#Oracle cloud performance

[vastedge330]

VastEdge provides Oracle Cloud Migration services, ensuring a smooth and secure transition to Oracle Cloud. Boost your business agility, enhance performance, and leverage scalable cloud infrastructure with VastEdge's expert migration solutions. Migrate to Oracle Cloud with zero business disruption.

[amberwallace]

Oracle EPM Cloud Overview and Business Benefits

Oracle Enterprise Performance Management (EPM) Cloud is a comprehensive solution for enterprise planning, financial closing, narrative reporting, and data management. With Oracle EPM Cloud businesses gain insights into cost and profitability, adapt quickly to changing compliance requirements, streamline reporting processes, and flexibly manage enterprise data. Explore Oracle EPM Cloud's overview and business benefits https://shorturl.at/bwTtP

[kids-worldfun]

Optimizing Oracle Cloud Integration with Test Automation

Modern corporations that want to smooth out their IT operations and improve their business procedures must use Oracle Cloud Integration. With Oracle Cloud Integration, organizations can ensure the connection of different applications, services or data sources to form one effective and consolidated system. So, this integration maintains the smooth flow of data and real-time information exchange on…

[bispsolutions]

Oracle FCCs Debugging and Tips & Tricks

[a2remedy]

Rocking with the Joker

It was a dark day in Gotham. The dark clouds and heavy rain weren't a new sight for its residents. Some would say it's the city's natural state.

Heavy rain accompanied by thunder usually muffled the cries of people with knives or bullets in their abdomen from a deal gone wrong. At the same time, it was a comfort to Gothamites.

Rain showed the best and worst of the world's crime center. The muffled sounds made finding sleep in the city easier. It made its people more receptive to helping one another. Rain, Darkness, Shadows.

Those were the playgrounds for the very protectors of this city.

It was the very thing that frustrated Oracle at the moment. Looking through wet lens into the alleys and abandoned sites like her life depended on it.

Maybe it did. Switching to being the lady in the chair surely wasn't a seamless but she did a damn good job, if the numerous voices in her ear didn't remind her enough. But she couldn't help her frustration. Even if they didn't speak often, they shared a look. A silent promise to get back at their assailant for what he's done.

A week ago, rogues used the same playground to break out of Arkham. The Joker was out there. Somewhere.

And Jason was silent. It's been slowly eating at her as they caught more rogues. Tim and Dick reported back that they've 'contact'. Whatever they wanted to call it. She hated the 10-foot pole between him and the other bats. She knew he hated it too.

A week since the Joker escape, and his pit rage hasn't died down since.

Her mind stopped wandering as she heard the GCPD. Reported sightings of the pale green gas inside an indoor concert hall, the feint laughter in the background growing louder by the second. With a practiced deftness, she located where the officer's coordinates were and reported to the bats... Right near Crime Alley. "Does anybody have eyes on Red Hood?" Nobody responded for 1...3...5 seconds. She knew well enough that one of the first casualties when Hood was like this was his helmet , and she assumed right when she got in to see the blurry camera that glitched with static occasionally. Right at the doors of the venue. She could make out people crumbling to their knees, desperately making their way for exits before succumbing to the drug. The haunting laughter ringing out from crying faces with grins too large. "I NEED ETAS! STAT!" "I'm 5 minutes away!" Tim responded as he grappled from rooftops. "I'm there in 3!" Dick was hoofing it as she focused on Red Hood. She opened her mouth, and her stomach dropped. Static graced her ears as it came in, but she was sure she heard correctly. "I'm going in." "Hood, just hold on." She knew better than hoping he'd listen. She checked the clear camera. At least, he had his rebreather on. "Hood is making contact. Hurry!"

"On it!" The chorus of voices and affirmative "Hm!" brought the comfort of the rain back to her. He's not alone in this, and neither is she. ---- The corners of his eyes tinged with green as he felt the pits simmer to life. He had to act fast. He had the officers on-site help him and his boys move the people nearest to the exits away before he turned back to the venue and collapsed forms inside. He could barely make out what the others were saying, but he knew well enough that the venue could comfortably fit 1,000 people. Far too many for him and 20 odd cops to handle.

He could still remember Bella, the rock star in the making, nerded out when a meta from the out of the city announced a surprise performance for the end of her tour. What was her name again? He followed the sounds of gunfire the further he got in until he made it to the open double doors. There weren't any bullet holes through the wall and door frame, so he made his way in. His heart was in his chest as he laid his eyes on the room surrounded in green. Lazarus green.

Jason had to keep reminding himself, freak out later, there's a job to do. Freak out later; there's a job to do. FREAK OUT LATE-! Green paved its way through his sight.

But the pits we're of afraid of it. Should he be? He needed something, anything to ground himself. So he touched the freaky thing. The green at the encompassing his vision vanished. Like oil to water, whatever he felt now wasn't the pits. It was like taking a dip into a pool. Cold enough to make you flinch, but it warms to his touch. He didn't notice he was dragging his hand along it until a guy's voice rang out over the mental and physical gunfire. "EMBER!" He took off a purple guitar with teal flame details and tossed it over.

The guitar straps fitted on her like a glove. "I GOT IT, B! LET'S KNOCK THEIR SOCKS OFF!" Jason didn't realize he was holding his breath until he exhaled in relief. Not noticing the band members' attention snapping to him as he finally caught sight of the joker. He gave the room a once over. The room with cheering fans as the band members were still being fired on. "THIS IS EMBER AND THE BUSTAS-" The three other members responded,"-AND WE'RE HERE TO BUST YA BALLS!" What. The. Fuck.

[chinesehanfu]

[Hanfu · 漢服]Chinese immortal Hanfu <西王母/Queen Mother of the West> Based On Yuan Dynasty Taoist Temple Mural<永乐宫/Yongle Palace>

【Historical Artifacts Reference 】:

▶ China Yuan Dynasty Taoist Temple 永乐宫/Yongle Palace Mural

<西王母/Queen Mother of the West>

The Queen Mother of the West, known by various local names, is a mother goddess in Chinese religion and mythology, also worshipped in neighbouring Asian countries, and attested from ancient times.

