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fenweak · 4 years

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As requested! This rec list features Kazer Kid Fics -- Jonny and Patrick both with kids and babies AND as kids and babies, with a small dash of de-aging and a spoonful of mpreg.

⭐ for my personal faves

My Other Rec Lists 🍭 Rec me a fic? 🍭

The Ones Where They Have Kids

No Capes by sorrylatenew ⭐ - j/p as parents; implied mpreg

Husbands. Dads. Retired superheroes.

The Reeducation of Misters Kane and Toews + timestamp by jezziejay - single dad Patrick, teacher Jonny ⭐

In which Kaner sort of has a kid, and Mr. Toews doesn't know which of them is the bigger brat.

AU featuring teacher!Jon and hockey-player!Kaner. With bonus 'Hawks characters, love notes, pasta jewelry, Be Better Pizzas, pirouettes, a sprinke of angst and guest appearance by Derek Jeter.

trust your intuition (it's just like goin' fishin') by poeelektra - 1988 as parents

They’re on the periphery of the Home Wares section of Target, heading with purposeful stride toward Sporting Goods, when Gabe declares that he wants a doll for his “Been Good” toy.

Every Little Thing He Does (is magic) by jezziejay - single dad Patrick

Jonny Toews is a bewitching man who moves into a mysterious mansion in a small town. Soon, he opens Bell, Book & Candle, a curiosity shop full of candles, lotions, etc., and is enthralling the children of local police chief (Patrick Kane), who believe he is a witch (but not a bad one.) But not everyone in town is appreciative of their quirky new neighbor, and it may take a little bit of magic for him to truly become part of the community.

Under Cover by heartstrings - 1988 as parents

"Just get in the fucking blanket fort, Kaner."

Feels Like Family To Me + prequels by exmanhater - 1988 as parents

Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane plan, create, and obtain their family.

living next door to alice series by cinderlily - 1988 as parents

"It started with a phone call."Patrick and Jonny are suddenly given the opportunity to be parents. This is how they stumble through it.

some say love is a burning thing podfic by exmanhater - 1988 as parents

If anyone had told Johnny upon entering the NHL that thirteen years later he'd not only have a kid with Patrick Kane, but would be getting ready to go on a 'date night,’ he'd have said they must be smoking some pretty good shit.And then he'd have to wait a decade to eat his words.

In the Middle of the Night - 1988 as parents

Gone are the days when it took a cold, wet washcloth on his face to wake him up. Or: Five times Pat and Jonny's daughter wakes them up, plus one time they wake her up.

so show me family - single dad Patrick

Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family. Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one. ~Jane Howard

Fill It Up With Love by Frosting50 - single dad Pat; implied mpreg

So Pat’s senior year doesn’t turn out exactly like he’d planned. He still gets his degree in accounting, but he also gets a little girl named Emma. She’s all fat pink cheeks, curly brown hair, and blue eyes. She might have Ryan’s chin, but she’s all Pat’s. And the first time she falls asleep on his chest, chubby hand curled around his thumb, skin so soft and sweet he damn-near feels bowled over with how much he loves her. He didn’t know he could love anyone so much; it makes his heart feel too big for his chest, and he knows that he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to give her the world.

peas & carrots by altri_uccelli - 1988 as parents

Unapologetic Halloween fluff, or: Jonny forgets what day it is, but Kaner's on it.

Can You Lyft Me Up? by Mullsandmutts - single dad Patrick

Even high profile athletes like Chicago Blackhawks Captain Jonathan Toews are forced to utilize paid transportation from time to time. An accidental "share my ride" selection on an app results in a life-altering ride with an mouthy Russian driver (Artemi), an unfairly attractive single father (Patrick Kane) and his adorable sassy (and color-matching-challenged) preschool daughter (introducing Molly Donna Patricia Amelia Kane aka Mo). Jonathan refuses to feel too sketch when he negotiates a plan with the driver to "accidentally" have more shared rides with his new friends. When Mo has a traumatic incident at day camp, Patrick's heart is broken and Jonny enlists the help of Temi and the ever-meddling Patrick Sharp to get smiles back on both Kane faces. Jonathan finds himself more and more drawn to Patrick but Patrick's fears of being a good enough parent for Mo and meeting all of her needs could keep them apart. Will Temi, the Sharp family and a trio of nosy aunts in Buffalo be enough to help Jonathan and Patrick realize what they could have together or will Patrick's stubbornness and Jonathan's fear of ruining their friendship keep them apart? Stay tuned to find out ....

Three by Linsky - i won’t spoil it

Patrick doesn’t think he’s a pervert. But how would he know? Maybe a pervert is just a thing you are, and it doesn’t feel any different from being a normal person, until you do something perverted. Maybe that’s him.After all, he does have two names on his wrist.

All Your Memories by toewsandconfused - 1988 as parents; amnesiafic

Pat went to sleep a bachelor in the Trump Towers and woke up next to Jonny in the suburbs with three kids calling him Daddy. Struggling to figure out his new reality Patrick had ruled out dream, was banking on delusion because even though it meant he was losing his mind, it seemed safer than some kind of late-onset amnesia. He didn’t want to face that idea that this really was his life; that Jonny was his, that those beautiful kids were his, and he couldn’t remember any of it. The idea that the memories of their life together could be lost forever was too terrifying to deal with. Losing his mind was preferable to losing his memories.

Chelsea, Chelsea I Believe by empathapathique - single dad Pat ⭐

Patrick meets a girl his rookie year.

Don't Let Go by aohatsu - 1988 as adoptive parents

“So you were already with the boy you saved when the fire started?”Patrick pauses, but shakes his head. “No, there was an explosion—I don’t really know what it was, but then it was just me and Tigre, and it’s like, in a situation like that, you don’t really think? You just do. So I grabbed the kid and went through the fire escape. It’s not like I decided I wanted to save anybody, it was just the only option.”

Always Be My Baby by juliusschmidt - single dad Patrick

The thing is, you don’t just grow up once.

as careless as you are certain - single dad Patrick

March through August, 2015.

the one with the baby yentas series by forochel

Tazer has a son and Kaner is his son's kindergarten teacher.

It's the Magic of Risking Everything by conformityissuicide - single dad Jonny

When Jonny is thirteen he meets a small kid from Buffalo at a hockey tournament.

Then he has a gay crisis, a baby girl, and gets drafted 3rd overall by an Original Six franchise.

When he meets Patrick Kane again at prospect camp he doesn’t feel anything but excitement.

And then it all goes to hell.

"of gifts and fireflies" by huntersandangels - single dad Jon

Patrick Kane hasn’t lived a charmed life despite money flowing through his veins. The journey he is currently on, though paved with good intentions, proves to be a harder challenge than he could ever be ready for. The people he meets along the way give him a much more valued gift than his grandfather could ever dream of giving him.

I'm gonna love you til my lungs give out by arenadomatthews - 1988 as parents

“Papa, Dad, you guys are retiring today?” Bryan asks, looking up at his parents.“Yeah buddy, we are. Are you gonna behave while Dad and I are doing our press conference?” Patrick asks.

“Duh, Dad. I'm not a baby anymore,” he scoffs.

“He's right, Pat. He's our big boy now,” Jonny adds.

“Yeah, I'm going into 4th grade,” Bryan boasts pridefully.Patrick and Jonathan are finally announcing their retirement after 20 NHL seasons. However, their retirement ceremony will come with a twist: they'll be publicly coming out and revealing their family

Your Daddy's Aim Is True by thefourthvine; podfic by isweedan - cup wish baby! ⭐

patch it up by gasmsinc - 1988 as parents

Jonny stares at his daughter for a long moment. She stares back, eyes unwavering. She has Kaner’s baby blues, but at five she’s already mastered Jonny’s dead on the inside stare. Her kindergarten teacher claims she uses the unwavering look to bully other students into doing what she wants, and it’s something they should work on at home, but Jonny’s baby is a natural born leader, and he’s not going to get in her way of becoming the president, or, better yet, the supreme ruler of the universe.

Your patch,” says Jonny.

Baby, It's Hot Outside by toewsyourheart - single dad Pat

Jonny goes for a popsicle and gets a little bit more than he bargained for.

Take All That's Left - divorced single dad Pat

It’s been 6 years now, and he’s grown to enjoy the city since signing with the Rangers to follow Anna, who’d found a job in Brooklyn.

