#The other pilgrims have not shown up yet

[netherfeildren]

Notes On a Virtuous Affair

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: One would think this road ends in something virtuous—a greenness so dazzling it hurt the eyes—and not the sort of man waiting in his far out removed solitude.

He was the experienced one, you the innocent. It should have been different. Maybe it should’ve felt different. And yet, there was something in him that made you feel very much the conquering one, you the baptizing one.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Post outbreak; Jackson Joel Miller; Dom/sub undertones; Rough Sex; Impact Play; Face Slapping; Spanking; PIV sex; Ass Play; Oral Sex (m!receiving); Come Eating; Throat Fucking; Unprotected Sex; Potentially Toxic Dynamics? (haha?); Complicated Feelings; They Love Each Other in Their Own Weird Way, Ok?; Older Man/Younger Woman; Idk What This Is, I Don't Expect You to Either;

A/N: miss you guys, sorry for the disappearing act <3

Word Count: 3.1K

Read on AO3

Notes On a Virtuous Affair

Sunlight spills over everything, and the pastoral green leads you to him. 

One would think this road ends in something virtuous—a greenness so dazzling it hurt the eyes—and not the sort of man waiting in his far out removed solitude. 

But there’s an incongruity afoot here that only you appreciate.

The secret lies in that there’s a riddle woven through the three miles you pilgrim to see him weekly. The first, a boon, the green lush wasteland, if a thing that’s alive can be wasted. The second, an honesty, I’ll venture this distance for him. The third, a precursor, when your muscles start to tingle, your thighs, hot and itchy, nape, coated in a taste of salt. Your feet crunch along the gravel and dirt, protected by the soft leathered boots inherited from Lucy who’d died last Monday. A good start to the week, with new boots, and a thoughtful gift she’d left you, your friend, when your own shoes were so worn from all the walking you do for him. The end of the world changes death, finds good things within it. 

The sun warms the bridge of your nose, and you tip your face up to the too-bright light, trying your hardest to look straight at the intensity of it. He’s very much like this too. Why would you look directly at the sun if not for the hurting it brings? Your palms splayed forward at your sides, the breeze moving through your fingers, and the world is all around you alive in this apocalypse. 

Jackson is left further and further behind as you move towards him, and what no one understands, not even Joel Miller himself, is that there is something virtuous about this affair.

-

“I’m gonna fuck your mouth now,” he says down at you, bare as the day you were born and kneeling before his clothed and towering height. Nothing but the heavy hanging length of his cock is naked for you, the first you’d ever seen in your whole life. If he had his way, the only one you’d ever see for the rest of it. The wide head is slick and glossy, the way it bobs obscenely from his open jeans looking like the weight of it would hurt, the way it juts from the bed of hair at this groin like a threat to you. 

You know now, after all his focused training, that it only hurts him when you don’t tend to it as he needs, that it’s only a threat when you fail to do the same. He’s shown you the rules of hurting, in all these months you’ve come your three promised miles to him time after time. Shown you how it comes easy, that of hurting someone you love. A running in place sort of thing. You know all the steps that will come, the exact spot you’ll tread in. The way to propel yourself forward to finally leave that same place, avoid it, if you want. 

“Open wider. Won’t fit like that,” he clicks his tongue, voice a burr as he grips his throbbing flesh and with the other too big hand, also like a seeming threat, but not, he gives you a quick, softly stinging slap to the high of your cheekbone. The sound, fast and snapping like his disapproving tongue. You swallow a moan, looking up at him with that look in your eyes you know disturbs him, adoration, letting the hinges of your jaw go loose, saliva pooling beneath the cover of your tongue. “Don’t you want me?” He asks. 

And you blink once, moan crossing the bridge to a laugh if your mouth wasn’t stretched wide as it’ll go. He sees it though, skipping water in your eyes and gives that half smile, the mean one, the one that says he has all the answers in the world, knows all the things there are to know, that one you like best. Good girl, and his voice makes no sound, only the shape of the words on his mouth. You haven’t been good enough yet to hear the real thing of them out loud. This tells you that you must apply yourself to the task at hand, making him come. 

One heavy tap to the flat of your tongue sticking out for him first, and then he’s slicking that fat head against the surface, giving you the first real taste, salt and musk trickle down the back of your throat and you moan again, eyes screwing shut tight, cunt aching something fierce. Leaking just like the tip of his cock leaks too. 

That’s the thing about this thing, the one you see very well and Joel still fails to. The two of you, as disparate as you might seem, are the same in all the basic but most important ways. Too much in common for him to look at in the eye comfortably and still do the things you do. 

“Open your throat. Get me hard.” In your head, he calls you baby. In reality, only sometimes, when you’re extra good, does that happen. But in your imagination, where it matters more, he doesn't ask nice, but you are his baby. 

He slides back, back, hits the end of your throat, pulls out against the wet heat of your tongue. You keep your jaw wide until you feel him harden entirely, until he stretches his neck back, tendons jumping stark, clench of his jaw fluttering with a choked groan. “Suck me,” your permission to savor him like you need to. 

Hands pressed firmly to your bare knees, not digging at your soft wet like you’d like, or pawing at him as you’d like even more, you close your lips around him, cheeks hollowed and suck hard, tonguing at his slit on the pull back so that he’s bearing his teeth at you in a growl and shoving forward again hard, a snarl as the cinch of your tight throat strangles the head of his cock on every one of your swallows. Your eyes water, but he pets softly at the same spot he’d stung earlier with his slap. 

A game you used to play with your siblings, who could slap one another harder until the other gave out. It’d taken a while for you to come to the realization, but eventually, you’d realized the memory of it in your mind as it exists now wasn’t innocent the way it should’ve been. That there had been something you’d liked about it in a strange way—that hurting. That the first time you’d asked Joel to play the same game with you, you’d wanted him to slap you other places just as hard until you gave out also. 

The games were part of the thing. His own strange rules, like the way you couldn’t touch him sometimes—you dig your bitten down nails into the soft skin of your inner thighs—only when he said it was okay was it allowed. The way you were never allowed to touch your cunt unless he said so also. He had weird things about him, turned strange by the dangerous ways of life. Like the solitude, the house out and away, the begging you had to do for him to have you. 

Sameness. 

He wraps his fist in your hair, more sting, “Gonna fill your belly with my come, yeah?” His thrusts pick up pace, pulling your head back as far as your neck allows so that he can fuck your throat in full, jaw hanging wide, and you’re just the wet and willing hole you know he sometimes wishes you could always stay as. 

The thick cock against your tongue throbs once, twice and then he’s spilling hot and heavy down your open throat, sweet salt against the back of your tongue while you try and breathe through his strangling, tears spilling.

When he pulls back, slipping wet and heavy from your mouth you fall forward onto your palms, breathing fast, almost hyperventilating, stinging with the forced will to remain obedient. Your spine burns beneath your skin and your sore jaw hangs unwillingly open, sloppy mouth dripping a string of semen between your splayed palms. 

He crouches before you, dripping cock like your mouth, milked to heavy softness hangs long and sated between his thighs. And he pets your crown, the vulnerable shell of your ear, whole body on fire so that every inch of skin hurts without his touch, hurts worse with it. 

“Good girl,” he says now with voice. 

-

The walk seems longer some days. A thousand miles plus an eon instead of merely three. Especially on the days you’re more desperate than usual. The ones when your stomach feels full of sugar for him and the memory taste of his cock is already aching in your molars. Those days your steps are hurried, look in your eyes frenzied to get to him, to escape the things you leave behind. A too full house, your sister’s squalling, teething baby, your little brothers, and too many mouths to feed and not attention to be had, not enough mother for everyone to get loved. 

There’s reasons for this game between the two of you, you’d had to come out and find your attention somewhere else. 

Your love too. 

And if it comes with a sting sometimes, well, so had your mother’s. You like it like this now. 

The first time he’d touched your cunt: show me that pretty pussy, baby, and he’d had you from that very first sweet word, you gonna let me finger it? You’d spread wide, leaked into the cup of his palm like a whore, you’d needed to make sure he was for keeping from the first try, you see. So you’d done all he’d said, taken four fingers and only cried a little bit but whined a lot. Been all, hurts, Joel, high pitched and dragging his name out on a puppy whimper. 

He’d given you that first lesson in hurt the very first time: Yeah? Supposed to. A real mean man. And then made you gush into that very cupped palm so that he could drink of your sweetness. 

He was the experienced one, you the innocent. It should have been different. Maybe it should’ve felt different. And yet, there was something in him that made you feel very much the conquering one, you the baptizing one. 

The third mile comes to an end, the precursor, over, his house in view. It’s all quiet and slumbering and the long grass pulls you forward with its wind blown sway. The wide door to his shed is propped open, half finished rocking chair up on the workbench that sways with the intruding gust. The grass whispers behind you, the dark woods across the field moan, and he’s nowhere while the Tetons loom in the distance. 

You drag your fingers along the slats of his house as you pass, everything is so quiet, like he’d never been here. Like he’d gone and left you the way he’s promised he’d never do. Your belly feels bloated with heat, heart turned into four incongruous chambers that no longer beat in tune, memories of him rioting between each thump. Your cunt goes soft and drooling in your panties as your fear beats higher and higher, and you come to the mouth of the shed, peering into the cool darkness of this little place where he makes his beautiful things. The things that go into people’s homes to be used by people’s families to be stored in people’s memories.

The gleam of the sun does not cross the threshold, and you brace your palms on either side of the wide door, the air thrums and he’s not here—yet—you slide the toe of Lucy’s old boot across the border of sunlight into sanctuary and peek your closed-eyed face into the shade right before you’re taken bodily to the ground by his heavy weight. Palms catching splinters, his strong chest heaves into the line of your spine, strong arm at your waist to pull your breath from your lungs and your legs from under you. 

He forces you belly first to the ground, other hand circling your throat in the imitation of a strangle lest you lose yourself and decide to struggle for the first time ever. But you dig your fingernails into the dirt, scratching for purchase in preparation of what’s about to come, all the fight going out of you; body, half in shadow, half in sunlight. Your bones feel salt bleached. An over abundance of sodium in the blood that renders you catatonic for him.

He nuzzles soft at your nape while his hand shoves under your dress, ripping your underwear down your legs so that the elastic cuts into your tender skin to hurt. All incongruous movement, this man is. 

“Didn’t your daddy ever tell you not to go creepin’ ‘round strange men’s homes?” His voice is so deep, drawled, broken up into different notes of lust and anger and temerity. All the strange things that make Joel Miller up. 

Yeah, you sigh into the dirt. “Told me exactly how it’d go for me if I did.”

You hitch your rump up then, presenting your cunt for fucking. The breeze doesn’t do half to soothe the throbbing wet. The sort of ache that’ll only be fixed by something heavy inside the hurting place. The sound of his belt quiets the disparate chambers, the beat in your ears of rushing blood is uniform now, there’ll be a wet spot in the shape of you in the dirt when he’s through. You lift your hips higher, knees scraped rough as you spread wider, face pressed to the ground and your fingers are well and burrowed in their little gouges now. 

He smacks the heft of it against you asshole, spits and presses a little. He likes to scare you sometimes. Nooo, Joel, all whining stutter, but with your back arching deeper like a little babied liar; you don’t mind where he puts it, only that he puts it somewhere.

“Hush,” he soothes all nice, spanks your ass once all not— “Gonna teach you a lesson.” And shoves inside, bumping against your womb on the first try, stretching your hole too wide, too quick. And there’s no prep, no qualm. No need to hesitate when you own a thing. You swallow your animal cry, ah ah ah, you want to hear how good you’ve been out loud. He grips your hips tight enough to bruise which is what you know he wants and fucks hard and fast, each swing whistles with ownership. 

He fucks you in the dirt like an animal, and this affair is virtuous. 

He teaches you the truth about hurting, about ownership, about so many things that only a man like Joel Miller could teach a girl like you. And all the while he tells you that you’re too pretty to take such an ugly fucking. 

