#agricultural pursuits

[theartingace]

Idea: orchard harvester saddle. More of a standing platform with a scooter handlebar for the rider where the centaur can hand things up and down. (playing Farming Simulator is making me crave more peaceful/agricultural world building; there's already so much Warlike WB around, it needs some balance)

(also, eat like a horse vs eat like a bird, horse metab is high efficiency but a lot of it just due to net size, imagine that efficiency applied to refined grains and breads. Centaur diets would be less-per-weight than humans, although not necessarily by much due to the metabolic needs of sapient brain and foretorso)

Ohhhh I absolutely love this and absolutely think it should be a thing. I've been thinking more about the inherent benefits of centaurs in an agrarian society and more and more the borders of the Merchant city has been expanding outward towards the edge of Rider territory with enormous matriarchal farm towns that feed most of the surrounding societies so this would fit right in to that kind of lifestyle! And sounds so useful! One doing the moving and loadbearing, one doing the climbing and picking.

And I agree, war shapes societies undeniably but so many worldbuilders forget that trade, craft and industry shape cultures and societies just as much! It's definitely a topic i could GO OFF about haha, I have major exports and interrelated trade agreements drawn up between ALL my current societies 😁

(also absolutely, the use of refined grains and bread was a huge part of my initial thoughts about how centaurs could survive feeding that big horse body with comparatively small/limited human teeth. The efficiency of processed grain and grass fibers would be SO necessary to their digestion and overall survival!)

[sauridae]

something about widespread, non-required, white knight veganism really tells me how many people still need to work with themselves on their conceptuals surrounding death and their comfort with not only their own, but the importance of death for life to continue

[shamanflavio]

"Stellar Ancestry: Unveiling the Ancient Andeans' Cosmic Connection"

Andeans and the cosmos is deeply rooted in their cosmology and worldview, reflecting a holistic integration of their spiritual beliefs, agricultural practices, and societal organization.

The profound connection between the ancient Andeans and the cosmos is deeply rooted in their cosmology and worldview, reflecting a holistic integration of their spiritual beliefs, agricultural practices, and societal organization. The Andean cosmology, characterized by its complexity and depth, emphasizes a symbiotic relationship between humans, nature, and celestial bodies, underscoring the…

[yourtongzhihazel]

sorry if this is a very idiotic question but how is the existence of private firms in China not antithetical to it being a socialist state. this is seriously in good faith I'm genuinely curious TT

This is a pretty common question, not just when it comes to China, but also to most socialist states, including the USSR at the time.

in short, the transformation of a country's mode of production takes a very long time. The development and maturation of capitalism took hundreds of years and had many stages: mercantilism, primitive accumulation, national competition, global expansion, and finally, imperialism (the highest stage of capitalism). Socialism will also take a long time to mature. Socialism is not a checklist of haves and have nots. Socialism isn't when collectives or cooperatives. Socialism isn't when no billionaires. Socialism most definitely is not when government does stuff or taxes on rich people.

The transition to socialism requires the development of productive forces. The goal of Reform and Opening Up (改革开放, GGKF) was to build up the productive forces which China lacked at the time. While China had a solid heavy industrial and agricultural base, it lacked in other areas. Additionally, thanks to the Sino-Soviet split, China was left largely isolated without much foreign trade. GGKF achieves this by opening the Chinese market to foreign capitalist investment. These foreign investors pour money into China to build factories, ports, infrastructure, assembly plants, etc., etc., in order to take advantage of cheap Chinese labor. The upside of this policy is the rapid accumulation of productive forces. The downside is intensifying internal contradictions (and if you ask my grandpa, the worst thing GGKF did was introducing liberals to China). Billionaires are a symptom of these intensifying internal contradictions.

China is in a nascent, primitive form of socialism: it has a dictatorship of the proletariat lead by a proletarian party. The party derives its power from the people (who make up the vast vast majority of the party). Between 2003 and 2011, the PRC executed 14 billionaires. The anti-corruption campaign also continues to rack up billionaire heads. Corrupt officials who get extremely wealthy from bribes, too, get executed. When Jack Ma tried to step out of line, his company was seized and broken up (ANT group). The state consistently puts its boots on the necks of the bourgeoisie. At the same time, Chinese worker safety, labor rights, wages, overtime, state intervention, etc. are increasing. This stands in contrast to the dictatorships of the bourgeoisie in the west, most notably america. In the usa, the billionaires control the state and thus can get away with anything they want, and not a single one will face tangible punishment, let alone get executed.

As geopolitics shift, material conditions improve, and internal contradictions are resolved, GGKF will be rolled back as China progresses on its construction of socialism. This is beginning to happen. Since the international bourgeoisie have finally realized that China never intended to liberalize and is still, in fact, a socialist state, The DOTBs that they run are working day and night to slander, sanction, and vilify the PRC. The international institutions, which China had to join in order to effect GGKF, will slowly turn against China, using any excuse to try and squeeze them. But it is largely too late. Using the fruits of GGKF, China has eliminated extreme poverty entirely, resolving one internal contradiction. Its productive forces are good enough that it can begin to carry itself without much western IP and capital. I expect the PRC to further crack down on the excesses of GGKF; indeed, several markets have been entirely eliminated via nationalization already.

Here's some nice trivia! mcdicks in China is 50% state owned and its workforce is entirely unionized! Cool huh? In exchange for access to China's massive market, in their never-ending pursuit for higher and higher profit, the bourgeoisie is willing to partially fund the largest currently-existing socialist state. "The capitalists will sell us the rope", as is often said.

Red Sails wrote a great article addressing this question, if you'd like to give it a read.

SN: AZ36

[gothhabiba]

It's striking how frequently you can take a Zionist claim, exactly reverse it, and arrive at something much closer to the truth.

Zionists claim that the majority of Palestinian land was unproductive, that Palestinians were neglecting the agricultural potential of the land, and that the مشاع (musha') system of shared landholding (wherein plots were swapped around within a large family unit rather than belonging to one owner and their descendants in perpetuity) held back the land's potential—because the "Arabs" (of course, naturally selfish) would not want to make long-term improvements or allow standard maintenance (e.g. letting it lie fallow) of land if they could not expect the sole long-term benefit from doing so.

I expect that this system, like all systems, had its disadvantages, but Palestinians were demonstrably making long-term changes to the land which their whole unit would benefit from. Terracing, for example, must be accepted to be a long-term project which does not merely immediately extract the maximum yield from the soil year after year?

Meanwhile, while Israelis have invented and instituted developments in agriculture (drip irrigation and irrigation with wastewater as tools of water management, for example), these developments are ones that they have actively prevented Palestinians from making themselves by depriving them of land, water, electricity, capital, the ability to import or export anything, or anything else you would need to technologically innovate anything, since the late 19th century—

—and Israeli methods of agriculture often fall into the ethos of "immediately extract the maximum yield from the soil year after year," with nitrate pollution from their constant use of fertilizers poisoning well water (mostly to the detriment of Palestinians), pollution of soil with salt buildup, use of pesticides leading to high rates of breast cancer, overpumping aquifiers and causing them to fill with brackish water in pursuit of water-hungry crops that should not be grown in the south of Palestine, &c.

And meanwhile the agricultural methods that many Palestinians are now forced to use frequently approach "only think about this season's yield," because they have no faith that they will be able to reap the benefits of their investments (constantly being bombed and driven from their lands and having their farming equipment banned or destroyed) and because they cannot let their land lie fallow for a moment without Israel using that as a pretext to "legally" expropriate it. Zionism is what creates these habits.

Yet even in these adverse conditions, Palestinians use eggshells and fish excrement as natural fertilizers, grow plants without soil, return to the use of historical crops, &c...

[greenwitchcrafts]

September 2023 witch guide

September 2023 witch guide

Full moon: September 29th

New moon: September 14th

Sabbats: Mabon September 23rd

September Harvest Moon

Also known as: Autumn moon, falling leaves moon, song moon, leaves turning moon, moon of brown leaves, yellow leaf moon, wine moon & Full corn moon

Element: Earth

Zodiac: Virgon& Libra

Animal spirits: Trooping Faeries

Deities: Brigid, Ceres, Ch'ang-o, Demeter, Freya, Isis & Vesta

Animals: Jackal & snake

Birds: Ibis & sparrow

Trees: Bay, hawthorn, hazel & larch

Herbs/plants: Copal, fennel, rye, skullcap, valerian, wheat & witch hazel

Flowers: Lily & Narcissus

Scents: Bergamot, gardenia, mastic & storax

Stones: Bloodstone, chrysolite, citrine, olivine, peridot & sapphire

Colors: Browns, dark blue, greens & yellows ( Earth tones)

Energy: Balance of light & dark, dietary matters, employment, health, intellectual pursuits, prosperity, psychism, rest, spirituality, success & work environments. Also cleaning & straightening mentally, physically & spiritually.