But Chicago; Chicago was Patrick’s first love, all his important firsts – it’s all been hers, and having to leave had been heartbreaking. Too many memories from Chicago were heartbreaking, and yet he always yearned for the city, always felt more comfortable walking her streets than any other place in the world. No other place quite felt like home the way Chicago did.

Isn’t She Lovely by windsthatwhisper + podfic by kanetcews (lavenderharry) - wish baby!

It's nine in the morning when Pat and Jonny stumble down the stairs, sluggish with sleep.

There’s a baby carrier on the kitchen island.

Jonny blinks, blinks again, then turns to get a cup of coffee.

Recreation, Entertainment, Art, or Sport by trademarkgiggle

of course jonathan toews can juggle

so show me family series by peeks, tazer - teacher Pat

“Just admit you like him.”

“Shut up, Sharpy,” Patrick says, before he rolls his eyes and tries to ignore the smirk widening on Sharpy’s lips. “Don’t you have your kids’ parents to bother?”

“No, my last kid left a couple minutes ago, so I’m totally here to watch you and Jonathan Toews make heart eyes at each other,” Sharpy laughs, waltzing into Patrick’s classroom. He immediately makes his way to see Sadie, who greets her dad with a hug.

(In which Patrick Kane is terrible at feelings but luckily, Patrick Sharp is a total bro.)

The Ones Where They’re With Kids

In My Blood and In My Bones + Nothing Sweet or Gentle by fourfreedoms ⭐

Patrick’s not really into dudes—he’s done that whole thing a couple of times—that’s rock-n-roll after all, but god, when Jonathan smiles, he looks really good.Johnny is a nanny. Patrick's a musician. They fall in love. Inspired by the movie What Maisie Knew.

the kids are alright

Patrick works at the sporting goods store Jonny takes his peewee team to for equipment.

given to us as free-flying souls by Mayhem10

Jonathan had never really considered himself particularly good with kids. He didn’t avoid them or anything and it’s not like they burst into tears when they saw his face, but he never was exactly sure what to do with them, these little people running around at waist height. It just wasn’t his area.So, of course, Patrick was basically the child whisperer.

(or five times Jonathan saw Patrick with kids and one time Patrick saw him)

Hide Your Face So The World Will Never Find You (Paper Faces On Parade) by huntersandangels

Jonathan Toews, farm owner and guardian of his nephew, is in desperate need of capable farm hands. Patrick Kane certainly does not fit the description but when a mutual friend confides in him that Patrick has lost everything he owned and is in serious need himself and offers Jonathan money to hire him, how can he say no?

Patrick Kane loves statistics and spending his money on thoroughly planned ‘adventures’ for his friends when he’s not partying away the rest of his fortune. If he wins the bet he can continue to plot freely but if he loses his extra curriculum activities have to stop. He agrees to go on an ‘adventure’ himself and settles in the Toews Farm posing as a farm hand. But as the time goes by, the less pretend it feels-and the more he enjoys Jonathan and Etienne’s company and the quite life in the farm; to the point where he’s not sure whether he wants to win the bet or lose...

Baby, You're the One by jezziejay ⭐

6k words of Jonathan Toews having feelings about babies. And feelings about Kaner. And feelings about putting a baby in Kaner.

The Ones Where They Are Kids

The Cat and the Fiddle series by james - childhood soulmates!

When Donna's son is four, he creates an imaginary friend.

i want to know what you know by sointimate - childhood sweethearts

Patrick is six years old and he's about to do the scariest thing he's ever done in his whole life.

Colorblind by july_v ⭐

Jon is five when he meets Patrick. It's also the time he begins to understand colors as more than an abstract concept.

How to become a man series+ coda by liketheroad, mockturtletale

In which Kaner gets spontaneously de-aged into a six-year-old, and he and Tazer both have a lot of growing up to do.

Romper Room by james - de-aged 1988

Sharpie doesn't really think this should be part of his duty as alternate captain. Luckily, none of this is his fault. A.K.A., the one where Kaner and Johnny are five.

you ruined everything in the best way by thisissirius + podfic by exmanhater .⭐ - de-aged Saader

Kaner's looking down at the kid, though, frowning. He crouches down. "Hey, kid, where are your parents?

"The kid's bottom lip juts out and starts wobbling. Fuck, that means he's going to start crying, right?

"Oh shi—oot, kid, don't cry," Kaner says. "I mean, if you don't know where they are, we can find 'em?"

"Kaner," Sharpy presses. "That's Saad."

don't worry about your body - de-aged Jonny

No one said anything. Everyone stared at each other then down at the tiny human being that was standing where Jonny had been. Kaner felt his mouth go entirely dry, and his stomach drop out from underneath him.

What the fuck, man.

Can You Picture It? by RemyJane

In which Kaner turns into a baby and everyone besides Jonny seems to understand. Includes excessive cuddling, ridiculously adorable baby-Kaner, and feelings. Jonny eventually figures everything out.

Never Getting That Shirt Back by ice_hot_13 - de-aged Pat

Patrick is de-aged into a toddler, and when he's with Jonny, he isn't a holy terror.

Je T'aime by banks99 (Nodiggity15) - de-aged Jonny

“He won’t take a bath. He’s arguing with me. It’s like he didn’t even change at all.” Kaner’s not pouting, fuck you very much.

MPREG

I Got a Love (That Keeps Me Waiting) by svmadelyn ⭐ -mpreg!pat

There's a lot of different ways this summary could go, like:Patrick Kane gets more than a gold medal in Sochi.

Or, the classic: It's too late to pull out now.Or: Patrick Kane continues to thrive in high pressure situations.Or: Patrick Kane gets knocked up, goes to White Castle, and finds love, not necessarily in that order.

But, ultimately, all that really matters is this: Patrick Kane is keeping his baby.

private passions and secret storms (all the secrets series) by CoffeeKristin, Frosting50 - mpreg!pat

Jonny’s life is good - great even. He loves Patrick and their kids, and even if they don’t always have time for each other, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. But when Jeff Carter comes into his life, Jonny’s world gets turned upside down. It’s going to take everything he’s got to convince Patrick to give him a second - maybe even a third - chance.

Patrick’s blindsided by Jonny’s betrayal and putting his family back together is a lot harder than he expected when their past comes back to haunt them.Can love conquer all?

Forever & Always, My Baby You'll Be by windsthatwhisper - mpreg!jonny

Jonny and Pat's life is a cycle of curse words, late night feedings, and five minute handjobs in the hallway closet.

Aka, I wanted some 1988 w/ a baby feels so I wrote this blurb of a thing in about seven minutes.

efficacy by thirteentorafters - mpreg!patrick

“You,” Patrick says, jabbing a finger angrily at Jonny. “Are gonna fucking help me, dickface.”

Opening his mouth to ask what the hell is going on; Jonny’s eyes drop to Patrick’s stomach. Jonny is acquainted with Patrick’s naked body and the last time they met, Patrick wasn’t fat. Or paunchy. Except that doesn’t look like usual fat. “Oh fuck.”

“Yeah, ‘oh fuck’,” Patrick says, imitating Jonny’s tone. “You knocked me up, asshole. What are you gonna do about it?”

Forever & Always, My Baby You'll Be by windsthatwhisper - mpreg!jonny

Jonny and Pat's life is a cycle of curse words, late night feedings, and five minute handjobs in the hallway closet.

Looked So Fine (I Just Had To Speak) by svmadelyn - !!!! ⭐

Patrick Kane’s talking penis maintains a ‘to do’ list. It is as follows:1. Jonathan Toews

Phone Tag by hawkeytime (jayyloo) - mpreg!Jonny

"Hi mom. Sorry I couldn’t catch you, so I guess I’ll just, uh.. leave a message. See, the thing is… my super-potent sperm may or may not have managed to knock Jonny up. Okay bye."

"Yes, hello, is this Hockey Canada? I just want it written on the record, today, June 31, 2015, that my incredibly improbable unborn child with Jonathan Toews will be playing for America. Yes, I’ll hold.

"Or: Pat accidentally knocks Jonny up. A saga told in a series of voicemails

A Royal Baby - mpreg!Pat

A cough from the doorway cuts Seabs off mid sentence. Duncs is standing watching them, a particularly somber expression on his face. "Jonny, I'm sorry to interrupt but you have a visitor that you'll want to go see right away.""Now really isn't a good time," Jonny tells him, not even putting down his fork."Trust me Your Highness," Duncs says, "This will be worth it."