The first mentions of the Queen Mother date back to the oracle bone inscriptions of the Shang dynasty (1766 – 1122 BCE). One inscription reads:

Crack-making on day IX (9th day), we divined. If we make offering to the eastern mother and the western mother, there will be approval.

Western Mother refers to an archaic divinity residing in the west. The exact nature of the Mother divinities in the Shang dynasty is unclear, but they were seen as powerful forces deserving of ritual by the people of the Shang dynasty. Originally, from the earliest known depictions of her in accounts like the Classic of Mountains and Seas during the Zhou dynasty, she was a ferocious goddess of death with the teeth of a tiger, who rules over wild beasts and sends down heavenly punishments such as pestilences. She was also mentioned as an authority ruling over other divinities such as Jiutian Xuannü, a goddess of war and sex. Other stories hold that she is a mountain goddess or a divine tigress. She is also popularly thought to have blessed the Eight Immortals with their supernatural abilities.

After her integration into the Taoist pantheon, she gradually took on associations with other aspects, such as immortality, as well.

The Queen Mother of the West is most often depicted holding court within her palace on the mythological Mount Kunlun, usually supposed to be in western China (a modern Mount Kunlun is named after this). Her palace is believed to be a perfect and complete paradise, where it was used as a meeting place for the deities and a cosmic pillar where communications between deities and humans were possible.At her palace she was surrounded by a female retinue of prominent goddesses and spiritual attendants. One of her symbols is the Big Dipper.

Although not definite there are many beliefs that her garden had a special orchard of longevity peaches which would ripen once every three thousand years,others believe though that her court on Mount Kunlun was nearby to the orchard of the Peaches of Immortality. No matter where the peaches were located, the Queen Mother of the West is widely known for serving peaches to her guests, which would then make them immortal. She normally wears a distinctive headdress with the Peaches of Immortality suspended from it.

Flourishing parasols, we reach the chronograms' extremity; Riding on the mist, I wander to Lofty Whirlwind Peak. The Lady of the Supreme Primordial descends through jade interior doors; The Queen Mother opens her Blue-gem Palace. Celestial people—What a Crowd! A lofty meeting inside the Cyan Audience Hall. Arrayed Attendants perform Cloud Songs; Realized intonations fill the Grand Empty Space. Every thousand years, her purple crabapple ripens; Every four kalpas, her numinous melon produces abundantly. This music differs from that at the feast in the wilderness— So convivial, and certainly infinite.— Wu Yun (Complete Tang Poems 1967, line 4942)

One of the earliest written references to the Queen Mother comes from the writings of the Taoist writer Zhuangzi (c. 4th century BCE):

The Queen Mother of the West obtained it [the Dao]... ...and took up her seat at Shao kuang. No one knows her beginning; no one knows her end.

Zhuangzi describes the Queen Mother as one of the highest of the deities, meaning she had gained immortality and celestial powers. Zhuangzi also states that Xiwangmu is seated upon a spiritual western mountain range, suggesting she is connected to not only the heavens, but also to the west.

Legendary encounters

In Tu Kuang-ting's text, he includes narrative accounts of the Queen Mother's encounters with legendary Chinese heroes. One such account narrates an encounter between the Queen Mother and Laozi (Lord Lao):

"In the 25th year of King Chao of the Chou dynasty (1028 BCE) …" "…Lord Lao and the realized person Yin Hsi went traveling…" "…on their behalf, the Queen Mother of the West explicated the Scripture of Constant Purity and Quiet."

In this account, the Queen Mother plays the role of Laozi's superior and is credited with the ultimate authorship of the Dao De Jing. This dichotomy of the Queen Mother as the superior is a characteristic of Shangqing Taoism, a goddess worshiping sect of Taoism of which Tu Kuang-ting was a master. There is also an account of a meeting between the Queen Mother and Laozi in Tang poetry.[18] This account however, being of traditional Taoist thought, has the Queen Mother taking an inferior role to Laozi, calling him "Primordial Lord" (the title of his highest manifestation) and pays homage to the sage.

<China Han Dynasty stone-relief showing 西王母/Queen Mother of the West from Sichuan,China>

<China Wei and Jin Dynasties Mural showing 西王母/Queen Mother of the West>

————————

📸Photography post-production :@小何力

👗Hanfu & 👑Crown：@雁鸿Aimee

💄 Makeup：百丽 （临溪摄影）

👭Model：@清音音音音

🔗 Weibo:https://weibo.com/1648616372/O2R5bpBud

————————

[astra-ravana]

Scrying

Scrying is a method of divination that involves gazing into a usually reflective or translucent surface such as a scrying glass, a crystal ball, mirror, or scrying pool. Crystals, fires, and smokes have also been used. Practitioners gaze into the surface or past it, to achieve a trance-like state. While in a trance, the practitioner may see spiritual visions, spirits, visions of the future, or activities taking place elsewhere in the present reflected in the scrying surface or their mind's eye as they gaze.

The Art Of Scrying

To practice scrying effectively, it is important to create the right conditions. Observing the surface is best done at night, illuminated by candle light, with a clear and focused mind. After formulating a question, intense concentration on the surface is required until clouds begin to appear, which often serve as a precursor to actual visions.

According to Melville, a renowned interpreter of scrying, the appearance of white clouds signifies good news, while black clouds are considered ominous. Bright colors like red and yellow may herald unpleasant surprises, while blue and green suggest happy events.

Scrying The Sphere

According to the law of sympathetic magick, the spherical shape holds numerous correlations in various aspects of life. Our planet itself is spherical, and even the human skull, housing the brain, possesses a spherical form. Symbolically, the sky is often associated with the sphere, while the earth is likened to a square, as described by Greek philosopher Plato. He theorized that humans were originally round before being divided into sexes.

