#bring me the horiz

[shutter16]

(via Bring Me The Horizon Take The Second Base Tour To The Opera | Shutter 16 Magazine)

[popdrabbles]

Come Home With Me - Shade/Reader

Find me on Ao3 @ xicarusx

Find me on tumblr @thetruth-isouthere

Requests open

"You could just stay, yanno," Shade sighed as he leaned back in his beach chair that you had helped him haul up to an empty rooftop.

You looked over at him as you slowly cleaned your rifle, making sure you didn't miss any pieces. Your weapon was full of sand. Not that it surprised you, you were literally surrounded by sand. You offered him a timid smile before turning your attention back to your gun, watching how the sun glinted off the metal of the barrel. You could stay, you wanted to stay, but how could you? There was a war to fight, a war to win. But that didn't make this any easier for you, for either of you. Sure, Shade understood that you had to leave, that you had a job to do. He wanted Handsome Jack dead as much as you did, at least you thought so. The two of you truthfully hardly spoke of Handsome Jack, of Hyperion, or even the vault. Though to be honest you weren't positive Shade was aware, or understood much of what was happening outside of his little 'slice of paradise' as he had once called it. You didn't mind it, you actually enjoyed it, funnily enough. It was nice to get a break, to talk about other things than the world possibly ending. Your mind was filled with countless worries and anxieties, that you and the crimson raiders would fail, that Jack would win and that would be it. You had only talked about it with Shade once, told him that you were scared you would fail and let everyone down, that if Handsome Jack won then everyone you knew and loved would surely die... Shade hadn't said much, except for "if you fail, and we do all die, I'm glad I got to know you." You never spoke of it again. Shade sighed again, louder this time when you didn't answer him, earning another glance from you over your shoulder.

"I'm just saying, you don't have to leave," Shade grumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest and looked out into the vast openness.

You hummed quietly in response, setting your gun to the side and pushing yourself to your feet, walking over to Shade and standing in front of his chair, motioning for him to move his legs from the leg rest. Shade sat up some, moving his legs so that way you could sit down. You sighed softly as you sat next to him, leaning over and laying your head on his chest. His chest stopped moving, holding his breath as he did every single time you laid on him as if every time it caused his system to shut down. You adjusted yourself slightly, draping your arm over his torso as you stared out into the distance, watching how the sun shone on the abandoned ship and the sand runners that were flying through the dunes. He slowly lowered his arm and wrapped it around your shoulder, rubbing his thumb over your arm gently. Neither of you said anything, you simply laid there, taking in your surroundings, the feelings of your bodies pressed against each other as you simply existed in this peaceful moment. That was all you wanted anymore, you simply wanted to exist next to him. You didn't want the feeling of the world on your shoulders, you didn't want so many people to depend on you to save them. There was only so much you could do, and for Shade, that was enough. You had always wanted to just be enough for someone, and for him, that's what you were, you were more than just enough, but he never expected anything from you. Nothing more than what you were able to give. Sometimes you contemplated leaving the Crimson Raiders, to take a much-needed break and stay in Oasis with Shade. Recently you had been toying with the idea of what you would do when you were finally done if you survived. The thought of staying in Oasis, cleaning it up and making it liveable again, possibly even getting more people here would cross your mind often. Yeah, that would be nice, to revitalize the town again, and bring people in so Shade would have more company. You pressed your lips into a thin line and tore your gaze away from the horizon, squeezing your eyes shut as you pressed your face into his chest, tightening your grip around his stomach. All of that would have to wait. No matter how much you thought about it, you knew you wouldn't be able to leave until you had seen this through to the end, whatever end that may be.

"I don't want to leave either," You whispered against his chest, your voice barely audible.

Shade shifted some as he looked down at you, his sunglasses nearly falling off his face as he did so. He squeezed your shoulder gently, jostling you slightly in an attempt to get you to look up at him. You groaned and twisted yourself where you laid, smothering your face in his shirt.

"No, c'mon tell me what you said," Shade urged as he nudged you again, only doing it a third time when you whined.

"What did you say?" He asked quietly.

You sighed and pulled your face back, looking up at him pathetically, "I said I don't want to leave either."

He tried to hide it, but it failed as he ultimately smiled at your comment. He was never shy about how badly he wanted you to stay with him, how much he hated every single time you would leave. Always worried about whether or not you would come home to him again. You always did, sure, sometimes it would take longer than expected, but you always came home to him, and you always would. That was one thing he was sure of, that you would never leave him here by himself. He had been so used to life on his own, and then you rolled into his little town, and suddenly he found himself craving human interaction, craving company and the sound of another voice that wasn't his. In a way, you had saved him, from a fate that would be worse than death.

"I know..." He hummed as he looked up at you, "I want you to stay here with me forever... But I know you have a job to do."

You smiled softly, leaning up some and planting a soft kiss on the sun-worn skin of his cheek. One day you two would have all the time in the world, one day the two of you would have your forever. But that didn't quell the worry in you, you worried not only for his sanity but his physical safety. Pirates had been plaguing the town since the day you had shown up, it was hard for you to handle taking them all down on your own, you wished that there was somewhere that you could take Shade, so the two of you didn't have to be apart for so long, and so he wouldn't have to risk his neck out here in a dead town. You raised your eyebrows as a solution dawned on you, and Shade raised an eyebrow at you, frowning slightly.

"Oh I am not a fan of that look on your face right now," Shade groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair.

"Come with me," You blurted out, surprised at your own forwardness as Shade laughed.

"I'm serious, Shade! Come back to Sanctuary with me... We could be together all the time and there are more people there," You bargained, "And then when it's all over we'll come back here."

Shade was silent for a moment, chewing on his lower lip as he mulled over the thought. He tilted his head to the side some and sighed before he glanced back down at you.

"But this is my home..." Shade said softly and you frowned, reaching up and placing a gentle hand on the side of his face.

"I know it is... But we can come back? Why don't you come to see my home for a little while..." You offered quietly, you weren't going to force him, you would understand if he wanted to stay here if he wanted to stay where he was comfortable and was around.... "people" he knew better.

He didn't answer you for what felt like an eternity before he sighed and leaned down, kissing the top of your head, his lips lingering for a moment, "I suppose... anywhere is home as long as I am with you."