Technically, the Harvest Moon is the Full Moon closest to the September equinox around September 21st. The Harvest Moon is the only Full Moon name determined by the equinox rather than a month. Most years, it’s in September, but around every three years, it falls in October.

In September, the Full Moon is the Corn Moon from the Native American tribes harvesting their corn. It can also be the Harvest Moon, which corresponds with the Anglo-Saxon name, while Celtic and Old English names are Wine Moon, Song Moon, and Barley Moon.

Mabon

Also known as: Autumn Equinox, Cornucopia, Witch's Thanksgiving & Alban Elved

Season: Fall

Symbols: Acorns, apples, autumn leaves, berries, corn, cornucopia (horn of plenty), dried seeds, gourds, grains, grapes, ivy, pine cones, pomegranates, vines, wheat, white roses & wine

Colors: Blue brown, drk red, deep gold, gold, indigo, lead green, maroon, orange, red, russet, violet & yellow

Oils/incense: Apple, apple blossom, benzoin, black pepper, hay/straw, myrrh, passion flower, patchouli, pine, red poppy & sage

Animals: Dog, goose, hawk, swan, swallow & wolf

Stones: Agate, amethyst, carnelian, lapis lazuli, sapphire, yellow Agate  & yellow topaz

Foods: Apples, blackberries, blackberry wine, bread, carrots, cider, corn, cornbread, grapes, heather wine, nuts, onions, pomegranates, potatoes, squash, vegetables, wheat & winw

Herbs/plants: Acorn, benzoin, cedar, corn, cypress, ferns, grains, hazel, hops, ivy, myrrh, oak, pine, sage, sassafras, Salomon's seal, thistle, tobacco & wheat

Flowers: Aster, heather, honeysuckle, marigold, milkweed, mum,passion flower& rose

Goddesses: Danu, Epona, Modron, Morrigan, Muses, Pomona, Persephone, Sophia & Sura

Gods: Esus, Green Man, Hermes, Mabon, Mannanan, Toth & Thor

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Accomplishment, agriculture, balance, goals, gratitude & grounding

Spellworks: Balance, harmony, protection, prosperity, security & self confidence

Related festivals:

• Sukkot- is a Torah-commanded holiday celebrated for seven days, beginning on the 15th day of the month of Tishrei. It is one of the Three Pilgrimage Festivals (Hebrew: שלוש רגלים, shalosh regalim) on which those Israelites who could were commanded to make a pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem. In addition to its harvest roots, the holiday also holds spiritual importance with regard to its abandonment of materialism to focus on nationhood, spirituality, and hospitality, this principle underlying the construction of a temporary, almost nomadic, structure of a sukkah.

• Mid-Autumn festival- also known as the Moon Festival or Mooncake Festival, is a traditional festival celebrated in Chinese culture. Similar holidays are celebrated by other cultures in East & Southeast Asia. It is one of the most important holidays in Chinese culture; its popularity is on par with that of Chinese New Year. The history of the Mid-Autumn Festival dates back over 3,000 years. The festival is held on the 15th day of the 8th month of the Chinese lunisolar lunisolar calendar with a full moon at night, corresponding to mid-September to early October of the Gregorian calendar. On this day, the Chinese believe that the Moon is at its brightest and fullest size, coinciding with harvest time in the middle of Autumn.

• Thanksgiving- This is a secular holiday which is similar to the cell of Mabon; A day to give thanks for the food & blessings of the previous year. The American Thanksgiving is the last Thursday of November while the Canadian Thanksgiving is celebrated in October

• Festival of Dionysus- There were several festivals that honored Dionysus, the God of wine. It was a time of fun, games, feasting & drinking wine.

Activities:

•Scatter offerings in a harvested fields, Offer libations to trees

• Decorate your home and/or altar space for fall

• Bake bread

• Perform a ritual to restore balance and harmony to your life

• Cleanse your home of negative energies

• Pick apples

• Have a dinner or feast with your family and/or friends

• Set intentions for the upcoming year

• Purge what is no longer serving you

•Take a walk in the woods

• Enjoy a pumpkin spice latte

• Donate to your local food bank

• Gather dried herbs, plants, seeds & pods

• Learn something new

• Make wine

• Brew an apple cinnamon simmer pot

• Create an outdoor Mabon altar

•Adorn burial sites with leaves, acorns, & pinecones to honor those who have passed over & visit their graves

Many cultures see the second harvest (after the first harvest Lammas) and equinox as a time for giving thanks. This time of year is when farmers know how well their summer crops did, and how well fed their animals have become. This determines whether you and your family would have enough food for the winter. That is why people used to give thanks around this time, thanks for their crops, and animals, and food. 

The name Mabon comes from the Welsh God, who was the son of the Earth Mother Goddess. However, there is evidence that the name was adopted in the 1970s, and the holiday was not originally a Celtic celebration.

Some believe Night and day are of equal legth and the God's energy & strength are nearly gone . The Goddess begins to mourn the loss she knows is coming, but knows he will return when he reborn at Yule.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Wikipedia

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Mabon: Rituals, Recipes & Lore for the Autumn Equinox Llewellyn's Sabbat Essentials

[homeboundmonsters]

I don't post a lot of analysis here but enjoy this mad scuffling of thoughts on the Tragedy of Javert as the Failed Lover

For me the moment Javert really loses it over Jean Valjean is not at the barricade but when Jean Valjean ‘dies’. In Toulon Jean Valjean belonged to the system, Javert’s eyes could watch him but they were not the only eyes that possessed Valjean with the intensity and scrutiny of the Law. In Montreuil-Sur-Mer Javert spends four years following him, stalking him. His eyes possess Valjean, he tries to offer him up to the law and is abandoned alone in his scrutiny and observation. Yes, Valjean belongs to the townspeople but not Really because they don’t see him like Javert sees him, they don’t have the intimacy of observation that Javert has. In his unaware and abstract way Javert is trying to understand Valjean, not intellectually but biologically: it is the broadness of his shoulders, the strength of his thighs, the gait he walks with; Javert seeks to understand the way his body speaks. For four years Javert is left alone in his desire and the intensity of his desire to penetrate Valjean’s secrets.

Then the rug is pulled out from under him. His understanding of why he consumes this man is ripped away and, all of a sudden, he has to reframe his understanding of why he feels this intensity of emotion, and desire for ‘knowing’, and he cannot understand it. Instead, he wants to run from it: he wants to be dismissed, to flee into mediocrity and the drudgery of agriculture. He can’t bear the burden of his guilt as a spy, but he has been more than a spy he has been a kind of peeping-Tom wanting to see inside of Madeleine and reveal him. This is an affront to Javert, not because he’s homophobic but because Madeleine is a superior: Madeleine is untouchable, a man of better class, better breeding. But mostly because Javert cannot understand his own feelings beyond the idea of them being an intrusion on the Better class of People that he has been determined to serve. He might as well as become aware of himself peeping into a bedroom window. He is a guard dog, he is not meant to experience what goes on in the house, his place is outside. Yet he has sought out the intimate knowledge of this man and in doing so has intruded beyond his status.

But worse for Javert is the world is turned on its axis again and he is proven right. He has NOT sought to go beyond his bounds, instead he has sniffed out a strange dog in the master’s parlour stealing the master’s meal. He is no longer troubled by the uncertainty of his years long passion. The world is set to right so he settles again into the comfort that his understanding of the world and his role in the world is correct. And then, after having Valjean for himself for four solid years, he gives him back to the prison system only… Javert is not there to observe him. Valjean is given over the scrutinising eyes of others and Javert satisfies himself with service to the Law.

So then, why is he so eager to believe that Valjean is still alive? Surely by all rights he should not care that Valjean is dead, Hugo emphasises that Javert shows little interest in the newspaper article. Well, the answer supplies itself when Javert thinks of Valjean is ‘his convict’. His pursuit of Valjean in Paris is defined by the fact that he does not try to share his suspicions, he does not try to share Valjean with anyone. Again and again he foils his own plans to catch the man. There is intimacy again between them, the kind of safe intimacy that comes without touching, only observing. Javert follows him to where he sleeps and secretes himself in a mirror room to Valjean’s: he is seeking again to have an intimate understanding of Valjean biologically; the way and shape in which he lives his life. He seeks evidence of the physical form, even though some part of himself knows it already his mind and eyes hunger for freedom from doubt. Is that not what Valjean always brings him: doubt? Uncertainty. Hunger, the pursuit of intimacy of understanding, the revealing of secrets and the concealed.

