#corvid writes

[amorbidcorvid]

Fibers in Fiction - A Silmarillion Writer’s Guide to Þerindë's Craft

It's the @silmarillionwritersguild's Meta Week, and I wanted to contribute my two special interests -- fiber art and Tolkien -- and my real world degree in Medieval European Women's History. So here's a essay with writing resources for Day 6 - apply real-world disciplines to Middle-earth.

Most of this I had sitting in the back of my head and do not have quality, academic sources for. Links are either to written or video resources, or to picture credits.

Intro

What is fiber art? My personal definition is the manipulation of some sort of fiber into something functional and/or beautiful. There are a few characters in Tolkien’s works that are associated with a fiber craft of some sort – Vairë the Weaver, Míriel Þerindë, and Arwen Undómiel come to mind the easiest. I've seen various fanworks that have Caranthir also be a needle-worker, but that's not canon the way these three women are. There's a lot to be said about the intersection between "women's work" and needlework and feminism, and Tolkien's inclusion of those patriarchal standards, but ... that's not this essay.

There’s a lot of methods and a lot of disciplines that can be put under the umbrella of fiber art. The purpose of this essay is to help fic writers expound on the process of a fiber craft using the correct terminology, gain an understanding of period(ish) appropriate tools/techniques, and the differences between some of the major forms of fiber arts.  

What is a fiber? 

Starting with the basics. A fiber is a material that is longer than it is wide and typically used in textiles or electronics. This is Tolkien’s world, we’re not worrying about electronics, so let’s turn to textile fibers. There are four main types of textile fibers: 

natural fibers - flax, hemp, cotton, jute

animal fibers - silk, wool, catgut (not made from cats), angora rabbit fur, goat hair (mohair, cashmere)

synthetic fibers. - polyester, acrylic, nylon, rayon

Metallic fibers - gold, silver, copper, mithril that have been formed into a very thin wire

Obviously, unless the Valar let Fëanor get into oil extraction, all those synthetic fibers are right out. Leatherwork does not count as a fiber art, since true leather is a processed animal skin. Cords can be cut from leather to act like string, but that’s not a true fiber. And don’t talk to me about pleather or vegan leather. That’s just plastic and it’s bad for the environment. 

Spin a Thread, Draw a Wire

For the three types of fiber that could be used in Arda, there are two methods to turn these materials into thread: drawing and spinning.

Drawing a wire: a small piece of metal is pulled through a device called a draw plate. A draw plate may have many holes through which the wire is pulled, each getting successively smaller and smaller until you reach the gauge (size) you desire. As you pull the wire through each smaller hole, the wire gets thinner and longer. Rinse and repeat until you have a wire of the desired thickness. If you’re combining a wire with some sort of flexible fiber (couching, weaving, etc, see below) it needs to be extremely thin in order to be flexible enough to bend with the fiber it’s attached to. 

You need a lubricant to ensure the wire doesn’t get stuck in the draw plate. Covering the wire in oil is a good way to go (this is called dry drawing. Wet drawing is when the draw plate and the wire are both submerged in oil as you work). Application of heat can make this process easier, but depending on the metal, you might not need very much. 

Gold, silver, and copper are all very soft metals in their purest form -- alloys will make them stronger, less malleable, and harder to draw. Mithril, given that it’s a fictional metal, I can’t confidently comment on, but it’s said to have been very malleable, so I would imagine that the same process for creating very thin wires would also work in the same way as it would for the other metals listed.

A spun thread is an assortment of individual fibers that have been twisted together to make a stronger unit. Natural, animal, and synthetic fibers can all be spun. 

Usually when we describe something as a thread, we’re talking about a spun fiber that is fine/thin and smooth enough for sewing or weaving applications. Spinning a thread involves taking a pile of washed and combed but loose fibers (a bundle of these is called a roving) and literally twisting it until it forms a thread. This can be done with a drop spindle or a spinning wheel. A drop spindle is the more mobile form of spinning, and simple enough that medieval families would often have children spin. With practice you could even do it while walking. Imagine, for a moment, Míriel Þerindë walking through Beleriand during the Great Journey, drop spindle in hand, making the thread she is known for. That’s some good stuff. I’m begging somebody to write this. 

Here’s some video tutorials on how to use a drop spindle and how to use a spinning wheel. I can’t explain it succinctly, and a visual is always a good tool. 

Plyed Threads Make a Yarn

Yarn is several threads counter-twisted around each other. Counter twisting is what holds the yarn’s structure. If the individual thread is twisted clockwise, the yarn must twist all those clockwise threads counterclockwise. The tension holds the shape of the yarn.

Yarns (usually made from an animal fiber like wool, goat, or angora) and twines (usually made from natural fibers like hemp or jute or cotton) are made the same way because they make the threads stronger and more durable than they would be as individual threads, but their material usually dictates how they’re used. Yarns are softer, better for knitting or crochet or weaving. Twines and cords tend to be rougher, better for securing things to other things, for outdoor use, or … you know. The things they do in Angband.

Weaving a fabric

So you’ve got your thread and/or yarn. Now what? Well, you can dye it now (see next section), you can start knitting a garment (you need good socks on the Helcaraxë), or you can start weaving a fabric. Fabric has two components, both made by individual threads in sequence. The warp is generally static, and the vertical thread in most diagrams, including the ones I’m including here. The weft is the thread that passes back and forth horizontally. You can have the weft go over/under/over/under like this diagram (this is called a plain weave) or you can have the weft skip over a number of warp threads to create a pattern or a texture (satin or twill or denim weaves skip warp threads). The pattern depends on which warp threads get lifted or lowered with each pass of the weft, which is typically attached to a shuttle that glides through the shed. 

Weaving requires a loom, but that loom can come in various form-factors. A backstrap loom maintains tension in the warp by the position of the weaver, who has a strap attached to the loom going around her back while she manipulates the weft in front of her. This was, and still is, commonly used in native South American communities.

Early medieval Europe typically used a warp-weighted loom, where the warp threads were tied to a loom weight that dangled off the back of the loom frame. This was replaced later with the horizontal loom, which included the invention of heddles (loops that lifted warp threads in sequence to make a shed (opening) so as to make a pattern) and treadles (foot pedals that control the heddles). 

Later, the horizontal loom gets mechanized, and somehow we got computer programs out of Jacquard looms. Fascinating, but not relevant here. 

One of my favorite types of weaving is tablet weaving, which instead of heddles or treadles to form the shed, uses square cards. Four threads go through the corners of the cards to form alternating sheds that can form complex patterns. Tablet weaving is great for decorative trim and edges. You can use a backstrap method, a warp weighted method, or an inkle loom to create tablet woven articles. This video is a gorgeous introduction, but a bit long. 

What about Vairë’s tapestries, I hear you cry out into the Void? See below :) 

Add a splash of color, become ungovernable 

Color! The world can create rainbows, and we’ve been trying to make thread to match for ages. Luckily you can make most colors with natural dyes. Purple is the hardest color to get with a natural dye, along with blacks; yellows and reds and browns are easiest.