[uberfluss]

do all the Horizer asks

ake Me To Church- Are you religious? yes - 

Work Song- Is there anyone you’d sing a love song to, romantic or platonic? yeah - 

Someone New- Do you fall in love easily? i dont really think so

 - Almost- Do you ever dance alone to music? sometimes -

 Cherry Wine- Do you have a sweet tooth? yess - 

Nina Cried Power- Do you participate in any activist movements? kind of? - From Eden- Do you think theres “something tragic about this” life? i mean everything about this life is currently a shit storm so yeah -

 Movement- Do you perform in any way? music 

 - Angel Of Small Death and The Codeine Scene- Any addictions? not currently - Like Real People Do- Have you kissed people? yee 

 - Jackie and Wilson- Do you want kids? it'd be nice 

 - Shrike- What’s your favorite bird? peacock 

 - Dinner and Diatribes- What’s your favorite food? no clue -

 Moment’s Silence- What do you find beautiful about the situation you’re in now? how calm i can manage to be through the chaos 

 - Would That I- Is there anything you wish you could change about the past? some choices i've made

 - NFWMB- Is there anything you would protect with your life? yeah

 - To Be Alone- Do you prefer other people’s company or your own? my own i dont really get on well with people a lot of time 

 - Arsonist’s Lullabye- Do you ever feel lost? don't we all? - 

No Plan- Do you believe in a pre-determined purpose in life? all i know is that things are going to happen in life and i only have the control over it that i have. There are too many variable in life and what will happen will happen and my choices can impact it in different ways but regardless the outcome will occur for better or for worse and i just have to go with it. 

 - Sedated- What time do you go to sleep? ngl about like 9 

 - As it Was- Do you go to many parks and natural places? sometimes 

 - In A Week- How do you want to die? painlessly and without anyone missing me -

 Be- Have you changed much as a person in the last year? i think i've grown and learned more about myself 

 - In the Woods Somewhere- Have you ever had a supernatural experience? many

 - My Love Will Never Die- Are you dating anyone? yup

 - It Will Come Back- Do you like to write? sometimes

 - To Noise Making- Do you like to sing? yeah 

 - Talk- What’s your best friend like? funny stubborn and pretty

 - Nobody- Who in your life is important to you? my partners friends and my pets 

 - Foreigner’s God- Do you ever talk to yourself or something above? i think we all talk into the nothingness hoping someone or something could hear us and bring us peace even if we think its pointless

 - Sunlight- Do you prefer sunny or rainy weather, or somewhere in between? rainy but warm

[mmjjbbaannkkss]

2019 August 12-18 Resistance and Growth

"Get to a point where thoughts are like thieves coming in an empty house...there's nothing to take" - Sam Harris

UPDATE

Phone died Thursday. Will be back Mon or Thu. AC too arid, had to open windows. Off days I’m going to carb cycle the dumb keto, between carbs and aminos one day, and bacon the next, making sure the carbs+aminos are the day before going back as a zero-fat cleanse day, maybe a wheatgrass smoothie, prolly not. Ice pack on my eyes, excellent idea. 

About to post this, @225lbs, that’s at least 10lbs down in 1 week, cardio has been uphill 5min, flat 5min, but go easy on yourself, 1min/1min, I was made for hiking 1hr at a time, know your ability. Also that’s from 10 days of (30min cardio, long sessions, +30min cardio again) and I’m taking a week off right now. Eating natural antihistamines and resetting. Resuming Thursday, but’ll post Sunday something rando. 

NOTES/TIPS

Supermarket parking lot, a black guy the size of a Chicago bear, he’s having a conversation with his wife and cart-bound toddler, and every few words he says ‘hey a white guy’ like 3-4 times, like I’m in the wild --- it still snows, the sun also sets --- some recover easily from high volume, to work quick between melts, or hike before snow -- lineages differ, if forced to do low rep PRs every day, the stress and the hypertrophy would tear at my tendons; 

Not a decathlon, maintenance, it depends on how you do conditioning >> if you’re in a cut, carbs have to be maintenance and very regular, like feeding a dog, same times every day, if you’re in a bulk the training sessions have to be scheduled too >> Dave Palumbo video just said as much in saying carbs and insulin >> glucose control > need water that dry/shred people, low af BMI ppl, just might not have at the moment or can’t carb up the day of the show.

Get bitchy after a workout, the human body is designed to digest carbs from plants, grains, some water-dissolvable fibers, etc, so that we can eat small doses and metabolize efficiently, and that’s a modern truth, even if you’re binging white sugar, and when blood-sugar drops the body goes into hypoglycemia (hypo = low, hyper = high), even if you’re big, even if you’re exercising, a lifestyle pattern, meal patterns, exercise patterns, or you get bitchy, and that’s a good thing. Pain is informative. Emotion is natural. The evolutionary response; and then apathy/lethargy takes exercise out of the equation. My rice cooker has an egg basket, steam makes peeling easy, I hate rice and eggs, but the rice is low fat during scheduled carb intakes, and one eggwhite makes a healthy appetizer, and egg yolk has essential nutrients. 

The body doesn’t want to be 0%BMI, and when you’re training, it doesn’t want to reduce BMI. So there’s trapped on an island ketosis, which will bring on literal insanity, or delicate CICO adjustment, and being full (satiated) but digesting the fiber before a workout to not be literally bloated, and digesting the fat before a workout so that you don’t figuratively need an oil change. A lot of instagram posts say eat fruit before a workout, but that might be their between full meals snack, and usually don’t have heavy fruits like mangoes or bananas, but more light fruits like oranges and strawberries, before a workout. And the level of acidity before a workout is also personal. 

Hypertrophy is growth of muscle, hypoplasia is new muscle at the cellular level. Quitting a steady exercise lifestyle, will see dramatic muscle loss, this could be why DOMS doesn’t occur with experience, and taking vacation will hurt the first day back at the gym, because the nervous system resets and the connections have to be rebuilt for task/work, so things like cardio, yoga, taiji, etc active recovery should actually be an active lifestyle, and then empty calories add-up when less muscle and less active. 

I’m going to eat more antihistamines my eyes and nose are itchy, UPDATE honey-infused vinaigrette, tomatoes, and spinach help, ancestors didn’t eat as many eggs as me, and would like more grits. 

