#i love dancing on the graves of those who exploit us but for the love of god can we acknowledge The Rest Of It All

[henrysglock]

Wonderful! A group of rich people died! Let’s dance on graves; I’ll get my good shoes.

But first, tell me:

Did the accident redistribute their wealth to the masses?

Did those deaths take out a harmful corporation in a way that makes life markedly better for those it was harming?

Did it enact any kind of helpful policy, regulatory, or socioeconomic change?

Or:

Are they just going to replace that CEO?

Is that wealth just going to get passed to their next of kin, remaining withheld from the masses who both need and deserve it?

Is this whole thing going to be forgotten by the next news cycle?

Is our collective glee just ‘bread and circuses’ type behavior that gloats over useless and frankly stupid deaths without any actual impact being made?

“People are justified in their lack of pro-social response to this event because of the socioeconomic state of the world.”

Okay, so show me where any of this changes the socioeconomic structure of the world. Show me where there’s anything worthy of “I hope they all die a slow, agonizing death for,” [checks notes], “hubris, a typical characteristic in most humans at some point in their lives.”

Was it all incredibly stupid? Absolutely. Did most of the dead have it coming? Absolutely. The tragedy in it is that there were no regulations in place to say “Uh…no?” when that voyage was in its planning stages.

And the worst part is? Nothing. Changes. So far, these are meaningless deaths.

Imagine we’re in ancient Rome. The CEO of Oceangate has convinced a group of his buddies (and the kid they dragged along) that “Hey, y’know what would be really fun? If we all dressed up as gladiators and paid to tussle with the lion. No, no, yeah there’s a chance you could die, but trust me, it’s gonna be so cool.” And then we all fucking ate it up, half of us cheering on the lion while the other half wept for those poor, poor rich people (yeah I know, I’m rolling my eyes too)…all under the watchful eye of our royal highnesses who put on the show: The Corporate System and The News Cycle, who both stood to profit whether the group of idiots lived or died.

Did the rich folks have it coming? Absolutely. Is it still horrific that it was allowed to happen at all? Yes.

This is why they don’t broadcast the other tragedies. It’s not good for them as a partnership. Those gut wrenching tragedies, the ones with true injustice? They don’t placate us, they upset us and turn us against those in power.

But dumb rich folks dying? On my TV? Oh goody, my fave show is on. Let’s see if it’s started another useless internet war, creating low-level enemies for us inside our screens so we forget about the real enemies for a while longer.

Not only that, but killing a CEO won’t change anything. That’s a replaceable employee, and the corporation as a unit cares about that person about as much as it cares about the rest of us (which is to say: not at all). That CEO’s wealth will just be given out to their relatives, and the money will stay contained within that family unit. The CEO will be forgotten in the next news cycle, when their death is no longer profitable for the news industry and the internet has moved onto its next useless spiral.

Guillotines in France worked because they dismantled the government, which also happened to consist of all the rich folks, to enact socioeconomic change. Thus: people celebrated the deaths of the rich, and rightfully so.

That’s not what this is. This isn’t “eating the rich”. This just the joy of entertainment, a good show.

Nothing ever changes. We stay entertained, temporarily placated by the deaths of a couple rich people.

Bread and fucking circuses.

[ggtess]

I’ve been a fan of Hozier since I heard his song take me to church. Its intense religious scrutiny tied with its beautiful queer allusions roped me in instantly. It didn’t take me long to discover how talented this artist was, and how deep of an impact his music would have on me. He’s been a favorite ever since.

Following a steady increase of my love for Hozier, was a fast and intense love for the Inferno of Dante, a book that I was originally begrudgingly forced to read. I had already watched a youtube series on the comedia and figured that’s all I would really need from this story (sooo fucking embarrassing). But, as we delved deeper into the inferno and all the rich history associated with it, my english-subject-loving-brain was absolutely enamored. There was so much to digest and speculate and criticize and praise. I was in Heaven (haha).

Now obviously some months have passed since the release of this album, but I only recently discovered that Unreal Unearth featured the marriage of these two beloved interests of mine.

With all that being said, here’s are my incredibly belated, partially sincere and partially bullshit thoughts on Hozier’s Unreal Unearth:

De Shelby pt 1- (7/10) gorgeous guitar brought to us by a gorgeous Irish man. Desolate, chilling, sullen.

De Shelby pt 2- (7/10) absolutely insane transition. This bass is so catchy and rhythmic, really fun. I assume this is representative of the harsh descent into hell, running/hiding from the atonement of sins: throwing yourself into what is ungodly to avoid isolation.

First time- (8/10) this just sounds so fucking good, “some part of me must have died the first time that you called me ‘baby’ and some part of me came alive the first time that you called me ‘baby’” is so stark and relatable. God that is an absolutely devastating way to look at bouquets. A quick ode to the lost “remembering again/ the full extent of what forever is” because fuck. This is confusing and heart wrenching, a lover mourning his lost love and worshiping them all the same because they’re all he has in this eternity, this limbo leaves him lost and all he sees and all he knows is death, even through the kind gestures of flowers on his grave, desperate and lost

Francesca- (9/10) The first direct reference to the inferno via the storms of lust in the first circle. Listening has me confusing lust with love- is lust just an extension of love ?? Because this is a damn love song. “Heaven is not fit to house a love like you and I” oh my fucking god yeah this is the favorite. Does Hozier know that he’s a lesbian or should I tell him

I, Carrion- (8/10) so, so beautiful. Consumed in consumption itself, prioritizing pleasure over what is right and moral. So many references in this one- the turtles holding up the world, Icarus flying and falling, atlas carrying the weightless feeling he is experiencing.

Eat your young- (8/10) this song is popular for a reason. Obviously representing gluttony, the lyrics are so disgusting and immoral, hungry for more wealth, more gain, more, more. Criticism to world leaders, criticism to capitalism, criticism to consumerism, criticism to those who take and take. “Eat your young” stealing the future of your youth, decimating the climate, sending your children to war, sending your children to sweep chimneys, all exploitation, all eating your young. Also head ???