[Patrick and Jonathan think their time brief time together at the Olympics is all they can ever have. Patrick's ensuing pregnancy proves otherwise.]

sun sweet berries of the earth series by gasmsinc - mpreg!Pat; a/b/o

There is a spirit living in Patrick State Park.“Listen,” says Jonny. “I didn’t mean to step on your crown.”The spirit’s bottom lip wobbles.

Tame the Roads That Can't Be Tamed by Linsky - mpreg!Pat; a/b/o

Patrick’s flown a million times. He’s never gotten airsick before. Even on last year’s epic flight to Denver, when they hit massive turbulence and half the team was groaning over barf bags, Patrick’s stomach was fine. And maybe he’s sick, sure—but why doesn’t he feel sick the rest of the time? Why is it only mornings and—

Oh.

Oh, no.

Oh fucking no.

(Or: In which it is difficult to be a wolf in the NHL, especially when you're not that good at condoms.)

Carve His Name With Pride ⭐ - mpreg!Jonny

Jonny leaves behind a home, a house, and a hockey career the month after he learns that he’s pregnant.

Eyass - mpreg!Jonny

"I dunno," Kaner tells him. "Whatever you need, man. You’re having a baby! That’s a lot of work. I want to be here for you."

Somehow, in the dozens of conversations he’s had with teammates and friends and family in the past few days, no one has said those exact words to Jonny: “you’re having a baby”. He has to comb his fingers through his hair and take a deep, steadying breath to compose himself.

Kaner notices and smiles at him; a crooked, beautiful thing. “It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

Heartburn and Survival by dedougal - mpreg!Jonny

They were in Canada when Jonny found out he was pregnant. Afterwards, Jonny used that as a point in his bulleted list of arguments about why Jack should represent Canada but, to be entirely truthful, finding out in Canada - finding out anywhere - was pretty disastrous.

Three Cups and a Pup by Miss_Psychotic, nommedeplume - mpreg!Patrick

The Story of Alpha Jonny and Omega Kaner getting their shit together and learning how to be Adulting Adults (Finally)

Chips and Cribs by whatislife - mpreg!Jonny

“What do you mean there are no chips,” Jonny asks from where he is standing by the island, hand resting on his stomach. “Weren’t they on the list? Did you not buy them?”(Patrick just wants to sleep.)

#patrick kane #jonathan toews #1988 #blackhawks #hockey rpf #chicago blackhawks #kazer #kaner #it's possible i have missed some stuff #it's been so long since i reread anything 1988!#askbox is open for your suggestions on this (╯▽╰ )

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sanguinesorceress · 4 years

Text

Marked For Death (Part 3)

[Part 1]

[Part 2 ]

Suspicious Death of Magister Deemed Homicide

Toxicology reports have uncovered the cause of death for a Kirin Tor Magister to be a deadly toxin more commonly known by its street name of “Zanzil’s Slow Poison.” Believed to be completely incurable, the outlawed toxin is either ingested or absorbed through direct contact, triggering the gradual deterioration of multiple internal organs before resulting in what can only be described by medical experts as “an excruciating death.” Authorities are baffled as a recent interview with the medical examiner has revealed “there is no definitive way of knowing precisely when the victim came into contact with the toxin. Several factors such as body mass, diet, exercise, and the use of other medications, can alter the timeline when attempting to calculate the exact moment of poisoning. Unfortunately, we are working with an approximation of one week at best.” If anyone has any information regarding the suspicious death of Magister Jadex, authorities are encouraging them to come forward at this time.

As the ‘Tide Seer’ dispersed with a splash of salt water and collapsed into a lifeless heap of seaweed on the shore, the Sorceress appeared on a cliffside elsewhere.

"Such an intriguing cloth to wear,” remarked the watcher from the shadows as he stepped to her side, “especially when used to turn a suspicious eye toward the already disreputable Kvaldir.” She could feel his frigid stare burning into the crimson fabric of her hood, but she dared not glance his way. Not yet. For now, her eyes remained glued to the Kaldorei’s silhouette down below, watching him saddle up in preparation for his immediate departure.

As per their agreement, her co-conspirator had tailed the assassin across the continent while taking every precaution to ensure his presence went unnoticed. Looming high overhead, he observed the Sorceress’ performance from the safety of a cave through a network of scrying orbs she had organized beforehand. Already confident of the answer, she sought the opinion of her companion for the sake of making conversation. “Do you believe he will comply?”

"You understand your prey, Sorceress. You know their weaknesses and just how to exploit them,” he remarked dispassionately. “The living will throw all caution to the wind when love is concerned, whether to obtain said infatuation or to protect it, I find it quite pathetic, really.”

She glanced over her shoulder, rivaling the intensity of his gaze with that of her own. “Is that so?” she prodded, and an amused grin pulled her sable lips tighter than a garrotting wire, “Is there nothing in this world you would protect with your life?”

Her question brought a telling smirk to his face. Haunting was that subtle gesture, the look of a man who housed layer upon layer of intricacies that were nearly impossible to unravel. "Blindness" he scoffed, and although the word was little more than a whisper, his authoritative voice carried above the crashing waves, refusing to be overcome by their ceaseless roar. "Blind love. Blind actions. Blind movements in the dark. Flailing arms trying to grasp at hope, at an opportunity to free one’s self from whatever chains they have shackled themselves with.” His eyes found her target, the shaken Kaldorei, and his grin stretched into something far more sinister.

"What I cherish, dear lady, cannot —and does not— need protecting.” His eyes flared into a mixture of blue flame and shadow, as his gaze returned to the Sorceress. "You need only notice the bones under your feet, the cuts you make, and the lives you absolve from this realm. Gaze deeply into the eyes of those you claim, bask in the realization of their fate —of their untimely end—then, in those eyes, you will see what I love."

It was for this very purpose she had chosen him to carry out this important task in her overarching plan. The man’s ideals were iron-clad, armoring him against unwelcome influences, thereby distinguishing him as a powerful ally. Having served his tenure under the Lich King, the Shepherd, once awakened, vowed to never again succumb to the same ‘blindness’ as the living. Perceived to be walking abominations in the eyes of mortals, the two shared the belief that they were lucid dreamers existing alongside a comatose society.

“I would like for you to continue your surveillance on the young assassin to ensure he fulfills his task.” She handed him a satchel, and judging by the clinking sounds coming from within the leather bag, it housed several glass vials. “I have procured enough invisibility potions to conceal you from the scrying eyes in Dalaran.” A single, cautionary finger stabbed the air as she relayed a warning. “They will only hide your appearance, not your aura, therefore I advise you suppress any urges you may have to use magic over the next twelve hours.”

A trying task. The simplicity of it was presented before him, yet the request was made all the more complex in the back of his mind. For one who dwelled among the shadows, who lingered out of sight only to be seen as the last thing to be seen, he understood intimately that strategy was paramount in a situation such as this. "Hide what I am.” It was a familiarity that soon reclaimed him. Conceal yourself. Don't let them catch you. Pallid lips twisted ever so slightly as he accepted the Sorceress’ magical aid. "Be it by shadow, unholy magic, or physical inevitability… Death always collects its due.” He curled his plated fingers around the bag and held it close to his chest. "You shall have your result."

From the moment the Tide Seer dispersed, Oneth knew the clock was ticking.

12 Hours. Starting now. Think fast, you can do this.

Eliminate target number one = 4 Hours (Including travel time, cleanup, and disposal.)

12 - 4 = 8

8 Hours

Target number two would require preventative methods and careful planning. His death won’t be nearly as easy to cover up while meeting the Tide Seer’s conditions of a ‘slow and excruciating death.’

Excruciating Death = Zanzil’s Slow Poison

Acquire reagents from usual suppliers = 6 hours

Create and administer toxin = 4 hours

6 + 4 = 10

8 - 10 = Dead Wife

Not an option. Try again, Oneth.

Acquire half of the reagents locally, the other half from usual suppliers = 3.5 hours

Create and administer toxin = 4 hours

3.5 + 4 = 7.5

7.5 Hours (with 30 mins serving as a buffer for small errors)

This won’t be easy, but if it will save her life, I have to at least try. Now, to make this happen and not fuck up.

He had worked tirelessly through the night, and thus far, not only was everything going according to plan, but according to schedule. Perhaps lady luck was on his side, or maybe the Gods had finally decided to smile upon him. Whatever the reasoning, he was not one to question his good fortune.