You have to prepare your dye (usually taking some natural material (onion, cochineal insects, gallnuts, walnuts, marigold flowers, woad, madder, whatever you have) and your thread/yarn/fabric separately before combining them with heat. 

Prepping your dye depends on the material you’re using. Sometimes it’s just an overnight soak in a pot, sometimes it’s crushing beetle carcasses into a fine powder, sometimes it’s boiling. I leave it to you, friend, to research the exact color you’re looking to make with a natural dye and how to get that, but this chart might be a good start. 

Most thread/yarn/fabric needs a mordant. Mordant is a dye fixative. After all that work making the fabric, you don’t want that gorgeous Fëanorian red (madder root) to come out in the wash water, right? Mordants are acids that can be found naturally, either by processing some plant materials to create tannic acid (oak trees and oak galls) or oxalic acid (wood sorrels), or by working a chemical process using alum, chrome alum, or sodium chloride, or ammonia (stale urine was commonly used before modern chemical processes). Mordants stink to Angband and back, so historically dyers would be outside town or in their own district as to not offend everyone elses noses. 

You can get a richer, more saturated color by overdyeing – dying twice or even three times. Dyes are hard to color match; each batch is going to have its own variables (weather, temperature, concentration of the dye, concentration of the mordant, quality of the fiber, etc). 

I’ve found this website that goes into a lot more detail. I’m not affiliated with them, but it’s a good starting point.  

Tools

A non-exhaustive list of standard tools a fiber artist may use and material it could be/typically is made of: 

Thread, yarn, or fabric (described above)

Scissors/shears (metal)

Sharp sewing needle in various sizes (bone or metal)

Blunt needle in various sizes (sometimes called a tapestry needle, bone or metal)

Spindle (wood)

Loom in various sizes (wood, wire, thread)

Shuttle (wood)

Knitting needles (bone, wood, or metal)

Nalbinding needle (bone, metal) (nalbinding is a cousin of knitting and crochet, good for hats and socks)

Crochet hook (bone, metal, wood)

Bobbin (wood, bone)

Lace pins (metal)

Lace pillow (fabric)

Embroidery hoop (wood)

Embroidery frame (scroll frame, slate frame, wood)

Embroidery stand (wood, metal)

Thimble (leather, metal)

Fiber Crafts seen in the Legendarium 

Tapestry Weaving

Tapestry weaving is different than standard weaving, because the weft does not go across the entire length of the working area in a shuttle. Tapestry weaving typically uses many, many bobbins or needles of colored thread worked in a plain weave in small areas to make an image. In medieval Europe, tapestries would be used as a form of insulation, to keep the cold out, and as a status symbol. (All I’m saying is, give Himring more tapestries, and maybe the Ever-Cold fortress would be a bit more homey). Here’s this article from the Metropolitan Museum of Art about tapestries, and here’s a video about the making of large scale tapestries, which is the technique I imagine Vairë and Míriel use for the Halls.

Embroidery

Embroidery is the practice of taking individual colored threads (usually cotton, wool, or silk) and sewing them into a ground fabric to decorate that fabric with a design of some sort. There’s SO MANY ways to embroider things. Cross stitch, which is what your author started out doing, uses stitched squares on a grid to effectively make pixel art with thread. You can do blackwork (which doesn’t necessarily need a black thread) which makes a repeating pattern on a grid but doesn’t make squares. Or there’s more freeform embroidery which lots of people use for natural scenes (flowers especially) but can be used for portraits, landscapes, silly sayings – the world is your oyster. The Royal School of Needlework in the UK has a Stitch Bank which documents how to accomplish many, many, many kinds of stitches. 

I’m going to highlight a few stitches that absolutely should be in your writing toolkit if you are working with a character doing embroidery. I’m not going to describe every stitch, but knowing what a stitch is called is half the battle. Okay, maybe a quarter of it, you still have to either do it, or write a good description of doing it, which may be the other 3/4ths of the battle.

Satin Stitch - a good, all purpose filler. Made by stitching parallel lines of thread. Uses a lot of thread, since you should be bringing your needle up through the ground on the same side of the thing you’re trying to fill every time. 

Couching - another good, all purpose filler. Made by laying thread or wire flat on the ground fabric, then taking another thread (close in color or not, depends on the vibe) and stitching it down in place securely. This is the main filling stitch in the Bayeux Tapestry (not a true tapestry, it’s just a really big embroidery) and undoubtedly how Arwen made part of Aragorn’s banner with mithril wire. 

Straight stitch - makes a dashed line

Back stitch - makes a solid straight line

Stem stitch - makes a solid straight line that can easily curve

Chain stitch - good filler, makes interlocking loops

Daisy stitch - a chain stitch that doesn’t interlock the loops, but stitches down the loop so it doesn’t move. Makes good simple flowers

French knots - tiny filler, lots of good texture. Tiny knots made by wrapping the thread around your needle.

Stump work - 3D effects for ages. Want flowers or leaves to literally jump off the ground fabric? Stump work is your friend, and my personal nemesis. 

Conclusion

Knowing the terminology of a craft is integral to learning more about it, and writing it accurately. My hope with this resource is that you might have learned a new term or two, or gotten a few new resources to use in your writing. Even better if this is something you don’t know a lot about, or have never given much thought to, then I hope you’ve learned something valuable here. 

[plumiscorvus]

So anyway, my SoT character is fun and in love with The World's Okayest Skeleton Lord, their story is still going, just getting to the really juicy part. >:3

Find it on:

AO3 or Toyhou.se

[corvid-ghost]

Mike and Bill just talking about who knows what. It's been hours at this point, Bill asks"What did you think of my book? I heard people didn't like the ending." Mike goes quiet a bit, still smiling. "You wanna know what I thought? Hold on, I'll be right back, i need t get something" and he comes back with Bill's book and hands it too him "Your giving me, my book? Why?" "Open it." Every page has writing on it, annotations everywhere. "Everything I thought of your book is in there. I wanted to make sure everything was in there. Either in case I ended up forgetting too, or... or maybe i would see you again to give it to."

When Bill goes through it later he finds a letter taped to the back.

"Dear Bill,

I know I'll probably never see you again, but if you get this, I just want you to know eveything. You were always an exceptional person, and an even better writer. I miss you and the losers every day. I remember you showing us your writings when we were younger. They were always great. Always with flaws, like with everything, but those made the story wonderful and exceptional. Just like you. I think this tory hs been your best so far. I don't even know if you remember your old ones. I can see some inspiration taken from them in this one. I don't know if you knew, but it's there. Now, I know you want to hear what I think of your ending. Honestly, it's a bad ending, but not in the way most people say. No other ending would have worked. Your ending followed the themes of the book. It's just that the themes aren't what people want. I didn't enjoy your ending, but I don't think we were supposed to. I did however understand it. I hope to see you again. I hope you get to know this. I miss you Bill. I miss everything about you. I hope some day you will remember me. I feel terrible for saying this. Knowing the only way this would happen is if It comes back again. I don't want that to happen. Im sorry. I honestly dont even know why im writing this. I know we're probably never going to see eachother again. Even if we do, theres no telling what will happen. I dont know, Bill. But I know I love you. I love eveything about you Bill.