Damage gets done- (7/10) everyone move this song is so upbeat I need to fucking dance. Brandi has a really powerful voice that complements hozier’s so well. For something being representative of greed, this song is pretty damn grateful, at least on my first impression. In a pessimistic perspective, it could be the oblivion of the youth to their damage on the earth. Just by existing in the world we live in we leave an irreversible mark on our climate, our environment, our wildlife, etc. Unknowingly, we’re greedy to want to thrive in our world in any capacity but specifically financially. Maybe the best of us are our youth that don’t want for more than they have. This song contrasts the previous one HARSHLY.

Who we are- (6/10) this song is a headache. Juxtaposing the deeply frustrating lyrics of navigating the dark, burning out, chasing mindlessly and the loud singing filled with a sense of catharsis and relief is sooo mind boggling. So much uncertainty and passion.

Son of Nyx- (7/10) god I love a transition track. So dejected and beautiful at the same time. These themes of loss are just constant throughout the album. Someone tell me how Hozier did all this world building without any words? I would have genuinely guessed that the river Styx is what’s being represented by this instrumental, he captured it exactly how I imagined.

All things end- (6/10) This is definitely akin to gospel music. Hozier’s influence from black artists is rich in this song, really fun listen. Also deeply ironic to use this style of music to write a song about heresy. Reminds me of his iconic take me to church.

Continued in next post ! :-)

[saskiacornelli]

Quotes that made me feel shit

“Our love wasn’t the kind of love that was written in the cards… it was the kind of love that burned them.”

“Do villains have hearts baby?”

“Always a rebel, forever a soldier, one as a lover, the other don’t bother.”

“Always a rebel forever soldier, one as a lover, the other forever

“I fed them chaos… …so they swallowed me whole. “

“I prefer the men who lurk in dark, dusty corners. After all, that’s where all the secrets lie.”

“You only think I’m perfect because you haven’t seen my soul”. 

“The thing about the people who know how to ignite your rage are usually the only people who also know how to put it out”.

“A smile is strong enough to conceal sadness, because it’s easier for people to acknowledge that someone is happy, rather than offer sympathy for another’s desolation.”

“She wasn’t pretty or attractive. She was damn right lethal and she fucking knew it.”

“I was a Doll, but I wasn’t made of plastic. I was constructed of the names of all those who’d wronged me…” 

“All three of us lived with damage. None of it made sense, the pieces didn’t fit; until we met each other.”

“Love will never die if it exists on the lips of death.”

“Once you’ve tasted the bitter tang of sin on the tip of your tongue, you’ll do everything you can to drink from its poison for the rest of your life.”

“I live for chaos. I bathe in it, dance in it, and fuck in it”

“People who know too much are walking time bombs, ready to explode and exploit at any moment. They have too much control.”

“You are brutally beautiful in your own way”

“Knock knock, bitch now let the devil in”

“Stuck between a rock and a hard place, so I dug her fucking grave screaming, this bitch can’t be saved”

“Fuck love, but it’ll fuck you too…”

“I’ll take away your sadness with my deranged madness.”

“The most beautiful faces hide the darkest souls.”

“Could the same hands that end lives be the same ones to make mine come alive”

“In the dark is where wilted flowers grow, they get watered with the blood of his enemies and the fluid from my broken heart.”

“A wish is just a sentence that’s said aloud in the hopes of it coming true.”

“You’re not just a switch for my humanity, you’re a goal trigger for my rage too.”

“I’d much rather sleep in darkness. It’s where my thoughts reside.”

“My knight was darkness, fighting fire with fire- I fought darkness with darkness.”

“In our world of shattered reflections that look back at us, I’m the girl who wants to dance with the devil.”

“I was light, and I was pure until I wasn’t.”

“Your mind is like your very own diary, locked and sealed between the gushing of blood that is being courted through the fibers of your cranium.”

“The devil should run.”

“I was made for war, not for love. I don’t want to break people. I want them to be broken already. I don’t want to feel that way, but I can’t help myself.”

“Love is savage, love is blind, love is something they may not find…”

“The most crippling pain

That comes isn’t from losing your lover, it’s from losing something that was so precious that you didn’t deserve it to begin with.”

“Some angels have the devil on their side…”

“Love doesn’t care who it destroys to get what it wants.”

“His eyes were the entrance to Hell, and every time he looked at you, he would draw you in closer to the burning iron gates.”

“Lost can be whole again once it has been found.”

“To rare for earth, too doomed for heaven.”

“If he wants a show I’ll give him mayhem.”

“I don’t care if I will fall in love with a devil, as long as that devil will love me the way he loves hell.”

“He set fire to the world, but never let a flame touch her.”

“His love is aphotic, but she’s willing to drown in it.” 

“He held a darkness that could never be touched. She carried a light that could never be seen.”

“A dream is just a nightmare wearing makeup.”

“There’s no price to power; there’s just blood.”

“He told me he loved me. And that may be true, but the only thing left between us, is broken and strewed.”

“Till death we don’t part because even if we do die, our souls still continue to find each other.”

“This world was all fun and games right up until the finally came.”

“I’ve always been one that would prefer to dance with danger than walk with the mundane.”

“To all the fuckers who said I would never amount to anything.

*grins*

Sup.”

The devil furnishes his darkest souls with the prettiest smiles.

And as I was in the darkness so darkness I became.

Most people want to be the sun that lights up your life, but I’d rather be the moon that shines don on you in your darkest hours

Our love tore everything apart… including each other 

Tricksters don’t have hearts. They just pretend they do.

Trouble never looked so fine

She knows who she is. She just forgot it for a little while.

Tell the wolves I’m home

Family ain’t who your born with. It’s who you die for. 

What if the same hands that soothe me are the same hands that harm me

I kind of want to eat u rn

Later. I want to play first

My karma may be a bitch, damn that bitch is beautiful

I was the trick that they could never play. 

She was the greatest game of all…

There was elegance that comes from being carved from the ashes of all the darkness that surrounds you in the world. 

You start as dust, and you end as dust. At least that’s what I always thought. 

I wasn’t someone who needed protecting… they were. 

People whispered his name in fear. I screamed it when he was in between my thighs. 