He is paralysed by Valjean’s disappearance at Petit-Picpus. He spends a week pacing outside searching for ways in. There is a physical barrier between him and Valjean, here he cannot observe him, here he cannot fabricate the intimacy that is brought on through observation. He is tormented by it. Why? Why does Valjean’s disappearance torment him in a way that the disappearance of Patron Minette? Javert meets Thernadier- a criminal on the run- in the sewers and is disinterested by him. Why because his mind is shaken by Valjean’s act of mercy? It is more than that. Valjean has breached the unspoken rule of their relationship again: there has been a crossing from observation into physicality and that is always destabilising for Javert. He feels safest when he is observing, that is why he is a spy. He likes to go unnoticed. Valjean brings him out into the open, not as a spy but as Javert the man. And for Javert, all these years he has felt that he understood Valjean, that he observed him and knew him as no one else did. That he had penetrated that man’s secrets, his mind, that he understood his desires and goals, and now he finds he knows nothing about him. All of that imagined intimacy is gone, torn from his hands by a man who tells him to shut up and leave already because he knows nothing.

In the carriage Javert battles with his passion, he desires physical intimacy with Valjean: seize and devour, which he can only understand within the framework of arresting him. And yet we know already that since Valjean has reappeared in Paris has been unable to share him, unwilling to give him away. To devour, to bring something into your body and make it a part of you, to process it until it becomes indistinguishable from yourself. These feelings are not new, the desire not to let Valjean go into the hands of others is not new, but for the first time Javert is wrestling with the idea that this means he must turn his back on his Mother and Father: The Law. It is the classic story of the Lover, the Lover must always leave his family to start his own with the object of his affection, but how can Javert do that when his Mother and Father, his ultimate authority, are the very outlining of society themselves? Besides that, he lacks the perceived intimacy that gave him confidence in their interactions before. How can he step out of the safety of his relationship with the Law into the unknown of this man who defies all understanding? Who blinds him, who IS the man who almost brought him to his knees in M-Sur-M? Love is terrifying, but love for someone completely unknowable? Love for someone whose very perspective of the world is so obscure to you that you feel blinded by a glimpse of it? For Javert love has always been self-sacrifice and service. He turned his back on his own people to become a prison guard, he served as a policeman suffering contempt and poverty; so, he loves Valjean how he understands love to be: he sacrifices himself. That at least makes sense to him when nothing else does.

But my point is, as rambling and incoherent as this has been, that Javert has loved Jean Valjean, and wanted to Love Jean Valjean for a long time and not known it. How can a person know Love when they have never experienced it? Not just romantic love, but familial, the love of friendship, the love of a pet. This man has been so abstracted from society by his birth and ethnicity that he never even understood to recognise love from the outsider’s view: he has never even looked on love as a concept. Why torment yourself with what you can’t have? But despite everything, Javert does love and he does love as someone should: self-sacrificingly, with constancy, with patience, with a desire to understand, with a desire to protect and preserve. Javert is the Failed Lover archetype, once upon a time he could have been Marius: watching and falling in love by glances, understanding, scaling walls to communicate and develop intimacy. But Javert, and Jean Valjean in turn, were always doomed to be on the outside, out in the cold.

[astrojulia]

Virgo Sun + Risings

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✧.*Aries Rising: You're full of vibrant energy, taking risks and masking uncertainty with assertiveness. Your warmth attracts others, though insecurities can push them away. Your heart seeks recognition and flattery. You're robust physically and love outdoor activities. While impulsive at first, your methodical side becomes evident as people get to know you.

✧.*Taurus Rising: Sociable and refined, you have a deep affinity for animals. You enjoy social interactions, have artistic flair, and are nurturing. You can be cautious with finances but indulge occasionally. Family dynamics might have tension. You're committed to your aspirations, and your practicality shines.

✧.*Gemini Rising: You're sociable, intelligent, and curious. Your loyalty is reserved for a chosen few. You're a thinker, delving into books and seeking rational explanations. You're busy with a thirst for knowledge, but you tend to graze the surface of topics. Family conflicts are common, and your actions sometimes create predicaments.

✧.*Cancer Rising: You're affectionate but hesitant to engage deeply. Emotional wounds are hidden, leading to occasional mood shifts. You're discerning with friends and value consideration. Imagination drives you, and your journey includes fame and influence. Family dynamics can be complex, and you might have grown up as an only child.

✧.*Leo Rising: You're commanding and benevolent, exuding self-assurance. You have a taste for collecting and a constructive outlet for criticism. Sociable and joyful, you seek recognition. Flattery can complicate love. You appreciate grandeur and beauty. Family dynamics might have challenges, but your traits form a captivating personality.

✧.*Virgo Rising: Intelligent and analytical, you categorize and critique everything. You're a natural leader but hesitant to give orders. You value loyalty in friends and remain composed in critical situations. Ambitious and pragmatic, family complexities might arise, and you occasionally reveal a wilder side beneath your composed exterior.

✧.*Libra Rising: Serious yet humorous, you avoid confrontations and maintain a modest profile. Family dynamics might lack ambition. You're shyer than you appear, finding comfort in familiar faces. Stepping out of your comfort zone could lead to growth. Embrace risks for a fulfilling life.

✧.*Scorpio Rising: You're discerning, self-critical, and intense. You focus on those who adore you, becoming a remarkable friend and lover. Your professionalism drives success, but temper your exacting standards. Your vivid imagination and occasional jealousy surface. Family dynamics might involve setbacks.

✧.*Sagittarius Rising: Nervous vitality drives your pursuits. You're ambitious, diligent, and adventurous. Prioritize personal matters and avoid excessive burdens. You're courteous and serene, treasuring autonomy. Family dynamics might involve siblings, and your life is characterized by positive relations.

✧.*Capricorn Rising: Practical and accomplished, you comprehend others and excel in diverse cultures. Balance work and leisure, and don't shy away from relaxation. You're reliable but might shoulder too many burdens. Family dynamics might involve challenges. Your resolute pursuit of goals is unwavering.

✧.*Aquarius Rising: Detached yet concerned for others, you're a passionate advocate for freedom and global issues. Collaborative and skilled at blending in, you shield your sensitivity. Friendships thrive, but you can be temperamental. Family dynamics might involve siblings, and your parent could have connections in trade or agriculture.

✧.*Pisces Rising: Gentle yet resolute, you balance artistic talent with pragmatism. Collaboration and compromise bring harmony. You're perceptive but shield your inner world. Solitude isn't preferred, and you find solace among like-minded individuals. Family dynamics might involve turbulence.

Extra Sources: Drawing by Destina Eroland

(CC) AstroJulia Some Rights Reserved

[ladamedusoif]

Tempered in the Fire - Part One

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: Mature (chapter); Explicit 18+ (series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; almost certainly inaccurate depictions of blacksmithing; slightly wonky history; likely slightly wonky renderings of Irish language (technically my third language!).

A/N: Translations for any dialogue in Irish are provided at the end of the chapter. The Irish language was one of the casualties of the colonisation of the island, as it became associated with a lack of education (though the tide turned somewhat in the late nineteenth/early twentieth centuries) and has never recovered. (Go and listen to ‘Butchered Tongue’ on Hozier’s latest album for a musical reflection on this, it even includes references to 1798)

Tagging interested parties and my usual taglist people - sign up via my taglist if you want to be added (or let me know if you’d rather not be tagged!): @gracie7209, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @trulybetty, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid

This is a quiet place, a landscape rendered in greens, greys, and whites, the simple rural dwellings peppering the good agricultural land that stretches across the county.

Appearances can be deceiving, though. What seems to the outsider as a long-established peace is the result of a more recent and more violent pacification. The fields where young men lost their lives in the pursuit of a dream of freedom give nothing away today, almost a decade after the rebellion was brutally crushed. They didn’t stand a chance against the arrayed ranks of muskets, being armed only with tall, sharp pikes, hammered for them on the anvils of sympathetic blacksmiths around the country.

The people who live and work here bear the scars - some literal, some psychological, but all livid, fresh, and painful.

In this idyll where trauma and anger simmers beneath the surface, his forge is a long, low, whitewashed stone building roofed in thatch. It’s a little outside the nearest village, sitting just off the main road on the way to the next big town. Like most of those who ply this trade, the blacksmith here lives alongside his place of work: one half of the building is the forge, the other is the neat, simple home he shares with the little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

He’s an essential figure: he makes all manner of metal goods and repairs them, too, in a world where nothing is disposable. He shoes horses, too, and his gentle care for the elegant beasts is well-known around the county.

Still, he’s not the most obvious candidate for a ‘pillar of the community’. Unlike other smiths in the area he’s not known for holding court while he works, regaling his customers with yarns and stories. He keeps himself to himself, mostly, though he comes into the village with the boy to buy supplies, collect items for repair, and return what he’s mended to their owners.

He’s been at his anvil for twenty years, or thereabouts. As is the way of a small community, all manner of stories circulate about where he came from and why there was no obvious family of origin. Most assume he comes from travelling people, who are known for their skill with metalworking.

Such is his reputation for consistently good work, fairness, and decency, though, that no one would ever dream of pushing him to say more about himself. This man of few words, who wears his apron like his armour and sometimes wraps a band of grey cloth around his mouth and nose when he works, to protect his lungs from the soot and smoke, is both insider and outsider in a place where such binaries are normally strictly enforced.