Love,

Mike"

Bill looks over to Mike sleeping on the couch. Wondering if he knows what he wrote, or if he knew it was still in here. Did he mean to give this to him?

[thebittercorvus]

Content warning: Death. Decay.

His best friend died two weeks ago. He saw it happen.

And he almost convinced himself, that he was having a nightmare.

"--y, and so I went to human resources to complain about Kassandra being a hostile, insufferable creep again but they said I needed to, hear me out, fucking walk it off, and isn't it a bitch that--"

Because you see, it was sudden.

Not that death gives you a warning in writing two weeks prior, stuck in your door like an eviction notice for delayed payments or whatever bullshit the landlord is on about now. Actually scratch that, he's not sure if that'd make things better or worse.

He's not sure if he would've liked to know his friend was going to die. But, saying goodbye one night after making plans to spend sunday watching a series they've been meaning to watch the entire year, just to see him slumped over his desk and without a pulse next morning...

You see, nobody tells you just how heavy ashes can be. Nobody tells you either that in the crematorium, those ovens rarely ever get deep cleaned. He's not sure whose ashes were mixed in that tiny urn he just knew it wasn't just his friend but some strangers' ashes too because there was no space in the local cemetery and who has money for the private cemetery two hours away from the city anyways.

His ashes rested in the river. Lucas dreamed of seeing the world, and that's the closes thing he could get him on a half-a-cent budget.

When he was alive, Lucas was stressed, overworked and underpaid, like most adults his age were. He had a lot on his plate, in the metaphorical sense only, because he hadn't been eating too well. The last time they saw each other, he was complaining about a weird pain in his arm, and a headache that wouldn't go away. Lucas always had a lot on his plate.

The funeral was two weeks ago. He was there. He was the one who scattered the ashes and he has alone for it. He managed to contact a relative who would identify the body, but they didn't stay long after it and they surely didn't want anything to do with funeral arrangements.

Lucas had been dead and gone for two weeks and he was about to write it off as the worst living, walking nightmare he's had in his entire thirty years.

Except, his friend clocked in the exact same hour as every day.

"Yo', Michael, are you listening to me?"

Even though he himself found him without a pulse, slumped over that tiny desk inside that cramped office.

Even though he vividly recalls having to deal with everything Lucas left behind on his own.

He didn't even had the time to process it all.

Yet there he was, walking around as if nothing had happened, looking exhausted yet still with a smile on his face, saying that he'd rest when dead like a cosmic joke at the expense of his sanity... Michael convinced himself that surely, the funeral, those endless days, everything, as unlikely as that might sound, was a horrible dream.

Even though he was the only one there to scatter the ashes.

"No, it's fine, I was listening to you," he said, feeling like he was going to cry all of a sudden. Like he didn't woke up one day to his friend being gone. It had been a nightmare. Surely it was a nightmare. A long, vivid one. "I'm-- I'm glad to see you."

Luke gave him a puzzled look. Most people would. It was a weird choice of words.

"Thank... you? I'm glad too?" he goes, rather awkwardly. "Man, are you alright?"

"Me?"

"Yeah? You look like you just saw a ghost."

He blinked the tears away, and if Lucas noticed something off, he was kind enough to let him be. He usually was.

"Hey, you-- remember that one project that's been keeping you awake at night?" He asks. If it was a nightmare, then Lucas was still working overtime to meet the project deadlines.

If it was all a dream then, on that day, two weeks ago, he last saw Lucas disappear inside his office to dream of never seeing him walk out alive again.

"Remember? Man, I couldn't forget about it if I lobotomized myself," he replies, rubbing his palms against his eyes. "C'mon now I have five minutes while the project manager reviews the damn thing and I'm trying to tell you how Kassandra is going to be the death of me--"

"Let's get out of here," he says all of a sudden.

Lucas stares at him like he's gone mad.

And maybe he did.

"Mike, dude, are you alright?"

"If I say no, will you come with me?"

"What? Seriously man, you're scaring me. Is everything alright? Did your... did your dad call or something?" he whispers the last part. "You need like. A interbrontion?"

"Stop trying to make interbrontion a thing, it's not gonna happen," he says out of pure reflex. "I'm fine," he lies, "I just... Y'know, you never know when shit's gonna happen. The project will still be there tomorrow. But, today? Today we might just see the cutest dog, and it might not be there tomorrow. Let's just see a movie. Walk downtown 'till three in the morning. Punch a nazi in the face. Let's be like, teens again, walking around the city."

"Dude, we grew up in suburbia."

"I'm not hearing a no!"

"... Man, I don't know, Johnson's been on my ass about finishing this damn thing," Lucas replies, a bit unsure about the whole thing. "What about I drop by your place after I finish this? I have a coupon for chinese takeaway that hasn't expired yet..." A non expired coupon from this man? Unbelievable. "I think." Hah, there it is.

"Y'know, never have I seen Johnson leave a second after four o'clock, while you pull all-nighters eight days a week," he insists, crossing his arms across his chest. In his dream, Johnson denied him paid leave in order to take care of his friend's fucking funeral. He's still pissed about it, and it's also a thing real-Johnson would do. "If he's got a problem he can go ahead and try and fire you."

"You know I can't really afford to be unemployed right now... And I mean, we're all pretty replaceable in life in general--"

"Not to me," he interrupts. "You're. Definitely not replaceable. Not to me."

Man that dream got me fucked up, alright.

"... Seriously man, are you alright?"

... But it had been so real.

***

It took some convincing and a little bit of crying, but in the end he convinced Lucas to leave. He doesn't usually cry, only when in the middle of a mental breakdown or right after eating a really, really good soup, none of which he's had in a while. Maybe they should eat soup, he's sure he can get away with shoplifting two cans of soup still. Who's gonna catch him, the soup police?

So they go see a movie. The tickets are unnecesarily expensive-- for a man that just shoplifted soup-- and the popcorn tastes like cardboard and the movie itself sucks so much they end up dubbing it over with an immensely funnier version in whispers.

They uh, got kicked out of the theater for that one. Even though the place was near empty on accounts of it being a monday.

After that he insists on walking, even though the place he lives is on the other side of town, and Lucas agrees because he's a saint of a man that worries too much for his neurotic friend to say no. They do see plenty of cute dogs willing to get their ears scratched, and plenty of equally cute cats who were not so willing to get their ears scratched.

And it was... Nice.

Maybe that dream was trying to tell him something. Like, appreciate more the friends you've got. Specially the ones that try and make words like interbrontion happen.

"Mike, whatever it is... You know I'm not going anywhere, right? You know that. You have to know that," Lucas insists, after they reach the dead-end alley where the narrow steps of his apartment complex is located.

Michael shrugs. "Dunno. You can't take things for granted."

"Whatever it is, you can tell me, y'know?"

