#Old Irish prayers

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 A montage of scenes from six months of Israeli siege, bombardment, blockade, and genocide in the Gaza Strip as part of "Israel's" goal of ethnically cleansing the entirety of the Gaza Strip and genociding the Palestinian population that refuses to leave their homeland.]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

ISRAELI OCCUPATION COMMITTS DEADLY MASSACRE ON THE EVE OF EID AL-FITR AS GAZA BOMBINGS RAMPS UP ONCE AGAIN

On the 187th day of "Israel's" special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed several massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 122 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 56 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

In the latest Zionist massacre and atrocity, the Israeli occupation air forces bombed a residential building belonging to the Abu Youssef family, located in the Al-Nuseirat Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, largely destroying the building and killing at least 14 Palestinian civilians, the majority of which were women and children, and wounding a large number of others.

The attack targeted a residential square housing Palestinian families and comes on the eve of Eid al-Fitr, the celebrations and prayers which mark the end of the Holy month of Ramadan, and the welcoming of the month of Shawwal, a major Muslim holiday.

Similarly, occupation warplanes bombed agricultural lands in the Al-Zuhur neighborhood, north of the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, killing at least one woman and wounding two others.

In another tragedy, a Zionist sniper shot a young Palestinian man near the Shuhada junction in central Gaza, resulting in the man's death.

At the same time, Zionist occupation forces destroyed a residential tower in the city of Al-Zahra, north of the Nuseirat Camp, in central Gaza.

In the meantime, local civil defense crews continue to recover the bodies of those murdered by the Israeli occupation in the Khan Yunis governate, in the southern Gaza Strip, after the withdrawal of the Zionist army from the area after months of ground operations, with reports that local paramedics transported the bodies of at least three citizens killed by the occupation in the southeast of Khan Yunis.

Occupation fighter jets also bombed a residential home in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, while also dropping bombs in the vicinity of the Al-Khazandar station, northwest of Gaza City.

Several Palestinian civilians were also martyred and wounded as a result of the Zionist bombing of a residential building in the eastern neighborhoods of the Jabalia Refugee Camp, in the northern Gaza Strip.

Meanwhile, as Israeli bombings slaughtered innocent families in the Gaza Strip, Zionist-extremist colonists launched an attack on the Palestinian village of Burqa, located to the east of Ramallah, in the occupied West Bank.

According to local sources, more than 30 Israeli colonial settlers launched an attack on the village of Burqa, firing automatic weapons with live bullets towards Palestinian families, injuring four civilians, including at least one 15-year-old child. The colonists also burned a barn during the attack which was used to house sheep.

The Palestinian Resistance, in particular the Mujahideen Brigades, belonging to the Palestinian Mujahideen Movement, announced today a joint operation conducted with the Al-Qassam Brigades, belonging to the Hamas Resistance movement, in which Resistance forces attacked a unit of Israeli occupation soldiers operating southwest of Gaza City using mortar shells, successfully hitting their targets.

In other news today, Irish Foreign Minister Michael Martin announced the Irish government would be submitting a proposal to the Parliament for the recognition of a Palestinian State in the next few weeks as part of "broader international discussions."

In a speech before the Irish Parliament, Martin said that "None of you has any doubt that recognition of a Palestinian state will happen," and that postponing the decision "is no longer convincing or defensible anymore."

Martin went on to slam the Israeli occupation's genocidal war in Gaza, telling Parliament that he had "no doubt that war crimes have been committed, and I strongly condemn the ongoing bombing of Palestinian citizens of Gaza," adding that the recognition of a Palestinian state could "strengthen the Arab peace initiative."

As a result of "Israel's" special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the death toll among the Palestinian population of the enclave has risen in excess of 33'482 Palestinians killed by the Israeli occupation, over 14'000 of which being children, accounting for over 44% of those killed, while another 76'049 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning on October 7th, 2023.

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@WorkerSolidarityNews

[15-lizards]

✨ riverlands using weaving as a form of prayer do you see where im headinf with this. riverlands folk catholicism of the faith you know ….. do you have any other thoughts about what practices would be like in the home vs the septs . Does that question make sense i worry it doesn’t

No wait I’m seeing the vision…weaving and needlepoint while they pray to imbue whatever they’re making with a protective energy from the gods so that the blanket or dress or whatever keeps someone safe or brings in good fortune. And this seems a little pagan to the septs but ppl still do it anyway in their homes and outside of the Faith as an institution.

Veneration of saints that are not technically recognized by the faith but are still prominent figures within the religion so it’s tolerated. Basically folk heroes they might pray to for intercession

Also veneration of the dead/ancestor worship bc the riverlands are stuck in time and ghosts are almost as tangible as the living! Holy days where they give offerings to their deceased and pray for their spirits to come and give them guidance

A lot of Irish folk practices are really fitting too. The cross of st Brigid, the idea of holy wells, the blessing of a ribbon by a saint to that they will be protected throughout the year, etc etc. lots of leftovers from the time of the old gods mixed in with the doctrine of the new

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings:  Death mentioned in graphic detailing, night terrors, SA implied/mentioned, overall sexism because it is the 9th century. MDNI, 18+ Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 2136 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior.       Author’s Note: This will be a hybrid of the books and TLK show. The timelines will be adjusted for the plot and the names will match the Old English/9th Century. Please be mindful of chapter warnings as this shit will have dark moments and mature themes.   Thank you to my darling beta reader @aspen-carter​ for helping me with this first chapter and to my darling @killergirlfuria​​ to help me with the summary, as I am terrible at them. UPDATE: Thank you for this gif! @itbmojojoejo​ ♥  Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika​​​ Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond​ @annikin-im-panicin​ @watercolorskyy​ @schniiipsel​ @aspen-carter​ @aemondx​ @fan-goddess​ @babygirlyofthevale​ @randomdragonfires​ @httpsdoll​ @tssf-imagines​

Chapter 1 

The day was warm and bright, a beautiful day suitable for the celebration of the marriage between Æthelred of Mercia to the trueborn daughter of King Alfred. Wessex swelled from the festivities, with the bittersweet smell of ale, foods, and sweat that meshed with the wave of bodies gathering within the city walls. 

Osferth was tall and lithe, able to see over the heads of the crowds, and surefooted to slip in-between the masses as he searched for one man in mind, as his uncle had encouraged.

Uhtred of Bebbanburg. 

Before this, his life had been spent in the shadows of the monastery, well aware of his paternal heritage but unallowed to breathe a word about it. His clandestine confinement consisted of the repetition of scripture and prayer to atone for sins that were not his own, and it did not feed his faith, but instead allowed his bitterness for his banishment to fester within. 

This changed on his thirteenth name day when Leofric came for a visit; he remembered him to be large, his voice low and grizzled as he regaled his time spent with the Dane slayer and he even shared about his mother; she had died during childbirth, but his uncle swore her strength was passed to him. 

“I know you are angry, little man, but this is the safest place for you right now,” and his large palm rested on his thin shoulders, a fatherly squeeze for reassurance. 

Osferth was heartsore when he learned of uncle’s death; the memory of those days they spent together was something he cherished, replaying in his mind and becoming a balm for his bitterness. His grief allowed a moment of complacency until his eighteenth name day when the abbot brought him a sword and a piece of parchment; he realized the scrawl of words belonged to his uncle and they brought a newfound peace, a drive with how Leofric spoke that  a man could be set on a path, but only his steps could create his own destiny. 

The letter ended with a mantra, destiny is all.

So he left the monastery, wearing his weatherbeaten albe and with the baldric wrapped around his slim waist, that kept the gifted sword sheathed at his side. 

He traveled, following the trail of celebrators into Wintanceaster until he saw him ahead, lounging on the steps and surrounded by his men; their eyes were watchful as Osferth pushed forward, he only stopped when he saw the blue eyes of the ealdorman-of-many-monikers focus on him.  

“Lord,” he began, “you knew my uncle, Leofric.” 

He saw how his eyes softened at the mention of the name and Osferth knew he held his attention. “Leofric was a great man,” Uhtred tilted his head up, looking over the young man. 

Osferth nodded. “I have come to serve you, to be at your side as my uncle had.” 

The motley men that surrounded Uhtred varied from Dane to Saxon; he heard the scoff and lilt of a dark haired, dark eyed man who muttered how they had no need for a baby monk. Osferth swallowed, “I have come to serve as a warrior, lord.” His eyes did not leave Uhtred. 

He could see the quiet assessment from Uhtred, how his blue eyes surveyed him, and then he heard a smaller man, who was standing apart, who spoke out loud of his heritage beyond Leofric–that he was Alfred’s bastard. 