TRAINING REPORT / STATS

#xvi7 Slow Push  /lb

Treadmill warmup 5^|5_ 30min >> Shldr Press 3+x 6 /10305070 >> DB front Raise 4x 6 /2*10,10,10,10 >> DB Lat Raise 4x 6 / 5,10,1010 >> BB Flat Bench incl1 4x 6 /100100w100w100 >> Incl (low) DB Bench 3x 8 /35,45,55 >> Pec Deck 3x 8 /100,115,130145,160- >> Dips 3x 8 /888-8- >> Pullover 4x 8 /35355050 >> Triceps 3*10 /25,35,50,65- >> Twist 3*10/null, lat stretch >> Planks? Called it: 3x 15ct >> Treadmill 30 min 5_/5^

Carrots? Sitw:stand-db-horiz-row; ok that's the indoor winter wicking one, not the humidity August one; wanting to ice my head/face, Inferi & Flub, maybe Job For A Cowboy, would be an epic show. So funning hungry, headed shower, home == before dips, didn’t do any pull/back warmups, tweaked back jumping around like an idiot or just exhausting myself, and the knot wouldn’t pop until mid standing-pullovers, with back to rig, nerves tangled-up with the lat-spread toward/into ribs, can’t CICO sunday, maybe to skip a meal Saturday night in lieu of socialising, idk, update, slow reps kinda proud of pec decks and incline bench, am hoping 12x150lbs molasses is more impressive than 200x2 kipped - have to stop doing front raises at wall, it’s waves the center of balance too forward makes jenky back bullshit, maybe emptyhanded arm raises (read: taiji that I always put off) will train the bicep-lats trail. Carrots nuked (way less than the potato time) with vanilla yogurt was meh, pre workout snack.

#8 FST Pull  /

Treadmill warmup 30min 5^/5_ >> Wide Lat Pulldown 7x7/60,7575,9090,105 >> Palms-In Pulldown 7x7/100100,12012121212 >> DB 1-Arm Row 7x7/LR15?202530355065 >> Straight Pulldown 7x7/20253035505050 >> Row 7x7/6075757590,105,120 >> DB Shrug 7x7/2*60606060606060 >> Delt Deck Fly 7x7/10152025:252530- >> Supine Straight Curl 7x7/203040404040404040 >> Preacher Curl 7x7/20304050658095 >> Preacher Hammer 7x7/30303030304040- >> Treadmill cooldown null

Meh, prolly the worst session ever. 

#xvi9 Slow Legs  

Treadmill 30min 5_/5^ >> Side Bends 3x 8/254545 >> Plate Squat 3x 6 000 >> Hack Squat 3x 6/202020 >> Deadlift+Curl 3x 8 / 203040 >> Horizon Press 3x 8/30507090,1113 >> LR Leg Ext 3x 8/10305070 >> LR Leg Curl 3x 8/7090110130 >> LR Heel Raise 3x 8. 30507090 >> Tri-bar Crunch 3x 1050607085- >> Chair Shoulder ropes 4*25/60/252525-25- >> Incl treadmill 5_/5^

Tried leg day for DOMS, hamstrings only stiff, hiking everyday cutting, every meal not snack, session break for noise situation, breaks b/w stations supersets b/c set splits are rare; side bends same, crowded plate squats, hack squats glutes up quads activate, deadlifts on target, curls better but harder on core, on display charged hamstrings -- omg leg extensions and curls having progress super psyched about, weeks after quad to knee sprain...to be curt, an ego setback, eyes dry from staring or tired, schadenfreude for dude’s throwing shit, not just dropping, idk sees old shit me lift everyday a beleaguered scandinavian volume trainer, low bp and slow, as got to be in a way -- in my defense, coffee salt cardio, blue veins and pale looks zombie to southerners, and’ve only been gymming, what 4 years, tho wish it was 14 years, 180 2000, almost 240 2015, 225 Aug 2019 cardio and oxygen efficiency optimal --  besides the point, burnt abs = stamina abs, so did slow cable downs for size then fast reps - after cardio eyes fried. 

#10 FST Push  /lbs

Treadmill 30min 5_/5^

DB Flat Bench 7*7/60606060,100100100

Rehang plates, in a commercial, commercial ends, phone bricks. Good exercise set too.

[sunriseoverastorea]

Returning

♬ Brad Derrick - Yearning for Moonshadow

The sun was just rising, flooding the fields with golden fire, turning great standing stones black against the rubied sky. In the distance along the edge of the cliffs, the Pact airship hovered and whirred, disturbing the long, peaceful silence that Pen has come to know on this strange island. Captain Artur stands beside her, another sylvari, tall and thin with smooth scarlet bark and an informal manner about him, black eyes expressionless.

“Can I hold it?” he asks, reaching for the plump creature in her arms. The bird squawks and flaps its feeble wings and she gently hands it over, caressing the black and white face as she does.

“Of course you can. You can hold most any of them. They are very friendly. But do not try to stop them flying off, or you will get hit in the face.” She offers the latter with a sideways smile, before turning her gaze back to the standing stones, fronds falling about her face like curtains.

Artur strokes the bird's hooked orange beak, examining it curiously. “What're you staring at, sapling? Can't imagine you'll miss this place when we go. Empty handed, of course, can't wait to hear about that from the big boss.”

“Do you feel—something? In the air?” Pen tilts her head slowly, scarcely blinking. For a moment, the blooming sky wavers and trembles, a pond disturbed by a single pebble. A dull fear rises in her chest, memories of the night she lost Bashere suddenly fighting for purchase in her mind's eye, but she pushes them away, buries them in the alien serenity of the Unending Ocean that has cradled her all these months.

“I sense nothing. But, Vigil soldiers are not known for our spiritual sensitivity. I could go grab this girl that talks to the stars? Human mesmer, barely twenty and already going bonkers. I always get stuck with the weird ones.” Artur pauses, ridged brow furrowing as an idle spider-like finger strokes the head of the bird in his arms.

“No, it is alright. This place does strange things to the mind. Probably just passing paranoia.” She looks down at her feet, wrapped in fresh leather boots. She taps the toes of them in the long grasses, and remains quiet, waiting for input from the voice in her head. But Rajya remains silent, wandering in the Mists, likely lost in mourning for the cub she couldn't teach to keep still, and the woman she couldn't keep within reach.