The idea of the spherical figure is also prevalent in Australian legends, where the primitive androgyne is depicted as having a spherical shape. Islamic cosmology also embraces the symbolism of the sphere. Throughout shamanic cultures, crystal has been recognized as a potent inducer of trance states, making it the favored material for scrying spheres.

The crystal ball, widely used for divination, dates back to the early Middle Ages. The first documented account is associated with the British mathematician and occultist John Dee, who claimed to have received a crystal ball from an angelic spirit on November 21st, 1582.Dee used it on multiple occasions to connect with spirits, with the assistance of medium Edward Kelley. The beryl stone, approximately 6 cm in diameter, believed to have been used by Dee, is now housed in the British museum.

The practitioner establishes a connection with the crystal ball through sight or touch, or sometimes both, as visions begin to form and the practitioner maintains focus until they dissipate. The use of quartz, beryl, obsidian, and glass can be traced to ancient civilizations, demonstrating a continuous tradition.

Scrying Mirrors

A scrying mirror is usually (but not always) a black reflective surface rather than a silvery one. These are used as a focal point for meditative scrying. The practitioner may see images in the mirrors surface, as well as fleeting glimpses of scenes, abstract shapes, or even faces. Black mirrors are often used to commune with spirits. Mirror scrying has roots in ancient Greece where oracles consulted polished stones and bowls of water.

Historical Examples

The practice of scrying can be traced back to ancient civilizations. The Australian abirigines revered the quartz crystals, and it is likely that the Druids inherited these techniques from their predecessors.

In classical times, scrying was performed within the framework of precise religious rituals. Even in the Christian Middle Ages, it held magickal significance. It was not until the Renaissance, with the contributions of Paracelsus, that the idea of visions being influenced by the interaction of crystals with human magnetism gained attention. Dr. John Dee, astrologer and advisor to Queen Elizabeth I of England, was the prominent practitioner of scrying in the 16th century. Notably, Cagliostro also employed a stone for his predictions.

The Process

• Preparation- The crystal sphere on a secure stand (or other scrying medium) should be placed in the center of the table. Only the oracle should look at the surface but not touch it. The scrying session takes place in dim lighting to enhance focus.

• Magnetization- The practitioner can magnetize the surface by passing their hands over it, establishing a connection.

• Gazing- Once magbetized, the practitioner stares into the crystal ball, mirror, or other chosen medium, maintaining a passive and concentrated state of mind. Initially, clouds, colors or waving veils may appear. Gradually, more distinct images such as figures, objects, scenes, symbols, or phrases will manifest.

• Interpretation- The interpretation of the images relies on the personal code and intuition of the practitioner. However, broad meanings can be attributed to colors, numbers, symbols, and more.

• Aftercare- Once the scrying session is complete, the surface should be cleansed and the object itself stored somewhere safe. Treating it with care is believed to maintain its fidelity in future scrying sessions.

[quatregats]

I'm rereading Master and Commander and I'm deeply in danger of just posting every single passage from it ever but I did love the way that the capture of the prize in Chapter 6 was framed on either side by the logbook's entry, and also the way he transitions out of it to set the scene and tone:

Sunday, July 1 … Mustered the ship’s company by divisions read the Articles of War performed Divine Service and committed the body of Henry Gouges to the deep. At noon dº weather. Ditto weather: but the sun sank towards a livid, purple, tumescent cloud-bank piled deep on the western horizon, and it was clear to every seaman aboard that it was not going to remain ditto much longer. The seamen, sprawling abroad on the fo’c’sle and combing out their long hair or plaiting it up again for one another, kindly explained to the landmen that this long swell from the south and east, this strange sticky heat that came both from the sky and the glassy surface of the heaving sea, and this horribly threatening appearance of the sun, meant that there was to be a coming dissolution of all natural bonds, an apocalyptic upheaval, a right dirty night ahead. The sailormen had plenty of time to depress their hearers, already low in their spirits because of the unnatural death of Henry Gouges (had said, ‘Ha, ha, mates, I am fifty years old this day. Oh dear,’ and had died sitting there, still holding his untasted grog) – they had plenty of time, for this was Sunday afternoon, when in the course of nature the fo’c’sle was covered with sailors at their ease, their pigtails undone. Some of the more gifted had queues they could tuck into their belts; and now that these ornaments were loosened and combed out, lank when still wet, or bushy when dry and as yet ungreased, they gave their owners a strangely awful and foreboding look, like oracles; which added to the landmen’s uneasiness.

[...]

Jack leant back against the curved run of the stern-window and let Killick’s version of coffee down by gulps into his grateful stomach; and at the same time that its warmth spread through him, so there ran a lively tide of settled, pure, unfevered happiness – a happiness that another commander (remembering his own first prize) might have discerned from the log-entry, although it was not specifically mentioned there: 1/2 past 10 tacked, 11 in courses, reefed topsail. AM cloudy and rain. 1/2 past 4 chase observed E by S, distance 1/2 mile. Bore up and took possession of dº, which proved to be L’Aimable Louise, French polacre laden with corn and general merchandise for Cette, of about 200 tons, 6 guns and 19 men. Sent her with an officer and eight men to Mahon.

[sanders1665]

Dispatch from the Breezeway: Musings of a Resigned Philosopher

It’s that hour of the morning when the world feels undecided—neither fully awake nor quite asleep, a strange twilight between chaos and calm. The air is still, heavy with the quiet dignity of knowing it's got nothing to prove. I'm barefooted, planted in my creaky old recliner like a monk on sabbatical, slouched back in my breezeway sanctuary, where the concrete is cool and the birds are in full democratic debate. Their chatter fills the space like cosmic static—some arguing over crumbs, others over love or territory or just because they can.