“You are Alfred’s son,” Uhtred said, in part a question, but also a clarification. “Your father would not be pleased to learn you’ve come to offer me your sword.” 

“And what has he done for me?” He struggled to smooth the bitterness that edged his tone. “Sent me away so I could become a priest or a monk, to be forgotten or simply denied my very existence altogether?” It was his turn to scoff. “But if I were to stay in Wessex, what would I expect to find? Favour?” 

Uhtred raised his brows with his words and looked over at his Irishman, who only shrugged in response. “You may never see Wessex again,” his eyes did not break away from him.

“Then I would give my thanks to God for that,” and their looks showed Osferth it was not the expected reply. “It is the stench, lord,” he clarified, his eyes flitting around the people crowding the city.  

Uhtred grinned, but before he could speak further, a guard called to his attention that the king called for him. Osferth shifted his weight under the guard’s gaze and Uhtred stood up, his eyes rolled over him once more before he said, “If you have a sword, you may stay,” and followed after the guard. 

His lips curled with what he considered his small victory and his hand fell to the hilt, a pat on the pommel to reassure it was there. He felt the dark eyes of the Irishman focus on him. “Can you wield that, baby monk?” he asked Osferth. 

“Well enough,” he replied and he heard a chuckle, looking behind to see a Dane with his arms wrapped around a woman whose auburn hair burned more red in the sunlight. “Though, I am willing to learn…”

“Well, thank the gods for that,” and the Irishman stepped down and placed a palm onto his shoulder, a squeeze to show comradery, or perhaps to feel for his strength, with a hold that reminded him of his uncle; his grin showed beneath his beard. “Let’s leave this noise and see what you are capable of then, baby monk.” 

+ + + +

Keavy would allow her mind to return to the days she spent at the nunnery, a brief reprieve that allowed her to relive the only bit of peace she experienced since she arrived across the sea. 

It began with the abbess and her pitied look when the slavers rolled through; Keavy was barely ten years of age, thin, quiet, and did her best to stay hidden. She remembered the warmth in her kindly brown eyes when the abbess looked to her and called for the cost of the little girl. 

He had scoffed at first, but when she pressed, he only requested a cup of ale in exchange and it was quickly provided. Keavy watched the bob of his neck, how it spilled from the corners of his mouth and stained his tunic as he downed it. He belched when it was finished and shoved her forward. “She is yours, nun, but know that she has been cursed.” 

She fell to the ground, her legs weak from the weeks at sea, unable to stop herself from hitting the dirt path. Keavy felt the burn in her palms and knees, her scars that lined the left side of her jaw and cheek–a parting gift of desperation from her mam the night their village was raided. 

It was a night seared within her blood and that often returned to her with violent flashes when she slept. She was haunted by the cries from the villagers, how her daid handed her his dagger before taking a sword and leaving to fight with the other men. Her mam had begged and screamed for him not to leave, as anyone could see from the flames curling from the rooftops, licking the night sky, to the blood soaked earth that this battle was already lost. 

Stories had terrorized the coast of Irland of the blood-lust traders and slavers who ravaged the shores, taking whatever they deemed profitable. They spoke of how villages would be nothing but ashes, how the surviving men would be sold off as slaves, of the horrors of what would happen to women and girls. 

Her hands shook as she tied the belt around her waist, hiding the sheath beneath the layers of her skirt while her mam continued her screams. Keavy clung to the dagger as if it would keep her tethered to her daid, crying when her mam finally ripped it from her hold; her own hands shaking as she attempted soothing sounds that were choked by her tears. “I will not kill you, child,” she breathed and Keavy saw the manic fire in her blue eyes. “But you are far too pretty to survive across the sea.” 

Her daid kept the blade sharp, his prized possession that came from his father before and his before that. She did not feel it until it nicked into her jawbone and only then did she cry, the blood spilling onto her clothes; she screamed for her mam to stop and fought back to pry it from her hands when the door barged in. 

They were faceless, large and covered in blood and grime. Her mam was killed without so much as a scream and another grabbed her, searching for cloth for her wound and unaware as she tucked the dagger back into its sheath beneath her skirts. There was the tear of fabric and he pressed it to her face, before dragging her from her home, dragging her towards the shore. 

She would never forget the heat of the flames, how she choked on the soot and smoke as she stumbled over the fallen bodies around; her hand pressing the cloth on her face and the other gripping her side, holding the handle of the blade. There was a bold moment that seized her chest, to plunge it into his side and run to find her daid, but then she saw him, one of the dead amongst the many bodies, with his sword in his hand and his eyes empty as they bored forward. 

Keavy remembered how the fear replaced and gripped her heart and her vocal chords; she would not scream because she knew that no one would come for her. 

She did not know how she survived crossing the sea, nor could she remember much more than the crude stitches that were given onboard, an attempt to save her, and the burn of her fever that ached her bones. “It is because God has a plan for you, little one,” the abbess would tell her later.

“I am cursed,” she would say, partly in defiance, partly to watch the reaction of the abbess and her wide brown eyes. 

“Hush, child,” she would scold her, as always. “That man was a godless heathen and knew not what he said. He thought your worth was equal to a cup of mead!”

The nunnery she was brought to was built to overlook the rolling fields of Ebchester, with a river that curved through the hills. Here the abbess seemed relentless for the salvation of Kaevy’s soul and Keavy would allow the repetition of her fables and scriptures, all while palming the Celtic silver cross she wore beneath her plain tunic. 

She remembered the day when Lady Gisela arrived, how her kindred spirit called to her and the lady was all too pleased with the bold Irish girl who shadowed her steps. The abbess allowed her to stay, Dane or not, and Keavy was delighted with her company over the other Saxon nuns. 

Gisela had a kind smile and took care to answer her questions about her life before Ebchester. Keavy admired her worldly insight and her attention was rapt to the stories she told her about the love she shared with Uhtred of Bebbanburg. 

“My lady, how do you know he will come for you?” Keavy asked, with a genuine curiosity of the faith Gisela held that seemed comparable, if not stronger, to the faith the nuns held for their Christian God.

“It is something you know,” Gisela smiled and it was as bright as the sun that warmed them. “You will know this when you are older.” 

Keavy saw a glimpse of Uhtred of Bebbanburg, of Uhtred Ragnarsson, when he arrived as the savior promised. The day began with the arrival of strange men who spouted of the power of their God and how it allowed them to marry Gisela against her wishes; the abbess held onto Keavy tightly as she struggled forward, choking on the same helplessness she felt the night her village burned. 

Uhtred was a force when he arrived, barging through the doors; when the abbot refused to be quiet, he killed him to silence him. The nuns cried, but Gisela and Keavy watched him. “Child, look away,” the abbess had whispered, but she was a young woman now and could not help the sense of satisfaction she felt as she watched the abbot bleed out on the wood floors. 

Keavy remembered when they had left and for the first time she had prayed, not to a deity in specific, but the quiet prayer for Lady Gisela to enjoy her happiness. The stories she had shared stayed with her and allowed a sense of hope that she had not felt before.

Chapter 2 | masterlist

[ceo-draiochta]

Lughnasadh in the Modern Day

The ancient festival of Lúnasa is one of the 4 celtic fire festivals celebrated on the turn of the seasons. The other 3 festivals all have very clear christian reinterpretations. Those being All Hallows Eve, St Brigids day and May day. However Lúnasa also has a number of modern day christian holidays associated with it in much the same way.

(Linked sources in brackets)

Names

The modern festival goes by many names: Domnach Lúnasa, Lá Lúnasa, Domnach Crom Dubh, Bilberry Sunday and most commonly as either Reek Sunday or Garland Sunday. (1)(2)

Hill Climbing & Holy Wells

This is a day where the mountain of Croagh Patrick is visited, the pilgrimage consists of climbing the mountain while taking stops at certain stone cairns, where one walks in circles around them a set number of times while reciting specific prayers. There are 3 major sections where this is done(3). This is still observed today(4). It is celebrated on the last Sunday of July.

(Croagh Patrick)

This, while observed throughout the country, is not the only such celebration. Many towns climb their respective hills on this day such as those around Keash Hill in Sligo(2)(5)(11), Slive Donard in Down(6), and Máméan in Galway (7). Holy wells are also visited on this day such as in Cappagh, Galway(8), Ballyfa, Galway(9) and Ballyhaunis, Mayo (12). In some cases a procession from the Holy Well to the hill takes place (2)(7)(11)

(Máméan)

An interesting example of this was the Tullaghan Hill holy well in county Sligo, where the Holy Well was on a hill specifically the Ox mountains. This specific well used to be visited on Garland Sunday but is no longer as the festival that followed this visit evoked too much "secular fun" (10).