"It's alright, it was..." A very vivid nightmare? In which you died of a heart attack and I was left alone to take care of everything, but it's okay now because you're most definitely not dead. I'm sure someone on the human resources department would've noticed a dead man walking, they don't want to have to pay more people than they absolutely are obligated to. "Uh, my dad did call," he lies instead. "He um, wanted me to lend him some money again." Yeah no way in hell I'm explaining that one.

He sees his friends face go red in a blink.

"THAT MOTHERFUCKER!" He shouts. "I KNEW IT! That ASSHOLE! That's it! I'm getting a fucking plane ticket to Bumfuck No-fucking-where to set his motherfucking SUV on FIRE! Give me his number he's going to hear of me again."

Have you ever had prophetic dreams?

"C'mon now relax, he didn't even say anything--"

"I'm going to murder that backstabbing miserable attempt of a man, I don't give a shit if he calls me the wrong thing he's going to fucking meet Lucas and my fists will meet his fucking sad pathetic fac--"

Or perhaps, a dream so, so likely that when it ends up occurring in real life, you can't help the deja-vú.

Perhaps that had been death, sticking the eviction notice to the wrong door.

"Lucas?" He begins, seeing him get paler by the second. It's only now that he notices, the way his breath comes in short. Like he just ran a marathon, even though they were walking just fine a few minutes ago. They were just talking a second ago. "Lucas!"

"No, no, I just need to-- need to sit down, fuck--"

It happens in slow motion.

It happens in a split of a second.

It happens slowly, suddenly, all at once.

"No, no, nonononononono, wake up, wake up!" he cries once his friend collapses. He never learnt how to properly reanimate anybody. He doesn't know how to do chest compressions, nor has the strenght to keep a heart beating. He's regretting not learning it. "HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

Through blurred eyes he sees his friend take a breath and then, it stops. His head is spinning.

This can't be real. This can't be real. This can't be-

***

"--Really, and so I went to human resources to complain about Kassandra being a hostile, insufferable creep again but they said I needed to, hear me out, fucking walk it off, and isn't it a bitch that--"

He startled awake, suddenly back inside his cubicle while everyone else worked. Lucas had walked in, in the middle of a short break while his project was being reviewed.

He's fairly certain, he just had lived through this morning for the third time.

"What day is it?" He asks abruptly, because this just can't be.

Lucas stops mid-sentence, and looks at him, extremely confused. "... Uh, monday?"

There's no way.

"But it can't be monday," he says, getting up immediately. Nobody in the entire floor seem to even care about the sudden raise of his voice. Now that he thinks about it, last time nobody even gave a fuck that they walked out. Usually he can't even go to the bathroom more than twice or some manager somehow finds out.

"Well, it oftentimes comes riiiight after a sunday, unless I missed the latest update," Lucas replies with an easygoing smile. "Are you alright?"

No. "Yes?" Definitely maybe. "I just. I need to see something."

He starts running then, and takes notice of just how nobody seems to give a crap about it. Usually they're sligthly more attentive to the world around their cubicles, at least just enough to catch some gossip, like Michael from the third floor making a run to the fire exit like a madman.

And then he's outside, and the world stares back. The kiosk in the corner has newspapers, and they're all dated to a monday. The news channel reads monday. The vietnamese restaurant across the street has a special offer for mondays and the coffee shop right besides it has a handmade chalk sign that reads "Marvelous Mondays!"

And he's seen enough movies to know exactly what's wrong.

"-ke, MIKE!" He finally hears the shouting coming from behind him. "THERE YOU ARE YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT! WHAT IN THE ACTUAL--"

"We're repeating the day of your death, and you're going to die today at around eleven of a heart attack," he says quickly, because he hasn't learned enough from those movies. He hates them, as a matter of fact.

"... Hey did you read my search history or something to prank me, that's not cool dude," he replies instead. "But thanks for reminding me I have to update my passwords."

"Coolio69420 has been your password since we were fucking twelve anyways-- wait a minute, search history?" Lucas at the very least has the decency to look away. "YOU KNOW YOU'RE HAVING SYMPTOMS YOU IDIOT!"

"Yeah, well, I don't have hospital money."

"And I don't have funeral money!" He goes off, angry and relieved, and grabs him by the arm to drag him to the nearest emergency room. "C'mon! We're splitting the bill, I'm taking out a loan, whatever!"

"Dude this is not a dinner--"

"I don't give a shit if I go bankrupt, I'm not seeing you die for the third time!"

And he's not entirely sure how or why, but Lucas, stubborn asshole he's always been, agrees to it.

***

They save him, although it was a close call, and he gets to have a headache about the bill on the way home with his very much alive friend walking besides him.

"That was scary, you say you kept having dreams about me dying?" Lucas asks in between sips of water. "That's horror story levels of creepy."

"Yeah, well, but it worked and now you're alive."

"And you're bankrupt."

"But you're alive," he insists, like nothing else could matter in the world. Nothing does, as a matter of fact.

"... Dude that's kinda gay."

He punches him in the arm. Ligthly. "Friends don't let friends die of prophetized heart failures!"

"That's a brand new sentence," Lucas laughs.

The light at the crosswalk turns green. It's a bit of a long way home but for the life of him, he can't remember where he parked his bike and he's fairly certain he left his wallet in his desk. He wants to have faith but he know of an asshole or two that will undoubtelly just take whatever little money he's got left.

"Hey, you said the dreams were super realistic, right?" He hears Lucas ask besides him. They're still crossing. It feels like the crosswalk was...

Weirdly infinite.

"Yeah, why?"

He hears Lucas stop besides him. Which is weird, in the middle of a busy crosswalk, with cars and people around them. Usually the city is extremely noisy.

When he looks back, Lucas simply is standing. Somehow, he's in the middle of the street, while he's on the other sidewalk waiting.

"Lucas?"

"Say, Mike," he hears him say, like a whisper from somewhere beyond. "You'd know, if this were a dream, right?"

For a moment, it feels as if the world stills for a second.

Then he blinks, and it's over. There's music coming out of a cornershop, and a group of girls are trying to record a dance video in front of a flower shop. The cars are honking impatiently at the stoplights that are taking way too long to turn green again.

Michael smiles at him, extending his hand so his friend will just hurry up and meet him on the other side.

"I'm sure I would've noticed by now," he replies.

Lucas lets out a sigh, relaxing visibly, and continues walking.

The light turns green.

***

"--She doesn't need to hide behind religion to be a phobic piece of shit, really, and so I went to human resources to complain about Kassandra being a hostile, insufferable creep again but they said I needed to, hear me out, fucking walk it off, and isn't it a bitch that--"

He gets up so fast, the chair falls to the ground. The sound echoes in the otherwise silent office, and nobody even looks up from their computers to ask him to kindly shut the hell up.

"It's monday," he says, stricken by horror.

"... Yeah?" Lucas replies, looking more and more concerned by the second. "Mike?"

This can't be, he thinks desperately, making a run to the stairs. The elevator's been broken since the last week and only now they're trying to fix it. Many people has complained about accesibility issues, and the only thing the company offered was a work from home option for them while the elevator was being repaired. There were notices everywhere that the repairs would be done on monday and when he walks by it, sure there are they working on it.