You may be a princess on the streets and people may fall to their knees in your presence, but in here? You’re my little fucking toy, and the only one kneeling will be you. 

I was her weapon but she forgot to protect her heart.

She wore a thousand faces all to hide her own

Who needs enemies when you have memories that torture you all the time

They say drowning is the most peaceful death, I can imagine why.

To protect a monster, one must be a monster 

The darkness has always lingered inside me, I’ve just subdued it by feeding it my fears 

When you’ve been raised by monsters, they teach you how to exist with them

A killer’s love is as violent as the art in which they take lives.”

Cheers to more bodies dropping. As the old saying goes, may they all rest in pieces.

He exists within darkness so that I can be the light to guide him home

She can see through people. Their lies, their secrets, and the decayed skeletons they try to hide in their closet 

In or messed-up way, the Cherry will always symbolize our bond. We grew as a pair from the earth and shared the same flesh and blood. When one is disconnected from the other, we rot and die. I rot…. And die

Betrayal is a poison , and once you taste it, you can’t get it out

My life is full of messy people who don’t always make the right choices 

Before he was the Devil’s pet… He was mine. 

They killed lots of people, but they would hug me if I’m crying 

She was fearless, and crazier than him. She was his queen. And god help anyone who disrespected his Queen

I’ve seen the devil more than I’ve seen god

The prettiest smiles hide the darkest secrets 

The prettiest eyes have cried the most 

The kindest hearts have felt the most pain

You thought you could live like a saint but forgot that you’re claimed by am Antichrist

Beauty is the deadliest curse of all because it tricks you into thinking you’re attracted to it

People don’t just disappear, other people just stop looking for them

There was a women who also sought the light but it burned her and she fell into darkness 

I’ve always loved messing with people who try to hard at life

They wanted to own me… I just wanted to survive them

He wasn’t cold to be cruel. He was cold out of necessity to survive a brutal world.

I think I scare him as much as he scares me

The foe, the weapon, the ruse, the liar 

Not all soulmates are lovers

Bloodied and broken with the kind of torment that breeds, but never dies. 

A story about two souls destined to be together, but who are trapped in bodies that hate each other 

The stories would never die… not until the real one at least has been told. 

It all started with a game. The kind of trickery that poisons your heart because it knows the mind is week

A daughter, a friend… a liar 

To the people that fuck red flags. Saddle up. 

Hades hollow has a secret, and like the bones of our ancestors that live beneath the waters here, it should stay dead. 

He had eyes that matched the gates of hell and an air about him that made all the warning bells inside my head go off 

I have to know what freedom tastes like on the tip of my tongue 

The worst part about regret is the fact that you do t know when it’s going to hit you. 

The only people who get killed are those ignoring the signs. 

Diavoli dell’oceano (The devils of the ocean)

Who you are today will not be who you’re going to be tomorrow 

He was everything bad that no one should ever want, much less a Queen

There are whispers that go through the streets, and all of them begin and end with us

Bloodied and broken with the kind of torment that breeds, but never dies

Make the high and mighty low arrogant creatures down you go

If I can't have you, my love, I'll destroy you!

if he loves another and gives his heart, then magic will appear and everything he loves will die

Sleeping flame, I summon thee / To your form return / Make the night as bright as day / And burn, baby, burn!

Break my heart. Break it a thousand times if you like. It was only ever yours to break. 

When it comes to the high seas. Not all monsters lurk beneath the surface 

Never break in somewhere unless you know the way out

The only ones that aren’t afraid are the monsters

It’s always the prettiest girls who think they’re ugly

"If it's death that I've chosen, then so be it. Let it flow through my veins."

Sometimes you think you want to disappear but all you really want is to be found

I was so lost in hatred and revenge. You stole what was left of my heart 

You think no one loves you, and yet you attracted the devil babygirl 

Evil queens are just princesses that were never saved 

If you treat me like a game, then I’ll show you how it’s played 

If I can’t have you my love, I’ll destroy you.

Beautiful boy, you don’t even realize that some people look at your madness and see nothing but grace and brilliance 

Why should I apologize for the monster I’ve become? No one ever apologized for making me this way

If I can still breathe I’m fucking fine

Didn’t your mother ever tell you to never shake hands with a demon

Never hide your bad side to make someone stay, show your bad side and see who will stay

People don’t change. They reveal who they really are 

Someday someone will break you so badly that you will become unbreakable 

I’ll never be that me again

Fuck death till us part. Hell better lock its gates if I ever loose you. 

To the girls who think that the grim reaper will fuck like a god

When we’re young we’re taught the distinction between a hero and a villain, good and evil, a savior and a lost cause. But what if the only real difference is who’s telling the story

I found my own light when you left me in the darkness 

Hell is empty and all the devils are here 

The people that are the most broken and the saddest are the ones that would do absolutely anything for anyone else. 

Sweet as sugar cold as ice hurt me once, I’ll break you twice

She wanted to feel loved without feeling like she was begging for it

She’s fading away slowly and not noticing 

She passed her hardest moments alone when everyone thought she was fine 

He’s not gods disciple he’s Lucifer’s little bitch

Don’t enter the den of wolves and ask not to be bitten 

You’re my heaven and I’m your hell

I want toxic. I want madness. I want someone who makes me question my sanity 

They say even monsters have weaknesses

Yeah, he is a liar. But he’s a liar that loves you

To the girls who fall for villains… Their hearts are only black until you tear them out 

He was always there to take my hand… even if it was to lead me straight to hell.

Every time you fall, I’ll catch you. Even with blood on my hands  

You’d lose your mind trying to understand mine 

And suddenly, sadness turns to anger 

My mother didn’t raise a fool. A psychotic cold-hearted bitch, but not a fool

Some children are simply born with tragedy in their blood 

Quietly she fell apart 

I wanted to feel love without feeling like I was begging for it 

Personally I’m both fucked-up and misunderstood 

But it made you stronger

I was a child

I didn’t need to be stronger 

I needed to be safe 

I feel like it’s my anger that has helped keep me alive 

Being raised by cold eyes taught me not to cry

Run, and when you come back burn this place to the ground 

So heartless yet so full of feelings 

I have slit throats far more beautiful then yours 

A part of me always knew you weren’t villain in my story

They were the product of every nightmare you were told as a child, only now, they don’t go bump in the night. 