“You’ll be living high on the hog soon enough, then, Din? What with all the work that’s coming your way now.”

He looks up from the horseshoe he’s hammering into shape, dark eyes staring at the silhouette of the local priest, framed by the light of the forge’s small front window. Father Carthy has come to have his horse shod - and, it seems, to discuss the blacksmith’s fortunes.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The priest steps closer to the anvil, a look of surprise on his face when he realises the blacksmith hasn’t heard. “Bad accident over in the forge at Donapatrick. He’ll be alright, but their smith is out for the next few months, at least. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Din dips the shoe into a tub of cold water, sending a hiss and a plume of steam into the air.

“So they’re coming to me?”

“Most of them. Your reputation precedes you.”

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not sure I can take on all that extra work.”

Father Carthy scoffs. “Don’t turn it down, Din. Lean times are always waiting round the corner, just when you least expect them.” He peers around the stone forge at the centre of the room, trying to spot the little figure who’s been hiding in the shadows.

“Sure you have an apprentice to help you, don’t you?”

The little boy stares silently, intently with his huge, dark eyes at the man clad in clerical black.

“Well, he’s inherited your gift of the gab, Din, anyway. Look, you’ll be glad of the few extra shillings. I know it’s not always easy making ends meet, between looking after yourself and the lad.”

Din pulls himself up to his full height, cutting an imposing, broad figure in his soot-marked shirt, leather apron, simple brown woollen breeches, and boots.

“We manage. Gró?” The boy appears at the blacksmith’s side. “Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.”

He swiftly locates a box of horseshoe nails, each made by hand at Din’s anvil. The priest raises an eyebrow.

“He’ll need English, Din, or he’ll get nowhere. I’d be glad to teach him if-“

Din cuts him off with a pointed sigh. “He understands every word. But this is how we talk to each other.”

Behind him, the sandy-haired boy narrows his eyes and scowls at Father Carthy.

You know it’s not usual for a woman of your age and station to ride alone, but then you’re not usual for a woman of your age and station. And your washtub is leaking, and your horse needs to be shod. Needs must.

You saddle up the horse, strapping the tub on one side, and wrap yourself up in your shawl, securing it at the waist with a well-worn leather belt. You mount the little brown horse and turn her in the direction of Donapatrick and the local forge.

“How did you not hear?” Seán, the blacksmith’s apprentice, stares up at you in astonishment. “Everyone heard!”

You feel like kicking him in the ribs for talking to you like that. He’s no more than thirteen, and yet here he is talking to a woman who could comfortably be his mother (and then some) like she came down in the last shower.

“I didn’t hear because I wasn’t told, and because I have better things to be doing than gossiping around the village.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, regardless. You’ll have to go over to the other forge - the fella over the bridge, about twenty minutes away. You know it?”

You do know it, though you’ve never had reason to go inside. Why would you, when Peter’s forge is so much closer? You don’t even know the other blacksmith’s name, and in this part of the world that’s a strange situation indeed.

“Right, so.” You gently dig your heels into the horse’s sides, she starts to walk, and you make your way to the road that leads down to the river, the stone bridge, and, eventually, the whitewashed forge beyond.

Just as Father Carthy had predicted, Din was snowed under with extra work since Peter’s accident a week or so before. He is exceptionally well-organised by nature, managing his own accounts and records with great attention to detail, and he has extended the system to help him cope with the new demand. With Gró’s help, he organises the items for repair into separate sections, labelled according to whether they belong to existing or temporary customers. He sets up a new ledger to take account of custom orders from people who normally go to the other smith, and takes note of new faces who come to have their horse shod.

Din is cross-checking his records at the table in the main room of his home when he hears the sound of hooves approaching. He asks Gró to peek out, to see if it’s a familiar face or another new customer.

The boy climbs up on the deep windowsill to look out through one of the small cottage windows.

“Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í.”

Din stands up and goes to the door, reaching for his apron as he does so.

He cuts an unusual figure, this blacksmith. There aren’t many people around here who look like him. You notice the penetrating dark eyes first, taking you in as you slow and pull up the horse. His dark hair is wavy, curling in places, and you are surprised to see that he’s bearded - if you can call the patchy scruff around his mouth and jaw a beard.

He’s younger than you’d expected, maybe forty, and well-built - broad shoulders, strong, muscular forearms marked with scars from his work, his shirt loose and open to expose a stretch of his tanned chest. He ties on a leather apron as you dismount, and walks out to greet you.

“Good day. I was hoping you could help with a repair? And my horse needs to be shod, too. I’m sorry, I usually go to Peter up in Donap -“

He cuts you off with a nod. “I know. Yes. That’s fine. The tub, is that the repair?”

You raise your eyebrows at how direct he is. Curt, almost. Rude, some would say.

“It is. It’s leaking at the side, here.” You undo the strap and he takes the washtub down. It looks strangely tiny against his substantial form.

He turns and gesticulates with his head in the direction of the open door. From the dark interior, a striking boy emerges, clutching a piece of paper, some string, and a stubby pencil.

The blacksmith gives him instructions and he diligently scrawls a number on the paper, before attaching it to the tub with the string and carrying it into the forge.

“Do you only speak in Irish to him?”

The smith has turned his attention to your horse, examining each of her hooves in turn. He looks at you quizzically.

“It’s what he prefers. What we prefer. He understands English perfectly.”

“Unusual that he’s fair and you’re dark. Is his mother fair? I suppose she must be.”

He sighs.

“I don’t know.”

You can’t stop yourself from letting out a little gasp. He looks up at you, dark eyes frustrated at your constant chatter. But he knows this needs explanation.

“He’s my apprentice. He’s a foundling. I’ve taken him as my own.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

He strokes the horse’s muzzle, not looking directly at you. “You didn’t know. I can shoe the horse now, though you’ll need to wait. The tub will take a day or two.”

You nod in agreement.

“What’s her name?”

His voice is softer. He’s still looking at your little horse, who’s loving the attention from this new person.

“Réaltín.” She has a perfect little splash of white between her eyes, in the shape of a little star. You couldn’t have named her anything else.

He repeats the animal’s name, and you see the tiniest hint of a smile cross his lips before his serious expression returns.

It turns cold, and you wait it out on a stool just inside the door of the forge, glad of the warmth.

You watch as the blacksmith heats up and works the metal shoes at his anvil, so they’ll fit Réaltín’s smaller hooves perfectly. The light from the fire illuminates his features as he works, highlighting the beads of sweat on his brow and picking out the various shades of brown in his eyes. He has pulled a band of grey cloth over his nose and mouth, which draws your attention all the more to his dark gaze.

The little boy stares at you while the man works, occasionally helping him by fetching an implement or helping work the bellows. You give him a little wave and a smile, hoping he’ll respond. He doesn’t come any closer, but you see him grin for a moment before he disappears behind the broad figure of his master - well, his adoptive father, if what the blacksmith said is correct.

Peter’s forge is always full of chat and song and gossip, a kind of social hub as much as a vital service. In contrast, the only music here is the singing of the anvil as the silent, stoic smith works, interspersed with the whoosh of the bellows and the hiss of the cooling tub. He doesn’t look at you, eyes always trained on the task at hand or at his little apprentice. He doesn’t speak, except to the little boy.

After a few exchanges, you realise something. “Is he called Gró?”

The smith keeps working. “That is what I call him, yes.”

“Funny to call a little thing like that after a poker.”

He turns his attention to the fire for a moment before he answers you. “He kept trying to stoke the fire on his own when I first took him in. I said the word so much it became his name. He likes it.”

Silence. Singing metal. Hissing steam.

He makes sure Gró watches him at every step as he removes the old horseshoes, cleans Réaltín’s hooves, files them carefully, and attaches the new shoes. Throughout, he quietly explains to the boy what he’s doing, and why.

Your stomach is rumbling, and you remember the supplies you brought with you (and had forgotten about).

When they’ve finished the last hoof, you speak up. “I - I brought a cake of fresh bread with me, in case it took longer. And I have butter, too, and a little crab apple jam. I’d be glad to share it with the little lad.”

Gró’s enormous eyes widen with excitement and he grins. (He really does understand English perfectly, you think.)

“We have enough food for ourselves, thank you.”

The boy’s face falls.

“I just meant as a little treat. A thank you, for taking the job when you’ve so much to be doing.”

He sighs, again. “Well… ach. Yes. Come in.”

Their home is neat and simply furnished, and he evidently knows how to look after a household as well as a business. You sit at the wooden table in the main room, which serves as kitchen, living area, and office for the blacksmith’s records. Out of the corner of your eye you spy a ladder going up to the attic, which you presume must be used as a sleeping space. A door leads off the main part of the house to what looks to be a smaller room.

Gró is already on his third piece of bread, butter, and apple jam, a shiny orange smear on the tip of his little nose.

“I hope this tastes okay. It’s always so hard to know when you churn butter, isn’t it?” You sip some of the cool water he’d poured into an earthenware mug for you.