But he doesn't dwell in there.

Instead he runs to the fifth floor, to an office he's got a key of even though he absolutely should not, but does anyways because Lucas more often than not forgets about his, and walks by a couple of people that should, by all means, wonder what the hell is some dude from the third floor doing in there uninvited.

He was so happy about seeing his friend again, that he didn't notice just how... irresponsive the rest of the world became.

The door is jammed. It usually is, that's not a big revelation. They've complained a lot to get it fixed and yet the best they could give Lucas was some oil to mantain it himself. He's since then told everyone that it was a fire hazard and the department simply told him to work with his door open if it bothered him that much. He's been meaning to buy a new lock himself for months now.

Then his friend died, and it didn't matter that much anymore.

And when the door finally opens...

"No, no, this can't be, I just saw you. You were-- you were just talking with me, you're fine!"

Just to find a decaying corpse, slumped over a desk.

"Wake up!" He cries, even though there's maggots eating off his flesh and flies everywhere. It's impressive nobody had issued a complaint for the smell. "Wake up! Wake up!"

"Lucas?"

And then he turns around. And sees...

Himself.

From two weeks ago, when he first found him. In that dream... Or, what he thought had been one anyways.

"Hey, I've told you not to sleep in here how many times now?" He hears himself saying, like in that first dream. He steps aside, and sees a spitting image of himself, another Michael, walk closer to a corpse that now looks fresh instead of decaying. Almost alive. "C'mon now, I brought you breakfast. Lucas. Hey, Lucas!"

It all plays out exactly like the first time.

"Dude stop this, it's not funny," he hears his own voice waver again. He sees himself walk closer. Closer. And put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

He sees again, the body fall off and roll over.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

"HELP!" He hears himself say, for what feels like the millionth time now. "SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

"Have you learned your lesson yet?"

The world around him disappears, as soon as he turns around.

There's only himself and the fresh corpse of his friend and, across the void, something that looks like Lucas, walks like Lucas, know things only Lucas would know.

But isn't. His. Friend.

"Who are you?" He asks. "Why are you doing this to me!?"

It smiles at him. The smile resembles his friend too, but only on surface level. There's a glimpse of red in its eyes, that he never noticed before.

"I recall you saying, as you scattered his ashes on that smelly river, that you'd trade your soul just to have him back for a day," the thing says. "Perhaps you should be careful when you speak with a dead man's ashes on your hands, who knows what wicked things are listening."

"Take me back to my world," he cries, kneeling still next to his dead friend. Just like he remembered him. "I can't see-- I don't want to keep having to see him die. This is not what I meant. I wanted him alive again, not-- not having to see him die every day for the rest of eternity!"

"See, that's why you usually word your wishes more carefully my man," the thing says, reappearing by his side.

Up close, it doesn't look nothing like Lucas. Just like a walking corpse, wearing the skin of a man he knew like the back of his hand.

"I don't want this wish," Michael repeats. "I-- I have pets, that I need to take care of, my tortoise. I need to go back."

"Sorry, no refunds," the wicked thing says, smiling with far too many teeth.

"Then I want to change my wish."

"Aw, but I don't think I can do that you see, it's a soul we're speaking of. Valuable things. I sell them, I know what I'm telling you," it says. "But go ahead, let's see what can I do for you."

Michael swallows dry.

He had to try, at the very least.

"My place for his," he says, and the thing's eyes seem to shine brigther. "I-- I will take his place. Just. One last day is what I'm asking you. Let him live, and take me instead."

The thing smiles. It's almost kind, so much that for a moment, he convinces himself it's his friend smiling to him again.

"Did he ever knew?" It asks him.

"... What?"

"Oh, nevermind, I don't think you're even aware of it yourself," it says, getting up and walking away. "A shame. Anyways."

"Wait!"

"One day is all you're getting my dear, pathetic friend," he hears the thing say. "Others have traded their souls for money and youth. Wisdom. Power."

"I just..." he begins, unable to explain himself to the thing across him. It smiles back, knowingly. "I didn't even got to say goodbye."

"Oh, don't you worry," it says, and the world begins to fade in front of his eyes.

"You better wake up, it'll be late for work."

***

He's not entirely sure yet why he left himself be convinced by Michael to just leave work early and go walk around, but he still did it and the thirty messages on his phone from Johnson are there to remind him it's not always the best idea to let Michael have his way all the time.

Should've told him no. But by god, that dog we saw on the way home was so cute.

He was just looking at the picture the dog owner took of the two of them-- a very kind lady that really tried her best to give her number to Mike, just to have the endearingly, annoyingly oblivious man talk about the dog nonstop for ten minutes. He was also adamant that the two of them appeared in the picture with the dog, even though Lucas' never liked pictures.

But these turned out alright. He might just misuse the office supplies to print them.

"I completely forgot to tell you yesterday, you were in such a hurry, remember Kassandra right?" he says, walking inside the office Mike works in, just to find his cubicle empty. "Huh."

"He didn't arrive today," he heard Hera say, the person working just opposide of Mike's desk. "No notice, no anything."

"That's weird, I saw him yesterday," Lucas says, and they just shrug.

"Hangover?" Hera asks.

"He's on recovery," Lucas shoots back, almost offended.

"Sorry, had no clue. He never talks about his personal life," they say. "Try to call him, but I've been trying all morning and it just rings."

"That's 'cause he keeps his phone on silence," he mutters to himself, but still grabs his phone to give it a try.

He sees the contact. It reads that last time he was online was just this morning.

The last message he received from him was just a short goodnight, after Lucas sent him the dog pictures.

... He can't seem to shake off the bad feeling.

And, almost on cue, his phone starts ringing.

"Should've tried to find you sooner, I knew he would reply to you," Hera says, a bit teasing. "I mean I also pick up when my friends call me--"

"It's not him," he says, afraid, reading the name on the caller id.

They look up at last.

"It's his landlord."

***

He couldn't get there fast enough.

They found him on the bathroom floor.

"This has to be a joke," he says, looking at the body hidden under a white sheet. "You-- I saw you yesterday. Get up man, this isn't funny."

"Sir, we need a family member or a spouse to identify the body," he hears someone say.

"Well there's only me, is that not good enough?" He snaps back.

"Are you a spouse?"

"No."

"Sibling? Cousin?"

"He's the boyfriend," he hears the old landlord say.

"We're just friends," Lucas insists.

The man in front of him gives him a look.

"Listen, it might be easier to handle the paperwork if you say you're the boyfriend," he explains. "Not that it will be any easy. Are you sure there are no living relatives? We couldn't get a hold of anybody."

He remembers an old white man with his unkept beard and red hat and unnecesarily enormous SUV and the belt he would always carry around like a whip and use as such more often than not.

"There's nobody but me," he replies, resolute.

The man doesn't look convinced, but doesn't press either. "Alright then. I'll give you a form, make sure to explain you're the boyfriend--"

"We're not--!"

"--'cause if you don't young man, the hospital will just keep his body for research, and I don't know 'bout your or his beliefs but unless he specifically asked for it to be this way, that's not a way to go."