Festivals

Fairs and celebrations seem to be a core feature of this Lúnasa Tradition, with the aforementioned Tullaghan Hill fair, The Old Fair Day in Tubbercurry, county Sligo (13) and Fair Day in Kenmare, Kerry(14). These are usually celebrated in the second week on August, i.e. a week or two after the religious excursion.

The Puck Fair is festival in Killorglin, county Kerry. It is celebrated in the second week of August and involves crowning a specific goat "king" and parading them around while a large fair takes place(15).

(Puck Fair)

Mythology

In the dinseanchas entry for Nás, the death and burial of two of the wives of Lugh are described, with Bui having been buried on the Hill of Cnogba. Where it is said that "The hosts of the pure Gaels came to bewail the women". Suggesting that there was a precession to the Hill she was buried. There was then said to be mass mourning which grew into a great assembly. These events were said to have contributed to the beginning of the festival of Taltiu, which is to say Lúnasa. (16)

Pagan Connection

The pagan connection is quite clear to see, with Holy wells long being sites of pre-Christian worship, it is little coincidence that they are visited around the time of Lúnasa. The climbing of a hill seems to be widely practiced over the country and directly connects to the Dinseanchas story of the beginning of the Lúnasa festival in where a hill was climbed to reach a grave for mourning. The fact that Keash Hil (Ceis Corran) and Croagh Patrick are both home to ancient megalithic cairns, which are commonly connected with the Otherworld is also an interesting point.

Lúnasa being an Aonach, a funeral festival for the foster mother of Lugh, Tailtiu does tie directly into the occurrence of festivals around this time.

Practices to Adopt

It seems clear now that visiting watery sites such as wells and climbing hills to worship, as well as large scale festivals and merriment are a key part of how Lúnasa has continued to be celebrated and should be incorporated into a modern Irish pagan practice.

[edutainer2022]

I'm in a very complicated (non)relationship with faith and religion. Loss, grief, and war do a number on that. And I'm in a weird mood (also insanely busy). I would assume the Tracies too have a complicated (and different for each) relationship with faith and spirituality, in their line of work. It's Easter time. So here's a little Earth and Sky piece centered around that time of the year, memories, fears, and love, of course. All blatant parallels with religious symbolism are all on my agnostic self, I mean no disrespect whatsoever!

EASTER

Christmas was easy. Approachable. Christmas was always about family and snuggling, comfy pijamas and Lord of the Rings rewatch maraphons, and gifts for everyone, cinnamon, cocoa, decorations and garlands. Christmas was manageable even after Mom. Then after Dad. Never the same, but manageable.

Easter was weird... In their childhood Easter was always a whirl of colors and activities - egg die on every surface besides the eggshells, egg hunts on the farm and ranch, chocolate prizes, bright baskets, and laughter. And Mom. Always Mom at the center of it all, orchestrating and directing the colorful chaos. Mom told them stories. An Irish Catholic, Mom made a point to go to mass on Easter morning, although she didn't insist they go with. They usually did, dressed in Sunday best, even Gordie on his best behavior. There would be waffles and ice-cream on the way back from the church, and sprinkles in John's hair. With Mom gone the colors muted. The whirlwind stopped. The spring lost its promise. It felt almost a blasphemy to celebrate a resurrection after a loss they suffered. Scott tried to uphold the egghunts for Gordie, who barely remembered his with Mom, and for Allie, who didn't, but it fell flat.

Dad never much discussed spirituality with them. An astronaut, a war veteran, a widower, he held certain cards close to his soul. They grew up with boundless belief in scientific knowledge and answers to be pursued by scientific methods. If there were no answers this side of known universe, that meant the science was yet to catch up. They all helped with catching up a lot. As much as they grew up with boundless belief in each other (that and an elaborate array of superstitions, given their respective specializations). And a firm conviction Mom was an angel up in heaven, watching over them. It all made sense when a brother's comms were silent in the danger zone or a brother's hand was limp and cold over hospital covers. Unbeknowest to them, through the endless night alone in outer space, their father always had but one prayer: "Look after them, my love! Keep them all safe as I can't!"

In a rare arrangement of circumstances, they were all at the farm for Easter weekend, for a change. Some issues needed to be dealt with the estate. And it was an unspoken opportunity to visit Mom's grave. (And Dad's headstone over an empty casket, right next to her). Virgil found Scott at the backporch, seated on the stairs overlooking the meadow. Alone. As he suspected he would. Virgil would have been happy to just plop down and sit it out with biggest brother shoulder to shoulder till dusk, giving him room to just be and a friendly ear, should he want one. Scott had been in a mood all day, maybe all week. So much so even John was worried, who didn't get to observe Scott in his natural brooding state up close often. Biggest brother was obviously not forthcoming with any conversation starters. Virgil took his chances and nudged a flannel clad shoulder to his right. In their childhood home Scott always dug out old, broken in flannel, albeit in blue.

"I think about going to Mom's church tomorrow morning. You wanna come with?"

It was a multi-layered invitation and Virgil knew it. It would imply quality time away from the general mayhem for just the two of them, a chance to gather one's thoughts and to connect to Mom in a way that was special to her, even a chance to bring home a decent breakfast from the diner in the town, across the church. They would then all pack up in two cars, make a trip to the cemetery, pay their respects, and have an Easter dinner all together as a family. Virgil nudged his brother's shoulder again, looking up with hope. Scott's gaze was still far away.

"You wanna go to Easter mass?"

Virgil felt self-conscious suddenly. He loved the music and the spirit of celebration. Generally loved the idea of connecting to something bigger. Connecting to Mom. He tried another angle.

"You don't believe?"

Mom did - left unspoken over the evening meadow. Scott hummed at that, blue eyes finally landing on his brother. The sadness there left Virgil breathless.

"What? Whether a guy could resurrect in three days? I don't honestly know if I believe that, Virg. But I do believe one could die for all of himanity."

Dad did - another silent echo over the meadow.

That, right there, was Virgil's deepest fear. That one day Scott would leave him behind, crying and helpless, on the sideway of his own via dolorosa, dragging a crucifix through the dust and grime of a danger zone. By Dad's unspoken command.

"Please go with me to Mom's church tomorrow! We can have waffles after."

That was blatant food bribery (aka a tried and true way to get Scott to go to concerts and art galleries). But desperate times called for desperate measures.

Scott responded with an amused chuckle and lifted an arm to invite his brother into a hug. Virgil didn't need to be asked twice. Scott's old flannel shirt smelled of old machine oil from the farm tractor, fabric softener and the inextinguishable odor of his very first, hideous aftershave from way back in basic training. Virgil closed his eyes against the steady heartbeat. "My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from him."

[salem-witch-history]

Specters of What's to Come: The Goodwin Witchcraft Case

Witchcraft accusations were not incredibly rare in 17th century New England, but prosecution was difficult.

By law, two credible witnesses had to testify seeing witchcraft take place for an accusation to be deemed credible. This was difficult to provide, unless an accused witch confessed to the crime. Testimony of others could include witnessing of verbal curses and the presence of "poppets," what we now call voodoo dolls. Spectral evidence, the testimony that an afflicted person saw the invisible shape of a witch, was not supposed to be considered credible. Even in a society that believed wholeheartedly in witches, Puritans knew that people could lie, and many believed that Satan had the ability to take on the form of an innocent person to bring about their downfall. In some instances, accusers and even confessed witches were charged with perjury rather than witchcraft if the evidence was lacking.

There were times, however, when accused witches did meet the death penalty. The last and most newsworthy incident prior to Salem took place in Boston in 1688.

The prosperous Goodwin family had employed an Irish indentured servant named Mary Glover as a washerwoman. Mary, being Catholic and poor, was greatly distrusted, and the Goodwin's 13 year old daughter Martha accused her of stealing clothing. Distraught, Mary told her elderly mother, Ann, of this accusation, and the older woman flew into a rage. After a screaming match in which Ann "bestow'd very bad language" at Martha, the teenager, along with three of her younger siblings, began to suffer from fits deemed to be supernatural in nature.

These fits, described in the book Memorable Providences by Cotton Mather, were identical to what would occur in Salem: the children were struck deaf, blind, and mute, contorted themselves into painful positions, and cried out pitifully or made animal sounds. The extent of the fits were deemed to be beyond what would be expected of epilepsy or other known medical conditions, and too severe to be faked. At times, Mather stated, the children's jaws would dislocate, their tongues drawn out to "prodigious length," and their joints locked with their bodies in an arch.