I scroll. The feed glows like a neon oracle, beaming in a thousand streams of noise from every angle. A cacophony of personal truths, bold declarations, and curated enlightenment. Everyone’s an expert now. Everyone's cracked the code. The new prophets wear ring lights and call themselves content creators. There’s a balm for every ache, a sermon for every wound, and a TED Talk for every insecurity. I watch them all like a weary anthropologist studying a very animated tribe.

But don’t mistake me for smug. That knowing smirk? Not mine. I’m not floating above the fray in some inflated cloud of superiority. I’m just… content. Mostly. There’s a comfort in the little rituals—the recliner’s creak, the birds’ chorus, the breeze that brushes just right. And yet, somewhere inside, a small ember of disappointment smolders. Not rage. Not even sadness. Just that quiet, resigned ache that comes from watching people chase charlatans and shout into the void. I don’t say much. What’s the point? Outrage is currency now, and I’ve opted out of that market. Spent enough energy watching the circus from the sidelines.

The truth is, there's too much truth out there. A buffet of contradictions. Everyone's selling some version of reality—spiritual detoxes, philosophical life hacks, instant purpose in twelve easy steps. And the gullible? The naïve? They aren’t fools. Just tired souls looking to belong. Looking for something that fits. And so they buy in. They always do.

But me? I’m the watcher. The drifter. The barefooted philosopher who never quite joined the cult. Observe. Watch. Shift your gaze. Try to see things from ten different angles before you call it what it is. I've found that if you pick a team, the team starts picking for you—what to believe, who to hate, how to laugh. And if their attitude doesn’t mirror their reason for existing, then what are they, really?

Life, the universe, and all its delightful absurdities. I don't pretend to understand it. I just try not to get swept up in its performance art. Some truths ring clear, others dissolve under scrutiny. Mine? It doesn’t con anyone. It doesn’t need applause.

So I’ll sit here, in the breezeway. Barefooted. Not judging. Not outraged. Just quietly entertained by the spectacle, sipping on a little stillness before the world wakes up again and starts shouting.

[dent-de-leon]

Thinking about the comic’s rendition of Mollymauk’s own oracle card. A bird carrying a red rose, falling petals and clouds, a golden crown. Mollymauk the romantic, the performer, the dreamer. Eager for an audience and adventure. Mollymauk “the hero.”

Thinking of Molly waking a lifetime later still feeling regal, “kingly.” Thinking of Caleb creating a little illusionary crown for the fool who once played at being royalty, and how he loved it immediately. Thinking of Kingsley confessing to Beau and Yasha, “I try to be a good person, or whatever I think that means.”

[xxdoubledaisyxx]

Clash of the Titans (1981) is one of the best movies ever made, and a personal favorite of mine when I was a wee lad under ten.

Just wondering if this is what is happening right now... I hadn't been thinking about it, but in the clouds of cosmic dust kicked up by Hermes on his godly business as he alighted by, there were reflections of the origin of this myth that could be seen. Myths like that of Perseus and Medusa were powerful and popular in ancient times because they tend to reoccur again and again in real life with new people as natural forces come into conflict with civilized forces and justice prevails one way or the other.

Just because the Greek gods (goddesses incl.) are not celebrated with temples and cults today, doesn't mean their cosmology isn't relevant or applicable. Gods do not need faith to exist or participate in worldly matters. Priests, priestesses, lay people, oracles, and believers of any sort are the ones who need faith to access divine power and revelation of the gods, and that is a big difference. Faith is for mortals to hold and the gods to acknowledge. Truth is for the gods to hold and mortals to acknowledge. For a priestess to perform a miracle of healing, the more faith in her cult and community, the better equipped she is to invoke the blessings of a deity.

Except if this is my story... I think I like Medusa enough to want to at least take her on a date first to see if we can be friends, instead of chopping her head off if I don't have to. That is of course if I won't turn to stone when I gaze upon her terrifying and fearsome beauty, crowned by vipers and rattlers as she is and killing with a single glance even the mightiest of warriors who think they will claim her as a prize. Maybe my eyes are already stone, replaced by special orbs crafted in the forge of Tartarus by Hephaestus after being born blind and learning how survive on my own anyway.

This was commanded to be done by Zeus as a boon after I helped tend his ailing, infirmed body when I met him in the form of a noble, calm, and dignified dog. He was a good dog, one who was not afraid to fight when the others did, the girls tearing at each other's throats over jealousy of who was loved more. Always most unwilling to be involved in such savagery, Zeus only evoked his mighty, thunderous bark and snarling the flash of his teeth if they tried to drag him into their vain and bloody struggle. That is why he was an indoor dog with a special bed like Croc, my own companion whose tireless patience, love, and wisdom has benefitted me more in life than I ever could have known as the blind boy I was in my youth. I was not there when he passed, but I am certain he passed with dignity and respect, loved like the good dog he was, wise beyond his mortal form.

Zeus in this myth was dying after a full and adventurous life that began long before we became acquainted. He enjoyed walks through the endless desert where he could roam free for a time while running with the others, swimming in the muddy waters of the Rio Grande with my brother and I as youth, and hiking the trails of the Sandia Mountains on the occasional expedition. At the end, he was suffering from a huge, cancerous tumor on his side like a softball stuck under his fur at the ribs after 100 years alive. When he gave up the ghost and passed on to return to Olympus on high above the veil of clouds that obscures the sight of men from seeing the divine affairs of the gods, I buried him under the yucca for the faithful mortal who was his keeper and caretaker to mourn his passing.

So... since I've got these fancy new eyes made by Hephaestus, I should be able to look at Medusa without needing to fear being turned to stone. Then, maybe, she will see me the way human beings do not.

[tinkadreamchaser]

Jester, not Clown. Fool, not idiot.

This is going to be a bit of a pointless rant, BUT.

I'm sure someone already did this, but I want to do my own theorizing and detail dump. I realized that there were several clown-ish characters crossed out in the hallway featured in the pilot, including Kaufmo, but no jesters. So with the idea of Kinger having been with a 'Queen' character once before (and of course, we assigned a meaning to that, right?)