The way he works your cunt, hungry, balls swinging wet so that they sting like his slaps, tip battering hard so that it aches like gratitude. 

These are the things three miles give you. A whole man to teach you about the whole world. 

The slick squelch of your overwhelmed cunt sounds loud, no more disparate heartbeat, no more green grassed whispers. Only the sound of his grunting above you like an animal remains. “You’re the perfect little cunt. You know that, baby?” There it is, you sigh. Start to tremble around him like that, like his good baby that you are, desperate flutters, little gash being fucked into obedience like you need. Your overwhelmed pants make little dirt dream clouds before your eyes as you start to come for him, crying his name, crying your love, crying that you’re so, so thankful. 

“Don’t stop, Joel. Not yet.” And he loves it when you beg, loves it when your cunt pulls tight like a knot.  

“Not yet,” he promises because he might be a real mean man, but he loves you like separating salt from blood.

Complicated and precise. 

When he’s through with you, there’s sunlight spilling over everything again. It’s journey goes on and on, and his semen drips from your cunt now. He turns gentle, thrusting still, making sure it’s fucked deep, pulsing in time with your own throb. Rhythms merge between the two of you. 

His rules are strange, his claims over you equally mysterious. He won’t say things out loud, won’t let you touch any real part of him, but his strange truths ring loud anyways, and when your heart isn’t disjointed, you hear him perfectly well. 

When he lays you out bare and trembling across his messy bed, the groaned pains of his age and rutting in the dirt like an animal sound from him as he drapes himself alongside you. Large and hairy, feet hanging off the end of the bed, entirely real with one knee propped up so that his thick cock lays heavy and soft over the swell of his belly. Your heart beats soft and overfull now. 

You watch the sun set across the planes of his chest and bask in the blue dark as the night draws breath around you. The work of meting out obedience to little girls who come searching for it is toiling, and you watch him melt into sleep, but right before he’s just gone away from you, with a single finger petting at the jut of the old broken bone in his shoulder, your whispered plea: Will you give me a falseness? You don’t call it a lie. This is a virtuous thing, after all.

Lies aren’t allowed in this house. 

He breathes a deep sigh, and you watch the fan of his long lashes sweep open, staring up at the shadowed rafters of his home. You swear you can see each and every individual whisker in his thick beard, dark and gray dispersed throughout. You see every single detail. 

He’d told you once there were ghosts here, in this house, and you’d learned later it wasn’t a lie. This became more and more obvious the more you got to know him. 

He stares up at them now. 

When he’d taken your virginity, when it’d left you the way you’d always imagined it would, covered in tears and blood and semen, you’d made that promise to each other. That you wouldn't lie, that he’d have all of you, that you’d not touch all of him. The ghost lay beside you in the damp bed of your lost innocence that day. It’d been just so ever since and over many miles of three you’d come to appreciate the realities of it. Who could be more connected than two people who always tell each other their truths exactly as they are?

“Give me a falseness,” you say again, not a lie. 

“A good kind of a bad kind?”

You flip a mind’s coin, wish you could see the exact ghosts he sees— “Bad.”

He turns to look at you, this half smile he wears is your second favorite one now, the honest one, and it’s all there for you to see. All the disparate chambers of Joel, just like your heart beating in your ears. You suppose the ghosts don’t matter then. 

“I don’t love you.”

And you nod solemn. Bad, like a whisper, like your game. 

You smile back, the one you know he likes best, the one that looks like his.

Netherfeildren’s Masterlist

Updates Blog

[ninjahaku21art]

You have theory from monkie kid?

A theory I have been thinking is that Ao Lie is alive.

Tang brought up how, as far as they know, Wukong is alive, which kind of makes you think why would he say that?

Also, after Ao Lie appears, the opening changes, and when Ao Lie in his human form appears, it brings up stone stairs...which is very odd compared to the other backgrounds shown behind the pilgrims.

So I think he is hidden in a mountain somewhere waiting. Like we know he doesn't come until absolutely needed, as he did with Mei, and he says "now seemed like the right time for action"

And another theory is that the Mayor is one of the kings from the underworld. How else would the lady Bone demon have a connection to the underworld to the point where she could bring back Macaque. He also hasn't aged over the many years he's been alive, his color pattern, etc. xD

And lastly, another is that the kings of the underworld, or the traitor himself, is the one responsible for the fight between Wukong and Macaque. Or some other outside force, which is why they have yet to say anything...

That's all I can think of for now!

[half-dead-writer]

I'm yet to watch Scott Pilgrim but I'm having an obsession on Matthew just by watching the scenes that feature him, god I'm pathetic aha It's kinda bad in some places, I lost patience writing it stoned lmao

Just In Time (NSFW)

Matthew almost catches you doing sinful things in your room, you won't believe what happens next! aka your boyfriend doesn't shame you for being horny, talks it out, gets horny himself.

character: Matthew Patel (Scott Pilgrim Takes Off) words: almost 4k reader: gender neutral (no description of bits) warnings: it's a smut guys

𝔯𝔲𝔩𝔢𝔰 + 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 / 𝔖𝔠𝔬𝔱𝔱 𝔓𝔦𝔩𝔤𝔯𝔦𝔪 𝔗𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔒𝔣𝔣 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

Washing all of your dirty dishes in the sink left you exhausted. You lazily threw yourself on the bed, taking out your phone. The digital clock shown 4:50 PM. Ten minutes until your boyfriend arrives at your house. You two planned to have a movie night today.

You've been dating for a week and a half now, slowly testing the waters with your relationship. In the first days, you and him were a bit shy, unsure what amount of affection is proper. From the brief info you had, you knew his ex girlfriend broke up with him pretty quickly. You could see it left a pretty negative impression, which made him anxious about doing something wrong, and you didn't really blame him. You had no previous partners, but you could imagine how it felt. Even though you knew him for such a short time, he seemed like a pretty sweet, loving guy, so you felt extra special when you two got to the point of being comfortable in each other's houses.

At first, Matthew insisted on taking you on fancy dates, being extra romantic and trying too hard to impress you. You appreciated his effort and charming antics, but felt like you weren't on equal grounds. You wanted to get to know him on a sincere, casual level. So when you convinced him that just watching some movies in a cozy setting would be enough for a date, you felt like you were a step further to being closer.

Your eyes were fixated on the ceiling, mind occupied with the excitement for the upcoming activity. The time started to drag, making a passing of just one minute incredibly long. Boredom forced your thoughts to wander in places you rarely visited ever since you started dating and a familiar warmth forming in your lower abdomen hit you at the worst moment possible.

You were fine with the slow tempo you had established - cuddling was the furthest you two went in terms of physical affection. Except for the one kiss you two shared (right after Matthew asked you out) and some quick pecks on the cheeks, you and him rarely kissed.

You didn't even notice how tense you were these past days. It wasn't a problem when you had the time to do your business in peace, but for the past week, all you've been focused on was mostly Matthew. Normally, you would have likely ignored it and dealt with it after the event, but you didn't want to risk dirty thoughts seeping into your mind when spending time with him. It was a literal Netflix and Chill situation, and you weren't about to ruin it by being weird. You didn't want to overwhelm him, there would be a time for that later.

Your sight fell on the phone again, reading the numbers - 4:54. Six minutes left for the 5 PM to arrive. The heartbeat in your chest quickened as your mind was starting to slowly warm up to the risky idea. The more you hesitated, the less time you had for your break, which created even more pressure to the current conundrum.

A defeated sigh left your lips as you shamefully watched your hand disappear under the waistband of your underwear. Closing your eyes, you tried to mute everything around you, focusing purely on the action. Understanding the dangers of not being urgent enough made your body work in an unexplainably fast manner.

An imagined picture of Matthew catching you in the act invaded your head, making you even more on edge. You didn't actually want it to happen in real life, but a snippet of how it could play out in the future had you in it's grasp.

The sinful thought made your breath quicken, the world was slowly turning into a blur. The pleasant wave began to take course through your muscles. Your bliss didn't last long, though. In a split second, you realized you heard a noise of the doorknob turning, along with a familiar voice.

"Y/N, I arrived!" He announced, slowly entering your room. You didn't have time to dwell on the irony of his sentence, quickly vanishing your hand from your pants.

"Matthew!" The words spilled out of your mouth in a hurry and you wished you had the reflex to stop them. The off tone caught him by a surprise, forcing him to take a better look at you. His eyes noted your slightly disheveled appearance.

You let out a forced chuckle, careful not to sound too out of breath, "You're here!" You readjusted yourself on the bed a bit more appropriately, keeping your legs shut.

"Wow, hey," he said, his eyes resembling those of a deer flashed by streetlight for a moment, "-you missed me?" His question was purely of the innocent nature, making you feel even guiltier.

"Obviously- we were supposed to watch that show, remember?" You tried your best to not sound as if you were about to get shot, the anxiety bubbling in you.

His look from across the room was a bit concerned, unsure if the mood in the air he read was correct. Not wanting the situation to be awkward, his face softened into an unsure yet affectionate smile, hoping to make the atmosphere less tense.

"Uh, I didn't mean to just barge into your house, but I knocked and didn't hear you coming, your door was open so I-" He tried to explain, but all you were busy focusing on your screw-up.

You forgot that you did, in fact, open the doors once you were done cleaning the dishes. Your mind was strictly occupied by him coming home, so you thought your small break to chill on your bed would be short, and in no time, you'd be greeting him on the other side.

"No, no, it's fine," you rambled, the dry feeling on your mouth distracting you slightly, "I should have paid more attention and actually greet you by the door-"

"I just, uh, wanted to put it out there, that," his words started to fumble, "whatever you do in the privacy of your room, is, none of my business-" He tried to gently reassure with intentions of not shaming you, even if he wasn't sure if you'd take it the right way.

"Noo- I made things awkward-" You whined in a self-deprecating tone, you were not prepared to handle this.

"What! No, you didn't!" He shot up, the rush to chase away your worries made him raise his voice a little. You flinched, which made him realize how he came off.

"I- I mean," he stopped, "it's not a big deal, don't worry-"

"I just don't wanna make you uncomfortable," you lightly bit your lip.

"There's nothing that you need to feel awkward about!" His hands flailed around, trying to emphasize his point, "we're both- adults."

You showed him a tired half-smile. Even though the tense atmosphere was cutting into the you both, Matthew still tried to reassure you in his own way. You felt a bit better.

"We didn't really discuss any- stuff of this kind together, and I didn't know if it'd be a comfortable topic for us yet-" you continued, feeling put on the spot. Even though Matthew gave you a way out of this topic, you just had to dig yourself a bigger hole.

His sight jumped around the room, making sure to not meet with your eyes. You felt the mattress sink under his weight as he sat on the bed next to you, trying to hide half of his flustered expression in his bangs.

"I'm not against the idea, if you aren't." 

It took you a moment before you responded, "I'm not ... I mean- we could discuss it now, if you feel like it."

"Okay-" he stretched his arms forward, promptly resting his elbows on his knees, a spot on the floor seeming more comfortable to stare at for the moment.

The short silence made Matthew speak up again, "so-" he bit his lip, already knowing his further words will embarrass him.

"Were you thinking about me?"

"Matthew!" His surprising bluntness made you raise your voice, gaining a guilty and anxious grin from the man. It was his turn to feel like he crossed a line.

"Sorry, I just-" he tried to back out from his words, his hands raised in an apologetic manner, "I- I was curious!"

You couldn't contain the chuckle wanting to escape your lips. The ridiculousness of the situation finally got to you. He wanted to see it as a good sign, but he was still a bit on edge from his outrageous question.

"I- I was," you meekly answered, feeling exposed. Not like anything would come out of you keeping it a secret. He was your boyfriend, he asked, it seemed fair enough. That response, however, made him straighten up immediately, and you could swear you heard an almost inaudible, sharp intake of air, as if he was about to choke on his own breath. 