When Glover was brought in on witchcraft charges, it was unclear whether or not she was competent to stand trial. Glover seemed to understand some English but could not speak it; when it became known that her incomprehensible speech was not Satanic language, but Irish, multiple examiners deemed her technically sane, though she still seemed confused by the proceedings. Robert Calef, who wrote the first exposé on the witch trials, More Wonders of the Invisible World, stated that "Her behavior at her trial was like that of one distracted. They did her cruel." She testified entirely through interpreters.

During the proceedings, the interpreters struggled to contextualize Glover's testimony, seemingly due to being unfamiliar with Catholic worship. She was questioned about small figures found in her home and admitted to praying to them as "spirits," which the interpreters admitted could also have meant saints. The children reacted negatively when Glover handled her homemade statues, signs of spectral interference. She was also instructed to recite the Lord's Prayer; this was a standard test for witchcraft, as Puritans believed that Satan's power prevented witches from praying. Glover was able to recite in Irish and Latin, but not English, and this was taken as further evidence of guilt.

Ann Glover was hanged on November 16th, 1688. Mather related that, visiting her in jail, she had claimed that her death would not relieve the children's suffering, which did come to pass; Martha's bewitchment continued for some time. Although Glover supposedly claimed that someone else was bewitching the children, no other witches were prosecuted, and over time the hysteria faded.

Mather's first-hand account of the incident was published less than a year later, in 1689. It is probable that some residents of Salem owned the book, at at least had heard of the crisis.

[aissa-snapped]

The Heathen and the Christian

Ivar the boneless x reader ( OC)

Word count: 3401

SUMMARY:When a young anglo-saxon meets Ivar in the woods, she thinks he is a nice innocent boy, only to be shocked when she finds out who he REALLY is and what he is capable of.

A/N:This is my 2nd time writing with Vikings. I hope yall like it. I am also apologizing for (possible) mistranslations of irish and icelandic. I might do a part two to this series cuz i like how its going. Also not readproof

1-Oh Cernunnos god of the forest bless me and guide me.

2- WAIT

3-That one is mine

4- Do that again and you`re dead

Wandering the woods at this time of the year, gave any passer-by a spectacular and magical scenery. The rays of sunshine were breaking through the branches, illuminating the forest in the most wonderful ways. Summer was without a doubt the best time of the year. The weather was finally favorable for farmers, crops were flourishing and nature was thriving. But there was a downside to it. This season naturally brought along raiding parties coming from the north, with the intention of pillaging and eradicating every village in sight of any gold or treasure.

Villagers were adivsed to be extremely wary of their surroundings, and in case of any suspicious sighting to report to the guards.

Walking out of the small one-room cottage, Frigyth took her woven basket, hanging it on her left arm and took steady steps towards the neighboring woods that surrounded her village. She was a young maiden, '' ready to be married'' according to her parents, who took her tasks very lightly. She came from a typical peasant family, with three other sisters and one brother. She was at that age where she cared more about enjoying life than actually being helpful around the house.

She begged her mother days in a row to let her go harvest some berries from the woods, seeing as that was her only opportunity to explore nature and relax a tad bit. She took her already forming path that led her into a meadow, hidden from view by some on-growing bushes. She found a larger boulder, and took a seat in a dent, placing her basket next to her. She had plenty of time to finish her task, she thought, so for now she could enjoy a little bit of warmth.

Clasping her hands in a prayer-way, she took a glance around her, making sure she was alone, and started chanting an old prayer she used to hear as a child from her grandmother.

Ó Cernunnos Dia na foraoise

beannaigh dom agus treoraigh

mé tríd an bhforaois...

From a small distance, the prayer spoken by the girl was heard by a trespasser, that was lurking around in the woods seeking some alone time. Instead, the stranger took a detour and followed the voice, leading him into the hidden meadow. upon his arrival, he analyzed the young lady up closely, noticing how she had her eyes closed, and was in a vulnerable state. It would`ve been very easy for the young Viking leader to take his dagger out and kill her on the spot, which was what he should be doing, otherwise he risked getting noticed by the saxon girl, who in return would alert the whole village of the presence of Vikings.

Or perhaps he could kidnap her, get any valuable information out of her and THEN kill her. That seemed like a better idea.

The warrior got lost in his thoughts for a few moments that only when he heard the girl gasp did he snap back to the current situation he was in. The young woman that was not so long ago sat in a peaceful position was now standing up, grabbing her basket in front of her, as if she thought it would protect her from the unknown boy. You did not need to be a schooled noble to notice that the stranger`s attire was different from the regular anglo-saxon clothing, and the weapons well secured around the belt hugging his waist were a big tell-tale sign that she had just ran face to face with a Viking.

Frigyth was not sure what she could possibly do to escape this situation. If she ran, would she meet other Vikings? Or perhaps if she yelled for help, the barbarians would much faster come in to the aid of the mysterious boy and do her in. Her mind along with her heart were racing, blood pulsing through her whole body, as if it was preparing for whatever would happen next. Feeling a giddy feeling in her stomach, she spotted her way out, then she got into a running position, one leg in front of the other, slightly leaning on it and being ready to sprint at any given time.

The Viking however, seemed too lost in his tracks to think of what he should do to her. He was observing her. Long, curly hair, with a vibrant color that glimmered in the sun. He felt sort of... entranced by her?

Before he let her go, he wolf whistled at her, gaining her attention. '' I am Ivar.'' He spoke in a very thick anglo-saxon accent. Frigyth did a double-take, not being sure she actually heard him speaking in HER language. While on the outside she remained frozen, her mind was filled with multiple questions. Probably because she has never heard foreigners speak her language- or because she has never faced a norman before.

'' What is your name?'' Asked the Viking in an iritated tone. The young girl was not sure it was a good idea to tell divulge her full identity. But realizing she had no other choice, she defeteadly answered.

'' Frigyth.'' It was a simple and short answer, for which she hoped it would suffice. But by the looks on the warrior, he smirked slowly at her, watching with predator eyes as she was shifting uncomfortably her weight from one foot to the other.

'' What was that prayer you were saying earlier? It did not sound like your language.'' The maiden`s heart started beating at an alarming rate. Deep down she knew, that the prayer she was chanting earlier was considered heresy and it was forbidden among the christians. But it`s not like him, a Viking, would go and tell on her to a guard. After all, weren`t they pagans as well?

'' It`s an ancient language. I was praying to Cernunnos, the god of the forest, fertility. I- It`s forbidden to pray to any other god other than the One True God. But my grandmother used to tell me that the old Gods never left and are ever present.'' She finished, admitting what has been laying in her heart for many years, sighing in happiness when she mentioned her grandmother.

To say Ivar was shocked at the newfound information was an understatement. In all his life, he had never encountered a christian praying to a different deity. He was getting more and more intrigued by the girl, and the logical part of his brain that was constantly nudging him to kill her was shutting down completely.

The young leader-who had previously found a good sitting spot on the grass- nudged his head towards the empty place next to him, indicating to her to take a seat. With careful, calculated steps, she approached him, leaving a few centimetres between them, just in case he was going to strangle her, or who knows what else.

'' So... tell me...'' He trailed off, in hopes that the girl would tell him something about herself.

With frowning brows, she kept silent, waiting for him to continue with a question. Ivar rolled his eyes, and asked her about her family.

'' We`re but a family humble peasants .'' The Viking could tell she loved cutting straight to the chase, not giving out any other detail unless asked.

Gaining all the courage she could muster, she turned slightly towards him, asking the dreaded question.

'' Where did you come from?''

Raising his eyebrows, Ivar chuckled darkly, shaking his head softly.

'' I don`t think you want to know.'' He admitted cynically.

'' Will that get me in trouble?'' She asked shyly.

'' You could say that.'' Smiling softly, Frigyth directioned her eyes to the ground, trying to ignore the burning stares of the curious Viking whose hand was slowly reaching up to her face, pausing for a second and taking a hold of a piece of her hair, and twirling it around his finger -almost lovingly so- which made her flinch for a second, before relaxing back and letting him play with strands of her hair.

The atmosphere between the two was peaceful, even though there was silence, but it was a welcoming one, in which neither felt the need to interrupt it. It was as if an unspoken rule was set. Both simply wanted to sit down and get lost between the thousands of trees and take a break from their societal obligations. Ivar leaned back on his elbows, straightening his legs in front of him, to give them a stretch, which gave the girl a full view of his crippled legs. She widened her eyes in surprise, but quickly gained her composure when she noticed Ivar clenching his jaw in anger, averting her eyes elsewhere.