So, the characters forms got to have some meaning, which means I get to dive into a thorough analysis of what a jester and/or fool is supposed to be, do and represent.

Unlike modern clowns, jesters were employed by royalty to entertain the court, which is why they were called court jesters. They could also perform for the general public as part of travelling performers, but the connection to the court is what stuck out to me, since we already have a literal chess King as a character. And the close connection to the royal court would give jesters a bit more insight into the workings of the court and were given the privilege to speak the truth for comedic value. (Which is also something Shakespeare liked to do, let his jesters be little oracles of a sort.)

They were even considered as advisors and critics at times, since they had the Jester's Privilege to speak freely to the crown.

This, in combination with Pomni seeing and going for the elusive Exit right off the bat, makes me think she's just gonna keep seeing a bunch of stuff that was supposed to remain behind the scenes and hopefully relay it to the others. This has already happened in the second episode, in part. But she is still new, ergo a fool.

Which brings me to the dumbest connection my brain has made: The Fool tarot card.

The major arcana cards in tarot are supposed to represent life-altering events, the big steps a human being takes on their life's journey. And the Fool, number 0, is the first. (Usually pictured happily walking off a cliff, with their gaze to the clouds.)

The idea is that the fool has the potential to be great, but due to inexperience, may be seen as stupid.

So, whether the 'court' in the Amazing Digital Circus is a nod towards Kinger or Caine, I have no idea. Functionally, Caine is in charge, but maybe Kinger was at some point? Maybe it's both, but the one thing I am certain about in this chaotic trainwreck of a show is that Pomni is gonna wise up real quickly, and once she does, she'll probably dismantle the whole system.

Rant over. Do with it what you will.

[meowcats734]

[Soulmage] Wanderlust is Earth

Content warning: thoughts of self-harm/suicide.

"Bad news," Sansen said.

I cracked an eye open—I hadn't quite managed to slip into a nap, but I was close enough to be cranky about the interruption. "You're not going to do the whole 'good news, bad news, which do you want to hear first' routine?"

"I'm an oracle. I've lived through this twice already. It's purely performative on my part." From behind him, Lucet giggled. I got up and erected a brief bubble of darkness, put on my binder, and then terminated the spell of fear. Being a novice witch in eleven different schools still didn't put me on par with a real witch like Sansen, but we'd all been trying to hone any skill that could help us survive, and that included casting spells and improving our techniques whenever possible.

Plus, I liked having privacy when I changed.

"So what's the bad news?" I asked.

"Well, we think we found out why there's a whole bunch of Demons of Fear hanging out in the sky," Sansen said. "We've done some observation, and there've been some aerial clashes between Demons of Fear and Angels of Arrogance. Odds are, we're not the first people to think of using soulspace entities for reconnaissance, and what we've been seeing is the Order and the Peaks brawling for control over surveillance from above."

"Yeah, I didn't think we were military geniuses either. But wait, if you observed the conflict directly..."

Sansen grinned. "Yeah, Lucet and Meloai managed to train the Demon of Joy while you were asleep, and I can look into a future where we kill it for its memories and gather all the information it would have held without having to actually kill it every time we want to know what it saw."

I exhaled, a weight lifting from my soul. "We needed a win," I said.

Lucet turned away from our little scout—a butterfly of light that fluttered towards a flower Meloai held—and gave me a gentle smile. "We did, didn't we?"

"Speaking of wins and losses," Sansen said, "the Order of Valhalla and the Peaks fought to a standstill at a nearby lake. We... there wasn't any sign of Jiaola, but if we can get closer and dig through the memory fragments..."

"You want to rummage around in an active battlefield?" I asked.

"Both sides retreated, and if we move fast, they might still be regrouping by the time we get there. Plus, there's another factor at play. From what the butterfly—"

"I'm naming him Misiel," Meloai interrupted.

"From what Misiel saw," Sansen corrected himself, "the aftermath of the battle looked... extensive. Someone tore open a massive rift into the Plane of Elemental Cold, and I wouldn't be surprised if there were more rifts hidden beneath that massive cloud of mist."

"So we think we're safe, because the battlefield's too deadly for either army to want to enter," I summarized.

"We don't have to go into the heart of that mess," Sansen said. "We just have to get in far enough that we can find a couple soul fragments, and get out. With a competent oracle, two combat witches, and a mimic, we should at the very least be able to run from any major soulspace entities before they kill us."

"Great, thanks, very reassuring." I rubbed my forehead. "What do you all think?"

"None of us would've made it out of the Silent Peaks without Sansen," Lucet said, squeezing my arm. "And... I never met Jiaola, but... he's your friend, Cienne. This is the clearest shot at finding him that we've had so far. I say we take it."

"Family's hard to come by," Meloai added, giving me a reassuring nod. "I'm not looking forward to finding out what kinds of things are going to crawl out of those rifts, but... it's worth the risk."

I swallowed heavily, feeling a familiar constriction in my throat, and some sticky, sharp part of my soul wished I'd never asked.

Lucet and Meloai were willing to throw their lives on the line for someone they'd never even met.

But I? I was scared. I was a fucking coward. I was a horrible person. They would be better off if I just disappeared one day and never came back.

I took in a deep breath, letting the familiar voices wash over me.

Then I forced my way past it, the way I'd painstakingly learned how, and said, "Alright. Let's do this."

###

The cloud cover got thicker and thicker as we approached what was left of Feardust Lake. I'd never actually been to this part of the Redlands—for most of my childhood, the area was considered uninhabitable thanks to the last clash between the Redlands and the Peaks—but it didn't seem all that different from any other section of the plains I called home. Endless waves of flowing grass? Check. Majestic open sky that felt like it could swallow you whole? Check. Rifts into other dimensions that spewed monsters and elemental destruction? You betcha.