“I don’t know. I’ve never churned butter.”

His reply is so deadpan that you wonder for a moment if he’s joking. You decide he isn’t.

“It’s not that hard,” you continue. “And I have the cow and the milk so why not?” You chew on a bit of bread, appraising your handiwork. “Actually, not bad at all, this time.”

He grunts in agreement. “You have a farm?”

“A very small smallholding. Tenant to the lord, like most of us.”

“Your husband works the land, then.”

You stare at the crust of bread in front of you, and clear your throat.

“He doesn’t. He’s…not here. He’s gone.”

The blacksmith’s eyes soften. “I’m very sorry for your troubles. Sickness, or was it in the fighting -”

You look at him directly. “That bastard wouldn’t fight for anything, not even his wife. He’s not dead. Or at least, I don’t think he’s dead. But I wish he was, because then I’d really be free.”

For a moment it looks like the stoic blacksmith is going to choke. He reaches for his own mug and drinks deeply.

“Well, now, I -“

“He upped and went. A few years back. God knows where he is now. He’s not around here, anyway. I’d say he’s skipped to Belfast or London.” You finish your bread. “Lucky the smallholding had come through my father, so I wasn’t out on the road.”

He’s flushed, and evidently a little uncomfortable. Well, he started it, you think.

“How do you survive - do you have children, too?”

You shake your head. “No, a blessing not to have them. And I do what I did before I married - I sew. Mostly alterations and refashioning and repairing, now, but at least I have a trade.”

The smith nods to himself. “A useful one.”

“Not as useful as yours.”

He gives you a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

You stand up and start to clear the dishes. “Keep the rest of the bread and the butter and jam. I’ll collect the jars when I come back for the tub.”

He starts as if to speak, standing up from his chair, and seems nervous.

“Could I - we - ask you to do something for us?”

“It depends, but…”

“Clothes. Gró’s clothes are in need of mending. Badly. Would you be able to help?”

You smile and nod. “I’d be delighted to. Lord, has the poor lad been going without mending for this long?”

The smith opens a wooden chest and takes out a small bundle of tiny items of clothing. “Not quite. Peigí normally does it, but she’s been so busy with the work in her yard lately that I didn’t want to ask.”

Peigí is something of a legend in the area, a fiery woman who stubbornly insisted on taking over her father’s trade in repairing carts and wagons - and succeeded. You smile wryly to yourself at the vision of her wielding a needle and thread.

He hands you the clothes, wrapped in a faded piece of red and white cloth. “Oh, hold on.” He reaches back into the chest and retrieves a dark grey knitted sweater that has seen better days. “I don’t know if you darn, too, but he’ll need this in the colder weather, and -“

You take the sweater, handling it with care, and clutch the little bundle to your chest. “It’s no bother at all.”

He smiles, genuinely smiles, at you for the first time. You marvel at how such a stern, hardy man can reveal himself to be quite so soft - eyes crinkling, expression warm and friendly, teeth white in that tanned face streaked with grime from the forge.

“Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for you to introduce yourself. You tell him your name.

“And you’re…”

“Din.”

“Din. And Gró.” The little boy swivels in his seat at the sound of his name, and sends the sneaky spoonful of apple jam that he’s been enjoying flying to the flagstone floor.

Din accompanies you as you strap the bundle of clothes to the saddle, and mount Réaltín for the journey home.

“I’ll be back in two days for the tub. I’ll bring his things then.”

Din gives the horse an affectionate pat, and nods as you turn and head back up the narrow road.

Gró has come to the door of the house.

“’s bean deas í, a dhaid.”

Translations:

Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.

Give me the nails, there’s a good boy.

Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í

It’s a woman on a horse, she’s a stranger.

’s bean deas í, a dhaid

She’s a nice lady, daddy. (Can also mean ‘pretty lady’).

And yes, ‘gró’ in Irish can mean crow-bar - or, in older dialect, a poker.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Ok so I really wanna ask something 🙏🏽

How do you think this all panned out? After Genesis discovered the truth, did he ever actually confront his foster parents when he came to Banora? You know..before he killed them? Was it quick or did his parents desperately try to reason with him before their demise? In my mind I can imagine Gen was kind of losing it from the hurt and betrayal, especially for him and his clones to go out and slaughter all the townspeople but idk

I'm a sucker for angst (as we all are around here) x

The degradation not only affected his body but also his mind profoundly—though it does not excuse his actions. I know It's widely accepted that Genesis's parents were assholes, but I like to give them nuance like every parent in the franchise (minus Hojo fuck him) and make them dismissive, but caring in their own way, and it stems from a scene that I've overanalyzed to shit:

In that scene where Zack and Tseng find Genesis in the factory, Zack says that Gen's parents would’ve given Shinra false information without the need for threats, and Genesis’s demeanor completely shifts. In an earlier scene, Lazard alludes to how his parents could be lying to cover for him, so what was Genesis’s reaction here? Guilt? Anger because Zack pointed out his parents were loyal? Anger because Zack insinuated that his parents cared for him and Genesis knew they didn't?

He goes from lounging on the ground, seemingly smug and unaffected with his little Loveless copy, to abruptly standing up, proclaiming, "My parents betrayed me. They have always betrayed me from the very beginning," and hurling a ball of fire at Tseng. I might be reading too much into this, but that scene always stuck out to me.

In any case, you’ve given me a really good prompt and you asked for angst! So here you go:

-

He wasn’t blind to how privileged he was, even as a child. He knew some children in the village with unhappy home lives and parents who did not speak to each other, others whose financial conditions wrecked their families. Genesis became hyper-aware of that privilege when his best and only friend became one of them. Angeal lost his father young, being raised by a single mother in the latter half of his youth who did not make enough to support both herself and her son.

And then he met Sephiroth, another victim of an unhappy childhood, who had no parents and grew up confined to the walls of the same company that curated his birth.

Genesis was the odd one out in their trio, the only one who knew what a stable home life was like, to have two healthy parents—although he was not a healthy child. He was the only one who did not know what it was to not come home to two people at the end of the day, to not have every one of your whims indulged in. Granted, weren’t perfect.

As a child Genesis would call them strict. Genesis grew up needing to be perfect, to make them proud, someone that they could gloat over, which was why they posed no objection when he wanted to join SOLDIER. His father was a proud man, a prominent figure in Banora’s gentry, head of a house older than Banora itself. But he was fair, which was one of Genesis’ favorite qualities about him. He never discouraged his son’s theatrics, seeing them as opportunities for prestige. So he allowed Genesis fencing lessons, writing, and theater, and agricultural pursuits, all under the condition that he excelled in all areas. Genesis was set on pleasing them as a child, vying to be the best, the most awarded, and to give his parents all the awards they wanted.

This pleasing attitude began to wane when he hardened into a young man. He longed for independence, making use of his hidden base in the Banora mines, oftentimes favoring his hiding spot over his room back at home. Suffocated by his parents and their demands, he longed for independence, to move to the city and make a name for himself.

The arguments in the Rhapsodos house were plentiful when Genesis had grown into a reckless and headstrong teenager, always combative in his replies and with a tongue sharper than his sword.

But people grow and change, as did Genesis. He became a proud man, just like his father. Perhaps all the years he ingrained in Genesis's head that he needed to be the best finally got to him, and the need to be loved, glorified, and perfect became him.

His relationship with them became better as an adult, although his mother never changed.

Genesis understood his mother, granting her the compassion he did not give his father in his youth. She was at times overbearing, always fussing over him, with a hand over his forehead making sure his temperature was fine and an eye so critical and vain one would’ve thought he inherited from her had he been her biological son.

Mrs. Rhapsodos could not have children of her own, an upsetting condition to have with a social circle that prided itself over their heirs. The couple eagerly accepted the sickly baby when Shinra offered him to them. By their understanding, the baby had been a failure, not meeting Hollander’s standard and unfit to be theirs. The Rhapsodos did not see him that way. For people who had longed for a child, the one they were given was perfect beyond comparison. And perfect he would be, no matter how hard they would have to push him.

As a child, Genesis was careful not to track mud into the house. Springs in Banora were rough, with rain so insistent on decimating the local plantation, that it turned even the finest sand on the ground into mud. Mrs. Rhapsodos liked her plush white carpets, and Genesis knew the punishment for sullying the polished floors of the house would be severe. She knew where to hit her son where it hurt, knowing where he kept his flashlight he used to read late at night—unaware that the mako and enhancements in Genesis’s blood made him fit to see at night—and she knew to confiscate his books—unaware that when Genesis really liked a book, he memorized it to not need the pages to entertain himself.

It was a silly story to tell now as a man, trudging through the mud and rainfall in the middle of a Banora spring. He was coming back from Hollander’s lab with a stack of files under his arm, their contents so horrific that he thanked the rain for concealing his tears from any passersby. They had given him indefinite leave after the events in the training room. The wound in his shoulder wasn’t getting better, his duties were getting harder to fulfill by the day, so they sent him home until his condition improved.