Even with the use of portals, the majority of his time was consumed by travel. The places he was required to visit were remote, and with good reason. Herbalists were forbidden to stock the full ingredient list and alchemists were outlawed from making or carrying the deadly poison. Anyone caught with the knowledge of its procurement were obligated to report suspicious activity to the authorities, and there were few business owners willing to risk their livelihood or their reputation on an assassin regardless of how tempting the bribe may be.

Each reagent had to be purchased from a different supplier, then combined in the privacy of an undisclosed location to avoid suspicion. This was not the first time he had created Zanzil’s Slow Poison, but it was certainly the first he had done it on such short notice.

“Your tea, Sir,” trilled the waitress as she placed a steaming beverage before the Magister. “Only a half-spoon of honey; just the way you like it.”

Scholar’s hands, smoothed by the caress of only the finest parchment in Dalaran, wrapped around the teacup. Stolen warmth snaked its way up his arms and scalded his lips as he flashed her a heated smile. “My dear, sweet, Lady. It appears you are working late, yet again.” Despite what he would have others believe, the Magister was not as gentle natured as he feigned. His tips were overly generous, particularly when it came to pretty faces, and such generosity would grant him a night or two with a supple body to warm his bed. (Before they discovered the dark, sadistic desires he harbored behind closed doors.) This evening’s prize had been particularly elusive over the past several weeks and tonight he was certain she would succumb to his particular brand of charm. “What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not fret for your safety at such a late hour. Would you allow me the honor of escorting you home after your shift this evening?”

As the two conversed, Oneth carried on with his work, seemingly overwhelmed by the persistent duties of being a porter. Tables were cleaned, empty glasses were cleared, and bottles were retrieved from the cellar upon request. Never did he cease to move, the buzzing bee that he was, and he flitted from table to table with the enthusiasm of a young lad eager to please. Let them grow comfortable with the diligent worker so they may overlook the stinger at his back. It was menial work, but necessary in order to maintain certain appearances, and the bustle of the tavern helped to bring a semblance of normalcy to an otherwise unorthodox lifestyle. Now and again, Oneth allowed his gaze to wander in their direction, waiting for the exact moment when all of his careful planning would come to fruition.

Twenty seven minutes and counting.

After an excruciatingly painful exchange, his coworker managed to, yet again, artfully decline the polite pervert and evade his overeager hands. Evidently the Magister would be going home alone again, but tonight’s loss would do little to thwart his redoubled attempt tomorrow. Oneth had witnessed this ‘act’ on more than one occasion. He would be doing her, in addition to his employer, a favor by ridding the world of this viscid parasite.

Eighteen minutes.

Long after the tea, and his advances had gone cold. Magister Jadex commenced his nightly exiting ritual. The empty teacup was returned to its saucer, followed by the jingle of too many coins being placed upon the table in a grandiose show of ‘appreciation,’ and lastly the dabbing of his lips with a paper napkin. Only this time, the napkin would bear both the message and the means of his demise. At first, the Magister appeared not to notice the writing, but rather than make a scene, he lowered it to his lap where he could read the words discreetly.

One day I will return and you won’t be around to see me rise again.

No dilation of pupils, no widening of eyes, no frantic searching for the culprit ensued. Nothing occurred despite knowing with absolute certainty that he had received the message. Oneth found himself both perplexed and slightly intrigued. Perhaps this was not the first threat the Magister had received. Instead, the note was pocketed, and he bid his coveted prize a good evening before gracefully taking his leave.

Unfortunately for him, this was not just a threat. It was a delayed execution, and with the strange pearl already concealed within the Magister’s home, all he had to do now was wait.

[ Co-written with @lazraelbandtherion as his respective part. ]

@hmratking @loveherdekay @safrona-shadowsun @duraxxor

#Plot: Marked for Death #part three #read all three parts #you will not be disappointed #sanguine sorceress #the shepherd in wolf's clothing #The Rat King #the rat queen #so sorry this took so long #thank you for your patience #stay tuned for more to come #sorceress literature

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roxannarambles · 7 years

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Acquired Taste - Ch5

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Title: Acquired Taste

Author: Roxanna Rambles

Summary: When Heath defected from Bern’s wyvern knights and joined Eliwood’s group, he was very keen on keeping to himself, and for the most part, that was easy to do. However, a particular ex-assassin insisted on hounding him. It was extremely annoying. Heath hated it. And there was no way that was going to change. Nope.

Prev. Chapters: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Next Chapters: Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter11 Chapter 12 Epilogue

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There was a small but interesting difference after that night. Heath stopped slipping out to nightwatch on the sly and started informing Legault each time with a brusque comment or a look. Granted, that comment was usually just 'Thief,' but he did allow him to ride out on his wyvern. The gut-wrenching trips took some getting used to, but Legault was beginning to adjust. Eliwood's army was passing through a small mountain chain dotted with villages, so travel was less grueling for a while. There were even some nights they were able to stay within a village inn.

That was not the case on this particular evening-- at the moment they were halfway between two villages, in an area bandits sometimes trawled. As such, it was one of the nights they stood guard. The gravelly path crunched under boots as the pair walked to the summit, surrounded by towering pines. Hyperion was back at camp, having gotten into the camp's food storage and gorged herself until she couldn't move, and was now sleeping off her indulgences. Although Heath was quite annoyed with her he hadn't minded the extra exercise through the cool mountain air. It was a steady but gradual slope, and the final dying rays from the setting sun were dropping dappled light and shadow around them. For a while they hiked in tranquil silence, simply enjoying the landscape, but eventually began chatting casually about the bustling market Eliwood's group had run across the day prior.

"I was skeptical because it was only 300 gold, but it appears to be of quality craftsmanship. It feels well-balanced, as well."

"Yes, I saw that merchant. They did seem like good pieces."

"You should spar with me. I could test it properly then."

Legault laughed nervously.

"Well, I don't know about that."

"Why?"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered. But you're likely to just be disappointed."

"Or are you afraid to face me?"

"You're damn right I am."

Heath gave a dissatisfied grunt as they reached a small clearing,

"I don't buy that."

"Heath, you'd likely turn me to a kebab. Is this where we're stopping?"

"Yes. Over there between those two trees, there's a lot of flat ground there."

"All right. You can clear an area. I'll fetch something at least vaguely flammable."

Clearly still keen on the sparring idea, Heath crossed his arms and smirked a little,

"I could kick you again. Seemed to work last time."

"Please don't."

"I make no promises," Heath murmured as Legault left to hunt for firewood. The thief felt his skin bristle at the low, teasing tone.

Twilight had fallen by the time they started up their fire, and Heath thankfully seemed to forget about sparring and had moved on to describe the more awful trinkets he'd come across in the market.

"I think it was intended as a charm for St. Elimine, but it looked to be carved from dung with a spoon. I had no idea Lycia contained such an impressive amount of garbage."

"Did you see the fellow with the magic potions? He tried to sell me something I'm pretty sure was pond sludge."

"Con men, counterfeiters, and peddlers of junk, every last one of them."

"Now, that's a bit harsh. What about your new lance?"

"The only exception in that village."

"Mm-hmm, but you're wrong there," Legault sing-songed, grinning knowingly. Heath looked at him quizzically.

"What are you on about?"

"I brought us a special little something I acquired yesterday."

"I swear to the gods, Legault, if it's more of those pies--"

"It isn't. They sadly didn't have those," he said, rooting about in his shoulder bag from the market. He pulled a large clay bottle out and held it aloft.

"Tadaa!"

Heath actually seemed mildly impressed.

"Mead?"

"Yep."

"Are you certain it isn't just pond sludge?"

"Only one way to find out," Legault said, rocking the cork stopper out with a pop. He tilted the bottle back and took a small sip. Heath watched expectantly for the verdict.

"Ok. That--" Legault said, and tilted the bottle again, taking a much bigger swig,

"--mm. Is some excellent pond sludge."

He held out the bottle to Heath, but the wyvern rider was hesitant.

"We're on duty, Legault."

"Pfft. It's just a bit of mead, we're not going to empty it tonight. And when's the last time we've actually run into trouble during nightwatch?"

"That isn't the point. We should always be prepared. We're responsible for protecting the safety of the camp."

Legault raised his brows and fixed Heath with a look. Heath frowned. Legault continued to look at him. Heath set his jaw. Legault stared.