The rift itself was hidden beneath the shroud of condensation and frost it had generated, but even from this distance, it was obvious that it was one hell of a thing. I'd be surprised if I lived to see it fade. The signature tactic of Fell witches—sowing sorrow on the battlefield and reaping it all at once to tear massive rifts in the sky—had survived for centuries, and judging by how far away the Silent Peaks had made their camp from the enormous rift, the Peaks had learned to respect it.

"Was this... a victory for the Order?" Meloai asked.

I shrugged. "No clue. If you want to go up to their camps and ask, I'm sure both sides will have their version of the story where they won."

"Hey," Lucet said, frowning. "Do you guys... Cienne. Do you... is something... wrong with sorrow right now?"

I tensed, looking at Sansen, but he shook his head—nothing imminently threatening. "From a scale of elf-Iola to eldritch-Iola, how wrong are we talking here?"

"I'm... just try casting a spell with sorrow," Lucet said. "A... a small one. Small as you can make it."

"Uh. Okay." Salt-crystal sorrow grew in abundance along the inner edge of my soul; I willed a fraction of it to chip off, then tossed it from my soul into realspace—

The frostbolt skittered a good foot before stopping, leaving a trail of swirling condensation in its path.

Even Sansen seemed surprised as the four of us stared at it.

"That is not what that spell was supposed to do," I finally said, just as Sansen's expression returned to normal. Oh, was that what had caused Sansen to be surprised? Gah, stupid oracles, reacting to my sentences before they're spoken.

"Huh." Lucet's soul stirred. "So if I try to cast a normal frostbolt, then—"

"NO!" Sansen grabbed her arm, startling Lucet, and she yelped, spinning around. "No. Just... no. We all die if you try to use a full-powered frost spell."

A chill went down my spine. "I... I don't suppose any of you have ever tried using magic near a rift this large before?"

I got three shaken heads in response.

"Maybe... maybe we should stay away from frost magic, for now. Until we're away from that ridiculously-sized rift," I said.

Lucet flinched, and I kicked myself—there was probably a way to say that that didn't render Lucet useless for the time being. But before I could open my mouth, she put on a smile and said, "Yeah. It's alright. Just until after."

Then she turned and strode towards the city-sized rift in the distance. 

Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I felt those familiar thorny vines grow around my throat, but I forged through it. Now was not the time to let my emotions get the better of me.

The consequences of what would happen if I did loomed large on the horizon, a sorrow so deep and vast it had torn two armies apart.

###

"Found one," Meloai shouted. There was thunder periodically crashing from somewhere deeper in the wrecked grasslands, and the constant crash of hail wasn't helping the noise problem either. 

"What plane?" Lucet asked. 

"No clue. But he died recently—the body's still warm."

I shuddered. "Eurgh. I know your interaction with humanity has been limited to Lady Tanryn for the first two decades of your life, but for future reference, humans generally don't like poking other humans' corpses."

"I... I know. I'm sorry. I just... thought I could help." Meloai's crestfallen expression made me want to fucking stab myself, but... I could keep the voices at bay for just a little longer. Until we got to a place where I felt absolutely safe sharing the secret of attunement with Lucet and Meloai and Sansen, and then I'd be redundant and they wouldn't need me anymore and I could just fall into a dream and vanish—

"Shame," Sansen said. "It's a memory of shame."

Oh, great. "Does opening a rift into the Plane of Elemental Transparency kill us all?"

Sansen shook his head. "Not in the immediate future."

Well, 'not killing myself in the immediate future' was good enough. I'd take it. I drew glass shards of shame from my soul and cut the skin of reality, my skin momentarily shining like glass as I reached between worlds—

And I was no longer the husk of self-hatred that I'd grown into over the weeks since we'd fled the Peaks. Or worse, that I'd always been.

I was Fein, soldier under the Silent Peaks, and I had a promise to keep.

###

I could ignore the pounding hail, I could tune out the screams of dying soldiers, I could ignore the distant flashes of artillery bombardments so long as that burning compulsion stayed at the front of my mind.

I had a promise to keep, and nothing would stand in my way until it was fulfilled.

"Soldier!" The black-and-white regalia of my commanding officer stood out like a skeleton in a closet as I dashed through the battlefield. The chaos that led up to the war had been a tumultuous landslide of impossible promises and contradictory demands, but somehow, we still found enough energy to wind up the old war machines. "You're breaking position."

I met the staunch commander's gaze and evenly said, "I have a promise to keep."

The commander's gaze softened as he searched my soul. "...I understand. We're retreating under artillery cover; you'll be surrounded and bombarded by your own forces."

I knew. But some things superseded simple matters like being turned to drifting bits of gas by an artillery strike.

"Where did the Second Battlechoir fall?" I asked.

"By the southern shore of the lake," the commander said, pointing off into the distance. The miasma of mist and hail made it difficult to see, but I'd seen the maps and fought here before. I would find my way.

"It's been a pleasure to serve," I lied, and dashed out into the hellishly cold warzone.

I had a promise to keep, but that promise said nothing about telling the truth. Quite the opposite, in fact.

I was lucky enough not to stumble on any enemy soldiers as I waded through the mire of corpses and ice that marked the Battle of Promiseshard. The distant, disturbingly silent columns of light that marked where artillery strikes were wiping random spots from existence was probably why—nobody was stupid enough to charge through a field under constant bombardment.

Unless they had a promise to keep.

The steady jog was over less than half a mile, but through a muddy, torn-up battlefield, it may as well have been a sprint to the moon and back. Progress was slow, and I nearly got burned to a crisp twice, but it was worth it.

Thirty minutes of painstaking slogging later, I reached the place where the Second Battlechoir had been surrounded and broken.

Broken—but if I was to have any hope of living with myself after this, not destroyed.

I hurried to the ruined encampment, dust and frozen blood slipping beneath my feet, and called out, "Emi? Emi, are you there?"

In response, I heard a weak exhalation, nearly lost in the tumult of the battle, weak as a newborn kitten.