But Genesis didn’t plan on staying there for long, especially after what he had just discovered, after what Hollander had confessed to.

His already fragile mind was a wreck.

Genesis didn’t bother to kick off his muddy boots when he went inside the house that day, watching the debris stain the white carpet, like the disbelief and rage quietly rolling off his shoulders. He rejected the maid who tried to get him to take his wet coat off, holding the files closer to him as he walked through the house. He heard laughter and the sound of talking and soft piano coming from the parlor room. It blended with the sound of his heavy breathing and footsteps. He stood at the doorway, holding the files tighter than before, forcing himself to look at them.

The question ‘Why?’ came in and out of mind, leveling with the hurt in his chest that refused to go away, competing with the pain in his shoulder that had become constant. His father sat at the piano, playing a few keys as he debated with his mother. She sat on the opposite armchair, working through her correspondences while they talked. As soon as their son’s presence became known, their conversation stopped at once.

Had he been a boy, he would’ve worried about his mother scolding him for the mud. Now he just stared at her. Mother was such a strong term.

“Genesis?” She sounded concerned and nothing but, putting her book down and rising from her seat at once. “Have you been out in the rain in your condition? Goddess help me,” she sighed, reaching instinctively for his wet coat, stopping to wipe away the rainwater from his face. “The cold can’t be good for your shoulder, darling.” He let her tug his coat away, keeping the files close to him. “What would happen if you caught a cold to complement your injury? What would people say? They'd think we're killing you to collect checks, that's what.”

His father rose from the piano, looking at him just as he did when he was a naughty child, staying out too long in the rain with Angeal and coming back with scraped knees.

“What were you doing out?” he asked, sinking his hands into the pockets or his trousers, looking at Genesis from his muddy shows to his wet hair. “Where did you go? Did anyone see you like that?”

Genesis stood still, watching.

He felt his mother's hand on the bandaged part of his shoulder, muttering something about having them changed and sterilized again.

“I went to visit Dr. Hollander,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “No one who matters saw me in this state, rest assured.”

His father nodded. “Is it your injury? Has the pain gotten worse?”

Genesis shook his head. “Just some conversation.” He glanced down at the files in his arms. “I needed to clarify some…things.” So many things.

His cryptic words fell on deaf ears to his mother, who gave his wet coat to a house staff before turning her attention back to him. “I’m going to run you a proper bath. The only thing you're going to achieve by bathing in the rain is an early grave.”

His mother brushed the wet hair out of his eyes. She was irritated, but she meant well, even if Genesis’s fortified mental state was slipping before he could realize that.

“I don’t think the rain can promise me something I already have.”

His mother's hand froze. “Genesis,” she said warningly.

His father laughed, likely trying to alleviate the tension and play into his son’s dark humor. “

Genesis looked down at her. He wasn't sure if none of it made sense, or if everything fell into place so perfectly he could no longer deny the absurdity of his life so far. His name was Genesis, for god's sake. The first one. The failed one. Half of Project G. Soon to be martyred for his belief that he could be anything but what he was born as—broken.

He shook her off, turning his back and starting out of the parlor. “I can take care of that bath myself. Excuse me.”

They were complacent in his pain right now. It could've been avoided if they had been honest with him from the beginning, instead of cradling him in lies.

“Are you sure?” She pressed. Genesis had started up the stairs when he was forced to look back at her again. It hurt every time he had to.

She was leaning on the edge of the banister. His father had come out to look at him too. They both looked concerned. It sickened him. How could they still feign concern even now? He was dying. It had already been done.

“I'm sure.” His voice cracked. He continued up the stairs, trying his hardest not to look at the photographs on the wall, the ones where the three look like a happy family, like he was their son instead of a fostered science project they were being paid to keep.

“Angeal called while you were out,” his father said. “He and Sephiroth have been trying to contact you. They told us to have you call them when you're home.”

Genesis nodded. “I'll see to it. Thank you.”

“I hope you haven't been ignoring them,” his father continued. “Need I remind you that a rift between the three of you could end up in the news.”

Genesis rolled his eyes.

When he reached the top, he leaned against the corner. He would never admit it to himself but he had to catch his breath after activities as minuscule as pulling his weight.

From there, he could hear their soft voices at the bottom when they thought he was out of earshot.

“You don't think it's scarlet fever again, is it?” his mother asked, exasperated. “He did look a bit red.”

His father hummed in amusement. “His hair is red and so is half of his wardrobe.”

“You know what I mean!”

He could hear a clinking glass that told him his father had gotten into the liquor at the table at the bottom of the steps. “Boys his age are complicated. How would you feel if you were put on leave for an injury you had no promised cure for?”

“Surely Dr. Hollander will—”

“I wouldn't put your faith in that man if I were you.”

“You watch your mouth. Hollander has done more to try to help him than any other doctor.”

“I'm being realistic, dear.” There was a pause. “The best we can do for him right now is pray and be here for him with whatever he needs.”

A choked cry from his mother. “Oh, my poor boy…Do you think he's lonely? He's away from his friends.”

Genesis could practically feel his father shake his own head as he took a sip of his brandy. “From what Angeal said, it's my understanding that he's not speaking to either Sephiroth or him.”

His mother huffed. “They were such good friends. He and Angeal have been attached at the hip since they were infants, and Sephiroth has been an amazing influence on him, don't you think?”

“Sephiroth did deliver the blow, dear.”

She gasped. “He's mad at him. Oh, what have I told that boy about holding grudges? Stubbornness that severe leads to a life of loneliness and unpopularity.”

“He's in pain, dear.”

“I'll go run him that bath, and perhaps drown him in oils if that is what it takes to wipe that frown off of his face. Goddess forbid anyone see him in that state. What would people say?”

Genesis heard his mother shuffling up the stairs. He stayed still. A single teardrop rolled down his cheek. He felt light-headed, gripping the wall for support as he caught his breath.

His father sighed disapprovingly. “He's a grown man—”

“—and as frail as he was the day we got him,” Mrs. Rhapsodos snapped.

Weeks passed, and Genesis found himself back at SOLDIER, back to his duties despite Sephiroth and Angeal’s reservations. Their conversations were rocky, with Genesis keeping to himself mostly, and opting to open up to Angeal mostly.

His shoulder still ached, a constant reminder of his vulnerability, but he pushed through the pain, determined to prove himself capable.

Returning to the familiar routines of SOLDIER life, Genesis buried himself in his work, throwing himself into missions with a fervor that bordered on recklessness. He sought solace in the adrenaline of battle, the rush of combat temporarily numbing the storm in his mind.

The revelations from his visit to Hollander lingered in his mind. He needed to do something, to act quickly and find a cure.

But as the days turned into weeks, Genesis found himself increasingly isolated, the rift between him and his friends widening with each passing day. Sephiroth and Angeal's concern only served to fuel his resentment, their attempts to reach out were met with cold indifference from him.

Genesis seized the first opportunity to embark on that mission to Wutai, abandoning the dreaded company that ruined his life, he found himself at the helm of a formidable force, half of SOLDIER standing behind him.

He did see his parents again after that. He confronted them the same week he returned with his army. Screams echoed through the halls of the old house, mingling with the sounds of shattering glass and the metallic tang of blood staining his hands. Tears streamed down his face as he unleashed the full force of his fury on his surroundings, refusing to address them as anything but mere strangers.

He hurled threats and accusations, his voice raw as he demanded answers, refusing to relent until they finally confessed.

His mother pleaded with him to let go of his anger. He told her that he was no son of hers. It was too late for reconciliation, and that night was the last he saw them.

Despite the pain and regret that gnawed at their hearts, his parents understood his reaction. They grappled with their own remorse, haunted by the realization that they had failed him in more ways than one. They lamented their shortcomings, wishing they had been more understanding, less rigid, more nurturing.

But their regrets remained unspoken, buried beneath layers of guilt and shame. And when the Turks came searching for Genesis in Banora, they chose to keep their encounter with him a secret, pleading with them, telling him that he was sick and not in his right mind.

In the end, their silence spoke volumes. Shinra got no information about Genesis's whereabouts from them, even if they knew about what was being done down at the factory.

Amidst the chaos of the degradation consuming his mind and body, there came fleeting moments of lucidity, like brief flickers of a dying flame in his mind. Genesis found himself trapped in an echo chamber of desperation, his thoughts consumed by the haunting verses of LOVELESS, recited on autopilot like a broken record.

For a time, he drifted in a haze, his vision clouded by hallucinations of grand battles and elusive cures, lost in a world of his own making. He moved through the motions of life like a puppet on strings, his once sharp mind dulled by the relentless onslaught of his deteriorating condition.

Autopilot became his default state, his every action guided by instinct and prophecy rather than reason. He grew distrustful of the path he walked, his anger and hurt festering like a poison within him.