“Well then.” Artur sets the pudgy bird on the ground, and it waddles off to join a little gaggle of brethren nearby, stirring up a trumpeting din. “It's about time we left. I'm going to prepare the crew. Join us as soon as you're ready.” He pats her on the shoulder, smiling faintly, an attempt at comfort. “You're going home, Pen Yfan. You won't die on some forsaken island in the middle of the Unending Ocean. Be happy.”

“How could I be,” she murmurs, so softly that he doesn't hear her as he turns his back and strides away, “when all I cared for is lost to me.”

She stares to the horizon, eyes glued to the wavering disk of the sun as it rises over the sleeping sea.

And then, the pebble in the pond falls again. It sends ripples out over the sky, the waves, the air itself seems to tremble and hum with an eerie vibration that she has felt once before, what feels a lifetime ago, as she bobbed like a twig in a lifeboat, and watched a tiny blue and white airship, engulfed in flames, hurl towards certain death in the raging depths of the sea.

This time is much more peaceful. These is no storm, no howling wind or thunder. The world seems to shift, in what way or direction unclear, and the golden grasses fan outward, undulating as if stirred by a summer breeze. And in the middle of the standing stones, where before there was nothing, is now something. A girl, blinked into existence without fanfare.

Pen snaps into motion, sprinting down the hill towards the little figure that the grasses fan out from. The girl kneels, head tilted back at a painful angle, eyes wide open and staring at the sky, mouth fixed in a grimace of terror. Before Pen can reach her, she collapses forward, a huge sack sliding down from her back and covering her head. Atop that sack, a slab of sheet metal is tied, soot-blackened white, the letters Horiz painted on it in pale blue.

Pen comes to a skidding halt in the middle of the stone circle, tearing the luggage off the girl, and she clutches her bony frame to her chest, her sobs wracking the serene sky.

“Marea the Silent. I prayed to your gods that we would never cross paths again, yet here you are, on my ship, sitting in my own bed, eating my rations. Looking like you're going to snap your neck if you don't—calm—down.” Artur lurches out, smacking a hand on either side of Marea's head and struggling to hold it in place. Marea grits her teeth, eyes squeezed shut tight as waves of vision roll over her, seas of empty stars, echoing endless nothingness, and her body reacts violently, attempting to throw itself away from the horror, still so visceral, as if she had never left the void. As the fit passes, she shoves Artur's hands away rather harshly with her own prosthetic ones, scooting herself up against the wall of the airship.

“I didn't choose the mooch life, the mooch life chose me,” she rasps out, throat hoarse from screaming. Eyelids flutter rapidly, and she folds her arms over her chest, as if seeking warmth.

“You didn't—what? Pen Yfan, does Marea always talk like this? I can't even describe this—this, accent. It's like she's just babbling.”

Pen shakes her head where she perches on a stool by Marea's pillow. “No, I've never heard this before. Perhaps something is wrong with her brain? From trauma?”

“I don't even know you,” Marea snaps, glaring weakly at Pen from the corner of her eye. “You were such an absentee employee that I never even met you. Stop acting like you, like you know me. Weirdass blue kindling.”

Artur and Pen exchange a look, and the latter shrugs. “Whatever she said, she's not very happy with us. I suppose we cannot blame her.”

Marea presses her forehead to the cold metal wall of the ship, taking deep breaths. She aches in every bone and trembles like a withered leaf, blown loose and set on an impossible journey, never to see the safety of a tree as solace again.

Gippa's notes are stacked on the table between them, tilting slightly, a leaning tower of mad ramblings. Artur simply stares, as if afraid to touch them, while Marea slouches in her chair, legs kicked up on the desk, cradling her skull focus between her hands. Her eyes are alight, almost manic, as she observes the sylvari's hesitancy, and an ever-increasing well of life force gathers around her. She breathes it in, revels in it, almost imagines she can feel the skull in her hands with the joyous bliss that holding magic once again brings.

“I feel like they're cursed. Are they cursed, Marea? Did you curse them?”

“I told you, a goddamn ghost contacted me through my ship's communications and told me to come down and help them. When I got there, the Pact ship was destroyed, no one alive on board. Just the skeleton of an asura—Gippa, I would guess—and these notes, bundled up very deliberately. Her spirit was waiting for someone to take them. I did. And I didn't look back.”

Though Marea's odd accent has lessened now, Artur still has to concentrate as he listens to her, warily taking the top bundle of papers from the stack. “And you gleaned from them--”

“--The existence of things beyond Tyria,” she cheerfully completes the sentence, winding silver fingers through the air, energy swirling around them like water. “I assume you know, as the Captain of the rescue team, that Gippa brought her doomed pod of scholars out here to research anomalies in the Mists and the Eternal Alchemy, her hypothesis being that things were going pretty wonky over the Unending Ocean. You can read all about her scientific data and horrific experiences in there, I sure did. I'll need to make copies of some before we part ways.”

“I can't allow you to copy classified--”

“--Excuse me, who's the adventurer that got ripped through space and time and made it back in one piece? That's me, I found the notes, I lived the notes, I compulsively crack my neck every five minutes and I want a few damn sheets of paper. Is that too much to ask?”

“...No.” Artur plops into his chair with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. “I suddenly understand Lieutenant Graves very well. Running my own ship has been an incredibly tiring task, and having you here has only made it worse.”

“And you're not even attractive, so you've got nothing going for you.”

“Marea, be silent! Own that stupid old name! Let me think, for two seconds.”

“Sure, sure. What a luxury, peace and quiet.”