I rushed over to a collapsed wooden barricade and tried heaving the logs aside—but they were simply too heavy. "Emi? Emi, are you under there? Please, I can get you out, just tell me you're—"

"Fein," Emi whispered, and I saw her dark eyes glittering from under the logs. "Its okay."

My stomach dropped. "Wh—of course you're going to be okay. I—I told you you were going to come back from the war just fine, eh? Just... gotta put my back into it..."

"Stop," Emi said, and she reached out through a crack in the slots. "I'm... it's okay. I don't have much time left. Just... spend it with me. Please."

I clenched my fists. "No. No, Emi, don't talk like that. I promised. I promised you that you'd be okay." I felt something deep, deep in my soul begin to ache, as if my very being was tearing itself apart, and I stood. "If��if I can get enough leverage, or—or if I can find some more survivors to help—"

"I can't feel my legs, Fein." Emi coughed, and I hated how wet and red and lethal it was. "Just... be with me until the end, Fein. Can you do that for me?"

I swallowed.

Then I closed my eyes, placed my hand over hers, and I could pretend that the blood was nothing but rain.

"I promise, Emi. I promise."

And I spent the rest of my life letting one promise live so another could die, until the light faded from Emi's eyes.

###

"Cienne. Cienne. Cienne!"

Lucet was shaking me, but I barely felt it. I was just... so damn tired. How many more times would I have to die and die and die again, reliving the memories of better people than I? Hell, even the fucking crow was better at not casually hurting everyone around her. 

"I can't," I whispered.

Lucet stilled. "I'm—can you speak up, Cienne? I can't hear you."

I was worthless. All those people who'd died before me, all those glorious souls who outshone the entirety of my being with a fragment of their life, they had died for something. They had gone out with meaning.

Perhaps that was it. If there was one thing I could make myself good for, it was taking that hit, over and over again, until Jiaola was safe and I was no longer needed.

"I didn't see Jiaola," I managed to say, clearing my throat. "Sorry. The memory disoriented me." I plastered a smile on my face and stood up. "Let's... let's find another soul fragment, shall we?" Better people than me traded worried glances, but before they could speak, I left.

I turned my back, trodding deeper into the darkness and the frost, the souls of the fallen dispersing like blood in rain.

A.N.

Soulmage is a serial written in response to writing prompts. Stick around for more episodes, or join my Discord to chat about it!

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[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

The Oracle of Nineveh

1 The burden of Nineveh. The book of the vision of Nahum the Elkoshite.

2 A jealous and avenging God is Jehovah: an avenger is Jehovah, and full of fury: Jehovah taketh vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies.

3 Jehovah is slow to anger, and great in power, and doth not at all clear the guilty: Jehovah, his way is in the whirlwind and in the storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet.

4 He rebuketh the sea, and maketh it dry, and drieth up all the rivers: Bashan languisheth, and Carmel, and the flower of Lebanon languisheth.

5 The mountains quake before him, and the hills melt, and the earth is upheaved at his presence, and the world, and all that dwell therein.

6 Who shall stand before his indignation? and who shall abide in the fierceness of his anger? His fury is poured out like fire, and the rocks are broken asunder by him.

7 Jehovah is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble; and he knoweth them that trust in him.

8 But with an overrunning flood he will make a full end of the place thereof, and darkness shall pursue his enemies.

9 What do ye imagine against Jehovah? He will make a full end: trouble shall not rise up the second time.

10 Though they be tangled together as thorns, and be as drenched from their drink, they shall be devoured as dry stubble, completely.

11 Out of thee is gone forth one that imagineth evil against Jehovah, a wicked counsellor.

12 Thus saith Jehovah: Though they be complete in number, and many as they be, even so shall they be cut down, and he shall pass away; and though I have afflicted thee, I will afflict thee no more.

13 And now will I break his yoke from off thee, and will burst thy bonds asunder.

14 And Jehovah hath given commandment concerning thee, that no more of thy name be sown: out of the house of thy god will I cut off the graven image, and the molten image: I will prepare thy grave; for thou art vile.

15 Behold upon the mountains the feet of him that bringeth glad tidings, that publisheth peace! Celebrate thy feasts, Judah, perform thy vows: for the wicked one shall no more pass through thee; he is utterly cut off. — Nahum 1 | Literal Emphasis Translation (LET) The Literal Emphasis Bible is in the public domain. Cross References: Genesis 8:1; Exodus 19:16; Exodus 19:18; Exodus 20:5; Exodus 34:6; Leviticus 23:2; Deuteronomy 7:10; 2 Samuel 23:6; 1 Kings 19:11; 2 Kings 19:36; Job 13:9; Job 18:17; Psalm 2:1; Psalm 107:14; Psalm 109:13; Psalm 118:12; Isaiah 9:4; Isaiah 10:7; Isaiah 10:16; Isaiah 10:33; Isaiah 13:1; Isaiah 13:10; Isaiah 28:22; Jeremiah 51:64; Ezekiel 7:5; Ezekiel 11:2; Matthew 8:26; John 10:14; Romans 10:15; 2 Timothy 2:19; Revelation 6:14; Revelation 6:17

Commentary on Nahum 1

[troutfur]

Frostpaw spends a night over in WindClan with Whistlepaw and the two become fast friends.

Some notes of what I'm thinking about with this:

Mothwing doesn't have a connection with StarClan so she'd like Frostpaw to get some mentorship on that from Kestrelflight who is already training Whistlepaw.

Whistlepaw is mentioned as being a warrior apprentice in TBC The Silent Thaw before becoming a med cat apprentice. I think that is super interesting given that Frostpaw quits to be a warrior.

Can include questions from Frostpaw like "What was being a warrior apprentice like?" "What was hunting like?" "Do you miss it?" "How do you know if your visions are real?" "What is StarClan like for you?" to break the ice, but then I imagine it leading into more questions about themselves and building a real friendship. :)

GIRLS' NIGHT! GIRLS' NIGHT! GIRLS' NIGHT!

