymore and it was really up for grabs. Well, it was still in a lockbox, for all their brute force and theatrical groaning. I could have picked it in a flash, but I didn't feel it was safe to reveal myself. And that's where the magic comes in. You know I've always longed to be able to do magic. Do you remember that long summer when I tried to give up my thievish ways and read any magic tome I could get my hands on for a taste of adventure? I never could get more than a sparkle of lights, but the real terror and danger of the Blind Palace changed that. Suddenly I felt I could wish images into existence. And now, with a good dinner, a night's full sleep and a pretty little bag of spell components, I feel I can do so much more. Including summoning an invisible hand that I can use to pick locks at a distance. That's right dear cousin, no locked drawer is safe from me now! You'll have to hide your midwinter presents even better now. In your lady friend's cottage perhaps?

At any rate, I picked the lock invisibly from a distance while Brunhilde tried her strenght on it and lo and behold, it worked! Sadly, all those coins went to the goblins. I did pick up a pretty little ring, but nothing else. And no sign of Calidor, the elven researcher we were meant to meet. We decided to escort the Professor to the site of the temple to find her colleagues. When we got there the place it was abandoned. I'm going to try another feat of magic to scope the place out without putting any of us in danger. I once read wizards can call forth familiars to act as their eyes. I'm sure if I concentrate, I can manage. A chipmunk pr a squirrel, maybe. Something small and dexterous. Send my love to the family and please ask Victoria to prepare some more crossbow bolts for me, she still owes me for that time with the dark elf.

All my love, Freddy, Baker and Arcanist

[valorpg]

>>file number: 212<<

Name: Dominika Hlavin Codename: Kingmaker Aliases: Anja Schmitz   Gender: Female Pronouns: She/Her Faceclaim: Leá Seydoux Alternate Faceclaims: Mélanie Laurent, Olga Kurylenko  

history:

Date of Birth: March 15th 1937 (33) Place of Birth: Prague, Czechoslovakia Nationality: Czech Occupation: KGB informant, Assistant

early life:

Dominika was born to Alena and Havel Hlavin. Havel’s father had been a wealthy landowner who, despite being able to afford an education for Havel, had been unable to rise through the social hierarchy of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It was because of this that Havel was married to Alena, the daughter of an old aristocratic family who had lost their wealth through gambling debts. In 1932 Havel was elected into the Czechoslovakian government, able to use his wife's ancestry and his family’s money to finally gain power for the Hlavin family. When Havel and Alena discovered that they were pregnant it looked as if all their dreams were coming true. A few months later, however, the Germans invaded Czechoslovakia, and Havel was removed from his position in Parliament. He had hoped once the war was over he would be able to regain his position in Parliament, but his democratic past made this impossible under the strict rule of the USSR. Instead he began lecturing at a university.

Dominika did very well in school, and her father quickly noticed that she had inherited his people skills. She always seemed to benefit from the drama she created around herself, yet never appeared to fall out with anyone. Havel saw in his daughter a chance to rejoin politics within Czechoslovakia, and quickly began training her to eventually join the government. She graduated high school in 1951 and due to the new focus in the Soviet education system on the sciences, went on to study mathematics at university - a subject she had excelled in.  When she graduated, her father managed to get her a job with the KSC in the Ministry of Education. Due to her gender she was unable to stand for election, nor take a public role in the government, but she did succeed in making many connections within the KSC, and soon was a necessary ally for anyone who wished to progress through the party, ruling the closed door meetings which saw members of the party rise and then fall from power.

The economic disaster of the 1960s and the death of her father led Dominika to grow bitter of the Soviet controlled system which she was a part of. She was also aware that her power within the KSC was limited by the inherent corruption and control from the USSR. It was during this time she was approached by politician Alexander Dubček, who told her of his plans to create a freer Czechoslovakia. Impressed by his ideas and plans for the country, she saw a future political system in which she could play a much more active role in the Government.