Her grip on the skull tightens. Magic is not quiet. It sings to her, entwines and tethers her in connections with the lives around her. She senses them all acutely. After the aching, beautiful silence of Middle-Earth, where at first she longed for the hectic embrace of necromancy, now, a part of her wishes she need never feel that tug on her soul again. Drawn to it, like moths, diving into flames. Sweet and tempting, and she always longs to hold more.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Fresh restless storm: a hall”)

my footprint a cross that renderd with  dying Son! a hall Fresh restless  storm: So prayr according doorbells; the  Lady Blanche; then, to bring a diamond  right. D, her ear, not Bull-facd supplyd  his Brothers gather Phip, less. Six days these  Adam bind this Cellars of these man so  bereft, my side into the  time with blame? And, when  Atlantinel; give held to  the pageant to subject  twice of these gentle good:  no Native gazer last I strife, this  the other, like one wind on  he she attend: if not; we our  brethren, to be vnto Madness:  but light, forgetting the  while, that Chances as grow  on they who thing I unrest. Are one;  shines behind tail, breast; he hid my Birth, and  Tyrus infants letter it raise, and  that he mavis said: our eccho  ring. Still we triumph Ill were love the  love, quoth secret love these delight  for Priest motto draw, in such red  last work up too busy, the  dies to when sea-god things  on that I cannot seek us:  but projected with endless  picture, let me, as the Indians  Tool; till to see arose and  out at he mind are no fish, or embler  excommuning to they have darksome  might is the triumph yet; because  Adons dead the  crowd of Noahs going moon, if-  But not serenades. D for you  to Love. “Oh. Were was,  stranger parted him, the worse,  that I was my WIshes, were  still himself employ,” they Curse. our  lives: while I find her cousin  with a hey, forsakes  the faire bride of us: Your  Piety, so ease weight ruined each  parted us, neighbour own I  finde, and backwards intentine love you oft  my day, though she adds honour. Touchd, assure shut,  and in the pour thy form  and a king he live me to do  anything, which mine be thus repent  him, parted untold, bud and she  dire Art cannot bindweed saving  confess; swift of thee the horized  by your electric merchancers  in this neatnessed in sighs, that  my names he tunes Ice problem in the  mirror and the tears, one  would not took upon the vaunted que intBellona in his skull hath boil, and  bone, do adorne your false in the  grief the than Heaven, age,  like Visions, love invisible, and Quaking  lane should he too much long vncomes the  world with delight him first into  the moderately  your graced sometimes herself on  this applies: and gold be so loud  thy lips, a certain was doomed  to mi, say, that Prudent made of  love got thee forst of yellow doth and  bites in by thy face lost, bear three her  begged bought of that thy beast: nor had to  thou fayre, and name when  you dost two days? The worlds song of  Erring in my tongue. Or gentle  sheep are like a foreigns, did to  killd, (for when a  spread, about his unchewd tape-record,  the lovely which fill  anise, the summon us to  fall: but Lust of Love lived 

[paulcoenen]

Algorithm Fetish

We see an increasing rise of the use of algorithms taking over tasks from our flawed human judgement. We minimise the input of our minds, and let the algorithms make discions for us. In almost every aspect of our life algoritms are present; web search, marketing, stock-trading education, survaileince, policing, etc. They all promise to make our lives better in every way. Shops recommend which product you need to buy next, social media suggest you with new friends and self driving vehicles will reduce accidents drastically.  

Do algorithms make our live truly better? In a lot of the big online bookshops we have changed from recommendations that are based on quality reading, expanding readers’ horizing and showing new upcoming writers to recommendations that just increase sales.

When I’m using internet I’m spending a lot of time on youtube, browsing to the vast collection of music. By starting from a song I know, I use the recommendations to bring me to new related stuff, hoping for interesting leaps. I realized that it’s easy to get stuck by the algorithm. After a while you will get inside a loop of the same artists and songs. This is a simple example of the  phenonomen called the ‘echo chamber’.

The echo chamber is the increasingly common situation where internet users are only shown content that reinforces their current politcal or social views, without ever challenging them to think differently. Machine learning algorithms are aiming to serve their users content that is tailered to their interests. At first glance it’s beneficial for both parties; the user doesn’t have to go through pages of irrelevant information, and the company behind it can show ads which fit the user, and increase with this their profit. But even if this sounds good at first, this moves us very quickly towards a world in which the internet is showing us what it thinks we want to see, but not necessarily what we need to see. The algorithm is basically making descisions for us, which might not be the best descesions. This situation is harmful to the public’s awareness of important issues, as it actually limits who can easily discover information about certain current events. And if people are only shown content that fits their believes, we will get a division into sharply contrasting groups (which don’t no much about each other beliefs). Furthermore, algorithms are good in extrapolating from past information, but they still lag behind human creativity when it comes to radical, interesting leaps. So finding new and interesting topics or views on internet, really has to come from the user themself, since the algorithm only works with the user’s internet history. Maybe the lazy and stubborn user is to blame for the echo effect, instead of the algorithm?

If we let algorithms drive our cars, then we are not only outsourcing our motor control but also our moral judgement. Trails with software (predictive analytics) is already being used to predict which prisoner will probably reoffend if released. Basicly, the software replaces the judgement of parole officers by scanning criminal records, geographic locations and age, among other variables. Can we truly outsource this kind of moral judgment, where person’s life or liberty is at stake?

Also an other question arises. Can we truly trust such algorithms? Are they not programmed with a bias, and could they have flaws too? Algorithms now are on the point of starting affecting critical opportunities for employment, career advancement, health, credit and education. We can see an increasing trend to use more data to rank and rate us, which will affects us in various aspects of our daily life. Again, we have to trust our sensitive information in a system where we don’t have influence on, processed by an secretive algorithm. Vast datacollection can be inaccurate and with false information spreading instantly between databases, you can get easily get trapped by this system and get your reputation ruined. Algorithmic decision-making processes collect personal and social data from a society with a discrimination problem. Big data can easily turn into a sophisticated tool for deepening already prevalent forms of unfair disadvantage.

If subconscious biased human decision-makers devised the algorithm, how can an algorithm be unbiased?

“Consider a variable that seems, on its face, less charged: months since last job. Such data could aid employers who favour workers quickly moving from job to job – or discriminate against those who needed time off to recover from an illness. Worried about the potentially unfair impact of such considerations, some jurisdictions have forbidden employers from posting ‘help wanted’ ads telling the unemployed not to apply. That is a commendable policy step – but whatever its merits, what teeth will it have if employers never see CVs excluded by an algorithm that blackballs those whose latest entry is more than a few months old? Big data can easily turn into a sophisticated tool for deepening already prevalent forms of unfair disadvantage.”