It felt like they were there for an hour or two, when Frigyth sighed sadly and stood up, clenching the handle of the backet in her left fist and started taking small steps towards the hidden entrance marked by two bushes with a beaten track in between them. Ivar frowned, his eyes following her figure sharply, similar to a wolf following his prey.

'' I should go.'' Looking at her feet, she was swinging the basket slowly in her hand, as if waiting for the boy to stop her from going, although, deep down, she knew she was running behind with her tasks and she was bound to return home eventually, and her mother would not be happy if she came back empty handed.

Ivar nodded stoically, breaking his eyes from the girl and with a loud groan, he rolled onto his back, and began crawling towards the girl, ignoring her stares of bewilderment at his methods of traveling.

'' I should probably go too.'' He responded and begudgingly so.

'' It was nice meeting you.'' Frigyth complimented, with a small voice.

'' We will meet again, christian.'' He winked at her, which caused the maiden to let out a nervous laugh, having no idea what he could have possibly meant by that, and on that note, they both departed their own ways.

Upon her arrival back home, she was welcome by her worried mother, who seemed to have a look of concern mixed with irritation displaying across her face.

'' Where have you been?! It`s almost dark outside. And what is this? This is all you gathered in all this time you were gone?!'' She pointed at her basket, which was barely filled with any berries.

Frigyth shrugged off the hand her mother had placed on her shoulder, sprinting inside the cottage. The one-room hut was warm and all her family was gathered round at the table, chatting lively amongst eachother. Her presence was sensed by her father, and one by one her siblings all paused mid-conversation, to look at the newcomer. Her father smiled warmly at her, motioning with his hand to take a seat next to him.

'' We were wondering when you would come back Frig. Your mother was worrying terribly.'' He laughed, patting her back twice.

'' And I had all the reasons to. You know what they tell us, the priests. The woods are no longer safe.'' Her mother huffed angrily, stepping into the cottage and slamming the door shut, checking the small window incorporated in it for any intruders that might be lurking outside their homes. She took her seat, next to her husband and continued eating her freshly cooked pottage.

Frigyth`s father let out a breath of air, rubbing his face with his face. The rebel daughter rolled her eyes, pretending to be oblivious to what her mother was saying. Should she tell anyone that today she has met and spoken to a possible Viking? If she did, then she would reveal to everyone that she had been slacking rather than actually gathering food for the family, and she risked losing the task she was given, and probably forced to return to her old duties, which were mostly around the cottage. So she took the smarted option, and never mentioned the encounter with the stranger.

'' I know. Aelflead and the other blacksmiths think that we are to prepare for an attack.'' The father confessed sadly.

'' What makes you think that, dad?'' The youngest sibling asked, with her curious natured eyes.

'' Because sweetie, we have been ordered by the king to forge as many swords and shields as fast as we can manage. But when we tried asking the guards why, he refused to tell us. They were all acting suspicious.'' He shrugged, ripping a piece of the wholemeal bread and dipping it in the stew.

Frigyth was starting to get nervous. What if they are about to be attacked? But again, Ivar did not look dangerous. Evenmore, he was crippled. Surely that meant he was maybe thrown out of his tribe and forced to die alone. And even if she decided to tell her family about her encounter, in what way would that help them escape the fury of a Viking raid?

The contact she had with the mysterious boy was what kept her awake most of the night, and by the time her body was exhausted and allowed her to fall asleep, the rooster was already crowing, alerting the family that it was dawn and that meant time to go back to work. However, something felt odd. While Frigyth`s family members were grumbingly getting out of bed, the young maiden heard screams and clanks of swords outside. When realization hit her, she alerted her family to be silent for a second in order for them to pay attention to what might have been going outside.

''Haeddi, take the girls and hide in the barn. Wilfred and I are going outside to see what is happening.'' The father instructed his wife. ''Here, grab this.'' He threw a newly forged seax to his son, and he took an old rusty looking blade for himself, gesturing with his head towards the door. '' Let`s go.'' With one solemn look, Frigyth`s father glanced at his girls, holding a strong and loving eye contact with his wife, silently reassuring her that everything was going to be all right.

When the girls were left alone, Haeddi looked at her daughters, trying to contain the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. '' We`re going outside. Stick close to each other. Once we reach the barn, find a hiding spot. Underneath the hay, behind it. I don`t` know. But do it as fast as you can. We don`t know what awaits us out there.'' The four girls looked at her mother, nodding shakily and following closely behind her towards the door. The mother was counting with her fingers how many seconds they had left before she would open the door and the chaos would start. Frigyth could hear the faint screams of terror coming from the villagers and once the door was open and they started running, everything went in slow motion. The action outside became more vivid. The shrieks and cries of pain were amplified and all of those made the girls run faster than they had ever done so in their entire lives.

Once they safely reached the barn, her mother grabbed the youngest offspring and she chucked them both behind some haystacks. The other two sisters went off climbing on a ladder and finding a safe space to bury in.

Frigyth was looking around, trying to find the first hidin place and duck under it, but to her terror, she was forcefully grabbed by her arm by a very muscular man, that looked like he could eat her alive. She gulped, eyes wide open and heart drumming against her chest, almost as if it was ready to jump out of her chest. He gave her an animalistic smile, that sent shivers down to her spine. Her sisters and mom were watching terrified from the hiding spots how poor Frigyth was going to get killed...or worse.

With an unmatchable force, he turned her around with her back facing him, and raising his axe and readied himself to cut her thin linen dress open, ignoring her pleas and screams to stop, but a powerful voice made him pause mid-action.

''BÍÐA!'' Both the cruel man and Frigyth turned their heads to look at whoever just stopped the brutal Viking. The girl couln`t believe her eyes. Sitting in a single seated strange looking carriage pulled by a beautiful white stallion, sat the very guy that around this time the other day she was enjoying her time with in the meadow.

''ÞESSI ER MINN!!'' Ivar approached the enormous barbarian and pulled him away from his victim by his hair, holding his dagger against his throat.

''Gerðu þetta aftur og þú ert dauður!!'' He spat with venom, letting go of him. When he looked at the shaken lady, he softened his eyes, offering a friendly hand for her to take. She shakily shook her head no, losing any trust she had in him.

Seeing how reluctant she was, Ivar huffed annoyed. '' If you come with me, you`ll be safe.'' He promised. She glanced back at her mother and sisters-who were terrifyingly and confusingly observing the interaction between the two-, looking back and forth between them and him. He instantly put two and two together, and rolled his eyes playfully. '' They will not be harmed IF... you come with me.''

But before she had any chance to speak, her father and brother came rushing to her aid. Wilfred, her brother, seemed unharmed, except for a few cuts here and there and some blood staining his blade, but her father seemed to have a pretty deep cut on his side, that was bleeding alarmingly.

'' STAY AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER!'' Her father yelled, pointing his old and chipped sword at the Viking.

Ivar mockingly raised both his arms in surrender, faking a terrified expression. After a few moments, he then grabbed his trusty dagger, swirling it smoothly around his finger and pointing behind him at the army that was currently ravaging the village.

''See that? I am the leader of all of them. I can order them to stop anytime if I want to. That is why I am asking YOU again.'' He pointed his dagger in Frigyth`s direction. '' Are.You.Coming.With.Me?'' He asked slowly, putting an emphasis on each word, to ensure he was being understood.

The curly haired girl looked with saddening eyes at her dad, who was still clutching his sword with all his being, as if believing THAT could actually help her, then at her brother, who was copying his father`s movements, but with less confidence and then at her mother and sisters, who were all shaking their heads no and crying silently, not knowing what the outcome of this woul be.

There was no backing out of this. She had two simple but impactful choices. She either went with him, probably ending up a slave, but at least her family was safe, or so she hoped. Or she could refuse, and get killed by the previous Viking.

With determined steps, she approached Ivar, making him smirk in victory. Her father yelled at her angrily to get back there behind him, but she was already climbing Ivar`s carriage. The young ruler grabbed her hand softly, guiding her to sit on his knees, that she now got to observe, were covered in some sort of metallic braces.

Once she took her seat in his lap, he stroked her hair with one hand, while whispering in her ear. ''Good girl.'' She sat frozen in his lap, letting him wrap a strong arm around her waist to keep her steady.

She took a one last glance at her family, waving sadly at them and struggling to keep her composure.