I ADORED seeing this in my inbox. We hardly see much of the meddies' supposed trumping of Clan borders and I think a setup where they pass apprentices around to cover their weaknesses is super interesting.

And really it is a good excuse to think of Kestrelflight, how he'd be as a mentor, and the dynamic of the half-moon meetings post-Po3. It is nice to imagine the meddie apprentice club in their youth but now that they've grown so much. Jay's become a hero to the Clans, Willow's gone, Kestrel only now and very reluctantly takes an apprentice of his own. And he probably remains the single colleague Mothwing still has a good relationship with, so no wonder she's sending Frostpaw to him.

But let's not neglect the main girls themselves! You're so very right that as a warrior apprentice turned meddie she is in an interesting position to give advice to a doubting Frostpaw in discerning whether the path is good for her. Particularly I'm thinking in how one of the things Frostpaw feels a longing for is the idea of training alongside her siblings. She could satisfy a curiosity in that regard.

Aaaaaah! The thoughts are swirling, swirling, swirling here. Best to get right into the piece and let the soup settle there.

(Want me to write you a one-scene ficlet? Check out my guidelines and send it in! The more suggestions the better, that way I can have more leeway in chosing which make it to writing from here to November 30th.)

Frostpaw lay with her paws tucked under her side by side to Whistlepaw in the latter’s expanded nest.

The instructions for this part of the special training session had seemed simple enough: sleep. The fragrant herb mixture that they’d woven into the moss lining as well as the chants she’d performed under the pristine light of stars on a moonless night would take care of the rest. Or at least so went that WindClan’s method for inducing contact with StarClan.

And yet, the RiverClan apprentice couldn’t help but feel uneasy with this whole thing. She shifted her position ever so slightly, careful to not disturb the sleep of her nestmate for the night. The exercise was beginning to feel as fruitless as the other things Kestrelflight had been trying to teach her. From the daily prayer routine in praise of Moth Flight he’d tried to drill into her to his lesson on cloud reading, whatever spark that made Whistlepaw and Kestrelflight just get it seemed absent in her.

As she huffed in frustratrion, she felt a tail drape over her side and out of the corner of her vision saw an amber eye open tentatively. “Having trouble with this as well?” Whistlepaw whispered.

Frostpaw blinked, sneaking a glance into Kestrelflight’s nest to verify if the senior oracle was still resting belly up and with his head resting against the edge of his nest. After a few moments of seeing his chest gently rise and fall to the rhythms of sleep she turned back to Whistlepaw and gave a timid nod. “Did you... did you also have trouble your first time?”

“Oh, this is my first time,” she replied.

Frostpaw’s ears drooped at hearing that. She’d forgotten that although her friend was twice her age she too had only recently been made an oracle’s apprentice.

“Don’t worry about it,” she reassured, caressing her tail across the younger apprentice’s flank. “At least you didn’t sprain an ankle and crash into an abandoned burrow on your first day learning how to run down a rabbit.”

Frostpaw turned to her friend with wide eyes to which Whistlepaw only gave a solemn nod. “Did it...?”

“Hurt? My pride more than anything. By the time Kestrelflight gave me the okay to leave his den everyone was still chattering about it. Flutterfoot more than anyone.” She stopped to shake her head. “Lucky opportunist. The rabbit ended up hopping right into his paws. But I had my payback next quarter moon during battle training. Should’ve seen his face when I swept him off his feet and pinned him in three heartbeats flat.”

Frostpaw purred for her peer as she imagined the scene. For a moment she spotted Kestrelflight shift in his nest out of the corner of her eye, making her heart skip a beat. But as he rolled onto hsi side and curled up in what was clearly still a dream state, she relaxed once again.

“Heavy sleeper as they come,” Whistlepaw whispered into her ear. “Don’t wanna tempt StarClan but I bet that even if we spoke normally he wouldn’t wake up. Anyway, my point is we all have our strengths and weak points. Bet this just means this iss going to be an area in which you’re gonna need to put a little more work in.”

“Thank you,” Frostpaw muttered, trying to go back and sleep as instructed.

“So,” Whistlepaw began again. “What made you chose to become an oracle’s apprentice?”

“Oh, well,” Frostpaw began. “It’s just that I’ve always had a gift for dreaming of things before they happen. Like when I would dream of a storm coming over camp and even though the sky had been clear it would pour all over us.”

“Ah, so a natural in prophecy,” Whistlepaw said, giving a slight bump to her fellow apprentices’s shoulder. “No wonder divination is hard for you.”

“And why did you chose to become Kestrelflight’s apprentice?” she asked. “You were about to become a warrior, weren’t you?”

“The warrior life loses its starshine when you are so close to it,” she replied. “It just got so boring to be doing the same old tasks. And even the things that I was very good at, like pummeling my siblings in battle training was getting repetitive. I much more liked the idea of being here, always learning something new.”

“Don’t you ever miss them?” she asked.

Whistlepaw shrugged. “I still see them all the time. You’d almost believe Flutterfoot keeps getting into freak accidents just so he can come brag to me that he’s got his warrior name.” She paused for a moment. “Do you not see your own littermates much?”

Frostpaw shook her head. “Mothwing prefers to treat all patients on her own. Often leaves me to keep memorizing herbs. Was it fun training with them?”

“I suppose,” Whistlepaw replied. “Except when they got competitive. At least when you’re an oracle’s apprentice you aren’t getting challenged to endless rematches or stuck hearing their nine times nine excuses on why really if you think about it they only came in last on the practice race due to bad luck.”

A pause settled between them as the topic seemed to have been exhausted but suddenly Whistlepaw spoke up again. “How about you try telling Mothwing that you’re overwhelmed? A good mentor must be able to find a pace that their apprentice feels comfortable.”

“I can try that,” Frostpaw said with a yawn.

Whistlepaw smiled at that. Seems tiring her out worked in the end!