Heath tried to ignore him. It didn't last for very long. He sighed.

"All right, just hand it over."

Legault passed it over, saying,

"I'm afraid I didn't bring cups so we need to drink out of the bottle like dirty savages."

Heath took a cautious sip from the stout bottle. His expression was unreadable. Legault asked,

"What do you think?"

After a moment, the man nodded and said approvingly,

"Good job, thief."

Legault tried very hard to not look like he was basking in the glow of Heath's approval, but a dumb smile reached his face anyway. Heath took a healthy swallow of mead.

"I guess not all of Lycia is garbage after all."

"Not when you have the right connections."

Heath handed the bottle back and then seemed to register what he said. In an unsurprised tone, he asked,

"Were your methods for acquiring this less than virtuous?"

Legault chuckled and said in a honeyed tone,

"I'm not sure what you're implying, Heath."

"That sort of thing could get our group into trouble, you know."

Legault took another drink and replied,

"Don't worry, nobody's going to miss a bottle that's fallen off the ample shelves of the local noble."

"Lord Gladwin?"

Legault nodded.

"Not a very popular fellow around here. Wasn't hard to get to. His servants practically begged me to help myself."

"Well, I suppose that's not so bad. I was concerned it may have been one of the merchants."

Legault looked appalled.

"Give me a little more credit than that. Do you really think I'd lift someone's livelihood?"

Heath was thrown off a moment.

"I . . . really was not certain."

Legault shook his head.

"My targets have always been twisted nobles. Even when I was young and desperate, it was all I went after. Preying on the already vulnerable would just be cannibalism."

Off Heath's questioning look, Legault clarified,

"Going after my own kind, you know? Besides, exploiting the weak is as loathsome as it gets. I wasn't about to start doing it myself."

Heath smiled a little.

"An honorable thief. I would not have imagined it."

Legault chuckled.

"I do have some standards. Admittedly, I also loved a good challenge. Going after highborn fat cats killed two birds with one stone."

"And then you became Black Fang."

"Mmm. Almost seemed like a natural progression."

Heath appeared amused.

"I'm honestly a little surprised Eliwood asked you to join him, considering your history with nobility."

Legault laughed and took a drink.

"I don't hate nobility whole cloth. None of us did. We hated abuse of power. You make it sound as though we went about slaughtering willy-nilly. We actually had a very meticulous procedure for selecting targets."

The wyvern rider was clearly intrigued.

"How did it work?"

Legault made vague gestures.

"Well, you know, collecting information, holding discussions, drawing up guidelines, the likes."

"Guidelines?"

He nodded.

"What I mean is that everything was codified. Our criteria, our modus operandi, our decision-making, all of it. Reed knew playing both judge and executioner could lead to a slippery slope-- he didn't want any of us to end up abusing power in the very same way we loathed. Truth be told, we tried our best to ensure only the most abhorrent ones faced the Fang's judgment, unreachable through other means."

Heath seemed very thoughtful. He commented,

"I had no idea."

"We didn't exactly made it a habit to share information about ourselves," Legault said wryly.

"But enough of my banging on about my old job," he added brightly, handing Heath the mead back,

"I'm very happy to leave the past in the past. Best to enjoy the present. Wouldn't you agree?"

Heath looked at the clay bottle a moment, as if considering the question. He took a drink.

"A valid point."

The evening passed more pleasantly than Legault had expected, conversation curving around light and wonderfully unimportant things. As the crescent moon climbed higher in the sky, Legault found the bottle of mead growing lighter and lighter.

"Actually, an Etrurian couple took him in when he was quite young and raised him as their own. He's currently on a training sabbatical, apprentice sort of stuff."

"What about the young man from Sacae?"

"Ah, yes. Tells everyone he's on a personal crusade of sword mastery, but mainly it was because he couldn't cut it as a nomad. Nice fellow, though. Likes to cook. Makes a nice chicken curry."

"All right, fine. How about those two grody axe-fighters? I can't always tell them apart, to be honest."

"Dorcas is the quiet one. He's trying to earn money for a sick wife back in Pherae. Natalie, I believe it was. Bartre is the one always punching things. People, objects . . . he punched a horse once, actually. The horse didn't care for it. He ended up with his jaw wired shut and in traction for a few weeks. Bartre, that is, not the horse."

Heath crossed his arms and spoke with confidence,

"Very well. But here's one you won't get-- the red-headed man, Raven, I think? I've not heard him speak but two words since he joined."

"He's not much for conversation, is he? He is no simple mercenary, though, as claimed. He's disguising his identity-- he's actually of royal blood. For what purpose, I can't say, but I'd keep an eye on him if I were you."

"Dragon's teeth, Legault, how do you know all this?!"

"I talk to people! And also, well, I notice things."

"You spy on them?"

Legault snorted.

"I don't think it's spying when you're standing in plain sight. I just like to people watch. I always have."

"Strange hobby."

The thief shrugged.

"Something to do. People can be fascinating. I like to know how they tick."

Heath shook his head, bemused,

"So with all the strange and diverse characters around, why choose to spend your time sitting here?"

Legault laughed.

"Are you kidding? You're by far the most compelling."

Heath glanced away, huffing, but Legault could catch the brief embarrassed expression.

"I assure you I'm not."

Legault leaned forward on the log he was perched upon and purred,

"I saw the fire in your eyes the day you arrived. You're pure, undiluted tenacity. I like it."

"Give me that mead. You're sounding more foolish than usual."

Legault grinned and passed the bottle over, saying,

"Who's being modest now?"

Heath looked annoyed. To avoid answering, he took a draft from the bottle. After a moment, he blurted,

"You don't even know me, Legault."

Legault smiled wickedly,

"Would you like to change that?"

Heath recoiled.

"Oh, come on-- I'm only joking. You always do that."

"You have a bizarre sense of humor."

"Yes, I am a little strange, I suppose."

Heath raised his brows at him.

"I think you just like to unnerve people."

The thief laughed,

"That's not true! I'm a friendly fellow!"

"The first thing you did when you met me was sneak up on me."

"That was the second thing. Besides, that's how I'm friendly."

"Uh-huh. Here, just take this back."

Heath plunked the bottle back into his hands.

"I thought you said I've been spouting too much nonsense for this?"

"I've realized it doesn't really make any difference."

Legault grinned at him and was about to reply, but the smile faded from his face. He spoke in a normal tone, though slightly quieter,

"Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think someone's come to crash our private party."

Heath frowned at him.

"What are you talking about?"

Legault's eyes flicked very briefly to the trees behind them,

"I wasn't sure at first, but I am now. Two or three of them, trying to be stealthy, really quite bad at it. They're closing in from the old snag, and the boulder to the right."

Heath looked around and was about to jump to his feet, but Legault spat,

"Wait."

Heath balled his fist about the handle of his lance but did not move. He replied tersely,

"Why? I can face three easily."

Legault shook his head.

"You knights are always so gung-ho about charging in, blades blazing. This calls for a more subtle approach."

Impatiently, Heath said,

"What do you suggest then?"

Legault nodded to the clearing in front of them,

"Go out to fetch some wood for the fire. Be loud about it. Drop into those trees and circle back. I'll be here as bait. They want the silly bags from yesterday's market, I'd bet."

"How do you--"

"--just go. They'll be within earshot soon."

Heath climbed to his feet, swaying only briefly, and then made a big production of telling Legault he was going to get more firewood.

"Sounds lovely to me. Can't have us catch our death out here, hmm? Ooh, try and find some pinecones while you're out there. I like how they crackle."

Heath rolled his eyes and strode off, with a reluctant backwards glance. Legault had reclined upon his log, hands tucked behind his head, looking at perfect peace. Heath clearly thought this was a stupid idea but vanished into the trees nevertheless.

Legault closed his eyes, concentrating completely on the sounds of the woods. Their pursuers drew closer and closer, emboldened and dropping much of the pretense of caution. Legault began to worry when they were practically upon him, but at that moment, a crash to his left through the underbrush announced Heath's assault.

A twisted ball of confusion burst out into the clearing, Heath whipping his lance about while two scruffy bandits swung axes at him in a panic. Heath's lance embedded itself in the leather armor of one bandit, and the ruffian's ally took advantage, going for Heath's throat while his weapon was caught. The knight ducked, the axe whistling just above him, and bodily shoved at the man while he was off-balance from his swing, then yanked his lance free and spun it around. The flat of the blade cracked hard off the bandit's skull, knocking him dizzily to the ground. The axe of the other fellow rang out against the back of Heath's breastplate, but failed to cleave through.