'' They will be safe, right?! You promised!'' She asked desperately, glacing back at her house, which was now growing to be more and more far away.

'' On my arm ring.'' He pledged, placing his palm over his bracelet for a moment, showing her that he was serious about his oath. Grabbing with one arm the reins and with the other gripping her tightly against him, he yelled something in Old-Norse to the other men, fleeing the village afterwards towards an unknown location to the girl, from where a new life was about to start for her. She could only hope it was going to be good.

[maid-with-sunset-in-her-hair]

Etymology of the Stark’s Names

Eddard, Ned: misspelling of Edward, a name of Anglo-Saxon origin composed by the words ēad (wealth, fortune, prosperous) and weard (guardian, protector). His name could be a reference to Edward the Confessor, patron saint of England, the monarchy of England and difficult marriages, or to Edward the Martyr.

Catelyn: a variation of the Irish name Caitlin, which derivates from Katherine and has long been associated with the Greek word katharos (pure, immaculate). Her name could be a reference to Saint Katherine, the patron saint of unmarried girls, maidens and spinsters, craftmen who work with wheels (potters, spinners, millers, knife sharpeners, mechanics), dying people and nurses, jurists and lawyers, educators in general (scholars, archivists, students and schoolchildren, philosophers, librarians and libraries), secretaries and preachers.

Robb: from Robert, a name of proto-Germanic origin composed by the words hroth (fame, glory, honour, praise, renown) and berth (bright, light, shining).

Jon: either a misspelling of John, which is the transliterated and contracted form of the Hebrew name Yehochanan (Yahweh is gracious, merciful) or a shortening of Jonathan (Yahweh has given). There are a lot of saints called John, but the most important is John the Apostle, patron of love, loyalty, friendship, writers in general (authors, scribes, editors, publishers), burn-victims, poison-victims, art-dealers, examinations, scholars and theologians. There's also a Saint Jonathan, whose attributes are bow and arrow and who represents friendship and honesty.

Sansa: most likely named after the stanza, a group of lines within a poem, usually set off from others by a blank line or indentation.

Arya: most likely named after the nymph Aria or Areia, which in Ancient Greek means "warlike." In music, an aria is a self-contained piece for one voice, with or without orchestral accompaniment. Given that all the metaphors for songs and dances being battles and wars in the series, her name could be foreshadowing some crucial role in the War for the Dawn 2.0.

Brandon, Bran: it could be a variation of the Irish name Breandán (prince, king, chieftain) or the Anglo-Saxon surname Brandon, composed by brōm (gorse shrub) and dūn (hill) or brant (deep, steep) and dūn (hill). I'm pretty sure there was a variety of gorse called the lupine, but don't quote me on that. In Old Welsh, the word Brân means "crow, little raven." It could also come from the surname Brand (sword) which derivated from the Old French word brandon (burning material to set fire).

Rickon, Rickard: Rickon is a surname which means “son of Richard.” Rickard is a variation of the name Richard, a name of proto-Germanic origin, composed by the words rīk (ruler, leader, king) and hardu (strong, brave, hardy). Maybe foreshadowing Rickon becoming King in the North? There's also a Saint Richard patron of Wessex.

Benjen: from Benjamin, an Hebrew name which means "son of the right (hand)" although it could also means "son of my days." Often used for the youngest son of a family, specially if the parents are unlikely to have more children.

Lyanna: most likely a misspelling of Eliana. In Hebrew, the name can be literally translated to “my God answered me” or “God answered my prayer.” Eliana could also come from the Late Latin name Aeliāna, the femenine form of Aeliānus (of the sun), or from the Greek name Helen or Helene. Lyanna's name was probably picked to parallel her to Elia, both victims of reproductive abuse at Rhaegar's hands, and as a reference to Helene's abduction.

[grimnirs-child]

Masterpost: Frīg's Handmaidens Project

Who are the Handmaidens?

In the Prose Edda, twelve Goddesses are listed after Frigga as Ásynjur: Fulla, Gefjon, Hlín, Syn, Eir, Sága, Gná, Vár or Vór, Snotra, Vör, Lofn and Sjöfn. Modern Heathens sometimes refer to Them as Frigga's Handmaidens. (This is a piece of shared gnosis, not an historically attested term.) For many of the Twelve, this is all that survives in the way of attestations.

What is the Project?

Gradually over several years, and more intentionally recently, I have been building a devotional cultus around these Goddesses. As part of that, I've been putting together primers on each of the Twelve on my longform blog -- detailing Their surviving attestations, Old English God-names and epithets for Them, my own personal experiences and upg, a prayer, and devotional icon art -- as well as essays and modern myths exploring other aspects of Them and my cultus to Them.

Although I use Old English names for Them and honour Them in a syncretic heathen practice drawing on influences from across the British and Irish Isles, I hope these may be useful and/or interesting for practitioners working in a Norse, Continental, or other context. Or for anyone worshipping and building cultus to lesser-known and lesser-attested Gods!

I will update this post periodically, but if you like you can subscribe to my longform Wordpress blog for updates when I post.

Primers

Fulla

Geofen (Gefjon)

Hlēowen (Hlin)

Ār (Eir)

Saga

Lofen & Siofen (Lofn & Sjöfn)

Wearn, or Syn (Syn)

Essays and other posts

Introduction to the Project

Essay on abundance, ānanda, and Fulla

Essay on Frīg and Her importance to my cosmology

The Wren and her sister: a myth of Frīg feat. Ār and Gnæ

Essay on marriage as initiation, feat. Lofen, Siofen and Āþ

[wheelchair-wizard]

NightCafe Ai.

Irish Celtic Mythology.

VOL 7. Oillipheist the Irish Dragon Serpent.

The Oilliphéist: Guardian of the Murky Waters

In the heart of Ireland, where the veil between the mortal realm and the Otherworld grew thin, there existed a place both feared and revered—the shores of Lough Neagh. Its waters, like darkened mirrors, held secrets older than memory itself. And at the heart of those depths slumbered a creature of legend—the Oilliphéist.

The Origins of the Oilliphéist:

The druids whispered that the Oilliphéist was born from the primordial chaos, a serpent forged in the forge of forgotten gods. Its scales shimmered like midnight stars, each one etched with symbols of forgotten languages. Its eyes—two fiery orbs—held the knowledge of ages, and its breath carried the scent of distant lands.

The Curse of the Oilliphéist:

The villagers knew better than to venture too close to Lough Neagh. For the Oilliphéist demanded tribute—an offering of livestock, precious gems, or even a maiden’s hand. Those who dared defy it faced dire consequences. Their homes flooded, their crops withered, and their cattle vanished beneath the murky waves.

Generations passed, and the Oilliphéist’s wrath remained unyielding. Its coils, longer than the tallest oaks, circled the lake, binding it to its watery domain. The villagers whispered prayers to the old gods, seeking protection from the serpent’s malevolence.

Cian, the Brave Warrior:

But fate weaves strange patterns, and one day, a young warrior named Cian emerged from the mist. His sword, forged from the heart of a fallen star, gleamed with otherworldly light. Cian had heard the tales—the Oilliphéist’s curse, its insatiable hunger for tribute, and the sorrow it wrought upon the land.

Determined to free his people, Cian set forth. The water stirred as he approached, and the Oilliphéist’s eyes emerged—a pair of fiery orbs fixated on its challenger.

“Bold mortal,” hissed the serpent, its voice echoing across the water. “Why do you disturb my slumber?”

Cian stood firm. “Your reign of terror ends today,” he declared. “Release this land from your grip, or face my blade.”

The Battle Beneath the Waters:

The Oilliphéist laughed—a sound like distant thunder. “You think a mere sword can defeat me? I am older than the hills, older than the stars. I have seen empires rise and fall.”

But Cian was undeterred. He lunged, striking at the serpent’s scales. Yet each wound healed instantly, and the Oilliphéist coiled tighter, threatening to drag him under.

Desperate, Cian remembered an ancient incantation—a secret passed down from druid to druid. He chanted the words, invoking the power of the elements. The water churned, and the serpent writhed in agony.

“Enough!” roared the Oilliphéist. “I yield.”

The Oilliphéist’s Confession:

It uncoiled, revealing its true form—a creature of sorrow and longing. “Long have I guarded these waters,” it confessed. “A curse binds me here, and only a hero’s sacrifice can break it.”

Cian hesitated. “What sacrifice?”

“The heart of a true warrior,” whispered the serpent. “Plunge your sword into my breast, and the curse shall lift.”