"I- alright," he huffed out, blank stare visible on his face. The answer and it's implications sinked in, the cogs turning in his mind were pretty visible. His worries about you leaving him have been suddenly put on pause. You thought about him in that way?

Seeing how affected he was by your confession made you a bit more confident. He timidly opened up his mouth again, "Can…"

"Can I ask," he prolonged his sentence, "what were you thinking about?"

Again, it was your turn to be coy. But, from the reactions he gave you, you concluded it wasn't as awkward of an experience as as you originally thought it would be. I mean, it was still awkward, but not as bad. Matthew was just flustered, and so were you, but the vibe in the room wasn't purely negative.

"I was thinking…" you tried to put down your words in an eloquent manner, fighting the urge to cringe at what you're about to say, "how soon you're gonna be here."

Matthew only briefly glanced at you, his usual, theatrical reactions stopped due to intense focus on your words.

"How I must hurry up, otherwise you're gonna know something's up. And, well, you did," you quietly muttered out, forcing a crooked smile. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole, but the reactions to your admissions were pushing you to keep going.

"And… how did you think it was gonna go?" he dared to ask.

"Well, um… I hoped you wouldn't get mad, or worse, disgusted-" you stated your worries, it felt a bit relieving to finally get it out of your chest, even if it was a pretty vulnerable experience.

"No, no-" he was quick to say, "I'm not disgusted at all!"

"I think-" he hesitated, "I think it's even, kinda, hot, he finally sputtered out.

You couldn't help yourself as laughter busted right out you, catching Matthew by surprise.

"What?" he shot up, now feeling like he surely said something embarrassing.

The affection reflected in your eyes as the corners of your lips went up. You pressed a light kiss on his lips which he reciprocated, but was fairly surprised.

"What was that for-?" he asked, unsurely looking into your eyes, yet without an intention to complain.

"You're too adorable," you said, gaining another pathetic sound from the man.

You stared at him for a while, just basking in the unexpected joy your boyfriend gave you. You were fully prepared for the evening to turn sour, and now you were both openly discussing pretty intimate matters. Well, as openly as you two were able to get at this early stage of your relationship.

"How did I find such a good boyfriend?" Your words were coated in honey, you wanted to butter him up. It wasn't really serious, more of a lighthearted tease, while still staying relatively sincere to your honest thoughts.

Matthew's eyes went wide as he quickly changed his sitting position. His legs were clasped together, a nervous look on his face betrayed his embarrassment.

"L-love, um-" his brows were uncomfortably furrowed, a bashful grin appearing on his lips, "would it be a good time now to admit to something as well-?"

Your curious eyes landed on the area he tried to hide. You had a clue as to why his position suddenly shifted. You nodded slowly.

"Your words are killing me," a nervous titter followed after.

"My words?" You played a bit dumb, innocently pushing further. You saw an opportunity, so you chased it.

"Your- compliments. In- in this, current setting," He explained, his back arched in a way that made his arms rest "casually" while also covering his crotch. Even though he was actor, he couldn't nail the natural look.

"Mm?" You let a cheeky smile get on your face. Getting a bit closer, yet still hesitant, you tested the waters, "is me saying you're a good boy turning you on?"

His shoulders stiffened as soon as the sentence fell on his ears. His bangs were successfully hiding part of his face, until you made an effort to gently put them behind his ear. You raised his chin up with your finger, making him look at you. You could feel the way he melted under your touch.

In a weird surge of confidence, you decided to press your lips into his once again, this time trying to gently push him to part his lips. He got the hint pretty quickly, allowing you to slide your tongue into his mouth without much resistance.

It got a bit sloppy, but neither of you minded at the moment. Even though your eyes were closed, you could feel the warmth in Matthew's cheeks as you slowly moved your hand to cup his face. Matthew leaned into the kiss, letting you take charge.

A light string of saliva connected you both when you gently pulled away from the kiss. Even if it lasted a relatively short time, his expression seemed dazed.

His hands let go of hiding the intimate spot, an action which let you see the uncomfortably stretched fabric of his pants. Your gaze left him flustered, yet he plead the fifth. The cat was out of the bag, there was nothing to hide anymore. All left to do was to take the shame with dignity (or lack thereof).

"Mattie-" your words cut through the silence, his whole focus went to you, "would you want to- get on my lap?"

You could practically feel the heat radiating off of him, his eyes betraying the excitement. He nodded, carefully positioning himself on the spot that you requested. You felt his weight resting on you, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

He stayed silent with bated breath, careful not to break the moment between you two. You couldn't lie, your worries were similar, but you decided to just go with the flow. Your hands slowly crawled onto his sides, making him squirm at the sudden contact.

"Tell me if I do anything uncomfortable," you whispered while moving your hands down his torso, making the man exhale sharply.

"Mhm," he hummed, trying to keep his composure, "you can do- whatever-"

To avoid unnecessary silence, you occupied your time by locking your lips again, leaving only the sounds of excited breathing as the ambient around you. You closed your eyes, the sight of your boyfriend in the current situation was too much to bare. Your hand trailed down to touch the fabric of his jeans, gently exploring the place. Matthew didn't know what to do with his hands as he let out a quiet whimper. The noise made you wanna move from the place, now slowly unbuckling his belt. Matthew kept his hands politely placed on his knees, but after a while he rested them carefully on your shoulders.

Your hand snaked itself onto the bare skin below his abdomen. The feeling of your fingers brushing along his length made Matthew pull away ever so slightly, breaking the kiss with a hitched breath. You didn't dare to look down, instead choosing to assault his neck with a trail of light pecks.

The feather light smooches made him wiggle a bit, the intense reactions to your touch had you charmed. His body language was already pretty open and theatrical in a casual setting, and it amused you that his movements translated well into the current activity.

After his neck was full of marks left by your lips, you pulled away, making him look at you. His bangs managed to fall on his face again, leaving only one eye uncovered to glare at you with affection. You raised your hand until it was on the same level as his lips.

"Open up, please?" you requested, filled with a surprising amount of confidence.

He did what you asked for with almost no delay. Your digits gently pressed down on his tongue. You gathered some saliva by moving them around, brushing his teeth lightly in the process. After you left his mouth, Matthew kept it open for a few moments before closing it, as if he just processed what happened. Your used the lubricant to make your hand slide up and down with more ease.

"Mf-"

The action lasted no more 2 minutes, and Matthew was already starting to become a mess. His breath quickened substantially, releasing shallow pants on par to your strokes. He was doing whatever he can to not break the fun too soon. You noticed he was close, and so your movements stopped completely. He was hoping you didn't notice a dissatisfied whimper that quietly managed to escape his mouth.

"Mattie?" you asked, tone barely above whisper.

"Mm?" His tired look was obstructed by the messy hair.

"Did you ever think about me when…" you started, hoping this topic wasn't crossing any boundaries. But he asked you about it first, so you thought it was fair.

Matthew tensed, meek "I-" came out of his mouth. He avoided eye contact for a second, pretending he didn't feel as if he was just caught doing something bad.

"Only once!" he defended himself, prepared to be severely judged for admitting to it. You chuckled softly, endeared. You found his humility quite cute.

"Well- You wanna do it a second time?" You asked, mostly coy with a hint of feigned confidence. The blood rushed to his cheeks as quickly as the words left your mouth.

"N-now?" he asked, just in case he misunderstood something.

"If you're comfortable with it, of course," you reassured. You still wanted to make sure you were on the same page. A hesitant nod acted as his confirmation.

"Good boy," you murmured, causing goosebump to appear on his skin. You started undoing the buttons of his red shirt, making his body freeze.

"Don't mind me," You cooed.

His hand reached the destination, carrying out slow, gentle strokes. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the feeling (which was pretty hard with you actively messing with his buttons). His chest, quickly rising and falling, was on full view and your hands were quick to explore it.

"You look so pretty right now," you whispered. You weren't even teasing, those were your honest words.

"Nhf-" He bit his lip, his pace quickened. At this point he didn't have the strength to hold back his sounds, your ears were hit with an array of moans and whimpers.

"How did I get so lucky?" You continued buttering him up, you knew it made him tick. Another wave of hickeys landed on the side of his neck.

After a frenzy of labored breaths, a prolonged whine got out of his lips. His entire body tensed, a hit of euphoria catching up. His shoulders fell limp, his chin rested on your shoulder.

"Feeling better now, love?" You embraced his waist, his entire body acted like a big heater.

"Y-yeah," he huffed out, slowly coming to his senses.

You pressed a soft kiss on his forehead, forcing him to show a crooked, bashful grin.

"Are you… ready to go again?" you felt embarrassed by being so needy. You had your release not so long ago, and you were still desperate for another one.

"Uh," he waited a bit before responding, "y-yeah, of course- just be a bit gentler while I recover," he didn't wanna ruin your fun, even if he did need a small break. Given the circumstances, you decided to try something different.

"Could you lay down, please?" He obeyed without any objections, looking for further instructions.

You placed your butt on his thigh, your pelvis started searching for friction. You decided to keep your eyes closed, careful not to focus on how desperate you looked, in opposition to Matthew, who's eyes were open wide, looking at you as if he was about to faint. The sight of you dry-humping him made him regain his strength a bit faster.

"O-okay, I'm ready!" He exclaimed, raising his upper body by supporting on his elbows. Your movements stopped, a light pant came out of you, missing the feeling.

Hearing the rush in his voice made you smile, he sounded as if he was about to miss the best part. Not wanting to tease him any longer, you pulled down on his pants, exposing more of his body. He didn't mind, bending his legs to make it easier for you. Matthew laid on your bed almost naked - his lower half was completely on display, the unbuttoned shirt was doing a poor job of hiding his physique.

"You're overdressed," he pointed out, his tone a bit pouty. A not so subtle hint of him wanting to see more of you.

"Sorry, I didn't want to steal your spotlight," you joked lightheartedly, gaining a flustered eye roll from the man.

You got out of your pants, swiftly tossing them on the floor. You didn't really have a plan in mind, your only objective was for you both to have a good time. Matthew watched as you hovered above him, this time aligning your nether regions with his. You leaned your face closer to his, subtly brushing against his groin. He was so warm-

Your tongue hungrily dove into his mouth again. You felt his hands grab your waist, holding you tight in his grip. He wanted to be as close as possible, too desperate to let go of you. Your thrusting hips created a comfortable pace for the both of you to feel the most out of the effects you had on each other.

His fingers were starting to gently dig into your sides, betraying how close he was. His kissing became less active, now focused on holding back the feeling of euphoria that would soon overwhelm him. The intense pang of pleasure made you break the kiss with a sound that he found very attractive.

Matthew's release followed shortly after, leaving both of you a panting mess. Your body fell limply on his, relishing in the afterglow from the overwhelming bliss. You pushed your body to the side after you were able to move again and your limbs entangled themselves into Matthew. He let out a content sigh, putting his arm around you.

You didn't expect the entire ordeal to leave you so sleepy. You still wanted to go through the original plans you had, but the thought of doing anything other than heavenly falling asleep in his arms was already too tiring for you.

"I love you," he murmured tiredly, "so much."

[hypersomniagame]

HYPERSOMNIA AUGUST DEV LOG : “The last one for a little while unless you're reading this like 4 years in the future and the game's still being made but I didn't do anymore dev logs so it's pretty clear that I stopped here so if thats the case, it was a good run and thank you for reading! AKA the Clerks one.”

Hey! Hi! Welcome to the last (for now hopefully) dev log! I'd like to be completely clear with why they're ending here for now, I am not going to be able to work on HYPERSOMNIA as frequently for like, the next year. I'm starting college next week, and I'm also starting work tomorrow, which is going to eat up a lot of my time. I'll be graduating in April, as my course is only 8 months long. This means that I'm not going to be able to make monthly dev logs like this with the time I have going forward. Now, this doesn't mean im stopping work ON HYPERSOMNIA, I'll be working on it when I can, because it's a passion project for me and once I'm working, I can invest more money into it. Ideally this could continue alongside everything else in my life, but I just don't have that kinda energy or time.