Then he's left in an empty room, with a nervous tortoise walking around and a form to fill.

He saw Mike, just the day before.

"For fucks sake."

He needs a walk.

***

There's way too many people by the river for him to yell. He joked often, that if he were to day, Mike should just scatter his ashes there and see where the wind takes him. He's always wanted to see the world, but never had the money for anything more than a trip to the bay two hours away every other summer.

He took Shelly with him, because now the tortoise would have to live with him and his cat. Mike would do the same if something were to happen to him.

His friend is dead.

His friend is... dead.

"God dammit," he whispers, and sits just behind the railing, trying not to cry and failing to do so.

He's not sure how long it took or just how many people walked by. He can't be the only person in this god forsaken city who just got the worst news of his entire life.

... He didn't even got to say goodbye.

"Life's cruel, ain't it?" He hears someone besides him say.

When he looks up, a woman is smoking besides him. She looks at the river, and blows out the smoke. A gust of wind takes it away.

"Want one?" She offers.

"I hate that brand," Lucas replies.

"More for me then."

He keeps sobbing for a while longer, while the woman goes through her entire pack. And then, opens a new one.

"What would you do, just for a chance to see a loved one, just one more time?" He asks after a moment.

"Don't got one of those," she replies. "But I'd do just about anything to scratch my dog's ears one last time."

"What happened to them?"

"Got ran over by a car."

"Sorry," he says.

"'s fine."

There's more silence after that.

"Right now, I'd just sell my soul," he mutters. The woman stares. "If such things exist."

"Oh, they do. I've heard they're expensive, even," she says.

"Expensive enough to bring a man back to life?" He jokes.

She grins at him.

And, maybe it was just a car passing by, an illusion created by the traffic and his own exhausted mind.

He could've sworn, her eyes just flashed red.

"I'm sure I can work out a deal for you, dear Lucas."

Your friend always said “I’ll rest when I’m dead,” so much that it became his catchphrase. He says it again today when he came into work, going about his daily routine. This normally wouldn’t be concerning, if not for the fact that you attended his funeral two weeks ago.

[clevercorvidae]

Why Viktor from Arcane is WRONG About Evolution

Right so, I'm getting my degree in evolutionary biology and evolution as a subject is my absolute bread and butter, so I thought I'd give some insight into a particular line from Arcane and why it both infuriated me AND is also brilliant writing.

(Quick note: I'm not writing this to say the SHOW is wrong about evolution or that the writing is bad. The writing around this is actually amazing and I'll get into that. This IS NOT a critique.)

The line in question happens during episode 6 of season 2 of the show during a conversation between Singed and Viktor where Viktor states the following:

"Evolution has a destination, not to combat nature, but to supercede it. The final, glorious evolution."

Every single thing about this statement is disastrously incorrect. And when I first heard it, it took everything in me not to scream in frustration, but I think I get it now.

The rest of this essay will be me picking apart this quote piece by piece, both to explain WHY its incorrect, but also why that's not necessarily a bad thing.

"Evolution Has a Destination"

We'll start with his first assertion, that evolution has a destination. This is patently false on every level. Evolution occurs constantly, it never ceases.

This is actually a really, really common misconception when it comes to evolution. Many people see the explanation for natural selection, survival of the fittest, and assume that that means evolution is a constant trend of "improvement". There's an assumption that, as we continue to evolve, we become "better".

But that's NOT what "survival of the fittest" means (nor is natural selection the only mechanism of evolution but I digress). "Fitness" is not some overall objective best form, it has a VERY specific definition.

Fitness, when discussing evolutionary biology, refers to your ability to survive within your environment long enough to produce viable offspring. It doesn't mean "fastest" or "strongest", and it's incredibly circumstantial. Every species encounters DIFFERENT challenges based on the biotic (living) and abiotic (non-living) factors of their environment. These pressures are what define "fitness". It's different for all species.

And those pressures are NOT static either. Your environment changes. Plate tectonics shift, natural disasters occur, weather patterns change, other species evolve alongside you, your circumstances as a species will never remain stagnant. New challenges WILL befall you in your environment and you WILL have to evolve new adaptations for continued success.

Even if you tailored everything to perfection, eliminated all challenges, and somehow obtained infinite resources, EVEN THEN you cannot escape the finite resource of SPACE. Your population's density will grow and eventually you will run out of space, and you'd need to, once again, adapt.

(Now, there is a concept in ecology called "climax", where an ecosystem could theoretically perfectly balance itself and remain unchanged for a statistically long period of time, exiting the cycle of succession and in essence, slowing evolution to a crawl at best.

However, this is not only purely hypothetical and heavily debated, it also is not permanent. Even this "perfectly" balanced state of equilibrium cannot compete with the force that is geology and time. Even an ecosystem in climax would eventually be torn asunder by the changing climate and plate tectonics, not to mention neighboring ecosystems.)

There is no static environment and there is no static life, so it's impossible for there to be a "perfect" lifeform. There is no destination, there can't be.

"Not to Combat Nature"

This is Viktor's second statement, and it's... a very interesting choice of words.

Because this... is not actually in response to what Singed says about evolution. His statement is in response to what Viktor has to say about fate:

Viktor: Do you believe in fate, Doctor? Our paths, carved before us guided by... an invisible hand.

Singed: Not fate, evolution. Nature's greatest force, forever in flux.

Singed says he believes in THIS in place of a belief in fate. He doesn't see it as combating nature, but as a force of nature itself. Instead this is actually Viktor's own initial assumption and interpretation of evolution. That evolution combats nature. This is obviously false, and Singed is the one with the right idea.

Evolution is, in fact, a facit of nature itself, of life itself. It is an inseparable part of what defines life; the essence of something being organic in the first place. As I said before, all life evolves CONSTANTLY. We NEVER stop evolving. The results of evolution are often too slow for us to see within our lifetimes, but its still happening. As Singed says, we are "forever in flux".

But Viktor is arguing against something else entirely: that evolution combats nature, that it is an aggressive force, maybe even a destructive one.

Most importantly, to meet something in combat is to be on equal footing, presumably, a mutual struggle. Nature and evolution, equals in a battle that will never end, oscillating between perfection and flaw. This is Viktor's view of Singed's response and of evolution as it currently stands.

"But to Supercede It."

Viktor, however, does not see evolution and nature as equals. Instead, he sees the path of evolution as one that will overtake nature and surpass it. In Viktor's mind humanity is destined to break out of the chains of the organic concept of flaw itself.

But that's impossible, because evolution requires flaws in the first place.

I've talked about how there's no such thing as a perfect, ideal life form, and that alone squanders Viktor's idea of evolution. But it's not just his end goal that doesn't mesh with reality, but the very function of evolution itself.

Evolution relies on diversity. In order for a trait to be selected for or against it must first EXIST within the population. A trait cannot be selected for if the genes that encode for it aren't present, and what is the only way for new alleles come into existence? Mutation. Mistakes. You could even call them imperfections.