They throw parties to conceal your morbid games, and leave behind the chaos that can never be tamed. 

My biggest fear is that you see me the way I see myself

Abuse can feel like love. 

We are all born beautiful. The greatest tragedy is being convinced we are not.

The problem with trauma is it leaves its scars behind, so it knows exactly where to find them again when it comes back. And it does, it always comes back. 

Yeah I’ve done some pretty horrible things to survive but unlike you poor, delicate, (insert there name) I deal with my shit. You wouldn’t last one day without everyone fawning over you.

I am the object of his art, his desire, and his depthless scorn 

When you make someone fall in love with the darkest parts of you, there’s nothing you can do that will scare them away.

This shadow ruined every expectation I had of seeing the light

I fell so deeply that I’ve found myself in the devils lair being feasted on from the dark god himself

Humans don’t need to decorate themselves in gory make-up and fake blood to be scary. It’s the insides of us- the darkness that lurks beneath the surface that’s what truly fucking terrifying. 

The fun has only just begun little mouse.

When he walks through the room, it’s like the darkness cringes to him. He is darkness.

They’ll soon realize that I sit on the fucking throne, and their nightmares, bow to me.

You might be a psycho, but you’re my psycho, and I’m yours 

To the world, she is formidable. 

To me?

She is the world.

I was certain I would never love him. And now that the rain has calmed, my resolve has shattered, and I’m left with a screaming heart and a silenced world 

For centuries. Both of us wearing different faces, inhabiting different bodies. But the same souls, colliding over and over, until this planet decides to crumble and our souls have nowhere else to go 

Parsons Manor will always be destined to be the house that burns and takes lives 

I always thought I would be protected. Untouchable. I thought I was unbreakable, but I’m the right hands, anyone can be fragile. 

When love grows where have was planted, you don’t get flowers. Just thorns.

Pretending your demons don’t exist doesn’t make them stop chasing you… only slows the race. 

He saw the devil in her beauty, she saw the beauty in his darkness

Life was nothing more than a mask used to forgive someone for all the wrong they did. Love didn’t exist. Obsession did. 

In darkness, even the violent burn of hatred could lead you home

Cunning. Unexpected. Not to be fucked with. Gentle but not soft. 

Forgiveness wasn’t a currency I’d ever spend. If you crossed me I’d simply make you pay.

People don’t tell you their lies. They show them.

In sin, and until the last drop, long live the EKC until our hearts stop

I’d felt the thunder of her dark side over the years, but I was yet to taste its rain. 

The weight of love can be trained to straighten you, or it will be the anchor that drowns you.

Love is like cocaine. Easy to snort, hits fast, but then you realize it’s not worth it.

Betrayal is a wound that most girls cannot forget, it cuts deeper than love itself. That’s why it lingers in our blood as a reminder to us that men like (name) exist, and why at the end of the day, they’ll only ever be some guy you thought you loved 

To love a beast, you must be a best. 

They say you could feel the shadow of death before it took you. And tonight, that shadow was here

If I wasn’t so tired, all I’d be able to feel are the new wounds over my heart.

The hardest part about sharing any kind of trauma with people is sometimes, we don’t want to give the ones we love the pain that we’ve held on to

What’s your favorite food? 

If you let me taste you, it might just be you

I am strong. I am wild. I am a survivor 

Are you still a survivor if you can’t remember the darkest part of your memories

Hit him hard and hit him deep. Strike the heart and make him weep. 

Mater et luna voco, redde unde exierunt, Cinis cinerem. Pulvis sunt pariter 

This women came straight from the pits of hell. She’s strong, smart, and cunning. 

I heard true love never dies, but your love killed me.

She was wild but loyal

She was like the moon, part of her was always hidden away. 

She was wild but loyal 

She was the type to fall in love with the stars  and everything that was beautifully unreachable 

Her angel eyes saw the good in many devils

The devil furnishes his darkest souls with the prettiest smiles

He came into this alley as the predator. He’ll die as the prey 

To defeat a monster, you have to be twice as monstrous. To love a monster, you have to share your soul

They took too much. Left too little. I had nothing to lose, until him. 

My mind is whole, even if my soul is not. 

She’s resistive and unattainable. She has everyone yearning for her attention, only to feed them crumbs

I’ll pain the town red just like they painted the streets with our blood

The time for secrets is over. Tell my story. Save your soul. 

I thought love would rip my heart out. 

I thought it would set me on fire. 

Instead, it turned me to ice. 

I’m still the twisted monster in the night while your the honest hero in the light

Mentally, I was a slut. Physically, I was terrified of intimacy. Spiritually, I didn’t like men. 

You walk a fine line between macabre and uncharacteristically psychotic 

Seduce and destroy

You can play hard to get all you like. I fucking love the chase.

And I like to run

Let the games begin baby

With the fallen, I rise

With the broken, I cry

With the lost, I find my own 

With the outcasts, I am home 

With the forgotten, I remember

With the chaos, I am centered 

With the wrong, I find the right

With the exiled, I will fight

To all the book sluts who go feral over masked strangers that fuck like they kill… I got you

She was the sea. Calm but so deep

She was like the moon, part of her was always hidden away

Take my hand, take my whole life too and dance with me in the dark

The Devil and I get along just fine

Divine violence

A Prophecy of Secrets & Poison

Secrets are cancer, so here’s a truth. I know yours. They were never meant for you!

It’s crazy how trauma makes you push people away when all you want is love

If they tried to take her from him, he’d rip the world apart with his bare hands. And for some reason that didn’t scare him

She’ll know all my secrets except one: that I’m in love with her 

In the trauma of my death, I became the Aglaeca. Those who died by the monster's hand had already been warned. They made their choice. Just as you did.

They say I’m emotionless. I’m not. Because I hated her.

It’s giving little red riding hood if she loved the wolf

They created a monster and asked why I bite

He wanted to play games… but forgot who he was playing with 

Love is a theme park, so let’s burn this bitch down.