As a parting gift though, I did do some stuff this month after I settled in from the move, so I hope you enjoy it, thank you for reading these logs!

First off, I've done more mapping for the forest north of Pigeonville! I've been struggling with this area a lot recently. Forest areas are kinda hard to map because you want to place things in a way that makes them natural, but you also want to convey to the player where to go. I've got a few more of these maps to make for the area and then I can move on to the caves that I've shown off before.

Here's a few areas from the map that I really liked making. There's some item boxes around the area for players who do some exploring. I haven't decided on what I'd like the item boxes to be yet, so for now they're just base asset chests.

I also redid Ross' special attack sprite. The lighting on it I'm kinda tied on, because all of the other characters have static shading while this animation has more animated shading. I'm leaning more for static but we'll see, maybe I'll do different shading for everyone else.

Also! I mentioned that I would talk about this in the previous dev log;

Debra was given a crowbar! I thought it'd be fitting 'cause she works in a port-town. Lots of fish, gotta open crates, y'know? It's like that and 25% because of Half-Life.

I'd also like to talk about our new trailer that came out! If you haven't seen it, you can watch it here:

This trailer was insanely fun to make, and as of right now it's my favourite trailer I've made for the game.

The biggest things I wanted to improve on with this trailer were the editing, and presentation. I've been showing off HYPERSOMNIA for a few years but I feel as if outside of the synopsis, people don't know much about HYPERSOMNIA.

The trailers have lacked a lot of the attitude and feel HYPERSOMNIA has, and I wanted to make it more apparent which seemed to pay off!

Some people in the live chat nailed the Scott Pilgrim influence, as well as the general punk undertone the game has. It's something I've strived for the game to give off since 2022. So I'm happy to see people recognizing it from this trailer.

And with that, that's all I've really got to share for this month. There's more work being done, but it's not stuff I'm ready to show you all yet.

Again, thank you all for reading these, I had a lot of fun with them! I hope sometime in the future I'll be able to come back to these with more content and further progress in the game.

Until then though, take care! And keep your eyes PEELED!!!

If this is your first log you’re reading, or even your first time seeing ANYTHING relating to HYPERSOMNIA, I got a whole bunch of links for you to check out if you wanna know more about me and my stupid little game.

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[wonder-worker]

Margaret of Anjou’s visit to Coventry [in 1456], which was part of her dower and that of her son, Edward of Lancaster, was much more elaborate. It essentially reasserted Lancastrian power. The presence of Henry and the infant Edward was recognised in the pageantry. The ceremonial route between the Bablake gate and the commercial centre was short, skirting the area controlled by the cathedral priory, but it made up for its brevity with no fewer than fourteen pageants. Since Coventry had an established cycle of mystery plays, there were presumably enough local resources and experience to mount an impressive display; but one John Wetherby was summoned from Leicester to compose verses and stage the scenes. As at Margaret’s coronation the iconography was elaborate, though it built upon earlier developments.

Starting at Bablake gate, next to the Trinity Guild church of St. Michael, Bablake, the party was welcomed with a Tree of Jesse, set up on the gate itself, with the prophets Isaiah and Jeremiah explaining the symbolism. Outside St. Michael’s church the party was greeted by Edward the Confessor and St. John the Evangelist; and proceeding to Smithford Street, they found on the conduit the four Cardinal Virtues—Righteousness (Justice?), Prudence, Temperance, and Fortitude. In Cross Cheaping wine flowed freely, as in London, and angels stood on the cross, censing Margaret as she passed. Beyond the cross was pitched a series of pageants, each displaying one of the Nine Worthies, who offered to serve Margaret. Finally, the queen was shown a pageant of her patron saint, Margaret, slaying the dragon [which 'turned out to be strictly an intercessor on the queen's behalf', as Helen Maurer points out].

The meanings here are complex and have been variously interpreted. An initial reading of the programme found a message of messianic kingship: the Jesse tree equating royal genealogy with that of Christ had been used at the welcome for Henry VI on his return from Paris in 1432. A more recent, feminist view is that the symbolism is essentially Marian, and to be associated with Margaret both as queen and mother of the heir rather than Henry himself. The theme is shared sovereignty, with Margaret equal to her husband and son. Ideal kingship was symbolised by the presence of Edward the Confessor, but Margaret was the person to whom the speeches were specifically addressed and she, not Henry, was seen as the saviour of the house of Lancaster. This reading tips the balance too far the other way: the tableau of Edward the Confessor and St. John was a direct reference to the legend of the Ring and the Pilgrim, one of Henry III’s favourite stories, which was illustrated in Westminster Abbey, several of his houses, and in manuscript. It symbolised royal largesse, and its message at Coventry would certainly have encompassed the reigning king. Again, the presence of allegorical figures, first used for Henry, seems to acknowledge his presence. Yet, while the message of the Coventry pageants was directed at contemporary events it emphasised Margaret’s motherhood and duties as queen; and it was expressed as a traditional spiritual journey from the Old Testament, via the incarnation represented by the cross, to the final triumph over evil, with the help of the Virgin, allegory, and the Worthies. The only true thematic innovation was the commentary by the prophets.

[...] The messages of the pageants firmly reminded the royal women of their place as mothers and mediators, honoured but subordinate. Yet, if passive, these young women were not without significance. It is clear from the pageantry of 1392 and 1426 in London and 1456 in Coventry that when a crisis needed to be resolved, the queen (or regent’s wife) was accorded extra recognition. Her duty as mediator—or the good aspect of a misdirected man—suddenly became more than a pious wish. At Coventry, Margaret of Anjou was even presented as the rock upon which the monarchy rested. [However,] a crisis had to be sensed in order to provoke such emphasis [...]."

-Nicola Coldstream, "Roles of Women in Late Medieval Civic Pageantry," "Reassessing the Roles of Women as 'Makers' of Medieval Art and Culture"

[lavender-descendentheart]

What do you think of azure lion and his friends since I really don't like him very much, azure is a little hypocritical for me? I don't know

As it is literally "oh, that evil sun wukong and his fellow pilgrims attacked my house in the name of the heavenly court "it is not as if they did not do it first and why he is surprised that heaven retaliates for it, also it seems he blames sun wukong as if the only culprit for his defeat when enralidad they all lost was not just sun wukong (in memory they were all rounded up)

It also bothers me about the different treatment given by the fandom azure lion

Azure lion who is the same villain archetype as lady bone demon but have different deals

Example azure does questionable things for good reason, the fandom treats him oh poor cat man just wants to help the needy"

Lady bone demon does questionable things for a good reason: what an evil and manipulative monster

I don't think I don't know all the bad things lady bone demon did, because if she did bad things, although that's the point, she was a villain (an amazing villain)

But it bothers me what azure lion, in the series we still don't show much of him but I really don't want the series to start trying to justify and throw under the rug all the things he's done as they did with a certain character (look at macaque)

Sorry if it's not understood try to put my thoughts in order as best I could maybe not understood but anyway 🤷

So you think of him

ah wonderful! It has been a age now then to address the fandom thing regarding the treatment of azure and LBD respectively it is

Fandoms have a lot of it guy villains are seen as more tolerable then a female villain case in point check the genshin fandom they riot whenever a woman is even slightly mean much less evil may the heavens restrain me when arlecchino is released it will be hell and also lmk with Macaque and LBD the former being somehow worse then the latter thanks to the special which altered our bone lady so macaque is legitimately a worse person…make of that what you will we have probably incurred the wrath of the macaque Stan’s in the mentions tbh now anyway regarding Azure

this blue fluffy kitty

He’s a bit tone deaf which is to be expected he did the wukong brain tendenrizer scroll edition so he’s a bit not caught up with things as evident by his interaction with DBK our resident and earliest defanged villain and his complete and utter disdain for PIF(reading that as a word never fails to make us laugh hahah oh god we are getting into hotd discourse later) now the thing is that Azure is very much the type to blame others for shit going wrong such as the wukong scroll cut incident tbh tho he had a point but he’s very much a how to say this…a earlier version of LBD that’s more relatable because he hasn’t gone “the world needs to be perfected” yet like she has so he’s a bit more relatable also helps that his season is a better season 3 and gives us significantly more time with him then we did with LBD as she only got bits of other seasons with other characters being focused on and then got robbed of her focus so she never got any real insight other then the special which was VERY much rushed now as to our opinion of Azure as a character…

We like him he’s a bit foolish and a poor substitute for the villain that came before him but he actually does what the rushed change with her intended better he’s overall kinda neat nice design good voice a fucked up personality and the first thing he decided to do was 1v1 god all around good character and he’s most likely going to get the macaque treatment so prepare for the fics butchering him as the show regulates him to background fodder at best and that’s if he doesn’t die which tbh is a 50/50 chance also funny how the mayor hasn’t shown up at all thanks for your ask cami and even we struggle with putting our thoughts into words so there’s that now time to suffer the hell that is the hotd fandom

[xvnzhao]

forehead kiss. / from Pilgrim to HSR Alma. <3

            the touch is gentle  ,  but present . . . enough for alma to feel it upon her skin  ,  the warmth that spreads from where his lips touches upon her forehead  ,  a spark traversing through her shorter figure  .  a simple act of affection  ,  one that alma's not privy to . . . never privy to  .  she has a hard time CONNECTING with people  ,  and people have an even harder time approaching her  .  yet  ,  the pilgrim has been the only one she'd ever been able to call a friend  ,  or something more . . . she's not sure yet  .

            white gloved hand come to touch her forehead  ,  she swears she can feel heat radiate from the spot his lips touched  .  it sets her heart ablaze  ,  and a light flush takes to her cheeks  .  ❝  oh . . .  ❞  the researcher murmurs in a soft tone  ,  crimson eyes lifting to look up at the other  ,  gaze searching for an explanation for his actions  ,  ❝  what . . . what was that for  ??  ❞  alma questions  ,  the gentility of the pilgrim's act is foreign to alma  .  no one's ever done this to her . . . no one's shown her such affections  .  she's not sure how exactly to feel  ;  but her body reacts in a storm of butterflies . . . oh  ,  she sure hopes she's not falling ill  .  

            hand dropping from her forehead  ,  alma takes a step closer  ,  ❝  that . . . can you do it again  ??  ❞  she asks softly  ,  that moment of connection made her feel alive for a brief moment  ,  as if she's been MISSING something her entire life  .  

kisses / accepting / @memovia

[quibbs126]

Okay, I just wanted to do this for posterity’s sake, but basically this post is: Things About Dark Cacao Cookie That (At Least to Me) Point to Him Having Odd Origins (But I’m Probably Overthinking It)

No I will not shorten that name

So I really only have three points (at least that I can currently remember) that apply here, but let’s just mention them regardless

So first up: his abnormal strength

As shown below, his story specifically states that his sword takes 3 average Cookies to even budge, yet we see in game that he’s able to wield it with seemingly little struggle. There is no explanation ever given for this. I mean I suppose you could say that it’s the Soul Jam that gives him the strength, but given that none of the other Ancient descriptions mention their Soul Jam bestowing upon them enchanted physical attributes, it’s little more than conjecture, and it seems more likely to assume that this is just natural for him. But then the question remains: how and why?