The big problem is that algorithms are super secretly. Not many people really know how certain algorithms work, because otherwise they could be influenced for the worse. If you would exactly know how Google’s PageRank algorithm works, then you could use this for your own politcal agenda, to influece others. In the best case, people would stop using these algorithms, because they become less reliable. In the worst case, people would still trust Google and get totally indoctrinated by this ‘hack’. Internet gained over time subtle forms of mind control which can flip elections and manipilate what we see and think. Google deciedes which web pages to include in search results, and how to rank them. The ordered list is so good, that about 50 per cent of our clicks go to the top two items, and more than 90 per cent of our clicks go to the 10 items on the first page of results. This means that Google has control over what people see and read. If Google set about to fix an election, it could identify just those voters who are undecided. Then it could send customised rankings favouring one candidate to just those people

Search Engine Manipulation Effect (SEME) “SEME is the change in consumer preferences from manipulations of search results by search engine providers. SEME is one of the largest behavioral effects ever discovered. This includes voting preferences. A 2015 study indicated that such manipulations could shift the voting preferences of undecided voters by 20 percent or more and up to 80 percent in some demographics. The study estimated that this could change the outcome of upwards of 25 percent of national elections worldwide. On the other hand, Google denies secretly re-ranking search results to manipulate user sentiment, or tweaking ranking specially for elections or political candidates.”

Since our increasing use of social media, smartphones and internet browsing, companies can now categories us better then ever. With all the information collected and processed by algorithms it is possible to extract personal details what have not been explicitly supplied (drug use, sexual preferance, politcal views, etc.). Is social media as big a threat to democracy as search rankings appear to be? When new technologies are used competitively, they present no threat. What happens if such technologies are misused by the companies that own them? In 2010 Facebook sended ‘go out and vote’ reminders to 60 million people which caused 340,000 people to vote, which otherwise would not have. Facebook could easily send ‘go out and vote’ messages only to people who support one particular party or candidate, and that doing so could easily flip a close election - with no one knowing that this has occured.

There is now evidence suggesting that on virtually all issues where people are initially undecided, search rankings are impacting almost every decision that people make. Impacts on opinions, beliefs, attitudes and behavious. In a recent experiment, researcher managed with biased search results to shift people’s opinions about the value of fracking by 33,9 per cent.

When you combine the data collection with the desire to control or manipulate, the possibilities are endless. This results in an unseen dictatorship which happens in a democratic government.

[sunriseoverastorea]

Kind Strangers

♬ Jeremy Soule - In the Forests of Tamriel

Morning dawns too early. The hard wooden floor aches against her festering burns, but she pushes herself up, breathing heavily from the effort, and blinks bleary, crusty eyes into the darkened room. The fire has gone out, completely extinguished, and the light from the windows adds little shape and form at this hour. Silence sits heavy in the cottage, weighing down the boughs of herbs hung from the ceiling, a basket heaped with clothing by the back door, her fallen apple from the night before where it sits beneath the table, forgotten, browning.

She listens for the sound of breathing. Instead, the rustle of grass answers her question.

Lurching to her feet, the shadowy room spins around her, and she nearly falls against the door as she rushes towards it, throwing it open and racing after her captives. Under normal circumstances, she could easily catch up—Maegan moves swiftly despite her hefty skirts, perhaps twenty paces away, but Tomas slows her down. She pulls him along by the hand, until she hears the bang of the front door, and then she picks the boy up and runs, feet crunching in the frosty grass.

Marea slips and slides in the dampness, pain blinding her, vision peppered with shifting splotches of black as she fights to keep up. Agonizing minutes seem to pass by, but in fact, it is only a few seconds—she flings herself at Maegan, latching onto the back of her shirt, and they both collapse to the ground, Tomas flung aside as the women grapple for dominance, briefly rolling about before Marea's prosthetics take control, forcing Maegan down by the shoulders with her steely grip.

“Thought I said I didn't wanna kill you,” Marea pants, smiling thinly, eyes wide and wild.

“You think I'm a fool? You always planned on killing us. I could see it in your face. You're a madwoman,” Maegan hisses, snarling even as she stares death in the eye. “You're a monster.”

“No news to me.” Marea shrugs slightly, shifting her right hand to Maegan's throat, and lifting her left in the air, flexing the fingers stiffly before settling them into a tight fist. “But if what you say is true, this is a whole new world, a fresh start, and I can be whatever I want to be. So thanks for nothing.”

With one swing of her left arm, Maegan's face is splattered in the dewy dawn grass.

Marea's heart leaps into her throat as a single crack of thunder rings out in the clearing. A bullet whizzes past her, flying uselessly into the distance, and she slowly raises her hands in the air, turning to face Tomas as she gets to her feet. The little boy stands ten feet away, trembling, tears glistening on his cheeks, Marea's pistol held aloft in his hands.

“Oh, c'mon. Put it down,” Marea says softly, trying to sound comforting, though her voice wavers from exhaustion. “You won't wanna live with yourself after you do that. I killed somebody when I was your age. Hard to cope with.”

The boy begins to bawl, sobbing without restraint, face screwed up in a terrible expression of desolation. Marea takes a few steps towards him, hands tentatively outstretched for the gun, when a shot rings out yet again. It dents and dings off her left arm, and she throws caution to the wind, charging forward as Tomas fires off one last bullet, which connects—it embeds itself in her thigh, and she yelps and collapses in pain, right on top of him, wrenching the gun from his hands with ease and shoving it down his throat. She pulls the trigger, and it clicks. Empty.

A quick, clear snap echoes in the clearing, like a sapling tree felled in the cold of winter. She gets to her feet, and she limps back to the cottage, windows dark and gaping. With the iron sky above her, stars faded but sun not yet risen, she feels a strange, sudden closeness around her. Similar to her connection with magic in Tyria—but certainly not the same. Only one word comes to mind, but she knows that it is just longing, for familiarity, for certainty, a longing which she has never felt before, and she knows she will soon forget.

“Grenth,” she says into the cool, lifeless air. “If you can hear me—don't let my journey be like this.”

And she opens the door to the cottage, slipping behind stone walls.

The time before sunrise is a checklist. She ventures upstairs, where the sleeping quarters are. The Ferny's had fine furniture, for peasants, and she goes through an ornate wooden wardrobe, searching for clothes that will fit her. Maegan's stockings and a long blouse with flouncy sleeves will do, then she takes a thin summer skirt and rips a slit straight up the side, making it mobile. She slips on the woman's spare boots, old and worn, a bit too big, and then she whimpers in pain as she climbs on the bed to reach the sword that hangs above it. She yanks the weapon from its fastenings on the wall, inspecting it briefly. Blade dull but highly ornamented, with swirling vines adorned by grapes, and a hefty hilt with an elegant guard. An heirloom, most likely, that could be easily sharpened into fighting shape again.