Everything that makes us human originated as an inconsistency in the process of DNA replication. We are a tapestry of imperfections, every single living organism on earth. If we didn't have diversity in our gene pools we would have never even become multicellular, we would not have been able to keep up with the changing world at all.

How can you supercede nature via evolution when its made us everything that we are BECAUSE of how messy and flawed nature is in the first place. It's a paradox.

Altogether, Viktor's idea of a destination is impossible, and the very foundations of evolution are built on imperfections. So you may ask yourself: Why does he even believe in this? Why does he say all of this despite being such an intelligent character? Surely he knows he's wrong, right?

"The Final, Glorious Evolution"

Viktor as a character is a lot of things. He's shown to be incredibly intelligent and hyper-competent. He wants to make the world a better place for people suffering because he himself suffered greatly. He's also a perfectionist.

When we first meet Viktor, we're introduced to him as the assistant to the dean of the academy who holds his head high and isn't afraid to be snarky with Jayce for blowing up his apartment. On a whim he chooses to help Jayce, to inspire him to risk it all for Hextech, to improve lives.

He stands with Jayce on the ledge saying no one ever believed in him, so instead he believed in himself. He appears to be incredibly confident.

But we see through the rest of season one that that confidence doesn't come from a place of genuine self love, it comes from security in his abilities. His self-worth is tied to his usefulness, to his impact on the world. Imperfections, in Viktor's eyes, are a mere hindrance.

Viktor isn't actually as confident in himself as he first appears. He postures himself with a lot of faith in what he's able to do, but when it comes to what he IS NOT able to do, he shrivels. He's a deeply insecure person. His disability and his status as a Zaunite have done little for him but hold him back. He thinks he needs fixing, that the undercity needs fixing, that humanity as a whole needs fixing.

So when the hexcore is manipulating him, of course it targets this view in him. Like Viktor, the hexcore wants to change the world to be in its image. It wants to replace all that is organic with that which is artificial, ideal. And so it sings the song of the glorious evolution to Viktor.

Imagine it, a world with no pain, no conflict, no struggle. No environmental pressures to contend with, because a perfect being cannot struggle, it can't make mistakes that lead to pain.

But when we see that imagined world, its a wasteland. In Viktor's own words, a field of dreamless solitude. A flat expanse where nothing can change or grow, nothing new can be experienced, none of humanity's warmth and emotion exist anymore.

"There Is No Prize to Perfection, Only an End to Pursuit"

At first I thought it was kind of silly that a scientist would ever misunderstand evolution to the degree Viktor has with this line. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Viktor misunderstanding evolution is just another extension of his perfectionism. It's IMPORTANT that he's wrong actually, it's essential to his arc.

He can't perceive the truth of what evolution is at this point in the story because accepting that means accepting that there is beauty in imperfections.

And I think we all know that that lesson is one that he hadn't quit learned yet.

Thanks for reading my insane ramblings.

"There is beauty in imperfections. They made you who you are. An inseparable piece of everything I admired about you." - Jayce Talis

[red-denarts]

"A Void" (new & improved legible edition!)

________

There’s a void

In the trees

Calling in

the early morning

---

A black mark

against the sky

A piece of night

flying in the daylight

---

Shooting down

like stars

To take life

into its space

---

It’ll die as all does

And briefly leave a trace

---

It’s mouth

a sword

Speaking words

of the grave

~ “Be safe” ~

________

[amorbidcorvid]

This was such fun to write.

A little eldritch peredhel, as a treat.

Grounded

by ElrondsLibrary (@elronds-library)

In the build-up to the second siege of Imladris, Elrond has to reach deep within himself to keep the Last Homely House safe from the forces of Angmar. Fortunately, Celebrían knows just how to bring him back.

Explicit, No Archive Warnings

Words: 2,500

[starcorvid]

I think hatchy is the clinger

[corvidfeathers]

Mordred’s monologue - Grail Knight

This is from my thesis play, a grail quest story where Galahad is a trans girl and the world of Logres is slowly dying as a mirror of climate crisis. Me and a theater collective adapted into an immersive play in the summer of 2022, which is still one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had the privilege to have. This is one of my favorite pieces of the play, and one that I think can stand on its own.

Image transcript:

MORDRED

I travel three days with Sir Lancelot, which is time enough to remember why I seldom do that. Brave Sir Lancelot, honorable Sir Lancelot, obedient Sir Lancelot; the flower of chivalry, the king’s favorite knight. Arthur and Gwynefer may see no flaw in him, but I know otherwise. He keeps his mask of courtly courtesy, but I feel his eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking. Waiting for me to show some sign of treachery. Maybe this is why he stayed at my side; every mile we go from Camelot is a mile between me and the king he so loves.

Or maybe he considers it some sort of kindness, to his former squire. Sir Lancelot thinks he will find the Grail with all haste, and return in all glory, and if I remain at his side, a little of it may be left for me.

Or maybe he was just trying to escape Sir Galahad.

On the fourth morning, I wake with a strange certainty ringing in my ears. It calls me to rise and dress as the mist creeps from up the grass and the night bleeds away; there’s something in the mist waiting for me. Lancelot tries to call me back, to warn me from leaving, but why should I pay him mind? We’re all equal on the quest, Sir Galahad said, and it’s not as if the flower of chivalry knows where he’s going. Let him chase after me for once.

Maybe this is the certainty Sir Galahad felt; maybe this is the Grail. The mist thickens as I go onward, until I reach a wide black river.

My mother always told me to mind my wits when I cross water; cross a river without heed, and you may find yourself farther than the other bank. Unlike some, she knew of what she spoke; she knew all the old magics of the land; she whispered of them to me every night, and when I left home she wove spells into my cloak, to keep her youngest son from harm. But that cloak is as tattered as my vows, so I don’t think of her advice when I am knee-deep in the black water, the rush of it all around me.

It sounds like a battle, like a cataclysm, like the crash of the sea against the isle of Orkney, it sounds like death and fate, a cold force that drives onward like the tide that sweeps a ship to the rocks, closer and closer and closer. The current pulls at my feet, at my chest, at my chin until I am like to drown.

Any death but this. Any death but this. A coward’s prayer.

I drag myself out onto the far bank, spitting water, and lie there and let my foolish certainty die. Let Sir Galahad have her quest. Let Sir Lancelot find the Grail- I’m fitted for one fate only, and it isn’t going to be found in this misty forest.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find yourself in a kingdom of shadows and lies, a land of ghosts and fae. I don’t think of her advice when I lift my head, and for a moment I think I am back in Camelot; here is the round table, and here the king. A bone-white table, laid out beneath the mist-strung trees, and a king that is monstrous to look upon, a desiccated creature sitting alone at an empty table, with wounds that weep bubbling seafoam and eyes that burn like the bleeding sky, and a crown wrought of stone and oak.

His head hangs with the weight of it. I cannot tear my eyes away, and I know that it is this, this is the tide that pulled me here, not the grail, not the pull of glory or duty but the fate I cannot escape.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find that you, yourself, are a shade. I don’t think of her advice when I draw my sword, and drive it into the creature’s chest.