Next up: the slit eye thing

In these two sprites, we see Dark Cacao have these slit eyes that he never has in any other sprite. The Wiki names them his “rage sprites”, and while yes, the Wiki is unofficial, the only times we really see these sprites in game seem to be when he’s incredibly angry, or in other words, enraged

Again, no explanation is given for these. I have seen some people say that it’s because cacao and chocolate have small amounts of caffeine in them, and the coffee Cookies are noted to have dilated pupils due to their amounts of caffeine, and thus this is a reference to him having small amounts of caffeine. And yeah, I can accept that as an answer. But also at the same time, these eyes don’t exactly operate like the other coffee eyes, given that they only show up at certain emotionally driven points for Dark Cacao, as opposed to them where it’s just natural and doesn’t seem to ever go away. Also again, this is just a fan theory, and in canon there is no official explanation for this

Now let’s get into my third point: his younger self’s clothes

I know that sounds a weird one but hear me out

Now there’s two parts of this that I want to take note of

First, let’s compare this to the other young Ancients’ outfits

I’d say that by comparison, Dark Cacao’s outfit looks much nicer than theirs

Now yes, you can have explanations for why theirs aren’t the nicest looking. From what I’ve gathered, Pure Vanilla was a pilgrim, and if the art book is to be believed, was once a shepherd, and let’s just say that kind of lifestyle probably isn’t leading you to be wearing particularly nice clothes. As for Hollyberry, while she know she came from a noble house, you can just say this is her adventuring attire, made for battle and roughing it out in the wild rather than looking nice

But that in itself isn’t the weird thing. The weird thing is that Dark Cacao’s clothes look a lot nicer than theirs, which is odd considering the Dark Cacao Kingdom doesn’t seem to be known for having clothes that look particularly high quality. I’m not saying their clothes aren’t of nice quality, it’s just that clothes like this look a bit too nice for just a presumably normal villager, no?

I mean, both the cape and top have those trims you usually put on clothes to make them look nicer (at least I think that’s what it’s called, sorry I’m not good with how clothes work), as well as his nice looking brooch that has a small gem in it. Not to mention the sword he’s carrying, which looks like it has engravings and has what looks more like a dark gem at the pommel. Compare that to the swords we see the Watchers at the Citadel use, and it looks much higher quality. Again, odd for a normal person of a kingdom that isn’t known for its wealth or high quality of clothes or swords (again not to say they can’t have it, it’s just odd in this scenario. Those people who do have high quality stuff are cookies of high ranking in the kingdom, not normal cookies. I don’t think I’m wording this well)

There’s also the fact that it’s purple, which back in the day, was hard to come by and rather expensive. Yes in the current day kingdom, we see people wearing purple, but first off nowadays purple isn’t as hard to obtain, and second those cookies are all those who are at the Citadel, the place of highest ranking in the kingdom. They’re probably allowed higher quality clothing. But also keep note that these are Cookies, not humans, and how clothing colors work could easily be different, so take this point with a grain of salt, it’s probably not all that strong. And I know he’s associated with purple, so it makes sense for him to wear it, but it doesn’t look a particularly dull shade of purple (I mean it does somewhat, but it’s nice enough that it doesn’t just look like grey fabric with a purple tint), and that’s why I call it out

Secondly, there’s the fact that aesthetically, it doesn’t really match the Dark Cacao Kingdom

Now sure, fashion isn’t constant, and it’s not ludicrous to imagine that outfits 1000+ years ago would look radically different, but let’s compare this to the only other cookie we see of the soon to be kingdom from this time period

Just compare the two and they look nothing alike, which is odd considering they’re supposed to both be from the same place. (also it again affirms my point about his clothes looking pretty high quality; Reluctant Cookie here looks like they’re wearing torn and ragged clothing unlike Dark Cacao)

Like Dark Cacao has said himself that he is native to this land, and his features compared to other members do support this idea, so why doesn’t he dress like them?

I mean sure, at this point the land was a bunch of different tribes, and you can assume they probably each have their own style and don’t all look the same, but still, the radical difference

Now okay, those last two points are more speculation on my part, while the other two are objective facts, but you see what I mean? Him being a normal Cookie from the (future) Dark Cacao Kingdom just doesn’t seem to add up

I mean yeah, I know he’s an Ancient, he’s not a “normal Cookie”, but like, everyone else only became “different” later in life, they seem to have started out relatively normal. Dark Cacao stands out as the odd one of the bunch (I mean other than Golden Cheese, but that’s probably because we don’t know anything about her yet)

Originally, back when I was first getting into Cookie Run, I speculated his oddities could be because he’s related to the dragons or was raised by them, hence his unusual traits and clothes. However, Might of the Ancients seems to disprove this, as there, he seems to not be familiar with the dragons at all, not even knowing they were the ones causing the odd storms and snow, simply trying to find the sources of these “anomalies”. And when he does know, nothing tells us that he has any familiarity with them. So I think it’s safe to say he’s not connected to the North and South Dragons

Alright, I so I should mention here that I don’t actually have an answer for all these oddities. I just made this to point them out and say they were weird, at least to me. Hopefully at some point these things get answered. Or again, I’m just overthinking it all

[pamphletstoinspire]

Meditations of St. Padre Pio – Part 3

Padre Pio was at the height of his priestly apostolate with multitudes of pilgrims visiting him, for his Mass, to confess to him, and to ask him for prayers and counsel. He was a master of souls; he directed everyone with penetrating words full of deep meaning. His series of "Meditations" was the first complete text of Padre Pio's thoughts. These texts consists of Padre Pio's meditations upon the fundamental dogmas of the Catholic faith. The Immaculate Conception and the Incarnation of Jesus. He then relives Jesus' agony in the garden of olives. Next he reflects on the human condition, and on our need to turn to God in the passing of our days. These are not conventional texts; they are reflections derived from the contemplation of the absolute Truth. “Mary Immaculate” is a more theological text. The others are more human and simple.

Padre Pio, in the first years of his residence in San Giovanni Rotondo (1918 – 1920), when he was freer from the care of souls, wrote a few meditations for his novices and his spiritual daughters of the Franciscan Third Order. They were the text of his lectures or instructions that he gave weekly as their Spiritual Director. After that, between the years 1925 – 1928, Padre Pio compiled other meditations. Fr. Agostino of San Marco in Lamis affirms it in his "Diary:" The Provincial, Fr. Bernardo of Alpicella, once suggested to Padre Pio to “compile a few meditations for the principal feasts of the year for our seminarians.” When Padre Pio was shown the possibility of publishing these meditations, he said: "I have written these things for myself." But, when it was explained to him that "they would do a lot of good to our souls" he smilingly said: "if it is as you say, bonum est diffu sivum sui (good, by its nature, is destined to be spread).

Meditation - New Year's Day

J. M. J. – D. F. C. Note: The initials J. M. J. – D. F. C. Stands for Jesus, Mary, Joseph – Dominic, Francis, Catherine

Let us begin today, brothers, to do good, for we have done nothing up to the present. At the beginning of this New Year, let us make our own these words which in his humility our Seraphic Father St. Francis of Assisi applied to himself. It is indeed true that we have done nothing up to the present, or if we have done something it is very little. The years have come and gone and we have not asked ourselves how we have spent them, if there was anything to be rectified in our actions, nothing to be added or to be taken away. We have been living thoughtlessly, regardless of the fact that the eternal Judge will ask us one day for an account of our actions and how we have spent our time. Yet we shall have to give a very strict account of every minute, of every movement of grace, of each holy inspiration, of each chance we had to do good. Even the slightest transgression of God's holy law will be taken into consideration. Wretched creature's that we are, shall we not find ourselves saying in fear and trembling before God's justice: O mountains, fall down upon me; O earth, open and swallow me up, for I tremble in the presence of the Most High?

Then if God should pronounce this sentence: Depart, you faithless servant into everlasting fire, all will be over for us forever, or rather there will begin for us a period without end, of most atrocious sufferings and incomprehensible agony. We would then want to recall even a single minute from the past in order to make reparation, to expiate our sins. We would be happy to remain for centuries and centuries in that dreadful prison if only it were granted to us in the end to come back to this world and make better use of our time.

But once our final hour has struck, once our heart ceases to beat all will be over for us and we shall no longer be able to either to acquire merit or to lose it. Exactly as death finds us we shall have to appear before Christ, our Judge. Our cries of supplication, our tears, our desire to repent, which while we were still on earth would have appealed to the heart of God and with the aid of the sacraments might have made us saints instead of sinners will then be of no avail. The hour of mercy is past and the hour of justice has begun.

A single word, or rather two words will sum up our eternal future: Never, never! Forever, forever! Never, never again will you be able to enjoy the delightful vision of God. Never again will you have as your friends the Most Holy Virgin Mary and all the saints. Never again will you have by your side that protecting angel to whose constant loving reminders you were deaf and rebellious during life. Never again will you be united with those dear ones whom you loved on earth but whose holy life you hadn't the strength to imitate. Never again will you receive the grace to see Jesus resplendent with glory coming towards you to show you the shining wounds in his sacred hands and feet and in his adorable side, from which all his divine blood flowed in order to redeem you. You trampled on it when you had it in your possession and might have availed of it for yourself and for many sinners like you. Now you plead an appeal for one drop of that blood, but this will not be granted to you either today or ever again. Forever you will be in the company of the damned. Your eyes will look with terror on the most dreadful sights. Your ears will hear the most inconceivable and horrifying blasphemies, all your senses will be tormented in an indescribable manner. Your soul, unable to see and enjoy God, its infinite good, will in its dreadful suffering curse itself and its God and this will continue for ever and ever.

O God of my soul, what a sad fate awaits me if I do not decide to change my way of life and to set great store by the time you grant me in your goodness. He who has time must not wait for time; let us not put off till tomorrow what we can do today. The road to hell is paved with good intentions and moreover, who can tell if we shall still be alive tomorrow? Let us listen to the voice of conscience, to the voice of the royal Prophet: O that today you would listen to his voice. Harden not your hearts. Let us rise up and set great store by time, for every fleeting moment is in our power. Let us not try to interpose time between one instant and the next for it is not in our power to do so. By divine grace we are at the dawn of a new year and only God knows if we shall see the end of this year. We must use every moment of it to make amends for the past, to make resolutions for the future and side-by-side with good resolutions must go holy works. Oh, yes, let us do this, so that when we have obtained eternal happiness for ourselves we may delight the most tender Heart of Jesus and stimulate our brothers to do good. Encouraged by our example, they too will walk in the way of justice and love.

Fully convinced that we are telling the truth let us say to ourselves: My soul, begin today to do good, for up to the present you have done nothing. Let us act in such a way as to move in God's presence. Let us frequently repeat to ourselves: God sees me, and in the act of seeing me he also judges me. Let us make sure that he never sees in us anything but good. Let us be forearmed against the world and against our passions which will try like ferocious beasts to deprive us of eternal bliss, and in our weakness let us not lack confidence in the divine assistance. God, whom we have resolved to see and keep constantly before us, is always ready to come to our aid. Invariably faithful to his promises and seeing how resolutely we are fighting, he will send his angels to sustain us in our trial. The palm of glory is reserved for those only who have fought valiantly to the end. Let us therefore begin our holy combat this year. God will assist us and will crown us with eternal victory.

Thanks be to God!

[historyhermann]

Steven Universe, vegetarianism, and media representation [Part 2]

Reprinted from my History Hermann WordPress blog and also on Wayback Machine. Originally published on Jan. 2. 2020.

The focus on Steven's issues is continued in "Prickly Pair," where Steven uses his new hobby, planting, as a form of therapy, connecting with his love of nature and life (another reason he is vegetarian). The Gems see this as clearly unhealthy, as he is naming plants after his friends likely a reference to the "stress free environment" (see up to 1:04 in the video above) created by Billy Rosewood (played by Judge Reinhold) in Beverly Hills Cop 2, and give him space, as he thinks he can solve all these problems himself, bumping through his teen years.