It was at the tail end of his ruthless attack on Banora, when it all briefly returned to him. By then, his morals and senses had been corrupted by the insidious parasite eating away at his brain, transforming him into a cruel, unrelenting shell of his former self.

But in that brief moment of clarity, he saw them—his parents, their lifeless forms at his feet. It was a sight that pierced through the fog of his mind, stirring something deep within him. Despite the cruelty he had inflicted upon them, despite the lies and betrayal, his heart tightened with a pang of remorse. The copies had gotten to them, just as he knew they would.

So he did what little he could to atone for his sins. With trembling hands, he buried them, giving them the dignity of a proper burial. As he worked, visions of his past flooded his mind like a river, washing over him with bittersweet nostalgia.

He remembered the simple joys of his childhood—apple picking with his mother, following his father on business trips to the city.

But even as the memories washed over him, he knew they were nothing more than a facade, a cruel illusion designed to keep him ignorant and complacent.

"The grave at the house," Tseng's voice cut through the tension. "We found the remains of our people there as well."

Genesis's mind raced, the words of Loveless echoing in his ears like a mantra. "It didn't take much to have them send false reports," he said coolly, "Just some mild threats…"

Zack's voice broke through the haze. "They would have done that anyway. At least your parents would have."

It was like a glass shattering over Genesis's head. Slowly, he looked up, unfurling himself from his position on the floor. Rage simmered beneath the surface, threatening to erupt into a fiery inferno.

"My parents betrayed me," he spat, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "They had always betrayed me from the very beginning."

As Zack's words sank in, Genesis felt a surge of indignation rising within him. How dare they speak of things they didn't understand, to accuse him as if he were the villain? He was the hero, the chosen one, destined for greatness.

Fire glowed ominously from his bracer.

They didn't know anything at all.

[nunyabznsbabes]

The Yellowjackets' Cards

Misty pulls the Eight of Diamonds. Eight traditionally represents resurrection, regeneration, and new beginnings. The Diamonds suit symbolizes the merchant class, autumn, dedication, ethics, confidence, stability, and advancement. The Eight of Diamonds specifically is a sign of healing, passion, and safeguarding.

Akilah pulls the Seven of Spades. Seven traditionally represents warfare, protection, completeness, perfection, grace, and divine mercy. The Spades suit symbolizes the military, winter, water, grief, and loneliness. The Seven of Spades specifically is a sign of certainty, warning, loss, perception, intuition, and kindness.

Van pulls the Jack of Hearts. The Jack is a symbol of common blood, loyalty, good luck, deception, innocence, and new beginnings. The Hearts suit represents the Church, spring, fire, love, vows, and childhood. The Jack of Hearts specifically is a sign of love, youthful passion, emotional support, reconciliation, and the pursuit of inner knowledge.

Shauna pulls the Four of Diamonds. Four traditionally represents creation, completion, mental stability, change, and freedom. The Diamonds suit symbolizes the merchant class, autumn, dedication, ethics, confidence, stability, and advancement. The Four of Diamonds specifically is a sign of strength, a need for confrontation, sensitivity, dissatisfaction, defensiveness, stubbornness, rebellion, intuition, good fortune, new beginnings, change, and charm.

Travis pulls the Ace of Clubs. The Ace historically represented bad luck, but in the present day it represents strength, authority, power, and victory. The Clubs suit symbolizes agriculture, peasantry, summer, youth, and the earth. It is also the lowest-ranking suit in games that prioritize suits. The Ace of Clubs specifically is a sign for good luck, prosperity, abundance, power, and influence.

Tai pulls the Six of Spades. Six traditionally represents power, imperfection, humanity, broken connection, restored connection, union, romantic union, materiality, and success. This number is also associated with Satan/the Beast. The Spades suit symbolizes the military, winter, water, grief, secrecy, loneliness, obsession, and development. It is also the highest-ranking suit in games that prioritize suits. The Six of Spades specifically is a sign of infidelity, dishonesty, turbulence, rootlessness, growth, denial, avoidance, change, change, and renewal.

Melissa pulled the Three of Hearts. Three traditionally represents power, cycles, life and death, divinity, completeness, fulfillment, and perfection. The Hearts suit represents the Church, spring, fire, love, vows, and childhood. The Three of Hearts specifically is a sign of success, love, opportunity, and aid.

Javi pulled the King of Spades. The King is a symbol of masculinity, maturity, control, and command. The Spades suit symbolizes the military, winter, water, grief, secrecy, loneliness, loss, and development. It is also the highest-ranking suit in games that prioritize suits. The King of Spades specifically is a sign of reason, logic, authority, discipline, justice, dominance, charm, observation, cruelty, obstacles, and boundaries. Reversed, the King of Spades is a sign of irrationality, control, judgement, and dishonesty.

Natalie pulls the Queen of Hearts. The Queen is a symbol of leadership, authority, confidence, femininity, and power. The Hearts suit represents the Church, spring, fire, love, vows, and childhood. The Queen of Hearts specifically represents unconditional love, compassion, creativity, intuition, healing, counseling, warmth, and self-love. In a reversed meaning, the Queen of Hearts is a sign of insecurity, fragility, dependence, self-sabotage, martyrdom, and over-giving.

[elbiotipo]

whats your perspective on anarcho-primitivism?

I dislike it.

When I think of a better society, I don't think to return to hunter-gatherer tribes or breaking our backs working in pseudo-medieval village communes. I think of education, medicine, housing, food, being available to everyone and without anyone hoarding them. This can be accomplished by the right implementation of politics and technology, which does imply a state and industrial civilization. Anarcho-primitivism is reactionary, it's just a 'leftist' version of "everyone should go to church" fantasizing of the Middle Ages. Luckily, it's only the domain of some boring writers and some 'humanity is a cancer' people on Twitter (lol) but I think it's worth discussing because it reveals some biases.

Industry is not inherently bad. People can have decent, comfortable lifestyles if industry, instead of being guided towards profit, is guided towards the welfare of people: avoiding waste, planned obsolescence, consumerism, enviromental destruction. To accomplish this, you must have something (a state) that controls what is done and how (the means of production). To make the state works for the welfare of the people and the planet, it needs to be built on those principles. I'm sure you can figure out where I'm going with this.

Every human activity has an enviromental impact, from mining to agriculture. I simply do not believe this is inmoral, like many anprims seem to believe. I think it is harmful and yes, possibly inmoral that our current rates of consumption are damaging the global ecosystem, but I do not think farming or mining or using electronics is inmoral, when all those things can be done in ways that reduce impact as much as possible and allow people to have comfortable lives. And, this is key, industrial civilization and a state that provides for the common benefit of the people is what allows people to live good lives, to not worry about spending all their time doing farming and leaving other pursuits to a very privileged class, and importantly, not to die from disease or suffer by the abuses of a feudal class that would develop in such a situation.

Because let's face this: if anarcho-primitivism is implement, billions would die. You cannot feed the current human population without industrial farming (and I'm not even talking about GMOs or agrochemicals here, I'm saying stuff like tractors), and a transition to subsistence farmer civilization will only cause untold suffering and death. I do not even need to tell you that people who depend in modern medicine would die without the very complex industries that produce current medications and treatment. And if we go all the way to the extreme and abolish agriculture itself, not only humanity would be reduced to hunter-gatherer bands, but the enviromental devastation would be untold. An anprim society would be a decline on human quality of life like we've seen in the worst episodes of human history. All this for what? A moralistic, pure version of the past that not even far-righters have dreamed of? A medieval village but with D&D night instead of church? Thank you, I'll pass.

Also, and this is personal: I love space exploration, and I think humanity's future is among the stars. Any ideology that does not allow for that is worthless to me. Yuri Gagarin didn't touch the skies for people to tell me that it's proper leftism to stay down here in feudal farms forever.

[dostoyevsky-official]

Dykstra's Conclusion provides a timely lesson for our field. In response to the disillusionment about routine, she claims, a desire for the extraordinary began to capture the imagination of Qianlong-era officials. To illustrate this point, she quotes a 1740 edict, which discusses the problems that emerged as a result of provincial governors’ pursuit of extraordinary achievements. Dykstra has taken this edict out of context, wrongly translated most of it, and misinterpreted it. But the first part deserves attention. Here is my translation:

Recently, provincial governors and governors-general often assume that performing basic responsibilities is not sufficient for them to catch the attention of the emperor or the public, so they extend their imagination to experiment with significant reforms. If their programs achieve any little success, they can request recognition of merits … People like these, occupying important offices, hope to use their achievements to show their proactive attitude. If they succeed, they get merits; if they fail, they do not get reprimanded. But in terms of their basic responsibilities such as promoting agriculture, collecting taxes, storing provisions, famine relief, etc., they never do them well. (QLSL 5.7.22.2, vol. 123)

An analogy can be made to the Chinese history field today. When we judge a work of history, or teach students to write papers or theses, do we value and reward only those offering grand and sensational stories? Or do we still care about the basic standards of historical research, such as diligently studying one's sources, faithfully representing them, respectfully engaging with existing scholarly works, backing claims with evidence, and trying to be as factually accurate as possible? In this age of misinformation, if we allow our desire for the extraordinary to run unchecked, we will soon face a full blown “crisis of competence.”