[amorbidcorvid]

Last Lines

Rules: post the last line that you wrote for your WIP and tag someone for every word of that line.

Thank you @balrogballs for the tag *checks nonexistent watch* 10 days ago.

Here's a little epistolary snippet from my Maedhros in Angband WIP still tentatively titled "A Song Amidst His Torment."

The language is broken and harsh on my lips, but even orcs sing work-songs.

I'm tagging: @tethysresort, @last-capy-hupping, @gnusnoteunuchs, @hhimring, @starspray, @starshadeemilyart, @crackinthecup, @idleleaves, @vefanyar, and anyone else who would like to play along.

[plumiscorvus]

🎨: Cooper Illustration

So, after due consideration (and prodding), I've started my very self-indulgent fic about these two. Right now, it's just very cute, but there will be some spicy, some sad, and undoubtedly more cute.

Anyway I hope you like raccoons. Read it on AO3 here.

[corvid-ghost]

so im not done with tbosas but ik how it goes, like i watched the movie and just kinda know what happens.

ik how Sejanus dies, and like does he get the bread crumbs from the district 2 thing. cause if he didnt

an afterlife fic where he dies and realizes he has no food for his journey, so he just kinda sits there for a few days in darkness (idk how im picturing the jouney is, dark, nothing but a strong gut feeling to guide where to go) waiting, hoping for food, but nothing comes. he eventually leaves and makes his way to where ever he is supposed to be going, and wherever he came from. when he gets there it took a lot and without food, he can barely stand. he looks up and there he is, district 2, back home (but like, afterlife).

there were so many people there, and once they saw who he was they made sure to stay clear of him, after a bit of confusion of him being there. but there was one person who stood out to him, the person stopped, a distance away, and didnt seem to know what to make of it, shocked and confused.

"Marcus?..." that seemed to snap them back to reality, and they just, walked away. Sejanus eventually found a tree to lean against, not knowing what else to do, no one wanted him there.

he seemed to stay there for awhile, maybe a couple days, before someone sat beside him, "why are you here?" Marcus, and some bread.

"Well, it seems I died."

"yeah, but how? You didnt seem to have food when you arrived. I mean even I did, I don't know how, but I did. I have a suspicion though." Marcus handed him the loaf as he asked the question.

"I wanted to help some people, and they killed me for it. No one either knew or cared enough to give me some bread."

The response seemingly answered his question. "Thank you, by the way, for the bread"

"ah, so you knew"

"as i said, i had my suspicions. Why here?"

" I'm here because this is my home"

"you gave that up a long time ago"

"i was 8. my father gave it up, i never wanted to move, wish i hadn't."

"I'm sorry things turned out this way for you"

"You're one to talk"

"Why'd you choose this tree?"

"What do you mean?"

"This tree, its not one here, its like it belonged somewhere else." he stood up and out reached him arm for Sejanus to grab so he could see the tree.

Almost as soon as he stood up he fell back to the ground, not because of the hunger, the bread was fine for now, but because he instantly knew this tree. The Hanging Tree.

Marcus treid to catch him as he fell, too late, but the effort was there. Sejanus answered before Marcus could ask more questions. "Its how I died. It's The Hanging Tree in district 12."

[mostlydeadlanguages]

Hello! I was wondering if you had any tips for using cuneiform as an art inspiration? One of my friends is super into cuneiform and birds, so I wanted to kind of write the cuneiform for "corvid" using stylised triangular crows.

Feel free to ignore this, it's a pretty involved ask!

I had a look at the Assyrian Languages website, and it spat out

but there's so many options! Why is the translation given as "erebu" without the cuneiform, then followed by the other words "uga" and "buru", which do have cuneiform?

And are there rules for rearranging the different units of the word? Is it like English, where you can't really split the letters of a word up, because it won't make sense?

I also double-checked the translation with the the Concise Dictionary of Akkadian, which you linked a couple posts ago, and they match, but there isn't any cuneiform in the dictionary.

Thank you for reading this far!

Okay, buckle up for a ride!

Akkadian is a Semitic language with a weird, cobbled-together writing system. It's a bit like a rebus: we can figure out that "👁️ ❤️ 🐑" means "I love you," because "eye" sounds like "I," hearts connote love, and a female sheep is a ewe, which sounds like "you." Likewise, a given cuneiform sign can be one of three things: a syllabogram (representing the sound of particular syllables, like 👁️), a logogram (representing a particular idea, like ❤️); or a determinative (representing a category of ideas, like "Dr."). In many cases, a given sign could be any one of those, depending on context. As a result, there are many possible ways to spell most words—although certain sign combinations tend to get standardized in a particular place and time.

In this case, "UGA" is the logogram for a corvid, and "MUŠEN" is the determinative for a bird. So one way to write "a crow" (literally "a crow-bird") would be to combine the signs for UGA and MUŠEN. (MUL is the determinative for an astral body, so if you were trying to say "the crow-planet," you could write it as "star-crow-bird," or "MUL.UGA.MUŠEN."). And yes, the order does matter in most cases; I wouldn't rearrange them.

But! Instead of writing something logographically, you could "spell it out" using syllabograms. So the word erēbu/arēbu, which is what "crow" would have sounded like, can be broken down into syllables and spelled that way, e.g. a-re/ri-bu. When the Epic of Gilgamesh describes sending out a raven as part of the Flood story, it spells it as "a-ri-bu." (Well, technically a-ri-ba/a-ri-bi, because those are the declined forms.)

The simplest two options that appear in the corpus, then, are UGA or BURU4 ("crow" without the "bird" determinative, which is optional) or a-ri-bu. Here's what those look like, using two different potential writing styles: Old Babylonian (an earlier and more complex writing system) and Neo-Assyrian (a more rectilinear, streamlined, later writing system):

As you can see, UGA is a very complicated sign, so I would recommend choosing either BURU4 or a-ri-bu. I find Neo-Assyrian much easier to reproduce, but the choice of writing system is up to you.

I hope this helps. Send me a picture of what you produce; it sounds so fun!

[xtreme-cringe-warning]

Okay but imagine a fantasy world but instead of humans it's just crows (humans went extinct or maybe left Earth)

The story is set during the crow medieval period and all the "magic" they use is just technology the humans left behind (So basically post apocalyptic fantasy but with crows)

[deadgodjess]

Magpies: Do crime because they know nothing else.

Crows: Will look for non-crime methods but will fallback on crime if that fails.

Ravens: Choose crime on purpose.

[onekindredspirit]

For the first time in all the years that I have lived at this place, a clamour of rooks has settled in my tallest Monterey Pine. It's spring and the cawing is romantic to my mind. Their presence is no coincidence. A sign has been placed at the entrance to this valley asking people to be on the lookout for rooks. Their plan is, of course, extermination. My rooks are refugees. Unfortunately for the poster of notices, I have already signed an indefinite lease with the rook parliament. They now hold occupancy rights to the entire top floor of the pine. Trespassers beware. I will defend my tenant's right to occupy. One Kindred Spirit Polaroid