This doesn't work out, ultimately, as he forms a cactus monster who he treated like a therapist, which hurts his friends (or guardians as you could call them), Amethyst, Garnet, and Pearl, not only physically but emotionally as the monster blurts out his personal feelings about them. While the cactus monster, which Amethyst names Cactus Steven, leaves his house, blowing off the front face of it, similar to the damage it sustained during the battle with Blue Diamond in "Reunited," Steven is clearly in emotionally (and mentally) rocky state by the end of the episode. You could even say that Steven and Cactus Steven represent part of the cycles of abuse. The absence of his father, Greg, his girlfriend, Connie (I hope they don't break up), and others, is disturbing enough, as the feeling he can't talk to anyone about problems, likely suffering from depression and other mental problems. [5]

"Little Graduation" and "Prickly Pair" sets up an interesting set of episodes ahead, even if you think SUF isn't "kid-friendly" anymore (as the fan base is growing up) as Steven will have to come to a more balanced state of mind and body (as he is acting a bit contradictory right now) working out his serious problems, making it possible for him to control his new powers, realizing that he should change, just as everyone else is changing, something he hasn't completely done yet. This would be much better than forcing others to not change, which is not healthy at all! Whether he talks the Diamonds about this (oh no) or his "uncle" Andy, or someone else about his problems is anyone's guess. [6] This is nothing new as he had similar struggles as shown in episodes like "Mindful Education," and other times before that, but the fact that he has the power to hurt others is scary, so I'm excited to see what future SUF episodes will bring. Perhaps Steven should take the advice he told Lars back in Season 5 to heart, although he may not.

© 2019-2023 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.

Notes

[1] At the same time, however, the article listed racial stereotype Apu in The Simpsons, Bobby in King of the Hill, Velma Dinkley in Scooby-Doo, Draculaura in Monster High, Doug Funnie from Doug, Heffer in Rocko's Modern Life; Dil, Chuckie, and Susie in Rugrats, Pac-Man, Eliza Thornberry in The Wild Thornberrys, Popeye, as some of the greatest "vegan cartoon characters." So, he got Pearl wrong, but perhaps he got these others right.

[2] Allyson Koerner, for instance, lists Lisa along with Monroe in Grimm, Phoebe Buffay in Friends, Angela Martin in The Office, Sara Sidle in CSI, and Temperance Brennan in Bones. Others list Hazel Grace Lancaster in The Fault in Our Stars, Rachel Berry in Glee, Phoebe Buffay in Friends, Angela Martin in The Office, Elle Woods in Legally Blonde, Britta Perry in Community, Phoebe Halliwell in Charmed, Topanga Lawrence in Boy Meets World, and Todd Ingram in Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World, alongside Lisa as vegan/vegetarian characters. Kristen Martin, on the other hand, notes five fictional vegetarians who "defy stereotypes" while Jamie Gerber explains various superheroes and villains who are vegetarian (Todd Ingram, Damian Wayne, Iron Fist, Connor Hawke, Bruce Banner, Magneto, Zatanna, Scarlet Witch, Superman, Kitty Pryde, Ozymandias, Beast Boy, Karolina Dean, Animal Man, and Wonder Woman).

[3] Some on My Anime List have claimed that Rei Ayanami in Evangelion, Taikoubou from Houshin Engi, herbivores in Monster Musume, a vegetarian elf in Isekai Shokudou, Nadia in Fushigi no Umi no Nadia, characters in Nichibros, Denpa Onna, Kemono Friends, Happy Happy Clover, Hamtaro, and Shirokuma Cafe, the latter three only if animal characters count, along with the Circumstances of a Vegetarian Child Wherewolf.

[4] Some fans adored Shep and loved the representation, while others didn't get their gender and thought Shep was transgender (there's no indication that is true), or hated Shep for some reason, the latter falling into the category of "annoying fans."

[5] I think its worth quoting the psychological analysis of Steven by one fan here, as it says more than I could put forward:

What is happening to Steven right now is a consequence of three situations: -Being a half gem. -Being adolescent. -Trying to carry the weight of other people problems in your back Why you ask? in adolescence, you try to wonder who you are, what you want to be in the future. And sometimes that bring negative emotions like angriness and confusion. Before Steven Universe Future, his reason to be was to be a hero, helping others. Now, that reason is partly gone because the worst part of the conflict is over, and even when he still wants to help people, he looks at the lifes of other humans and starts to wonder what else could be. Thats it because as a crystal gem, fighting and helping comes as something natural; and in the context of their long life spans this objective doesnt seems to change much. In the counterpart, humans tend to change life perspective more frequently because we live less, and our fragility doesnt makes us want to fight intergalactic conflicts (instead, we choose to share with others, get jobs, and try to enjoy life). In the initial part of the show, things seems "inverted" because humans gave Steven a sense of continuity ("i want this to stay the same"), and gems a sense of something that needs to be changed ("i want this to be different"). When we reach SUF, humans are changing and gems are remaining the same (mainly enemies), so Steven starts to be greatly frustrated. He doesnt wants to recognize this, clearly, because he is the person that "helps", not the one that needs to be helped (that would mean he is a burden to others). So, his emotions (anger and confussion, normal for adolescence) start to emerge as unstable powers, which causes a mayhem so big that Steven has to begin to recognize his emotions. PD: So...if you have superpowers and feel like this...go therapy.

[6] Some fans hope Steven lies on a bed at the end of the series and talks to a therapist, while others just say he needs "serious therapy."

Update:

I am so glad to get one positive comment on /r/stevenuniverse, which makes me smile. I am glad to see it.

[ruminativerabbi]

Thanksgiving 2023

As I’ve written many times in this space, Thanksgiving is my favorite American holiday. I have only the happiest childhood memories of the holiday, most of them featuring my mother’s family gathered around my grandmother’s dining room table in her apartment on 84th Street in Bensonhurst. And I have nice memories of the earlier part of those Thanksgivings as well, the several hours that my mother and her sister, my Aunt Ruth, would work with my grandmother in her kitchen preparing the meal while my father and my Uncle Herb were assigned to amusing me (or, as my mother would have said, “doing something with me”) while the womenfolk did their thing in the kitchen. (Holiday roles were distinctly gender-specific in our family back then.) And so we’d go for a walk in the neighborhood, usually wandering down Bay Parkway or along 86th Street to see what was going on in the neighborhood or, in the last years of my grandmother’s life, to check on how much progress had been made on the Verrazzano Bridge, then just being built. Those were happy times and even now, after all these years, I remember them fondly and gratefully.

I have other nice memories as well, for example the one featuring my late mother-in-law organizing a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for her new American son-in-law when we came to visit Toronto in the first year of our marriage. (The only strange part was that Joan’s mother had somehow come to think that part of the fun involved actually dressing up as Pilgrims, to which minhag she dutifully nodded by buying a kind of white cap that seemed to her to suggest seventeenth-century New England and then wearing it at the table.) I was beyond touched by the whole thing and, even to this day, the memory of my first Thanksgiving outside of these United States remains one of the nicest of them all.

I have other nice memories too—our strange ex-pat Thanksgivings in Germany, for example, featuring roast chicken since there simply were no kosher turkeys for purchase anywhere in the Federal Republic, at least not as far as I could see—but that was all then. And this is now. Tradition bids us gather around our dining room tables and speak openly about our sense of thanksgiving, of gratitude, of appreciation for the bounty of the world. It shouldn’t be that complicated: we actually do all benefit from the bounteous earth and from the wealth of natural resources with which our nation has been blessed. And yet what Jewish soul can give him- or herself over to the “normal” sense of uncomplicated thankfulness the holiday exists to engender while so many hundreds—including babies, including a newborn, including little children—are being held captive by a fiendish and barbarous enemy that has shown no sign—or at least no public sign—of being willing to return these innocents to their families and to their homes.

Or is that the wrong way to approach the issue? Joan and I are going to have Thanksgiving at our home, as we always do. (I am writing this before the holiday although you will read it the day following.) One of our children, our son Emil, will be in Boston for the holiday with his husband Adam and their baby. (Adam is from Boston, which is where his mother still lives.) But our other children will be with us, as will also be our son-in-law’s parents and a friend of our older son Max who has no other place to go. So we will have a full house. I can already see the scene in my mind’s eye. The table will be set beautifully. Four of our five grandchildren will be present. As I contemplate what this week will yet bring, I feel overcome with the thought that gratitude is not merely being happy you have some specific thing you have in your life. It’s much more complicated than that, I realize—and has more to do with the fragility that inheres in life than with just being pleased with the things you’ve acquired over the years. My heart aches constantly these days for the hostages held by Hamas, but particularly for the children and for the babies, for those poor souls—some not even old enough fully to understand what has befallen them, some almost definitely unaware of the fate of their families, all but the babies no doubt terrified of what every next hour might bring. But I know enough of Jewish history—more than enough, actually—to understand that their story is not about some tragedy that befell them out of nowhere, but rather about the nature of Jewish life, about the precariousness that inheres in Jewishness itself.

We live our lives on a razor’s blade, all of us. The world is awash in cruelty, in prejudice, in savagery. And things can change on a dime: the anti-Semitism our Jewish students are facing on America’s college campuses, for example, would have been unimaginable for most of us even just a few years ago, let alone when I myself was in college. And yet here we are in a world in which a credible death threat against Jewish students in one our most prestigious Ivy League universities actually led to the arrest the other week of someone who apparently actually was planning to kill Jewish people. All of this, we all know.

So the real question is how to respond to it. With worry, certainly. And with action and not just words, just as certainly—Joan and I went to Washington last week specifically to be present on the Mall when almost 5% of Jewish America gathered to support Israel. But there’s a spiritual part of this as well and that is the part that coincides, at least emotionally for me, with Thanksgiving.

I know that when I look out at my table on Thursday, I will be seized, at least at first, with anxiety, with uncertainty born on my inability to know what the future will bring to all the assembled. (I know myself at least that well.) But my plan is to deal with that ill ease by summoning up a sense of deep, abiding gratitude to God for the gifts that the holiday will have put right before my eyes. My home. Joan. My children. My children-in-law. My grandchildren. All of us gathered under one roof, all of us safe and sound, all of us well-fed and relaxed, all of us together.    

I have responded to October 7 in many different ways. I have lost track of how many emails I’ve sent to our senators, to our (so far still-seated) representative in the House, to the President himself, all of them expressing my hope that the United States will never waver in its support for Israel. Joan and I keep sending checks out as well—to the FIDF and to the American Friends of the Magen David Adom, but also to other, less well-known charities doing things in Israel on a smaller scale for displaced families, for bereaved families, and especially for the families of the hostages. But on Thanksgiving, I plan to respond emotionally and spiritually to the challenge of the day not by becoming angry or anxious, but by allowing myself to be filled to overflowing with gratitude to God for the gifts that will be right there before me. I plan to look out at my family, at my people, and despite everything I know of the world—despite everything I know of Jewish history, despite all I’ve read and learned about the history of anti-Semitism, despite all of it—to allow myself to be filled with the deepest sense of gratitude for the moment and for all that that moment will be capable of suggesting about the future.

[americaistheoldworldsblog]

Rewriting History by Proving that America is the Old World

Hits the dance floor with Wolves ruled in the cinema world and at the Oscars, yet over the course of the past 25 years, the best authentic grant has focused on more than simple reversal of old legends about the Old West. America One significant course has been to look at and associate what occurred in the American West with equal places and cycles somewhere else. Withdrawing from Turner's case that the boondocks set the U.S. aside from its European roots, history specialists of the American West have rather underscored the shared characteristics among American and other "imperialisms." All the more explicitly, the build of "pilgrim expansionism" has arisen as a vital aspect for arranging the American involvement with a more extensive worldwide setting. Further denying the American West of its uniqueness, students of history have embraced the focal point of "ethnic purging," or more awful "destruction," to figure out American developments and the going with removal and some of the time decimation of native people groups.

The most convincing western narratives written in the last 25 years go up against the intricacies of at various times. This starts with the acknowledgment of how profound that past is, with accounts that begin a long time before the West was American and with unearthings that uncover the variety and dynamism of Local America preceding the appearance of European colonizers. From archeological and different sources, history specialists have now recuperated rich precolonial universes and complex social orders that went on after Indians experienced individuals from Europe and Africa, winding around an entrancing new comprehension of how locals and rookies met and blended.