(x)

[haggishlyhagging]

Aiming for net-zero impact is a truly impressive departure from the business-as-usual of degenerative industrial design, and it is more impressive still if the aim is net zero not just in energy or water but in all resource-related aspects of a company's operation—a still far-off goal. It is also a sign of profound efficiency in resource use, but as the architect and designer William McDonough has put it, the avid pursuit of resource efficiency is simply not enough. ‘Being less bad is not being good,’ he says. ‘It is being bad, just less so.’ And once you think about it, pursuing mission zero is an odd vision for an industrial revolution, as if intentionally stopping on the threshold of something far more transformative. After all, if your factory can produce as much energy and clean water as it uses, why not see if it could produce more? If you can eliminate all toxic materials from your production process, why not introduce health-enhancing ones in their place? Instead of aiming merely to do less bad; industrial design can aim to 'do more good' by continually replenishing, rather than more slowly depleting, the living world. Why simply take nothing when you could also give something?

That's the essence of the fifth business response: be generous by creating an enterprise that is regenerative by design, giving back to the living systems of which we are a part. More than an action on a to-do checklist, it is a way of being in the world that embraces biosphere stewardship and recognises that we have a responsibility to leave the living world in a better state than we found it. It calls for creating enterprises whose core business helps to reconnect nature's cycles, and that gift as much as they can—because only generous design can bring us back below the Doughnut's ecological ceiling. For Janine Benyus, a leading thinker and doer in the field of biomimicry, this notion of generosity has become the design mission of a lifetime. As she told me,

‘We are big-brained animals, but we are newcomers on this planet, so we are still acting like toddlers expecting Mother Nature to clean up after us. I want us to take on this design task and become full participants in every one of nature's cycles. Start with the carbon cycle—let's learn to halt our industrial exhale of carbon pollution and then, by mimicking plants, learn to inhale carbon dioxide into our products and store it for centuries in rich agricultural soils. Once we've cut our teeth on the carbon cycle, let's apply what we have learned to the phosphorus, nitrogen and water cycles, too.’

To discover the essence of generous design, she suggests that we take nature as our model, measure and mentor. With nature as model, we can study and mimic life's cyclical processes of take and give, death and renewal, in which one creature's waste becomes another's food. As measure, nature sets the ecological standard by which to judge the sustainability of our own innovations: do they measure up and fit in by participating in natural cycles? And with nature as mentor, we ask not what we can extract, but what we can learn from its 3.8 billion years of experimentation.

-Kate Raworth, Doughnut Economics: Seven Ways to Think Like a 21st Century Economist

[fatehbaz]

Hal Langfur's Adrift on an Inland Sea: Misinformation and the Limits of Empire in the Brazilian Backlands sheds valuable light on spaces and processes in the history of colonial Brazil that have been overlooked and understudied, namely those taking place in internal frontier zones - the sertões, or backlands, between and beyond the enclaves governed by Portuguese rule, unstable and unincorporated spaces [...]. Langfur argues that [...] Lisbon made increasingly assertive efforts to survey and establish control over isolated zones after 1750 but that these failed such that the Portuguese imperial state found itself “adrift on an inland sea.” [...]

[T]he axis on which this enterprise fails is information. People made up the infrastructures of communication and data transmission that the Portuguese Empire endeavored to construct and deploy in order to render its domains governable and ever more profitable, but these people had purposes of their own.

The probing tentacles of imperial intelligence gathering met instead with the confusion of rumors, distortions, inflated claims, conflicting reports, disputed facts, and fantasies. [...]

---

[Langfur] bring[s] into the conversation [...] accounts of several forays between 1750 and 1820 into the backlands of Minas Gerais [...]. These took place against the exhaustion of the mineral deposits that had fueled the gold rush decades earlier in Minas Gerais and the crown’s relentless pursuit of new deposits that could keep up the flow of alluvial wealth. While these projects foundered, ultimately, new forms of extraction in the form of slave-based export agriculture (coffee) would take their place. [...] [T]he first expedition was led by an ambitious merchant named Inácio Correia Pamplona in the late 1760s who commissioned a scribe to record a diary and compose poems praising his attempts to find gold and subdue Indians and thus extend the empire’s territorial dominion. While Pamplona’s actual accomplishments fell short of the Herculean feats described [...], he was able to cash in his narrative for favors and privileges that made him one of the largest landholders in the captaincy. [...]

The third [expedition] involved José Vieira Couto, a crown-appointed mineralogist, who was appointed to use his scientific expertise to investigate reports of diamond strikes in Western Minas Gerais, particularly of a famed free Black prospector known as Isidoro de Amorim Pereira [...]. The hoped-for diamonds never materialized but Couto [...] deployed a discourse of scientific rigor in an attempt to recast his mission and produce knowledge that would allow the crown to absorb and exploit the territory. [...] Wied established himself as an authority with unrivaled knowledge of Botocudo peoples for an international reading public; his accounts [...] presented the Botocuda as exotic primitives, incommensurable with “civilized society,” [...].

---

If these expeditions [...] did not accomplish what the colonial state intended, this was, Langfur argues, a result of the capacity of diverse inland actors to divert, co-opt, and deceive authorities. [...] [Langfur's study] turns on an emphasis of the unacknowledged agency of a variety of marginalized peoples who acted as knowledge brokers: indigenous communities, both enslaved and free Afro-Brazilians, itinerant poor, and others deemed vagabonds and criminals: “the Indigeneous inhabitants separating the colony’s burgeoning capital from its mining heartland retained considerable say over the crown’s ability to impose its sovereign dominion. They largely determined what could be known, what remained a mystery, what could be accomplished, and what was beyond reach in this strategic mountainous expanse” (p. 150).

These frontier informants generated an “informational alchemy,” a mix of fantasy, fabrication, concealment, and contradictory reports [...].

How much information does an empire really require to run? Aren’t fantasies and lies always part of its infrastructures? Is all misinformation of a kind, or what specific misinformation carries with it not only the limits but also failures of empire? Put differently: How to judge the value and distribution of information versus that of representation in the running of an empire? What does the category of information itself conceal? [...] [A] horizon of intelligibility [...] is ultimately given by the Portuguese colonial state, so that the work of the information brokers is both possibly overstated and yet curiously limited, measured always in the terms set out by colonizing projects. [...] [I]n what ways [...] [do] such limits continue to bleed through once absorbed into the fabric of writing, determining the very grid of intelligibility?

---

All text above by: Adriana Johnson. "Review of Langfur, Hal. Adrift on an Inland Sea: Misinformation and the Limits of Empire in the Brazilian Backlands". H-Environment, H-Net Reviews. February 2024. Published by H-Net online at: h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=59701. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[overgrownmoon]

(tumblr compression my beloathed)

behold the rainworld blorbo but AGAIN

whispering reeds and their special little child, the groundskeeper (aka dirtcat)

i dont have a story super set in stone yet but basically. she was built by a very famous engineer named Shifting Winds, Distant Memories as their magnum opus; their final iterator project and greatest creation. Reeds is built within a great valley that is home to a vast agricultural powerhouse, the groundwater under the mountains used both to power her and water the crops. They were built with scientific advancement in mind, equipped with a great greenhouse for studying specimens and a robust laboratory for genetic tinkering. part of their purpose was to engineer new and better crops, animals, and pest repellents to feed a growing population.

The basic beats of her story is that Memories followed a philosophy that the People were a great plague upon nature and that before they may leave this realm, they must atone and fix the sins inflicted upon the natural world; pollution, genetic modification, habitat loss, all of that. as talk of ascension grew louder they turned to drastic measures to get their argument heard, which culminated in an act that killed many people and destroyed a very sacred building in Reed's city. For their crimes, Memories was forcibly dunked into the void and became an echo.

this sent Reeds into a spiraling depression, as since she was raised by Memories, she also follows their philosophy. she grew more and more distant and withdrawn from her people, nearly abandoning the great problem in pursuit of a new goal.

after the People ascended, she dropped the great problem altogether, solely focused on a singular goal; instead of leaving this world via ascension, reeds wants to return to the earth; to reunite with the soil from where the materials that constructed her came. they refuse to leave the world behind without trying everything she can to preserve its natural beauty, so she collects specimens in her greenhouse zoo and has been trying to reverse-engineer the modifications out of them. its a futile task, but it keeps her busy.

her can is overgrown with flora. the heavy rains and the already lush valley have generated a thick rainforest of out-of-control farm crops, weeds, and fungi to smother the valley. the mud is slowly being eroded away by the rain; its only a matter of time until her can collapses into the flooded valley below. her campaign would involve her precious child, the groundskeeper, to go on a journey to send a sos broadcast; an ultimately futile effort to stay alive.