Thus far, Legault had been watching the scuffle, not feeling the need to step in. As Heath spun about and took on the bandit still standing, he still looked like he pretty much had things handled. However, something leapt in Legault's peripheral vision-- the third bandit that had been closing in from the other side, now charging at Heath while he was occupied. A simple glance confirmed Heath had yet to notice, busy driving his lance back into already torn armor.

Moments later Heath had felled his foe, but shot his head up at the approach of a third bandit barreling down at him. The bandit's expression shifted from angry to shocked as Legault pounced, arm hooked around the man's neck, cold blade pressed to his throat. The two skidded to a halt right in front of Heath, and stood there, Legault's dagger still pressed to the man's windpipe.

Heath stood from his crouched position over the man he'd just put a lance into. He watched the final bandit's eyes bug out as Legault leaned in, murmuring into his ear:

"Want to know a secret?"

The bandit swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing the dagger blade, but said nothing. Legault dropped to a whisper.

"My friend here's scarier than me."

The bandit whimpered. Legault muttered to him slowly,

"So if I let you go, you'd better be quick . . . I can't promise he won't follow . . . understand?"

The bandit made an unintelligible noise, and Legault said,

"Hmm? What was that?"

The man choked out a very strained 'yes' and after a moment, Legault removed his dagger and pulled away. The bandit stumbled immediately and nearly fell, but scrambled along in a sheer panic and then ran off into the woods. Heath and Legault watched him vanish, trees crashing behind him.

Legault turned to the other two dropped bandits and said,

"Guess he wasn't too interested in helping out his buddies."

Heath nodded at them,

"They'll live. I've only injured this one and the other will wake with a nasty headache."

They stared for a few moments at the crumpled bandits, as if still taking in what had happened. The fallen men were dressed in crusted leather armors and boots and festooned with various satchel bags and numerous blade sheaths. It was clear they were just local riffraff looking to pick off travelers.

"Looks like you were right about them being scavengers."

"Yeah, it explains why they were about as good at sneaking around as drunken sailors."

Heath turned to Legault, giving a short, breathless laugh,

"You certainly scared the wits out of that other one."

Legault shrugged a little,

"Sometimes all you need to do is talk a big talk."

Heath crossed his arms.

"And you claim you don't enjoy unnerving people."

"Well," Legault drawled, smile dancing lightly on his face,

"You're still the most fun for that."

Heath plucked his lance up and smiled slyly at Legault, then sunk into a battle position, eyes shining with zeal.

"Then come at me. My blood's still pumping and I'd like the extra practice."

Legault stumbled briefly on a tree root in his haste to step back and said,

"Ah-ha uh, what? Now? Shouldn't we report the little bandit problem to camp?"

Heath glanced back to the bandits, looking disappointed.

"Right. I suppose so."

He turned and gestured at Legault,

"Next time, then! You won't get out of it."

Legault winced, but answered,

"All right, all right. Just don't be too surprised if I end up getting blood on your nice new weapon."

Heath laughed-- really did so this time, a warmer, more free sound that contrasted from usual-- and Legault felt stupid butterflies dance about in his stomach.

"I'll try to prevent it, if I can," the wyvern rider grinned, as they walked back to camp.

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#fire emblem #legault/heath #legault #heath #mystuff #fanfic

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metamodel · 5 years

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A Machine For Hammering the Soul, With Robotic Padres

It's a juicy weekend read for you, in defence of piety (!)…

📖📖📖

After taking an extended break from social design work “to get some perspective” (ahem), I find that Everything Now Looks Very Strange Indeed™. This is another one of my updates on restarting a creative practice, with added cultural and design commentary.

(If someone’s forwarded this thing to you in the hope you’ll find it interesting, you can subscribe here to secure my everlasting love.)

Today I want to write of vibrations of the soul, the experience of the divine and the habit of prayer. With robots. Yes.

I remain a staunch unbeliever, and yet I find that these apparently religious terms become more useful when I’m wrestling with certain practices: of creativity, of recovery, of becoming a better participant in my communities (local or cosmic). Each of these requires me to paradoxically affirm my own sense of agency by simultaneously curbing it.

For example, working on our addictions is never simply a matter of exerting our individual willpower (which is called “white-knuckling it” in recovery culture, and clearly unsustainable); we instead need to make the choice to surrender to the collective agency of community.

And the other week, my dear friend Janelle and I attended a writer’s meetup that involved everyone sitting down and just doing some fucking writing. As we sat in a zero-ambience pub bistro, beavering away, she passed me a note:

“THIS FEELS FORCED AND NOT RAD.”

Agreed, the venue was very much not rad, and we weren't a very inspiring sight, but to be fair to the rest of us, Janelle’s own writing is driven by uncommonly strong affective tides that would wreck a less glorious being. I’d argue that for most people, sustainable creativity needs in some way to be “forced”, and this isn’t a bad thing. My own creative endeavours need to be sustained by the scheduled habit of accessing an animating spirit that might reveal itself to the solidarity of a congregation. (It does need a better venue, though. Blech.)

Such appeals to the beyond have given me a new, practical appreciation of the rigours of piety. But lest I be accused by Slavoj Žižek of some lacklustre, postmodern, liberal-secular appropriation of spirituality, I need to leaven this stuff with a good dose of machines and robots to keep it interesting to me. 😉

Eternal return: burials, and when the earth rejects us

First, some follow-up.

Did you know that in this wonderful medium of email newslettering, you can simply reply to any of these missives from me, and that your reply will appear directly in my everyday, personal email inbox? It’s real email. No really, I love this, so replies are encouraged. Meanwhile, I’m really heartened by the generous messages I’ve received from you thus far. Also, I don’t know some of you, and this mixture of the known and unknown is tantalising.

Answering my call in the last issue for objects that deserve “burial rites/rights" with us, Andrew (who I know can light a fire with his bare hands) replies that “I would bring with me a wooden spoon for my cooking, a headlamp for reading late at night and camping, and a vr headset because I know I won’t be affording one in this lifetime”. That would just be a simulated, still life VR headset then, right?

And Deborah, who wants “to be buried with seeds inside me, so I could be compost” (and who also first pointed me in the direction of socially responsible design, many years ago 😘), also notes that the word “Pandæmonium”, which I used in my last missive to describe the experience of the classroom in the context of exploring All the Things, “was coined to describe the Place Of All The Demons” — the capital of Hell in Milton’s Paradise Lost. So oddly… appropriate.

Deborah also pointed me to “When the rocks turn their backs on us”, Ken Wark’s review of Elizabeth Povinelli’s Geontologies: A Requiem to Late Liberalism:

[T]he Anthropocene is far from being some hubristic discourse about the powers and destinies of Man. It is rather a malignant, viral human presence in geological time. I think here one could read the Anthropocene through the figure of immunity rather than community. It is not the figure of Man becoming sovereign over the community of the biosphere within geological time. It is rather the biosphere immunising itself against forms of (non)life that it can’t endure.

While I think there’s every reason to despair, this feels a little too enthusiastically misanthropic. (Perhaps Wark is trying to make up for his embarrassing social democratic excesses of the ‘90s.) Not all community is naturalistic, hippy-dippy togetherness and accommodation, and the pain of recognising and negotiating it, against the predations of capital, might offer a bleak kind of hope. I shall ponder. I’ve naturally procured Povinelli’s book and will report back in a future issue.

⚒️🎵 The Hammer Song

[caption align="alignnone" width="980"]

Kandinsky’s "Winter Landscape", 1911[/caption]

The Masters of Modern Art from the Hermitage show could so easily have drifted into Adult Contemporary Viewing territory, but it brought me this amazing quote from Kandinsky:

Colour is the keyboard, the eyes are the hammers, and the soul is the piano with many strings. The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key or another, to cause vibrations in the soul.

The eyes are the hammers. Whoa. Despite its manifest spiritualism, this image builds a model of aesthetics that’s all about resonant, relational assemblages of awesome in which each actor plays a material part. My eyes and yours live together inside a big piano. Fucking yes. This is society and ecology, defined — via aesthetics. The exhibition leaves Sydney this weekend if you want to catch it.

🔪🥀 Nick Cave is a joyful robot monk. Wait, what?