Protecting native individuals from the haughtiness of New Age sentimentalism that transforms them into ever serene, wonderful environmentalists, more up to date accounts have shown how Indians opposed European imperialism, yet additionally in certain pieces of North America completed their own developments. The best of these fresher western narratives detail also the way that delayed cooperations brought about ethnic intersections as well as ethnic cleansings. Most noticeably, this intercourse created blended race posterity, yet history specialists have likewise followed a great many trades that prompted a mixing of societies. Such blends have stayed a sign of western American societies in the twentieth and presently the 21st hundreds of years

The historical backdrop of the American West, similar to the craft of the American West, isn't what it used to be. Most likely, many mourn the progressions and pine for the legends that western accounts (and western craftsmanship) once celebrated. In any case, in the event that we are to get a handle on the West's complex developments and sort out how we can live respectively, and live reasonably, around here, we don't require one-layered stories. Maybe we want accounts and craftsmanship that regard the past, wrestling, as students of history and specialists must, with the intricacies that challenge us still.

We consider our right to speak freely and the press to be holy. Be that as it may, these equivalent sacred freedoms have as of late been abused by those attempting to misguide our youngsters in regards to various badly arranged authentic bits of insight to support legislative issues and religion. Opportunity to express our genuine thoughts isn't equivalent to "opportunity to educate." As a parent, a pediatrician and a teacher, I feel that educational committees and branches of training ought to be held to a better quality of "truth telling" than a platform speaker. Purposely distorting our set of experiences or language comprises scholarly provocation of our kids and it is continuing at this point.

[earl-of-221b]

21st Century Journey to the West manhua’s  

Sun Wukong: 

Tang Sanzang:

Nezha:

Erlang Shen:

Bodhisattva Guanyin:

21st Century Journey to the West in English 

21世纪取经录 in Chinese 

By Xian Dao (咸刀) 

[dwellordream]

“...As well as considerable numbers of women among the poor pilgrims following the crusaders, there were always some working women following medieval armies, some doing laundry and kitchen work or nursing the wounded and others providing sexual services. When fighting broke out, women contributed by carrying drinking water and comforting the wounded. A number of aristocratic ladies in addition to Eleanor followed their crusader husbands, and they brought along servant girls and ladies in waiting, swelling the total number of women. 

Eleanor’s own personal entourage must have been quite large but the legend that she recruited a band of armed and mounted “Amazons” to ride with her alongside the crusading knights can be set aside. This improbable story apparently originated with a Greek chronicler’s description of the crusaders’ entry into Constantinople, written at least a generation after the event. The legend was taken up enthusiastically by nineteenth-century writers and is repeated in widely read twentieth-century books on Eleanor. 

The vast army made its way to Metz after a four-or five-day march from Paris and then marched on to Worms, where it crossed the Rhine. A traveler on horseback could average thirty-five miles a day, but Louis’s host was slowed by many persons on foot, slow-moving packhorses, and cumbersome two- and four-horse baggage carts and wagons clogging the roads. At Regensburg in Germany, baggage was loaded on barges to be sent down the Danube as far as Bulgaria, relieving the army of the carts that had “afforded more hope than usefulness” and raised much complaint from military men for holding up their progress on land.

A great deal of the supplies belonged to Eleanor, and her bulky baggage would cause criticism later. Even with her more than ample supplies, she could not have found travel conditions comfortable. A medieval road “hardly existed as a physical object,” being little more than a track connecting towns and villages, often containing impassable mudholes in wet weather. If Eleanor chose not to ride a horse, she could have had herself carried between two horses on a litter, as was common for noble ladies. She and other aristocratic ladies may have ridden part of the way in “chariots,” uncomfortable but highly decorated carts. Wheeled vehicles were not equipped with springs, and nobles usually disdained carts for their rough ride and also for their demeaning associations with peasants and laborers.

…On 4 October 1147, after a five-month journey, Louis and Eleanor arrived before the walls of Constantinople with the crusading army and its accompanying pilgrims. From the first sight of the massive Theodosian walls protecting the western approach, the great city made a powerful impression on Eleanor and her companions, even though at the time of the Second Crusade it was past its prime, the capital of a shrunken and weakened empire. Its great churches and palaces constructed under Constantine and Justinian were still standing and in daily use, unlike in Rome, where the Roman imperial monuments had fallen into ruin long ago. 

The “Great” or “Sacred Palace” overlooking the sea had periodically been enlarged and renovated and had grown into a city within a city. Connected to the palace complex were the nearby Hippodrome and the church of Hagia Sophia, illustrating the links between the emperor, his people, and the Church. Since the eleventh century, the imperial family had abandoned the Great Palace, favoring the Blachernae Palace built next to the city wall at the western landward edge of the city near the Golden Horn. 

It was to Blachernae that Louis was led for his first meeting with the emperor Manuel Komnenos. Odo of Deuil describes the palace: “Its exterior is of almost matchless beauty, but its interior surpasses anything that I can say about it. Throughout it is decorated elaborately with gold and a great variety of colors, and the floor is marble, paved with cunning workmanship; and I do not know whether the exquisite art or the exceedingly valuable stuffs endows it with the more beauty or value.”

At the gates of the city, Louis and his queen were met by a delegation from the city’s nobles and prominent citizens who welcomed them and invited them to meet their emperor. Odo of Deuil, observing the meeting, left a description: “When we approached the city, lo, all its nobles and wealthy men, clerics as well as lay people, trooped out to meet the king and received him with due honor, humbly asking him to appear before the emperor and to fulfill the emperor’s desire to see and talk with him.” Louis, “taking pity on the emperor’s fear,” agreed, and his first encounter with the Eastern emperor at the Blachernae Palace was cordial. 

Byzantine court etiquette with its obsequious obeisance to the emperor scandalized the French, but a concession was made to Louis, allowing him to sit in the emperor’s presence. The chronicler notes, ��The two sovereigns were almost identical in age and stature, unlike only in dress and manners.” Eleanor is not mentioned in the account, but it is probable that she was anxious to accompany Louis on his first meeting with the Byzantine ruler to see him and his court for herself.

Manuel Komnenos made available to the French king and queen the Philopatium, a hunting lodge outside the city wall near the Blachernae Palace, and the army and the many servants and pilgrims following it camped nearby. The French crusading army spent about three weeks at Constantinople, crossing over to the Asian side of the Bosporus on 26 October. The emperor took Louis on sightseeing tours, showing him the many churches and their collections of holy relics, and after their tours he invited Louis to dine with him. The banquets at the emperor’s palace “afforded pleasure to ear, mouth, and eye with pomp as marvelous, viands as delicate, and pastimes as pleasant as the guests were illustrious.”

Meanwhile Eleanor and the empress were exchanging letters and becoming acquainted. The wife of Manuel Komnenos was German, the sister-in-law of the emperor Conrad, Bertha of Sulzbach. She had received a new name, Irene, after her marriage and conversion to the Eastern Orthodox religion in 1146. In theory, respectable Byzantine ladies were expected to be seldom seen and never heard in public. The empress’s quarters in the palace were under her sole control, guarded by eunuchs, and men were never supposed to enter—not even the emperor, unless with her permission. 

Yet in the twelfth century, Byzantine women, except for unmarried girls, were no longer so secluded as in earlier centuries, and the empress and her ladies attended receptions and banquets. Empress Irene and her guest Eleanor likely joined their husbands in the evening to dine with them in the emperor’s quarters. Louis, “a simple man who made a duty of simplicity,” soon found the excessive ceremonial and the extravagant titles of the many Byzantine court officials exasperating. His growing distaste for Constantinople was shared by his men as friction arose with the city’s money changers and merchants, whom the French suspected of price-gouging and of disdaining them. 

Eleanor’s impression of the Byzantine capital and the imperial court, however, was not likely to have been as negative as that of her husband and her countrymen. Perhaps Byzantium evoked memories of the sensuality and luxury of life at the Poitevin court, and she savored the contrast between the gorgeous spectacle of the imperial court’s ceremonies and the dull and drab Capetian royal court that she had left behind. Constantinople’s glories opened Eleanor’s eyes to “vast, lofty, undreamed-of possibilities for majesty.”

…In the half-century since the First Crusade, bitterness between crusaders and Eastern Christians had accumulated, building “a wall of incomprehension.” Crusading westerners visiting Constantinople felt inferior to the Byzantines, and they compensated by condemning the Greeks as over-civilized, too soft, effeminate, and degenerate for their tastes. Furthermore, western Christians condemned Eastern Orthodox Christians as heretics, and the chronicler Odo of Deuil reveals the ferocity of their hatred of Orthodox doctrinal errors. 

He writes, “Because of this they were judged not to be Christians, and the Franks considered killing them a matter of no importance and hence could with the more difficulty be restrained from pillage and plundering.” Greeks regarded westerners as coarse and crude barbarians, as shown by Anna Komnena’s account of the conduct of those passing through Constantinople on the First Crusade. 

She wrote, “Now the Frankish counts are naturally shameless and violent, naturally greedy of money too, and immoderate in everything they wish, and possess a flow of language greater than any other human race.” The behavior of the armies of the Second Crusade did nothing to change attitudes at the imperial court or among the people. Complaints about merchants and money changers’ cheating roused the crusaders to violence: they took with force what they could not buy, and they spoke openly of conquering Constantinople.”

- Ralph V. Turner, “Adventures and Misadventures on the Second Crusade, 1145–1149.” in Eleanor of Aquitaine: Queen of France, Queen of England

[hallothere]

I broke down and wrote the essay. No, I did not and will not proofread it. I don’t waaaannaaaa

There’s Only One Winner For Isengard

In a perfect world, in a world with no meta requirements that could bend to the will of the player, we would roll up to Isengard level-capped, no debuffs, with one quest-marker on hand: Ruin Saruman’s day. But this is a pre-written sequence of events in which we are only along for the ride. We, the player, and a Ranger are shipped off to Isengard with only one conceivable goal: survive. On a meta level we know what Saruman is capable of. At level 70 or 80-something at best, even we are aware that we are no match for a wizard with a canon fate. Not to mention our Ranger companion! The Grey Company has been through enough (though we don’t know the half of it yet) and we are reasonably distraught at the possibilities.

This is why we, the player character, will lose the game of Isengard.

Beyond the meta rules of the game, where quest objectives are whatever the devs wanted them to be (looking at you, Mordrambor) the player character can not defeat Saruman in any way that’s meaningful. And (again on a meta level) in order for us to get to experience the action at Helm’s Deep and Rohan at large, we have to get out of Isengard. We’d get bored of waiting for Theoden and Co. We’d hurl insults or slap fish at Saruman and realistically incur wrath. Honestly, with the set of circumstances presented to us, who could survive imprisonment in Nan Curunir?

Only one of the Company ever could: Lothrandir of Suri Kyla. 

To begin with, none of the Rangers we have any real information on could have done it. Anyone who’s spent time in Angmar is at a disadvantage due to the prevailing dread (game mechanic or otherwise) that can be manipulated by Saruman. Any Ranger that has a major traumatic past is at a disadvantage (sorry Mincham) because if nothing else, Saruman has proven to be a master of illusion. Even Halbarad for all his leadership ability has a pretty exploitable weakness: eventually Saruman can crack the code with a vision of Aragorn’s demise, the one end Halbarad must fear above all others. Or what bond could more easily be exploited than that of a leader and his men? Lheu Brenin’s in the gang now after all. All Saruman would have to do was send for a few more incentives. 

But Lothrandir comes built with a few key advantages that make him the only Grey Company Ranger qualified to come out of this battle of wills on top. His specific strengths, mindset, and personality traits combined with the circumstances that the game sets up going into Isengard make him the clear choice of Rangers- if a Ranger you must have- to stay behind in Nan Curunir. 