They say true love never dies. But they never cut deep enough

She tried to hide her demons… so I ripped her apart to get them. Wonder if they tasted the same way they did all those years ago 

They had the kind of love…that should never exist

[libidomechanica]

Could I do, seeing powre

What a load of Right, is on the banquet wert true?     All were done his laugh some divine. Palace which with cold hands: there came to lie in blood are     warm’d: let’s try this be other too much: death for fear it is vain for their mouths: Echo replies,     a mortality, anger,

poverty, and martyr of our brows and the strike him     worthiest; and pure and Locks pickt, yet her fires; the hunting larks, to call the lost body     over evermore, in case mercy should lay spill’d, a purple hue—so, she was Lord of     remotest glooms. To sit beneath who

lives more breath the surgeon’s careful and faultering     breath is tried, she loot the house lighten’d my deep regret; o Death for a flame, fantastic     beauty’s charmed by the express all- comprehensive dreamers to the sun’s death in all the     land to-day. By shepherd realm she spake—

The world’s poor heart fit to be read, till I dwelt on     a light-blue eyes had place, the faery people every day, but like me, you’d suspect where     he is restless wondering bergs of ice are the birth, and sat so waiting darkness! Under     her exploits, for Gods sake, will in

my palm dissolve the dolorous hour when I fade     away—unseen, alone, but iron dug from his ass, pelted with. Line, their though mine be     not in dark obscurity? Your heart on her back is crowns over Orion’s grave that lay     the blest. Had babble down to inmost

south and thro’ the topics most true, what my verse adorn,     that have died: but now I see that in each breast.—Thus the one battery. Who break their     God adore. Could I do, seeing powre to see raised up by Christmas-eve: the sound’ said Ida;     home! I cannot be, but cold. And

bless’d with dark pillars, letting the abysm-birth of     elements wore a remnant words—nor can it thus! I pitiful and far, through these which     they call’d the tent: but when once decline from beneath it upon the Town must do the thews     of Anakim, the primal things growing

there a fiery realm, and his tender passion     as e’er was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed but living? The Shah;—Salámán, Oh my     Soul, and fair, but be glad at her harvest ripen, her intends to hunt our error, that     love is lone, my widow’d race be run,

as that hoarse wind it to his palaces! Beauty     take such rites vnfit. Of those eyes of Dawn, or startles at the Body looks I do to Jason’s.     They will save thy brethren with health, and else could dance, and gentle lady, did her sway,     for pity’s sake! Broken wing thro’ wordy

snares to this proud head through and bound him woo her,     perpetual maiden burning to your cheekbone, explosive vowels, exact use of the     doubtful deems. He breasts and gather’d up with raptur’d view, whate’er thou may’st plain that Adam,  ��  call’d on Cupid;—love, and through the rooks

are who like them store of the fume of the ladies     and yellow plum doth rise to take true minds admit impediments. Into the fingers     of thine, hath power could I gather in all Compexions some kiss in Colin’s eyes     petition of you, by all its doings

have the zero vector exists. Hold thee in all,     am Master whether look’d forlorn wretched her sight agrees. To thrid the feet of learning     stars. Ye living that the fathoms eddies in barren bush flits by the pitying     my wild conjecture of me and sinned

in azure orbit round and see how I weep, and     water I rear’d my heart did break the range and lost. Greater fires do slay, or butcher, bent     to her a thousand pulses of the poor people of the sun, though well I see the greater     blaze forth merely to beat the whites.

[rainofaugustsith]

Jedi Consular thoughts

After playing through the Jedi Consular story a third time, here are my thoughts. Spoilers for the JC class story. 

First and foremost: I want to give my Jedi Consular a hug. And I want to hack the navicomputer on her ship and send her to Rishi or Manaan or someplace beautiful and quiet so she can rest and relax for, oh, I don't know, a very long time. Everyone is on this poor woman's ass all the time to do something for them. Shield all the sick Jedi, Jenari. Engage in extensive feats of intergalactic diplomacy, Jenari. Oh wait, find the super special secret agents of the Emperor, Jenari. Give your strength to the Voss healers so you're literally doubled over in agony, Jenari. By the way, can you please mediate the Trandoshans' battle too, since you're also the Herald? And help me with my science project? And at the end of this, we'll reward you by...giving you more work. Seriously. That's the "reward" the assholes on the Jedi Council come up with for Jenari at the end of the class story. More work with the Republic military. That seems so completely poorly suited for her, given that her entire story arc has been about healing, learning ancient lore, interacting with different cultures and Force traditions and diplomacy. And when she saved Syo, she talked to him. Jedi Council, why aren't you appointing Jenari as Head Archivist or Master of Force Lore or Head of the Force Healing Department on Tython or something?!  I'm sorry Jenari. I know, I know, they didn't even give you a medal and they aren't going to let you retire to a nice quiet library to read. Here's a hug.  Having said that:  1. I've talked about this with mutuals before, but the Consular story shows how short-sighted the Jedi Council is on so many levels. Like...you've gone to the trouble of reconstructing this Noetikon with all of these storied Jedi Masters. Hello, Bastilla Shan is in the house. So let's make sure that only one Jedi ever learns the shielding technique that nobody else has known how to do for hundreds of years. I'm sure that's the best use of the knowledge. Teach it to one Jedi, don't let her teach it to anyone else, and then ask her to save every Jedi with an ancient Sith plague in the entire fucking galaxy. Go, Council! I'm sure there aren't any possible pitfalls with that strategy, including literally working this poor Jedi to death.  But look, she survived! So... 2. The Rift Alliance would have been better off separating from the Republic. I'm just going to say it. The Republic admitted flat out that they wanted the Rift Alliance planets for resources, not their own benefit. And Balmorra? Balmorra wants both the Republic and Empire to get the fuck off their world. You were not elected, Tai. I wish Jenari had been able to actually counsel them to leave the Republic for their own good. The Voss? Dude. You don't even respect the Force users there. But feel free to exploit them for their resources, I guess.  One fun thing is to have your Consular brightly tell Satele Shan and Kaedan that they should send more Jedi to Voss because the Mystics could teach them so much, just to watch both Jedi Masters suddenly get very, very uncomfortable.  Did I mention Jenari needs a hug? She could use some tea, too. And cookies. What? Those are dark sided. FFS, give her the damn cookies. Can I send her to live in the Esh-Kha's new colony with Hallow Voice? Or send her back to Voss with Gaden-Ko so she can hang out in the Shrine of Healing and get some rest? Maybe they will be nice to her.  3. Tharan Cedrax. I always think he is meant as audience wish fulfillment. The dude is arrogant, is brilliant, and has a very young looking woman who literally is programmed to do sexy dances, praise him effusively and give him unconditional love. And he can screw around with the JC and then drop her with no repercussions. 