[caption align="alignnone" width="980"]

Nick Cave in conversation. Photo filched from Daniel Boud.[/caption]

I was grateful to be at Conversations with Nick Cave the other week, not just to hear Cave’s voice and solo piano really rise to the occasion and fill a venue with their resonance, but to see the open Q&A format of the show return repeatedly to Cave’s creative process.

Fans who might’ve been clamouring for transcendent tales of sudden inspiration, or 19th Century Gothic influences (“I don’t have any”), were brought back to earth by the familiar refrain of the committed creative professional: Cave shows up to work, which requires lots of meticulous preparation and backbreaking iteration, and he makes it happen. “It’s a job,” he said, with finality. (I love the incongruity of this stuff coming from people like Nick Cave, or Bobbie Gillespie, who apparently keeps office hours for Primal Scream.)

But I’ve become a little sceptical of the total demystification of creativity that’s now common in our algorithmically inclined age of, uh, content-marketing savvy. With our era’s overly instrumentalist promotion of a well-adjusted creative-entrepreneurial mindset, it might be all too easy these days to reduce everything to using elbow grease to, you know, hit targets.

So I love that Cave is still in awe of sacred aesthetic magic when his rigour allows it to happen. He talked of putting in the work so that the divine can arrive. All his meticulous “going through the motions” (again, not a bad thing) produces something more than the sum of those motions. For him, it’s a way to experience God. And despite his Prince of Darkness reputation, Cave was at pains to describe how joyful that process can be. “There’s nothing dark about it.”

🤖🙏 Oh yeah, the bit about robots

When I was listening to Radiolab the other day (despite my long-running ambivalence about the show), I found that this recent episode’s focus on robots of antiquity resonated unexpectedly with my reading of Nick Cave’s creative process.

Hear me out.

In 1562 the crown prince of Spain, Don Carlos, falls down a flight of stairs and sustains a head injury that is by all accounts going to be fatal. According to Radiolab, his father King Philip II “kneels at his son’s deathbed and makes a pact with God: ‘If you help me, if you heal my son — if you do this miracle for me — I'll do a miracle for you.’”

Don Carlos miraculously survives, apparently thanks to the intervention of the spirit of Diego de Alcalá, a celebrated monk who died a century before. And so now Philip II needs to somehow perform his miracle:

[He] enlists a really renowned clockmaker named Juanelo Turriano — a huge ox of a man, described as always being filthy and blustery and not a lot of fun to be around — but a great, great clockmaker. So the king says, “Look, I want you to make a mechanical version of Diego de Alcalá, a mechanical version of this 100-year-dead holy priest. Yes, a mechanical monk — a robotic padre.”

[caption align="alignnone" width="980"]

The robotic padre[/caption]

Artist and historian Elizabeth King describes the result:

Driven by a key-wound spring, the monk walks in a square, striking his chest with his right arm, raising and lowering a small wooden cross and rosary in his left hand, turning and nodding his head, rolling his eyes, and mouthing silent obsequies. From time to time, he brings the cross to his lips and kisses it. After over 400 years, he remains in good working order.

A miracle of technology! (You can watch a very low quality video of the robot in action here.) “He walks a delicate line between church, theatre, magic, science,” King writes, pondering the significance of the mechanical monk. “Here is a machine that prays.”

What does it mean? According to King and Radiolab, in the context of Counter-Reformation Spain, the robot monk strikes to the heart of debates about how one gets close to God:

You have the Protestants, with Luther, who are saying, “it’s not about works … it's about whether you feel it.” And then you have the Catholic argument which is to say you do these rituals because these are the rituals, and this is the way you get close to God.

The robot monk teaches us how to do ritual. Controversial! Given the ridiculous degree of crufty observance and corruption in the Church at the time of the Reformation (and, um, other times), I obviously understand why the Protestant appeal to pure feels was compelling. But my own ingrained Catholic social justice calculus of “good works” aside (“don’t fucking tell me your account with God hinges on how you feel inside instead of your concrete actions in the world, you schismatic apostates!”), I can’t help but think that this debate, and the robot monk himself, is a metaphor for the observance of creative process.

As stated above, I’m suspicious of the reduction of creativity to a bunch of instrumental observances in the mechanised pursuit of… metrics. Hack-work content marketing success, paid in SEO indulgences to the Church of Google. But to respond to this by abandoning the rigours of creative process for the inspiration of pure feeling would be a mistake. Unless you're a tidal wave like my friend Janelle, feelings are fickle. Protestant churches tend to trade the horrific institutionalised power of the Catholic Church (about which we need no reminders) for another kind of tyranny: exploitative emotional economies in which the faithful tend to be at the mercy of charisma. And to trade in pure charisma is to produce strongmen. As our current times remind us, charismatic populism offers release for the anxious but also destroys the processes that ultimately help us flourish as communities. Creative populism that relies on emotional catharsis tends to destroy the basis for a consistent creative practice. Just as the Reformation ended up eliding the point of what “good works” might potentially be about (i.e. acting rigorously to enable the arrival of goodness), we also need to remember what creative rituals are for (i.e. exactly the same thing as good works).

Thus it is with Nick Cave, who for me is the amazing robot monk. He mightn’t be your cup of tea, or you might even find his work occasionally objectionable, but I think most of us can agree that his creative practice really hums. (Don’t let his obsession with Southern Baptists or his own Anglican heritage distract. In terms of process, he is an exemplary Catholic robot.) He prepares, meticulously. He shows up to work. He performs the motions regularly, not worrying about inspiration, and through these observances somehow accesses what he feels to be a divine and joyous experience of creativity.

I’m convinced that if Nick Cave relied on pure feeling, or murderous inspiration, or spontaneous gothic possession, or any of the other assumptions people make about his artistic persona, so many great moments of his oeuvre wouldn’t exist. Nick Cave walks the square and kisses the cross and talks to God. For he is a joyous robot monk.

🎼 Coda

For those of you who remain unconvinced by my yoking together of monks and murder ballads: the final line of Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, an historical murder mystery set in a monastery, is “Stat rosa pristina nomine, nomina nuda tenemus”, or “The rose of old remains only in its name; we have only naked names”.

Meanwhile, I was never really a fan of the chorus of “Where the Wild Roses Grow,” Cave’s duet with Kylie Minogue:

They call me The Wild Rose

But my name was Elisa Day

Why they call me it, I do not know

For my name was Elisa Day

Oooh. The name of the rose. Anyway, to me, Minogue’s delivery always reeked of passive fatalism. But the other day, I realised that it wasn’t fatalistic all — it was full of spooky reproach. Elisa Day remains known to us by her Wild Rose name of legend, but her ghost insists on remembering her own name. She’s crossing t’s and dotting i’s from beyond the grave.

Following Kylie, we would do well to pay proper respect to the names of those who are in the beyond. The way we relate to them constitutes its own assemblage, its own machine of observances. In this I’m reminded of Arthur C. Clarke’s 1953 short story, “The Nine Billion Names of God”, in which Tibetan monks manage to automate the process of transcribing all the permutations that God’s name can take, using a supercomputer (naturally). Observing the names is the universe’s purpose, you see. And when the final name is encoded… Whoa.

How's that for a crazy constellation? (I know I'm just reaching. But it's fun!)

A sustainable portion of all my love,

Ben

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theseaeaglelives · 6 years

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Round 2

THE SEA EAGLE

MAKING RUGBY LEAGUE GREAT AGAIN!!!

Manly Sea Eagles 18 Defeated by. Eastern Suburbs Roosters 26

Two weeks into season 2019 and it’s fair to say that any hope that Manly supporters had in terms of both playing finals football and/or being competitive this year have already evaporated. The goal already, and yet again, will be for this Manly side will be to avoid the spoon. Manly carried on the form from last week’s loss to the Tigers. However this week, up against far superior opposition they were found wanting and are well off the pace. The first half was played in torrential rain and storms although this didn’t seem to bother the Latte Sippers who opened the scoring after only 3 minutes, when a well-placed kick saw veteran winger Brett Morris score in the corner. In terms of placement, the kick landed between Hauhay Torfua and Brad Parker and whenever these two guys are in the vicinity of the ball, let alone trying to defuse a dangerous situation, nothing good can possibly eventuate, and it didn’t!!