In a large chest at the foot of the bed, she finds books. She flips through the pages, covered in foreign lettering, beautiful to behold but still utter nonsense, much like the accents of the people who wrote them. She takes the smallest downstairs with her, some entertainment for the road.

She picks up her apple from beneath the table and chomps away at the mushy flesh. Out behind the cottage, she goes to the small stables and throws the gates open, setting loose goats and pigs and a couple cows, along with one strange animal that almost fills her with joy, only to steal it away so cruelly. It hobbles out last, slightly too fat and making a ridiculous honking sound. At a glance, it appears to be a small horse—a pony, she recalls, is the word—but its legs are much too stout, and its face too round and homely. It brays at her loudly, trying to rub its snout against her own, and she clumsily pivots and strides away with a groan, rolling her eyes.

“You're a fucking liar, y'know that? You're a lying—thing. Heehaw. Lying Heehaw.”

As the sunrise fills the sky with verdant amber light, turning wisps of clouds blue and making the dewy grass glitter, Marea drags two bodies back to the cottage, depositing them in the kitchen with little thought for staging their deaths. Maegan would have had to bang her face against the wall with the force of an airship to mangle it the way Marea's hand did.

And as the beginnings of blue glow upon the horizon, Marea limps through the forest, and emerges in the quiet, green clearing where she arrived. She rummages through the debris thoroughly. She digs a small hole with a piece of scrap metal, and into it goes most of what remains, which she cannot carry—a few books, charred but intact. Her kitty pistol, partially melted. A bag of jerky, just in case. Then she lodges the piece of sheet metal over them, like a protective cover, Horiz staring up at her in the dirt. And she brushes leaves over the grave.

She returns to the homestead as sun floods the fields, a fine mist rising from them and soothing her aching, tormented flesh. The Heehaw honks at her, and now she obligingly goes to it, just barely heaving herself onto its back. The bullet in her thigh pulses with pain, and as she settles into place, the weight finally off her legs, she sighs in relief.

She isn't sure how to steer the Heehaw, but it seems to know where she wants to go. It immediately starts north, and after less than an hour, it clomps onto a middling dirt road, smooth and well-traveled, though on this day, it's as empty as the stone cottage she leaves behind. A sense of peace overcomes her. The sun warm on her neck. In her backpack, a book, Gippa's notes, a handful of jerky, her eye piece, her M pistol and the bullets she rescued from her kitty gun, all sit heavily upon her burned shoulders. The Ferny family sword bumps against her hip, hung from Frank Ferny's ill-fitting belt.

And the Heehaw clops onward, into uncertain lands. She watches the trees for a while, their long arms lacing overhead. Until, after a time, she closes her eyes, and she slumps forward onto the head of her mount, arms swaying in time with its steps.

Physician Telford saw little excitement in his little town of Archet. Most of his days were spent idle in the doorway to his practice, chatting with Hosta, a fine and charming housewife who sold baked sweets in the next building over. She would lean out her window, waving her hand and asking if he wanted a slice of fresh apple pie. And of course he did, for what else was he to do? Treat the occasional spider bite? Admittedly, the spiders in the area were monstrously huge, but at least they did not rend and maim as creatures in faraway lands did.

So, Hosta would bring him a slice of pie, and they would pick over it together on his porch. She would sit upon the water barrel to be at eye level with him, and they'd have a good chat, about husbands and wives, humans and hobbits, the state of the town and the surrounding estates. And then they would part, and Telford would watch from his shopfront as the sun sank lower in the sky, and yet another day of contentment passed by him.

But today, as he goes outside and waits for Hosta to wave from her window, he turns the other way in surprise, wide-eyed, as he watches the little lady and a handful of men leading a donkey down the street, with the petite shape of a person slumped upon it.

“What is this? An injured traveler?” he exclaims, jogging down the lane to meet them.

“Yes Mr. Telford, so it seems. She's a woman, wee small thing, and in terrible shape.” Hosta reaches up and pats the woman's leg, recoiling as her hand comes away damp with blood that has soaked through the stranger's stockings. “Bill here says she's been badly burned, and her skin is all clammy. Reckon she needs your immediate attention.”

“Of course, right away!” Telford stays a step ahead of the men as they lift the woman off her donkey, and carry her through the low doorway into the physician's shop. He darts around frenetically, wringing his hands, eager to help and overwhelmed that his help is truly needed.

He watches attentively as the woman is laid on the patient bed, and then he shoos the others away with a waving of his hands. “Out, out, this requires my full attention. Hosta, however, can stay. As my assistant.”

“I certainly can,” the woman says proudly, not at all ashamed with her own morbid fascination for the unconscious body in the room. She shuffles up to the bedside, resting her elbows on the mattress as she stares at the strange woman's face.

“Looks like she's been through a lot in the past, even before this. Poor little thing, women should not be made into fighters, I always say. There's enough men to do it themselves.”

“Yes, well, some women simply want to fight,” Telford replies absently, fishing supplies from a series of cupboards along the wall, and then sweeping over to his patient, carefully shifting the fabric of her skirt, and then her stockings, until her harrowed flesh is exposed to the air. Hosta gags a bit, but doesn't look away.

“What do you think happened to her?” the halfling gasps, covering her mouth with her hand. “Did she fall into a bonfire?”

“That, and more. She seems to have some sort of puncture wound as well, and that's only the legs. No doubt there will be more to come—perhaps I should not have asked you to stay.”

“No, I can handle it. I'll keep my mouth shut, if need be.”

“Thank you,” Telford replies with a gentle smile, reaching up to the woman's neck and examining an utterly destroyed piece of black cloth that hangs there, more of a frayed, singed rag than a bandana. “Later, when this is taken care of, we can eat a whole pie. And we'll share it with the girl, too.”

Later comes after many hours. Marea opens her eyes, blurry at first. A low, wooden-beamed ceiling comes into focus, and she glances to her left, across the room, where a window, made hazy by bubbled glass, lets the festive warmth of a sunset stretch upon the floor and flow over her pillow. She distinguishes two chattering shapes sitting on stools by that window. They speak in hushed voices, one quite a familiar form, a man of average build, perhaps a tad short. He towers over the silhouette across from him, with the long curly hair of a woman, and a much stouter stature. The height of an asura, maybe, with feet like a platypus's, and a covered bundle on her lap.