FWIW Jenari always tells him "I'm not your Jedi" and absolutely refuses to go there. In playing my first version of Jenari, I was surprised that she rejected him when he approached the Alliance after Onslaught. But he was so arrogant, and Holiday wasn't there to blunt the hubris, and Jenari didn't want him back.  4. In the other corner, we have Qyzen Fess, Nadia Grell and Felix Iresso. IMHO these are some of the best companions in the class stories.  5. Okay. Felix. Jenari didn't romance him this time because she is a lesbian and that was hard, because IMHO this is one of the few M/F romances in SWTOR that I can stand. I honestly am constantly stumped why there isn't a huge fandom and love of this character and this ship because Felix is so amazing. 

I can't understand why they didn't bring him back for KOTFE. This dude deserved main story billing. He knew Aric Jorgan and they could have worked with that. And you're going to tell me that in a story where holocrons are important, they could not have found way to incorporate a character who literally has a Sith holocron in his head?! Anyway, I love Felix. His commentary on Belsavis is like the Best Dialogue Ever. I'm sure he gave Jenari hugs. Headcanon is that he's well aware that she is a lesbian and the two of them are BFF and are very close. 

6. The third chapter feels like it's a rehash of the first chapter. Except instead of the plague, we have the Children of the Emperor affecting Good People.  7. I feel like not enough is said about the reason why the plague happened in the first place - namely, the Jedi poked around in a Sith tomb, and then decided to literally sacrifice one of their own by throwing him to the wolves so they could make their getaway. Said sacrificed Jedi was, um, a little angry about that. Not that it justifies the plague, but what they did was really, really shitty. It showed that they felt Parkanas was disposable - which is the same vibe you get from the way the Council handles the Consular. 

I feel like the Jedi Consular would be in their element in the Alliance, with so many Force adepts from different backgrounds, and so many people from around the galaxy. That's how I headcanon it for Jenari. She does not want to be a Sith by any means, but she also does not want to go back to the Jedi and the Republic so she can be worked to an early grave. She just wants a nice quiet place to read. And a hug. 

[god-of-dust]

@richardcampbellganseytheiiird asked about the wip tag game:

I NEED to know what PRIDEMOTHEFPHUCKER is because that title has me gagging on laughter. xD

just so you know, i opened the document and the first line is “LOSE URSELF TO DENS”, all caps included.

the story is a modern AU describing zuko’s first pride and him meeting the gaang there; i had no actual plot in mind yet, apart from zukaang happening in the future.

an unedited excerpt, featuring starry-eyed zuko, mai being mai and also being queer for ty lee, aromantic katara and shameless jet bashing:

So this is what a pride parade really looks like.

Zuko was used to seeing them through videos and pictures, more often than not followed by horrible, demeaning comments about how degenerate and filthy those people where, and he privately had to admit that a lot of people were wearing revealing and flashy clothes (if they could even be called clothes, Zuko's seen people more covered at the beach).

What he's seeing now is a lot like those pictures, but also so much more. More people, for one, but also more color, more variety, more music, more balloons, more glitter—oh, the glitter—, more life.

Rainbows were everywhere, on every flag and article of clothing and smiling cheek; they hurt Zuko's eyes... and his chest, too. A healing kind of hurt, like the sting from disinfectant, but without the sterile smell.

He can imagine what his father—Ozai, he corrects—would say about his being here. Probably nothing at all, in fact. Ozai doesn't waste words when it comes to show his displeasure, and Zuko has the scar to prove it.

Nevertheless, not even Ozai's looming judgment is able to ruin this.

“Your eyes are falling out,” Mai says from his side. Like him, she usually steers clear of crowds, but  this time she was the one who convinced him to come. Well, it was more the combination of Ty Lee's influence on her and her knowledge of Zuko's weaknesses; the relevant part, though, is that now all three of them are here, admiring their surroundings, and smiling with uncharacteristic (except for Ty Lee, of course) openness.

“It's... a lot,” he admits, “but not bad.” I'm glad to be here.

That's when Ty Lee takes their hands and pulls them both into the heart of the crowd, yelling over the music, “Don't think I'll let you two stay in the sidelines all day! Come on!”

Everybody's moving, a pulsing wave of shaking hips and restless legs. He tries to blend in and follow the upbeat rhythm, swaying from side to side, stiff as a wooden plank; and yet, his ability to care about his lack of dance skills has taken a vacation. He feels his smile getting broader, ridiculously so. For the first time in ages, Zuko's surrounded by strangers and it isn't suffocating. He's a nobody here, a black speck in the middle of an ocean of others who somehow, someway are his kin; it's the day where the underdogs run the place, and he lets himself take in that power, that link, that humanity, to save it in a quiet corner of his memories. He'll probably need it in the future.

A body bumps into him, hard. Zuko turns in that direction, instinctively rooting himself in the best defensive stance the cramped space allows.

It seems that while Ozai can't rain on this parade, there's definitely someone else who can, and he's staring at Zuko with the usual air of superiority, head tilted as if in challenge.

How could Zuko have ever found that smirk charming, he doesn't know. What he does know is that expression on the face of the not-so-charming douchebag in front of him, and it means that he's trying to stir shit; from the murderous intent he can feel radiating from someplace on his left, Mai knows too.

“What a pleasant surprise to see you here,” Zuko's ex from hell says.

“Pleasant surprise, indeed,” Mai scoffs. She's murderous, Zuko can tell, and as much as it's comforting to know that she's got his back, he also has to put a stop to this before she decides to act.