The first half highlighted one of Manly’s major deficiencies, that being their defence on the flanks and this was certainly exploited by the Roosters. Three of the Roosters first half tries were scored by their wingers emphasising how poor the Manly outside backs are (particularly in the absence of Turbo Tom)

Without the injured Cooper Cronk, Luke Keary assumed the role of playmaker for the Roosters and had the ball on a string. His performance a stark contrast to his opposite number Cherry Baby who was having a shocker, with multiple errors and little or no impact.

At the break the Roosters led 22-0, a score-line belying the sloppy conditions but reflective of the dominance that they exerted over a hapless Manly outfit. The second half started no better for Manly and when the Roosters opened the scoring it looked very much like a rout was on the cards. Manly responded with two tries in as many minutes to give their fans something to cheer about, but in the end the Roosters were far too good and ran out 26-18 victors. It’s already looking like being a long season (albeit with no September action) for Manly and their long-suffering fans. Coach Hasler now finds himself in a similar position to when he first took on the reigns at Manly in 2004 following the ill-fated Northern Eagles debacle, with a long and painful rebuild necessary after the disastrous Barrett years. At least Des can say its not his team, because he inherited this rabble. But it is his responsibility, and let’s hope the great coach can somehow at least get Manly to pay competitively and not come last. Spoon 2019

At this stage its Manly, the Dogs, the Titans, and the Dragons as prime contenders for the spoon (all 4 have no wins to date this year). In any other year, you would have said Manly and the Dogs had no place with that rabble, but you would not be surprised to see the Titans and the Dragons chasing up the rear of the field. But there it is, a sad indictment on Manly, and equally the Dogs, two proud clubs that ordinarily play to win premierships ( or at least they used to). A Lesson in History – War vs NRL

It has been said that to understand the present you must first consider the past. This has led the Sea Eagle to consider an interesting exercise where delving back into ancient history may help to determine the make-up, psyche etc. and explain the behaviour of the modern NRL player. To achieve this, let’s travel back in time to circa 220BC. At this time the two main regional powerhouses were Rome and Carthage, and a bit like SOO they face up for three monumental and memorable contests. Firstly, the Romans. Claiming to be based in the sporting capital of the world, their style was well drilled and disciplined. Impeccable leadership, with first rate facilities and equipment, but despite their high discipline they tended to push the boundaries, often resorting to the grapple and wrestle when in full contact. Their roster was well remunerated and they were able to supplement their income with the spoils from victory, a concept loosely known as a “third-party” deal. Management tended to turn a blind eye to these “third party” arrangements and only when scrutinised by the Geneva based Integrity Unit (formed much later) were such arrangements finally repudiated. If this sounds familiar, from herein after they will be referred as the (Roman) Storm. Opposing them were the Carthaginians. Based on the mouth of a river and widely thought to be a second-rate civilisation, their style was more flamboyant and ad-hoc and their roster included an eclectic mixture of inner and outer regional cultures, many of whom were not domicile to Carthage and came from surrounding islands. Led well by a rising talent in Coach Hannibal their insular nature and inferiority tendencies combined to make them a formidable foe. They too benefited greatly from the so called “third party” arrangements which were prevalent at the time and often adopted a siege mentality. To simplify things going forward, from herein they will be referred to as the (Carthage) Broncos. Fixture 1 Venue: Cannae (Southern Italy) Date 216BC

This was a rout where the under-dog (Carthage) Broncos slaughtered their more fancied and more powerful rivals. The (Roman) Storm massed their troops in a deeper formation than usual, while Broncos Coach Hannibal used tactics not previously seen, and was able to surround his arch enemy. The Broncos were then able to penetrate the Storm defensive line dishing out a humiliating defeat considered by many to be one of the worst in their history.

Following this clash members of team Carthage in a drunken stupor, proceeded to sack a local village, inflicting unprecedented violence on its inhabitants including pillage, rape and murder. The Cathage Integrtiy unit intervened, but no action was taken, as back then, this was called to the Victor goes the spoils.

The remnants of the (Roman) Storm returned to Rome whereupon most of them were summarily executed for their poor performance. Back then there was no salary cap, so used up war heroes could not be traded to lesser nations to free up space for new or younger talent. The competition certainly was not even back then, but many said it was better. Fixture 2 Venue: Zamma (North Africa) Date 202BC

Having replaced their leadership group following the disaster at Cannae the (Roman) Storm travelled to neutral territory to again face the arch enemy. This was an even contest, a dour affair and a battle of attrition ebbing and flowing and with neither side able to assert their ascendancy.

With no golden point in play at the time and despite horrendous casualties, the contest was deemed a draw and both sides returned home, without victory but with pride intact. Fixture 3 Venue: Carthage (Tunisia) Date 149BC

Buoyed by their improved display at Zamma, the (Roman) Storm, again under new leadership decided to take on the old foe, this time on its’ home ground. This was the final time that these traditional rivals lined up against each other, a consequence of the decisive and destructive nature of the Roman victory. The (Carthage) Broncos were comprehensively overwhelmed and their roster was, in its entirety, decimated. To celebrate their victory, off-field atrocities and examples of violence were undertaken on an unprecedented scale by the Roman Storm. In a drunken, booze fest orgy, the victors unleashed their fury on Carthage, pillaging, raping and murdering its inhabitants and eventually the city was completely levelled.

The few survivors of this atrocity were either sold into slavery or thrown into burning infernos. At its conclusion, (Roman) Storm Coach Scipio was heard to exclaim “In war there is no substitute for victory”. Again, the Roman Integrity unit intervened, but no action was taken. The parallels between these ancient warriors and the modern day NRL player are undeniable, and the behaviours exhibited by participants in these ancient times goes some way to explain recent events and atrocities. With the Magic Round (Round 9) fast approaching and some 320 NRL players converging on Brisbane for the weekend, will the NRL’s worst nightmare scenario come to fruition and will Brisbane become a modern-day Carthage. Hopefully no-one will be killed!! 'If I want to be liked, I'd sell ice-creams': Napa on sex tape fallout By Christian Nicolussi March 19, 2019 — 6.00pm -SMH

Dylan Napa of 'Big Papi' sex tapes fame, hast declared: "If I wanted everyone to like me, I'd go and sell ice-creams."…"I'm six-foot-five with red hair, I've been targeted my whole life," Napa is reported to have said. "I also have the right to stand up for myself. I'm not worried about being targeted. I've been called everything under the sun, especially the person I'm portrayed to be. My family and friends know who I am and my teammates, that's all that matters. “If I wanted everyone to like me, I'd go sell ice-creams. That's a quote from [Roosters skipper] Boyd Cordner, and I think it's pretty correct. If I wanted everyone to like me, maybe I should get another profession because it's the reality of it."

"I want to make a big statement every game. I felt I had a good preparation going into the game, we just lacked a bit of energy and our attitude was not where it needed to be. …"I can't use [the sex tapes] at all [as an excuse]," he said. "It had its effects at the time, but it's two months ago now. I'm well and truly over that. I'm glad football is back and we can talk about playing Parramatta and trying to beat them."

Sea Eagle Comment: Regrettably the Dogs got smashed but the Eels, whilst Big Papii could talk about beating the Eels, and make a big statement, regrettably he didn’t do that. But seriously Dylan, the Sea Eagle loves Big Pappii. Don’t despair. you can do way better than sell ice creams. Try selling the Big Pappi Pizza, the gift that keeps on giving.

Captive Rugby Nation Set To Host World Cup In 6 Months Not Worth Investing In, Says SANZAAR- Betoota Advocate- date unclear.

It has been reported that SANZAAR (South Africa, New Zealand, Australia and Argentina Rugby) – the body which operates Super Rugby and The Rugby Championship – has reportedly decided to axe the only Asian-based franchise in Super Rugby. The Sunwolves, who hail from the third largest economy in the world (Japan) is expected to be discontinued indefinitely as of 2020.

Japan, with 122,368 registered rugby union players, and host of the 2019 World Cup, are just not worth it (apparently) – that’s according to the same people SANZAAR who closed the Perth franchise that got more fans to their games than Melbourne Rebels.

According to the Betoota Advocate “It is not yet known if there will be another multi-million dollar franchise created to fill the void that will be left in the Super Rugby by the Sunwolves, but as SANZAAR has proven time and time again, if it sounds like a weird and poorly thought out idea – it will most likely become a reality.

If another team is created, rugby fans have been told to expect something really random like Uruguay or East Timor, who will also inevitably be booted from the moment they start winning some games.”

THE SEA EAGLE

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