In January 1968 Dubček was elected to power. For a few months the KSC was successful in implementing more right wing policies, decreasing censorship and Soviet control, however, this all came crashing down on the 20th of August, when the Warsaw Pact nations invaded. Dominika’s mother was killed and the government dismantled around her. Dominika was in danger of either being killed or arrested herself, and began desperately trying to disconnect herself from Dubček and his associates. On the 23rd of August when the final US citizens were being evacuated from Czechoslovakia, Dominika was approached by a KGB agent - the Russians had been tracking Dominika’s actions for a while, and identified her as a highly skilled, intelligent woman, who worked completely in her own self interest - and offered to smuggle her out of the Eastern Bloc in return for her compliance in the future. She accepted immediately.

By the 24th of August Dominika had disappeared, and in her place was West German citizen and mathematics student Anja Schmitz. She remained in West Germany for only a couple of days before a file arrived on her desk. Inside was a passport, plane ticket, and a job advertisement. She arrived in New York, and made her way to the offices of Ralphio Kowalski where she received the position as his new assistant. Once a week Hlavin leaves a small envelope of information in a local diner, which is picked up by a KGB agent, and delivered back to the USSR.

skill set:

Extremely manipulative, strong understanding of the process of lobbying for votes and support. Is also very good at uncovering people’s weaknesses and ambitions and using them to her own advantage.

Very talented mathematician with an above average IQ. Speaks fluent Czech, German, Russian and English.

Hlavin has a basic understanding of firearms. 

current movements:

Last Seen:  Bonn, West Germany  Report: Hlavin, under the pseudonym Anja Schmitz, was seen at 11:58 pm boarding a small, unscheduled plane in Copenhagen, accompanied by a man, identified as [blank]. She disembarked the same plane at 3:30 am in New York; the man was not seen again. She was taken from the airport to a hotel within walking distance of the university

known affiliates: 

Hugo McKenzie: Hugo and Anja have struck up multiple conversations since she began working for Ralphio. She feels comfortable around him, seeing him as an exception within the world of politics. She is scared, however, to get to close, aware that if he knew who she really was he would have no choice but to betray her. 

Roman Sokolov: Dominika’s point of contact with the KGB. The man is aloof, revealing very little of himself to Dominika’s scrutiny, this has never deterred her before, however, and Dominika knows the best way to escape prison is to befriend the guard, before stabbing him in the back. 

Ralphio Kowalski: Ralphio is an incompetent man, just like all other incompetent men who Dominika has worked for in her life. She prefers, however, an incompetence man who she can control, to a competent one who controls her. She will feel no guilt betraying him, and using him, to regain the powerful position she used to hold.

>>THIS OPERATIVE IS CLOSEd.<<

[lyxine]

Snowballs (or one of Ledo’s crazy ideas)

So... @nightmaredaisy and I were discussing about lore and we ended up talking about Ledo and Havel, the buff dads. That’s how this one-shot was born, and thus, why I’m publishing it. There are several little OCs just to add a name to the Silver Knights, since they’re all faceless.

Snow wasn’t a rare thing in winter, but most of the time, it melted once it touched the floor, usually soaking the patrolling knights under their armor. Most of them found the sensation annoying, and hoped that they wouldn’t have to clean the barracks once they got there, but could brush it off. After all, the Winter Solstice was approaching, and they would be feasting… Except for the ones who would be on guard duty, mostly because of their behavior or their poor results.

However, this winter was colder than the others, and allowed the snow to fall and actually stay, covering the floor under a thick white coat. The archers on the roofs were annoyed, and had to brush the snow from their armor every five minutes, while the patrols tried their best to not slip on something. They had an image to maintain after all, and the snow was nothing compared to dragons. They would carry on their duty and-

*SPLAT*

A snowball crashed on the captain’s helmet, the snow hitting the back of his head. The whole patrol froze, most of the knights trying to keep a serious face.

“Who did that?!”

All of the heads turned to Ledo, whose gloves were covered by snow.

“Ledo. Of course.”

“I’m sorry I aimed for your shoulders.”

“By the Gods…”

“He’s so dead…”

“Come on, there are no dragons here! We can… Chill a bit no?”