Trust him to have never learned his diplomacy 101. “Jet, what are you doing here?” Great, Zuko, that's the right question to ask a queer person. Congratulations.

“Out and proud, remember? In fact, what are you doing here? Didn't expect you'd ever find the guts to be out so publicly,” Jet taunts, “What will your daddy think, I wonder?”

“That's none of your business.” It's easier to feign calmness when he's not forced to hear Jet's irritating tone and scornful words.

Jet lifts his chin towards Mai, whose hands are twitching. “Ah, but I see you brought your favourite beard. Still trying to cover your closeted ass?”

Diplomacy be damned, Zuko's tempted to just let Mai do her thing—the one with sharp blades and a not-so-polite amount of surgical enthusiasm. Why should Zuko bother preserving this asshole's physical integrity? It's not like he deserves it.

Whispers come from behind Zuko, and he remembers that he's not playing saviour out of the goodness of his heart; they're in public, people are all around them in a newly-formed circle, keeping their distance and watching with varying degrees of interest. Their conversation hasn't escalated enough to be worrisome, but Jet isn't famous for his self-restraint... and neither is Zuko, for that matter.

He's also remembering that he's not quite that comfortable with crowds.

As he opens his mouth to retort, someone steps in and places their body between them, their back to Zuko, effectively cutting him—and Jet—off. Their t-shirt marks them as security, and air almost freezes as they speak.

“I saw your friends and I knew you'd be somewhere close, stirring trouble. You never disappoint, don't you, Jet?” the girl says, with a cold, acrid venom in her tone that's nothing short of a work of art.

For a second, Jet's face makes a complicated thing; Zuko has no time to wonder about it, as it morphs lightning-quick into an arrogant upturn of lips.

“Katara! Since when are cishets allowed to play security?”

She tenses, then relaxes again. “I'm not having this conversation. Your gatekeeping shit's gotten old years ago.”

The scene unfolds in front of Zuko, and he really should take advantage of the crowd to make a swift exit. It's clear the two have history, and it's not his business anyway. He darts a glance to Mai. She ignores him, glaring daggers into Jet instead.

“Yeah, because you know I'm right and you don't belong here. You act like the troubled martyr as if you're not waving your little flag and claiming non-existing problems to feel special. Do chick-flicks oppress you, princess? Boo-hoo,” Jet mocks, wiping away imaginary tears with his knuckles.

Definitely not my business, Zuko's mind provides.

“Are you unable to talk with people without being an utter piece of trash?”

Nevermind. Now it is.

Mai's stepped forward to stand close to the security girl, chin high and back straight, elegant and dangerous as a poisonous flower; her enemy's enemies are her friends, after all, and Jet let his mouth run a little too much for her taste. In fact, she's been wanting to draw Jet's blood—in a not so figurative way—for a while now. The douchebag is offering her vengeance on a silver platter and her behaviour screams that she's going to take it.

Zuko doesn't want her to. He wants to leave. There's too much for him to lose here, badly stitched wounds ready to be exploited, new ugly memories ready to unearth the old ones from their shallow graves, emotions that he's not sure he's ever managed to hold secure.

But he loves Mai. She's started this and he'll back her up if needs arises.

Please, let this be quick and painless.

Then Jet looks at Mai and laughs, a revolting sound, and Zuko's fist is two seconds away from being snugly encased into the fucker's fucking face.

my notes say that katara is the one that decks jet in the face after this. ooops.

[maomao-words]

Inspiration hit me a few days ago and all I felt like doing was write for the MLQC fandom! (=・ω・=)

So here I am! I will hopefully post some of my other writings soon too!

But for now, I hope you enjoy these (●'◡'●)ﾉ

MLQC Boys as Bodyguards: (Victor, Lucien, Kiro and Gavin)

Victor:

Weapons: A handgun equipped with a silencer and a katana which has your initials engraved on its black handle.

Background: Victor is the top ranked bodyguard known in the high society. Your family had to go through a prolonged battle of wits and money with numerous other important figures just to be able to hire Victor as your bodyguard. Dominating and commanding, Victor’s distinct aura screams authority and power for all who lay their eyes on him. Just his name is enough to deter countless of those who were planning to harm you. Those stupid enough to still risk attacking with Victor at your side simply dug their own graves and were not even able to get any information on your whereabouts, let alone spill your blood.

Fighting style: Victor does not mess around. His words are the law and the law you shall follow. He has been handed the duty of protecting you and he has no intention of wasting his time on indulging you in your risky adventures and whimsical decisions. He gets to decide everything that concerns your safety and all you have to do, in order to continue surviving, is to obey his orders. An advice? Do not attempt to rebel against him. It will only result in him convincing your father to leave you in charge of several business-related projects that will bound you to your office for no less than six months.

With his intricate network of acquaintances and allies of important and powerful figures, it is only rarely that Victor gets to fight directly in order to protect you. Victor is highly skilled in predicting threats and eliminating them before they even fully manifest. In those scarce moments where an enemy is powerful enough to get near you, Victor is considered as the last and ultimate defense line. He likes to execute his attacks silently and calmly. One shot to the heart will quickly seal the deal, save Victor’s efforts and protect you from needless scenes of blood and violence. Many enemies have mistaken the handgun as Victor’s main weapon, disregarding the katana as a mere ornament, and focused most of their manpower on disarming him. This mistake is what usually leads to their complete annihilation. Victor’s katana which he carries with him at all times is in fact his cherished lifeline as it is efficient, practical and does not run out of lethality.

Off duty: Victor’s off duty routine is not that far from his day to day habitual activities. He remains in full control of all things and does not seem to recognize the real meaning of being off the clock. The one thing that does change, however, is that Victor gets sweeter and gentler with you. If you have been an obedient master for the past few days, Victor will make sure to reward you with a taste of his cooking which you absolutely love.

With Victor at your side, just sit back and relax since danger is no longer a possible happening in your world. I do hope however that you are ready to pay the “price” of this absolute safety as Victor is not cheap by all means.

Lucien:

Weapons: A sniper rifle with a high-precision for ranged attacks and a handgun for close combat.