Lothrandir wins because he changes the game. From ‘go’ our co-prisoner does something that either puzzles the player character or sends them into an anxious fit. Lothrandir declares himself fearless and sprints recklessly into the ring. Any way you figure it, this seems like a poorly calculated move. He doesn’t stop to survey the enemy. He doesn’t gather intel. Heck, he doesn’t even bide his time to see if he’ll be killed before he even reaches the dungeons. Lothrandir sprints right in without so much as a thought or a plan. Saruman doesn’t know it yet, but from that moment on Lothrandir has him on the back foot. 

Consider for a moment Saruman’s MO. He’s a wizard, and he uses a great deal of magic, sure, but time and time again we are reminded of the power of his voice and his words. He calls down a storm on Caradhras (in the movies for darn sure), he via-Wormtongue whispers poison into the ears of King Theoden. He doesn’t lead with any kind of grandiose display when trying to sway Gandalf. No, he leads with a persuasive argument. Later on, he nearly talks Theoden back around, after failing to wipe out all of Rohan. After killing the man’s son for goodness sakes. He nearly talks himself out of that one!

But Lothrandir has already changed this from a game of wits to a game of wills. There will be no vying for favor, or biding time, or compliance, or even giving Saruman a chance to ‘talk it over friendly’ first. He’s already spitting on the shoes of everyone he sees. The accomplishment in this is twofold, and it makes a major impact on the rest of his time in Nan Curunir. 

Firstly, by establishing a new game, Lothrandir sets Saruman up for a whole lot of assumptions. He does not display any signs of diplomatic ability, wisdom, or even common sense. He very intentionally projects an attitude of reckless disobedience. In the player’s own eyes, it seems as if he ‘doesn’t know any better’. This gives Saruman a clear path to take regarding Lothrandir. He assumes you can’t reason the typical way with someone who has shown zero inclination for listening. The player character demonstrates that the Grey Company (or least their associates) are capable of compliance. For all intents and purposes, this Lothrandir doesn’t appear to be. He’s contrary, fool-hardy, and evidently dumb enough to dive in headfirst and get himself killed. You beat that kind of guy into submission… don’t you?

But Lothrandir has changed the rules of the game. Saruman is no longer fighting with his best weapon, but with a tool to be found in any old villain’s arsenal. When he took the approach of reasoning with the player character and disregarding Lothrandir, he set the victor’s foundation on our snow-pilgrim’s greatest strength. 

Secondly, by establishing a new game, Lothrandir makes this a battle of physical endurance. Unbeknownst to Saruman, this is the one thing that makes him stand out from the rest of the Grey Company. He has walked through the frozen north lands and the fiery south lands and come out unscathed. He has mastered the unarmed combat style of the Lossoth by joining in mid-winter wrestling matches in a place that took down many Elves, Angmarim, and notably one King of Arthedain! Lothrandir has conceivably spent his entire life training for this matchup. Any endurance he has built up, any fighting he can do without access to a weapon, all are assets to the kind of game he just made Saruman play. Lothrandir is uniquely built to survive any physical torment Isengard can throw at him, or at least, better equipped than any of the others. 

To say Lothrandir is the best choice, we also have to rule out the others. Corunir was thwarted by the Rammas Deluon and for all he learned from that, it’s a weak spot in his proverbial armor. Golodir too, resisted a fair degree of torture (palantiri based, even!) in Carn Dum, but it won’t be hard for Saruman to suss that one out and make our old man’s life a living nightmare. Even Radanir, serious and seemingly unattached to any social bonds now that his good pal Elweleth has gone sailing, would be a poor choice. He is too serious, (for lack of a better term) too genre-savvy, and even if he is spitting blood and delivering a witty one-liner, that’s Saruman’s foot in the door! ‘I’ll never betray my friends and kin, you kaleidoscope hack’? You’ve just told him your weakness, Radanir! No, he can’t keep his mouth shut to save his (or Saerdan’s) life. Radanir is the wrong choice too.

We don’t know a significant amount about the others (except Ranger death would move Calenglad to tears, we can’t put him through this) in order to pinpoint their fatal flaws in the Isengard encounter. But, the game puts us in the incredible position of having seen Lothrandir’s Achilles’ heel and letting us take that disadvantage away. 

Lothrandir of Suri Kyla is uniquely equipped to survive any physical encounter that Saruman throws his way. Now, who’s to say the wizard won’t change his tune and go back to his old tricks? In an incredible twist of fate, we are. The game sets us, the player, up to play Saruman’s game from the get-go. We keep our pixelated head down, try and fly below the radar, and express just enough concern over the fate of our fool-hardy pal to get Saruman to cement his estimation of Lothrandir as a pawn in the game in stone. By making ourselves the better target for the words of a wily wizard, Saruman decides that the best way to deal with the spare prisoner is by playing right into his hands. As we all know, the player character escapes. While that might seem bad for someone who Saruman has earmarked for corporal punishment only, it covers Lothrandir’s one weakness. 

Aside from being the only significant unarmed fighter, Lothrandir is also never painted as a loner. He spends his time in Suri Kyla, hanging out with the Lossoth and sharing their campfires. In the new questline in Forochel, he jumps at the chance to make a new Dunedain friend and takes to King Arvedui like a duck to water. They’re instant best pals. It’s minutes before Lothrandir is telling him Aragorn’s life story and pledging to go with him on a buddy adventure to seek peace for a regretful shade. And if that’s not enough canon for you, Lothrandir bears the brunt of the Falcon clan aggression on the way to Isengard. He does it for you, his friend and companion in suffering. It’s a bit meta, but we have to assume in the internal universe he knows you a little. You’ve run your merry adventures to a degree where, were this not a video game, Lothrandir would at least consider you an ally if not a friend outright. 

He exposes his weakness unwittingly to the Falcon clan, but he leaves it at the gates of Isengard in an extremely well-timed move. By sprinting through the gates without a care as to what’s going on with you or anyone else, Lothrandir establishes an emotional distance between you both in the eyes of any onlookers. Whatever affection you have for him, it doesn’t seem reciprocated. This isn’t a major weakness for Saruman to exploit, then. You’re not one of his kinsmen. If he did want to pursue that line, he could always send to Tur Morva for one, right?

This is where the game comes back in to shift the tide in Lothrandir’s favor. We escape. We play the game, we nearly lose the game, and had we not been given an out the power scaling makes it difficult to conceive of an outcome where we the player can win Isengard. Sure, we’ve been released from prisons before (Delossad to name one) but this is the climax of Dunland. We make a daring escape, and move south towards the Gap of Rohan and all sorts of bad times. 

Back in Nan Curunir, Lothrandir is getting the daylights beat out of him, and taking a victory lap. He’s cemented his position as ‘the prisoner we’ll break with violence’. The uruks have seen him insubordinate and disorderly. In the Lothrandir interlude, there’s not only the canon (stated outright!) reality of past and present torture. There’s also zero hesitation in Lothrandir taking that one on the chin. There are no other objectives on his mind than making the next few minutes as miserable as possible for everyone around. He has no other goals. And he doesn’t need them. Nobody is surprised that Lothrandir is signing his death warrant within nanoseconds of being presented an offer to comply. He spits on the offer. He tips over the slop bucket. He beats bloody any orc (and gameplay purposes aside there are very few that dare come forward) that actually tries to kill him for it outright. 

He’s built up a non-rapport with Gun Ain. She talks about killing him and he doesn’t say anything. They’re all playing his game and he’s winning. In the conversation with Saruman, we’re not given the opportunity to watch Lothrandir ‘resist’ in the same fashion the player character did. We don’t need to. Saruman has bigger and better things to worry about- killing a prince, wiping out a nation- than one Ranger who he’s just going to order well-flayed again. By setting himself up as the punching bag, Lothrandir has managed to fly beneath Saruman’s priority threshold. He’s been relegated to the responsibility of Gun Ain, and still with somewhat protected status because they haven’t wormed anything useful out of him yet.

All of these moves have culminated to an impasse. Saruman is not winning points in the game like he expected. One ‘meathead Ranger’ has managed to resist all the torments of Isengard, and he’s gained nothing from this. The other prisoner escaped, word had doubtless reached him that the Tur Morva Thirty-Odd are free and raring to be a thorn in his side again. He has no external leverage to apply on Lothrandir and it’s become increasingly obvious that our Ranger friend is not engaging like the player did. But still, Saruman has his pride. It’s his downfall in the end, and it’s his downfall in his fight against the one Ranger who’s already beating him. Lothrandir can’t be killed outright because Saruman hasn’t won yet. And with that guarantee of protection, Lothrandir can coast all the way to the conquest of Isengard. 

He can keep playing the game and stalling for time. It’s morbid, but what better way to waste someone’s time and energy than convincing them slow, drawn-out torture is the way to go? A little extreme, Lothrandir, but it’s still his game to lose. He wastes Saruman’s time. If he is eventually rescued, total victory. If he’s killed in the end, he definitely didn’t give the wizard the satisfaction, so a less resounding victory but one in the win column nonetheless. 

With a little help from our usually Ranger-cidal devs, Lothrandir reprograms Saruman’s game of chess to a boxing match. He takes out all his disadvantages, gets Isengard to attack from a point of... if not weakness then at least neutral ability, and then devotes his every waking breath to violent disobedience.

Sure, you could have taken any of the Grey Company with you to Isengard. Lheu Brenin could have swapped out for Braigar or Amlan or Mithrendan or Culang- but only one of these guys has the brute strength, commitment, and sheer audacity to pull it off. 

You take Lothrandir to Orthanc. There’s a different prisoner of Nan Curunir when he leaves.

[loneberry]

The Waters of Lethe Wash

“Once the dead man has been washed, he can set out on a journey. All Indo-Germanic pilgrims—Greek, Indic, Nordic, and Celtic—cross the same funeral landscape on their way to the beyond, and the mythical hydrology on that route is the same: at the end of their journey they reach a body of water. This water separates two worlds: it divides the present from the past into which the dead move. This other world does not have one common fixed location on the mental map of Indo-Germanic myths; it may be located below the earth, on a mountain top, on an island, in the sky, or in a cave. However, this other world is always a realm lying beyond a body of water—beyond ocean, river, or bay. In some regions one crosses this water on a ferry; in others one must wade or swim. The slow, flowing waters the traveler crosses are everywhere emblematic of the stream of forgetfulness; the water has the power to strip those who cross it of memories that attach them to life. The sleepy beating of the head in the threnos with which the mourning women lull the heroes of Thebes into their last sleep reminds Aeschylus of the monotonous beat of the oars across the river Acheron.

“This river, which sums up recollections, detaches memories, detaches from the dead those deeds that survive them, came to be called “Lethe” by the Greeks. Just as the Egyptians, for whom the Nile had been the divide between the two kingdoms, placed the reign of shadow on the western bank toward the horizon where Heaven and Earth are fused, so in late antiquity this body of water was located in far-off Galicia. During the Middle Ages the poor souls on the way to purgatory had to cross the Atlantic Ocean to reach the fabulous island of Saint Patrick, shown to the northwest of Cabo Verde until late into the fifteenth century.

“Bruce Lincoln has shown that there is yet another common feature in all Indo-Germanic mytho-hydrography. What the rivers or beaches wash from those who cross them is not destroyed. All mythic waters feed a source that is located on the other side. The streams carry the memories that Lethe has washed from the feet of the dead to this well thereby turning dead men into mere shadows. This well of remembrance the Greeks called “Mnemosyne.” In her clear waters, the residues of lived-out lives float like the specks of fine sand at the bottom of a bubbling spring. Thus a mortal who has been blessed by the gods can approach this well and listen to the Muses sing in their several voices what is, what was, and what will be. Under the protection of Mnemosyne, he may recollect the residues that have sunk into her bosom by drinking from her waters. When he returns from his journey, from his dream or vision, he can tell what he has drawn from this source. Philo says that by taking the place of a shadow the poet recollects the deeds which a dead man has forgotten. In this way the world of the living is constantly nourished by the flow from Mnemosyne’s lap through which dream water ferries to the living those deeds that the shadows no longer need.”

—Ivan Illich, H20 and the Waters of Forgetfulness