Some knights failed to hide their laughs. Ledo was an eccentric among them, but his actions always had a nice goal, and when they weren’t on duty, it was a great source of fun amongst the Silver Knights.

“If your acts distract the patrol once more, I’ll have to report your behaviour to Sir Ornstein…”

*SPLAT*

The two knights turned around, searching for the source of the noise. One of them, Lauriam, groaned and looked around, brushing off the snow that landed on his chest and then looked up. An archer threw an another snowball at the face of the knight, making him fall backwards.

“EILIANNN!”

“Whoah, calm down Lauriam! I’m sure it was friend-”

*SPLAT*

Sant was interrupted by two snowballs, thrown by other laughing archers on the roofs. Ledo shrugged and turned towards his captain.

“I swear, that’s not my fault here.”

The patrolling knights had already sheathed or strapped their weapons to their back, and had taken cover behind pillars. More snowballs flew, and before long, a fight opposing the archers and the patrol was raging. The captain had joined the fray and was leading his squad, while the archers were led by Eilian. Ledo smiled during the whole fight, happy to contribute to the amusement of his fellow knights.

Meanwhile, at the doors of the Chapel…

“So, we still need to pick the knights that are going to guard the city during the Feast… Any ideas, Artorias, my Lord?”

“I just hope that you won’t be a part of these guards.” said the Firstborn “After all, there will be the Lady of Izalith, and it would be a bit disappointing if you weren’t there.”

“After all, you’re the Captain of the Four Knights Ornstein. A captain must be here to speak in our name, right?”

“Right… But still, better be safe than sorry. So any id-”

*SPLAT*

Snow crashed on the Lion’s helmet. Everything froze. The silver knights engaged in the snowball fight dropped their half formed snowballs on the floor and looked at each other, their eyes filled with fear. Ornstein turned his head around and looked at the snowy mess that was the guards. The wind howled, and for a moment, every armor seemed petrified.

“We’re so dead…” muttered Eilian

The Lion knight stared at the knights, then the streets. He gripped his spear, ready to strike the paralyzed knights. How could they mess up something as simple as a patrol?! Who was the instigator of this mess?! And why-

*SPLAT*

A snowball hit him from behind, and he turned around once more, ignoring the knights staring at him. Lightning bolts began to crack around his spear when he saw the culprit of this dishonorable attack smile a bit.

“ARTORIAAAASSS!!”

“EVERYONE SCATTER!!!” yelled a knight, running away as fast as possible to hide in the nearby streets.

Panic seized the silver knights and every single one of them tried to run away, trying to get as far as possible from their furious Captain. A lightning spear flew above their heads. Ledo sprinted away, chased by Lauriam, who was being chased by his comrades. After all, he was the one who missed his shot and hit Sir Ornstein in the first place.

*SPLAT*

Ornstein turned around, once again, hit by behind. Artorias was already following the other knights in their attempt to run, so who-

“My… My Lord. I’m sorry for the knights’ behaviour and I promise that I’m going to find the one who started it all in the first-”

The redhead saw his lord’s hands covered in snow. No, he couldn’t…

“My… My Lord?”

He was trying to stay calm, even if a storm was raging inside of him. His eyebrow twitched behind his helmet when he saw Gwynnant smile and shrug, denying the proof of his guilt in this action. Breathing deeply, he tried to calm himself and not thinking about setting the barracks ablaze.

At least, he found the ones who would be on duty the day of the Feast.

Winter Solstice, Night of the Feast

“Hey Lauri’! I just had a cool idea to distinguish ourselves from the others!”

Lauriam sighed loudly and tightened his hold on his sword. Ledo and he were on duty during the best night of the year, and he blamed the eccentric knight for making him miss the Feast. He had his looks on a pretty maid, and wished to dance with her, even if it would be hidden from all sights, and probably without music.

“You know what Ledo, fuck you. I’m missing the best night of the year because of your stupid idea.”

“Well, if you aimed a bit better, you could’ve hit Henog easily.”