Cian’s hand trembled as he drove the blade into the serpent’s chest. The waters surged, and the Oilliphéist dissolved into mist. The curse lifted, and Lough Neagh sparkled in the sunlight once more.

Legacy of the Oilliphéist:

Cian returned to the village, hailed as a hero. But he carried the memory of the Oilliphéist—the guardian of murky waters—forever etched in his soul. And so, the legend endured—a reminder that even monsters had stories, and sometimes, their fates were intertwined with our own.

And there, by the shores of Lough Neagh, the Oilliphéist’s tale lives on, whispered in the wind and reflected in the ripples of ancient waters.

Christy,

Male, Husband, Dad, Family man, Friendly, Easygoing.

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[iammistressofmyfate]

I blame (thank) @lizpaige for enabling me

Here's some thoughts on Single Irish Dad Ronan AU

Ronan is a single dad living in Ireland on a farm in the country.

He has two daughters Aoife (10) and Siobhan (7). The girls are bio siblings and they were adopted together.

Aurora and Niall are still around and live a few miles from Ronan.

Matthew is at university.

Declan and Jordan and their kiddos live in the city.

Ronan married his high school sweetheart, Aidan, and they adopted the girls not too long after.

Aidan dies in a tragic car accident, leaving Ronan alone to raise a 5 and a 2 year old (at the time).

Ronan hasn't dated in five years. He's pretty stubborn, taking care of his girls and the farm and getting by in the best way he can

Enter Adam Parrish, American tourist who gets his ass lost in the middle of the Irish countryside during a rain storm. His car gets stuck and he walks, in the deluge, to Ronan's farm, which is the only light source for miles.

Adam shows up, a la Jane Bennett in Pride & Prejudice, asking for help. He comes down with a nasty cold from a combination of international travel, poor sleep, and getting caught in the rain.

The Lynch household is fascinatingly chaotic. The girls are intrigued by Adam and Adam feels bad for imposing. He wonders where Ronan's partner is (Ronan still wears his wedding ring).

Adam and Ronan get to know one another and there's a mutual crush between them. But Adam thinks Ronan is still married and Ronan isn't sure he wants to date someone who is from another country across the Atlantic.

Adam finds a prayer card for Aidan and asks Ronan about him. They've both been single for a long time, for different reasons. They're both aware they have feelings for each other.

Aoife and Siobhan and the extended Lynch family all encourage Ronan to take Adam around Ireland. So Ronan does. It's hard not to fall in love with someone that way. Just the two of them, driving all around the country.

Ronan isn't sure what to do, with Adam having to go back to the states. He doesn't want long distance, especially with the girls, and Adam doesn't either. Ronan thinks they're just going to break things off and it was fun while it lasted, but Adam has other plans.

Unsure if Adam was already going to move to Ireland or if he does some finagling. He gets his own place, so he and Ronan can date, and not rush into anything.

It's a HEA (because of course it is).

[scotianostra]

On 10th March 560, St Kessog, the Irish missionary in the Lennox area and southern Perthshire, was killed.

It’s not often we go back over 1500, but Kessog was an important religious figure back then, and is considered to have been patron saint of Scotland before we were even a nation, and certainly before St Andrew

We know precious little about Saint Kessog, also known as MacKessog, Kessock or MacKessock, but it was a long-standing tradition in the Celtic Church that he was murdered by pagans on March 10, 520, and that date remains his feast day even now.

As is always the case in the days before any sort of written historical record was made in Scotland, much of what we do know about Kessog is based on oral tradition – which by its nature tends towards the legendary and even the mythical.

There is no doubt, however, that Kessog existed and that he was a Christian missionary mainly in the lands we know as the Lennox, around Dumbarton, but almost everything else about him must be taken on trust though, as we shall see, there are considerable clues about him scattered around Scotland.

Tradition has it that Kessog was born into a royal family of Munster in Ireland, perhaps the King of Cashel, around the year 460.

One of the myths about him concerns a supposed incident in his childhood. The sons of a number of princes who were visiting the king were drowned in a swimming accident that may well have been caused by Kessog, who was the only survivor.

Nothing daunted, the boy took to his knees and prayed all night, and in the morning the drowned children were restored to life, thereby averting likely wars with the various princes.

He was destined for a holy life, and as a youngster he came under the influence of St Patrick who would then have been in his 70s. Patrick had by then created hundreds of churches and other Christian institutions across Ireland, and is said to have personally baptised 100,000 people.

Patrick sent Kessog to the monastery of another saint, Mo Chaoi, often written as Malachoi, which was located at Nendrum in County Down. Mochaoi, whose real name was Caolan, had been sent by Patrick to found the monastery which lasted until the Vikings sacked it in the 10th century.

Having been ordained a monk and then a bishop, it was decided that Kessog should go to the land of the Scoti, the Irish tribes who had made their home in what is now Argyll, creating a kingdom which is known as Dalriada.

It is not known why Kessog then struck east into the “debatable lands” between the Scots, the Picts and the Britons of the Kingdom of Strathclyde headquartered at Dumbarton. But if he was indeed a disciple of Patrick then there is an obvious connection, for despite all claims to the contrary, the most favoured location for the birth and youth of Patrick is Old Kilpatrick on the River Clyde just 10 miles from Loch Lomond which lay at the heart of the lands of Lennox. Indeed Lennox derives from Levenax, pertaining to the River Leven which courses from Loch Lomond to the River Clyde.

It is not plausible that Patrick decided to send a missionary to an area he would have known well in his childhood?

The Lennox would not become a recognised earldom until many centuries later, but Kessog appears to have become the apostle of the Lennox area, preaching the Christian faith all around Loch Lomond and through into Perthshire and as far north as modern Inverness. If that was the case, then he preached the gospel to the Picts 40 years earlier than Columba.

I wrote earlier about the clues to Kessog and where he worked, and those clues are place names. The saint is said to have founded a monastery on an island in Loch Lomond, Inchtavannach, which means island of the monk’s house. Local tradition has it that Inchtavannach’s highest point Tom nan Clag, the hill of the bell, got its name from Kessog installing a bell on the summit which with he summoned monks and laity to prayer. Certainly there was a bell associated with Kessog as it was listed in the funeral investitures of the Earldom of Perth as late as 1695.

Going north, a hill near the River Teith in Perthshire is known as Tom na Chessaig or Hill of Kessog, and there were mediaeval churches named after Kessog in Auchterarder and Comrie.

South Kessock in Inverness, North Kessock on the Black Isle and the Kessock Bridge on the north side of Inverness are named after him, reflecting the long tradition that the saint preached thereabouts.

Kessog’s successful mission to the people around Loch Lomond angered the local pagans possibly led by druids. They are said to have either killed Kessog themselves or bribed mercenaries to do it.

The place of his martyrdom is traditionally at Bandry Bay near Luss village on the Lochside – well known as the location for Glendarroch in STV’s Take the High Road soap. A cairn of stones marked the site of his death for centuries.

Luss has long been associated with Kessog, as he founded a church there in 510. The church was later named after him and an effigy of the saint dating from before the Reformation can be found in the church.

There is also St Kessog’s RC Church and St Kessog’s Primary School in Balloch at the southern end of Loch Lomond.

So plenty of local Lennox connections to Kessog but was he patron saint of Scotland?

The cult of Andrew developed fairly late in Christian life in Scotland, and it is known that Robert the Bruce, for one, had a particular veneration for Kessog.

The Bruce took refuge at Luss in 1306 and was cared for by a local laird. As king he would later grant a charter to John of Luss “for the reverence and honour of our patron, the most holy man, the blessed Kessog”.

In 1323 the king made the church of Luss and its surroundings a place of sanctuary “to God and the blessed Kessog”, as the charter states.

Scottish soldiers in the War of Independence also shouted the saint’s name as a battle cry, and relics of Kessog were said to have been carried into battle by the Scots.

In one modern respect Kessog is up among the top Scottish saints – along with Andrew, Ninian, Magnus, and Mungo, he has an oil field named after him in the North Sea.

[mythicpopularculture]

ELEMENTAL SPOILERS FORTHCOMING

So I went with my daughter today to an early showing of Elemental. I have to say, one of the initial quick takes I had was “this is Zootopia if the WildeHopps shippers were given creative control,” because of certain story beats that lined up for me.

I’ve seen some criticism that it has a lazy racism storyline. I’m here to say that, in my professional (MA in English) opinion, this is not a racial allegory, but instead a commentary on the general immigrant experience, and what it’s like as a first-generation native-born, trying to be yourself.