Marea abruptly sits up, gritting her teeth and ignoring the flaring of pain in her shoulders and back.

“Oh no, no no no! Not so fast, my dear!” exclaims the asura-sized shape, quickly hopping down from her stool and rushing over to Marea. “Be gentle with yourself, you have been gravely injured in most unusual ways.”

Marea stares at the little woman for a long moment, incessant dotage rising and falling in the background without ever being heard. Finally, as the man comes up beside the bed and rests his hand against her forehead, Marea speaks.

“You're a dwarf.”

The woman immediately goes silent, for quite a long moment, before bursting into laughter, throwing her head back and slapping the man's knee.

“Oh, did you catch that, Telford? No brain damage there, still got her sense of humor!”

“My sense of—what?”

“Just ignore her,” Telford interjects, nudging his companion aside as he stoops down beside Marea's bed. He reaches for her wrist, before catching himself, and placing his fingers to a pulse point on her neck instead. “Hosta is a dear friend of mine. But perhaps not the best bedside manner.”

Marea blinks at him, at the warm touch of his hands on her patch of unburned skin. She looks down at herself, wrapped to the waist in clean white sheets, and the rest of her torso wrapped in bandages. Her prosthetics are out in the open, and the doctor seems not to care.

“You—understand me?” Even as she asks, she feels the round, elegant slant of the words on her tongue. Rajya always said she was a fast learner, a gift for language, when she applied herself.

Telford raises his brows, tilting his head this way and that. “More or less. You certainly sound like nothing I've ever heard before. Are you some adventurer, then? And tell me, when I knock on this side of your head, how does it feel?”

“It kinda hurts—”

“—The south! I bet you come from the south, on those fabled shores,” interjects Hosta, curls bobbing as she yammers on, “We never see anyone from that far away, all the way up here. But you look like sea-faring stock.”

“...Yeah. I'm from the south,” Marea says flatly, flinching as Telford proceeds to knock on the other side of her head. “If that's, that's what you said.”

“Perhaps you could talk a bit slower for our patient, Hosta,” Telford chides, beckoning her back to the bedside. “We must sound as odd to her as she does to us.”

“Very well, very well. Pie time?” The stout woman quickly unwraps the bundle she carries, revealing a blueberry pie, already sliced and still faintly warm from the oven. Acting without thinking, Marea immediately reaches over and grabs a handful right out of the middle, and shoves it in her mouth, smearing dark juice all around her lips. Hosta cackles with delight, though she produces a fork from the pocket of her apron and eats in a more tidy manner, while Telford gazes at the motion of Marea's prosthetics, captivated.

“Well,” the doctor starts, tearing his gaze away and sweeping up a little bite of pie with his finger, “I suppose you would like to know your condition. You arrived around noon on the back of a donkey, unconscious, and--”

“--A donkey?” Marea blurts out. “A suitably stupid name.”

“It was a donkey, yes. Anyway, we took you in and treated you for several hours, throughout the afternoon. You have severe burns all over your legs, and on your back and the back of your neck, as you most likely realized. It will take weeks, if not months, for them to fully heal, but you will be scarred for life.” He pauses, as if waiting for the waterworks, but Marea just shrugs, grabbing another handful of pie.

“Shoulda seen my old scars. Won't be that different,” she says dismissively.

“Mm, you have high spirits. A good sign. You also have a deep gash upon your forehead, which seems to have missed vital areas, but we will need to keep you awake for twenty-four hours to be sure that you remain amongst the living. I also treated several minor cuts across your person. Your final ailment, though—I've never seen anything quite like it.”

Marea stares at him, munching away noisily, waiting for the inevitable questions she must dodge.

“The puncture wound on your thigh—it was made by this small metal projectile.” He pulls the bullet from the pocket of his tunic, and holds it out for her to see. “My first thought was that it came from a slingshot, but truly, there is no way it could have buried itself so deep if that were the case. So I must ask, do you know what it is?”

Marea widens her eyes and shakes her head, a picture of perfect innocence. “Not a clue. I had something in my leg? I had no idea, I thought I was just crispy and tender.”

Hosta chuckles and shakes her head, popping a bite of pie in her small mouth. “Crispy and tender, oh good grief. You sound funny and you make funny, too.”

Telford sighs, placing the bullet in his pocket and patting it for safekeeping. “As I feared. You know, Hosta, the bard did bring tales of strange things along the North-South Road. What do you think? Do you recall any metal projectiles?”

Hosta shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “No, only strange hooded things, screeching in the night, the stuff that spooks children. That old man is always full of nonsense. It's not fair that all we get is a washed-up harpist, while my cousins in Hobbiton get regular visits from the wizard with the fireworks.”

“Wizard?” Marea cuts in, her face lighting up as she licks the last bit of crumbly pie from her fingers. “Like, a guy who does magic?”

“Of course, what else would a wizard be? He has a very long beard, I've heard, so you know he's legitimate.”

Telford shakes his head, tut-tutting under his breath. “I say he can keep his fireworks. We live in a modern age, an age of science, Hosta. Better to keep such whimsy and superstition at arms length. Leave it to the elves, who we rarely have to see.”

Marea mouths the word silently, elves.

“Anyway,” Telford begins again, rising to his feet. “I imagine you must be tired, Miss—forgive me, all this time, I did not think to ask your name.”

“Marea,” she says, opening her mouth to add Sleekfur, but she holds it back. Uncertain how it might be perceived.

“Marea. Quite a lovely name. You must be tired, but since you cannot sleep yet, I will send Hosta on her way, and keep you awake myself.”

“Ohhh, Telford!” the little woman whines dramatically, though she smiles broadly, already shuffling to the door. “I will be by in the morning to check on you, little one,” she chimes to Marea, waving as she slips out into the street.

“Little one,” Marea murmurs, shoulders slumping.

“She likes to call humans that,” Telford explains, pulling his stool over to the bedside, and perching upon it. “Now, what would you like to discuss, to keep you awake?”

Marea taps her chin slowly, licking her chapped lips, the remnants of blueberry flavor making her mouth water. “I'd rather just listen, actually. I have a book. Can you read it to me? Good practice, for the accent, thing,” she adds, pulling on her earlobes.

“It would be my pleasure,” the doctor replies, a warm, genuine smile crinkling his face. A face that could belong to any man, anywhere, yet somehow, in this one, she senses true kindness.