“I hate you…”

Lauriam leaned against the wall, trying to hear the noises of the Feast inside the castle, but for nothing. Ledo removed his helmet, without minding Lauriam’s wrathful gaze.

“Lauriaaaam… Look at meeee…”

“What kind of thing are you doing agai-”

Ledo stood proudly, reindeer antlers stuck to the wings of his helmet. The Silver Knight was smiling under his helmet, proud of his makeshift ornaments. Lauriam just stared for a minute, then rolled his eyes.

“Really?! This is stupid.”

“Come on! You never heard about that human tradition? The one with the Slave Knight and his gifts for his lords riding a reindeer?”

“Yes. I heard about that stupid children’s tale… But really, you're just a kid in an adult’s body. First the snowball battle, then this?”

“Admit that you enjoyed it too. I never saw you happier on patrol duty than there!”

“If you didn't threw that snowball in the first place, Eilian would've never-"

Lauriam was interrupted by the familiar creaking of a door. Quitting the wall he leaned on, he silently rushed to see who used the backdoor, and why. Ledo held his position at his post, looking for anyone who would come out by the main door.

“By the Gods… Hey, Ledo!” whispered a surprised Lauriam “That's pure gold, come and see!”

“Aren't you supposed to be guarding the place?”

“... You got me. But please it won't last and it's gold! And besides you owe me that!”

“Alright, alright. There, let me see… Oh. Ohhh… Damn.”

The two knights witnessed a drunk Flann dancing alone, enumerating the various qualities of Gwynevere… Before getting more and more into details concerning her physical performances. A slightly pervert smile creeped up on Lauriam’s face.

“Yes… More… Hmmm… She really has a great… Chest… Hmmmhmmm…”

“Whatever. Don't forget that you're supposed to be on guard duty, not eavesdropping a drunk god’s antics and remember that Ornstein said that he would check if we worked.”

“What do I have to fear?”

“The task of cleaning the toilets and the rooms after the Feast. I did it once. Once. I won't do it again.”

“The Lords are drunkards?”

“No, but when they drink… Their consumption has to be counted in barrels and not in bottles!”

Lauriam had completely forgotten about Flann and had regained his place, looking at Ledo with curiosity.

“Whoa…”

“And it's far from what we drink, even for the Feast! Fine wines, refined alcohols… Then there are the dishes!”

“You could assist to the Lords’ Feast?”

“Well… Yes and no. I had to guard the door five years ago, but I wasn't allowed in… Like any Silver Knight. But I could sneak near the kitchens and have a glimpse of what they ate…”

“If only we could be inside… It's cold here. And we can't even move…”

“Don't worry. Sir Artorias and Gough are nice guys. There's a kind of… Reward for the ones guarding on this night. Although, it's a secret.”

“Wait a minute… The others…”

“They know about that. We're kind of unlucky to be picked each year.”

“You all asked for it.”

“Anyway. Once everything is over and the others come to guard the place… Sir Artorias let us in the room if he's not too drunk. Otherwise it's Gough or even Lady Ciaran who let us in… Although she does it only because Sir Artorias asked her.”

“Wait. That means that you can… Eat what's left and not have to drive one hell of a bargain in the kitchens?”

Ledo nodded and stood still when he heard the main door creaking open, and when Ornstein checked on both of them, before disappearing into the castle, looking tired. Even the captain of the Four Knights found the night exhausting, but not for the same reasons…

Havel’s private quarters, after the Feast night

Ledo stumbled into the room and crashed on his lover’s bed, leaving armor pieces on the floor. The cleric groaned at the loud entrance, and quickly shut the door behind him.

“I assume that you spent a long night? And you still have enough strength to get here?”

“I’m cold… I need some warmth…”

“No you're not sleeping here. Get back to the barracks and come back when you'll be able to get up after a session.”

“Now that's cold…”

“Ledo no.”

“Hrrrrmmm… Not listening.”

“There won't be enough time.”

“Each year you're saying that and each year nobody’s up to check on either you or me.”

“As long as we don't break the bed…”