That’s not to say there isn’t an ETHNIC element: Ember’s family gives a vibe of being from the general area of either the Middle East or Indian subcontinent, especially due to some of their ethnic dress and reverence to the blue flame (the Zoroastrian faith uses fire as a focal point for prayer and devotion). Wade and his family, on the other hand, has the “old-money WASP” thing down to a science.

No, the main commentary here is how immigrant groups are generally treated by native-born populations in society. Starting from the beginning when Ember’s parents are given Anglicized names because of language barriers with an immigration officer (a common practice particularly with Eastern European immigrants at Ellis Island), then the issues with finding housing (reminiscent of many images of landlords refusing to rent to Irish or Italian immigrants), and on into their eventual settlement into a run-down storefront/apartment, in “Firetown,” a segregated district in the city (much like many Chinatowns, Mexicantowns, and Greektowns around the country).

There’s also been gripes about the animation style, that it’s boilerplate Pixar styling, that it’s boring. I refute that, to an extent. The animation works for its purpose, to visualize what’s REALLY doing the heavy lifting, and that’s the writing and acting.

Writing-wise, this is beautifully done, even with some of the rom-com tropes that appear, they’re given a unique feel based on the environment and the strength of the immigrant narrative. The final climax, as the flood bears down on Firetown and Ember finally confesses her love to Wade just before he evaporates, was particularly strong on an emotional level, making the catharsis that much better when Wade returns to life (I had to laugh that he literally cries himself back into existence!).

The voice acting is also a big strong point, especially since this film did not have the typical Pixar stunt-casting: the only name I recognized in the cast was Catherine O’Hara playing Brook. These actors with not-so-recognizable voices did a beautiful job with the script, and brought real feeling to their line reads.

This was well worth the time and money to see. It’s going into my Disney+ rotation the instant it arrives. The only bad luck is that it came out in the same year as Across the Spider-Verse, otherwise it would be a strong contender for best animated feature, based on the writing alone.

[thatonebirdwrites]

Finally! :) Took me a bit to edit this. EXCERPT:

She walks a steep path toward standing stones. A hand tightly grips her own, her mother so much taller, but all so warm and comforting. A small bag is over her shoulder since she’d asked to carry something, so she had the blanket. Her mother speaks, but the words tumble out in a waterfall of Irish.

The stones has candles at their base. Her mother lights them starting with the rising sun - east - and goes counterclockwise. The words she whispers is an old Irish prayer, one she’s whispered so many times while tucking Lena into bed. 

The sky burns an eggshell blue, the clouds wispy trails, and the breeze cool against her face. A scent of mountain aven burns as her mother waves the plant over the flames of each candle. The bundle smokes in her hands and she spins in a circle to take in the entirety of their picnic. 

“An cuimhneach leat, Lena?” her mother looks at her with piercing blue and green eyes. “Seo í uair na cinniúna.”

The air sparks with energy. Lena is suddenly the same height as her mother. “I don’t understand,” she says, desperately. “What are you saying?” 

Her mother reaches for her, but the dream shatters into a million fragments.

Lena wakes abruptly and winces at the bright light that shines through the windows. The sun is just rising, while the sky changes from black to violet to blue. Her mind bleeds with the imagery and words from her dream, and she needs to write it down.

Except, she finds herself trapped under the arm of a Super. It’s not like this isn’t something she’s secretly wanted since she first met Kara all those years ago, but she has not anticipated how impossible it is to move Kara’s arm. It’s like pushing against a mountain. She flounders and tries to wiggle free, only to give up with a huff. Kara’s still asleep, her arm still tight around Lena, and her breath soft against Lena’s neck. 

It’s absolutely endearing but also highly distracting. She needs to get up and record her dream, and maybe sort out why she keeps seeing standing stones. Maybe scour the landscape for said standing stones, but she can’t as the arm around her chest — as loose as it sort of is — is like the planet earth itself has bound her to the bed. 

There’s a giggle from the other bed, and Lena looks over to see Nia propped up against a wall of pillows with a book, a journal, and Lena’s map in her lap. 

“Stuck?” Nia asks with a grin. 

Lena grumbles and gives up trying to free herself. This is her life now apparently. Trapped in the arms of a Super. What a way for a Luthor to go. At least it's warm and cozy. “Oh shut up,” she says, but there’s no bite in her voice. “What are you doing?” She narrows her eyes at Nia holding her mother’s map. 

[carrickbender]

St Patricks Day

In front of our house, the starry plough flag of James Connolly flies proudly today. Connolly was a Irish Socialist and Republican who was executed as one of the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising. We celebrate he, Patrick Pearse, and all of the women and men who carried the banner of revolution. And we celebrate those who ran from Crown rule in Ireland, and made new lives in towns like Saskatoon, Boston, Butte, Durango, and carried their Irishness to the far corners of the earth.

For my family, it's also a day to remember people like my uncle Bill(Butte Irish), a hard drinking union tough who would would weep at hearing Liam Clancy sing but get 'animated' talking about Ian Paisley and marching season on garvaghy road in Northern Ireland. And amongst all the people I remember today, my grandmother Glenna is particularly on my mind. She impressed on me at a young age that, "even your college educated Irish family were greeted with signs that said 'workers wanted, Irish need not apply'- its our job to welcome the opressed, to show them kindness, and help them build new lives'

How sadly so many people of Irish heritage in America have forgotten those lessons, and have picked up the mantle of the hatred of immigrants, when they too were hated not so many years ago.

In mass this morning, our priest gave what was probably his last sermon thanks to pancreatic cancer. He's a wonderfully feisty man who speaks a few languages and sings the communion prayer, something which... yeah, even with his shaky voice, is moving... anyhow, his sermon was about the seeing the divine and being the hands of the divine in our communities by taking care of the sick, the poor, the oppressed, and being servants. From an old school Episcopal priest, it's always good to hear the same message as I got from those who raised me, and a great message of renewal in the times where you'd think all religious folks were the angry immigrant hating crowd.

Anyhow, it's late, but never give up hope. Like the motto says, Tiocfaidh ár lá! (Our day will come).

Here's a song for those I've lost and loved I remember this day. Thanks for reading, and much love to you!

[puella-peanut]

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

Written for the @allvalley100 Word Drabble Challenge. This time it was “Eye Contact” for Amnesty week. 100 words as counted by A03 for each drabble. Fourth fill.

…

The Boy

It’s the sound of worn Converse on the cobbled-stones, the feel of that slim brown hand on his forearm. The eye contact when he turns that makes his sensibilities unravel.

“Father Silver,” Daniel pipes up hopefully, “you’re gonna let me be your altar-server on Sunday, right?”

“Not this week, Daniel.”

“But—“ the boy’s face crumples, confused. Something flares in Father Silver’s chest, bright and sharp. Dangerous. 

“You didn’t let me last week either! Have I…” Daniel looks down; long lashes, plush mouth. “…done something?”

“My child,” Father Silver says lowly, tilting the boy’s chin up, “you’ve already done too much.”

…

The Snake

Kreese sits beside Silver slowly, pew and old bones creaking. 

“I spoke with Danny.”

”And?”

He remembers the feel of delicate cheekbone, the pretty flush following his lingering touch. “He went home.”

Kreese leans back. “Priests aren’t what they used to be.

“The Lawrence incident happened when you were Parish Priest,” Silver says sharply, but Kreese remains unfazed. 

“Yet here I remain.”

Rosary beads click nearby—less like prayer, more like pincers of a terrible insect, Silver thinks. He watches how the candlelight hones Kreese’s weathered face into something foul. 

“I would never hurt Daniel.”

Kreese chuckles.

“You already have.”

…

The Bite

At Mass, Daniel sits with his mother—looking like a kicked puppy as he watches Kenny assist Father Silver.

It’s the same expression he wore nine years ago, sobbing for his father in the chapel. Terry—then Seminarian Twig—had held out his arms, and Daniel had run. Seeking comfort. Innocent piggy-back rides. 

Then he grew up.

Now, at seventeen, Daniel has become lovelier than ever imagined. Leaving Father Silver to wonder if he will be able to resist him.

He wonders moreso later, as Daniel kneels at the Communion rail and parts his lips—if he’s ever even tried.

…

This is what comes of watching the 80s miniseries The Thorn Birds with your mom. A soap-opera about a handsome, blue-eyed, older Irish Catholic priest in 1900s Australia who falls for a brown eyed, brown haired girl which ruins them both. And yeah, Kreese is a priest here because the thought of him building an army for GOD wouldn’t leave me.