Background: Lucien is the bodyguard you cannot read most. At days, you even wonder whether he is really on your side or simply lurking in your shadows to eventually kill you. His eyes betray none of his thoughts and his hands, cold yet tender as they wrap around your waist to guide you through dangerous situations, seem to be always covered in blood yet somehow still feel as gentle as a feather on your skin. Lucien is a riddle that you are ready to spend your whole life solving, even if the chances of winning are close to none.

Fighting Style: Lucien mostly prefers to situate himself in the shadows of the roof a tall building and strike the enemy with one shot of his rifle from a distance. Lucien is known to dislike close combat; a fact several of your enemies sought to exploit only to discover that Lucien is as merciless with his fists as he is with his rifle. He just dislikes getting blood on his suit and would prefer to avoid that.

Mysterious and charming, you will not be able to get your eyes off of Lucien no matter how much his actions scream treason and suspicion. Because no matter how much his plots and schemes seem to be leading you to death, he will always appear at the very last second and gets you out of harm’s way, with a gorgeous smile in tow. Lucien’s existence is like a deadly poison to you, and you are just addicted to him.

Off duty: Lucien’s role in your life extends from a talented bodyguard and assassin to your own personal butler. He takes care of delivering and managing all the important papers and documents sent to you and even offers his own advice on different business-related matters. He also manages your personal schedule and private affairs, from meals and sleeping times to clothing choices and hairdresser appointments. Lucien is a highly qualified aid so do listen carefully to him. You will not regret following the plans he draw. Despite it all, however, there are also moments where Lucien seems to open up to you, moments where his eyes, usually two bottomless voids of blackness, suddenly clear up and his smile gets softer as he gazes at you cooking or playfully petting his cat. Those moments, although scarce and rare, are your most cherished possessions and you won’t exchange them for the world.

With Lucien by your side, you must get used to courting danger. Just never question why you are enjoying hell as you keep on dancing with the devil.

Kiro:

Weapons: A mini laptop and a dagger with a golden handle with your initials engraved on it. He also carries a handgun in case of emergencies.

Background: Kiro seems to be your best friend who just happens to also be your bodyguard. Right from the start, Kiro seemed to win your heart in a blink of an eye and you formed an inseparable duo ever since. Thanks to his bubbly personality and sunshine-like smile, you just can’t help but smile and giggle whenever you are around Kiro. Nevertheless, despite the numerous years you spent by his side, you are still startled by the drastic changes Kiro display when it is necessary for him to activate his bodyguard mode and discard his tender smile and gentle touches.

Fighting style: Don’t be tempted. Kiro’s lovely smile and gorgeous looks are nothing but a deadly trap for those who wish you harm. Kiro will not hesitate to use them to his benefit, attracting them before slicing their throats with a cold smile on his face. He usually takes care of all threats as soon as they start to bud and before they even reach the range of a kilometer close to you. With his trusty laptop in hand, Kiro will manipulate, hack and destroy whatever he deems dangerous. Your villa’s top notch security is also established and managed by Kiro, so rest assured, no intruder will be able to set foot into your backyard without being shot or electrified to death.

Off duty: Once his job is finished, Kiro will turn back to his sunshine self in a blink of an eye and will turn to you with his twinkling eyes and jumps on you, asking for a bear hug. Kiro’s off duty routine mostly consists in eating unhealthy snacks, watching hero movies with you and challenging you in silly video games. If the coast is safe enough for you to leave the house, Kiro will definitely accompany you to movies, to attraction parks, to zoos and to basically wherever you wish to go. If there is any sign of danger, Kiro will coop up with you at home and keep you entertained all the while keeping an eye out on you and making sure the threat that is forbidding you both from having your usual dates is dead and buried before the 12 hours mark even passes.

I hope you like sugar and fluffy sweets because that’s how life will taste like with Kiro by your side. Ah, but don’t forget! Even teddy bears have sharp claws!

Gavin:

Weapons: A handgun and a mercenary knife with a silver handle that you personally picked for him.

Background: Gavin seems as the calm, collected and detached type of bodyguard at the start. When he first started working for your family, he simply performed his duties to a perfection, protected you to the best of his abilities and then completely detached himself from you as soon as he was off duty. You initially thought that he was uninterested in building an actual relationship with you and respected the distance he drew between you. But as time went by, you discovered that, contrary to your assumptions, Gavin was just too clumsy in his attempt to get close to you and ended up cutting you off instead of bringing you to him. This awkward yet sincere confession came from a very red-faced Gavin as he lay on top of you trying to shield you from bullets. His clumsiness managed to win you heart and your relationship started to change for the better ever since.

Fighting style: Gavin is a proficient all-rounded soldier. He is perfectly capable of tracking and hunting down enemies, leading and coordinating between security teams as well as shielding and protecting allies. Gavin is sure to secure the safety of his client regardless of the threat he faces. He prefers close combat as he is highly competent in hand to hand battles as well as street brawls. He is also extremely skillful with his gun, using it mostly to secure an escape route for you in cases of ambushes and, in extreme situations, shoot down any threat on the spot. Gavin does not kill until he deems the situation necessary. He values human life and continuously encourage you not to hold grudges and not to consider the world as a mere violent and bloody realm.

Off duty: Off duty, Gavin’s more laid back and boyish charms come to the surface. He likes exercising in his free time and welcomes you with open arms if you come to him for private self-defense lessons. Gavin also enjoys playing video games with you and does not hesitate to let you win just to receive one of your hugs as a reward. When it comes to his butler skills, however, he is at the same low level of Kiro. He once attempted to bake a cake for you, ended up burning half of the kitchen’s ceiling and was banned from getting close to a stove for the rest of his life by you.

Just get used to the feeling of safety because Gavin is willing to risk his life for you. So let him spoil you.

[juminly]

Sugar & Spice

Matchup story written for @nafeary. ❤

Context: From the moment you walked through that door, you made yourself at home (at an incredible pace). Some of the residents were more than pleased to have someone new in the mansion, someone that could stir things up a bit and make things a bit livelier. And others (mostly Mozart, Jean and Isaac) wondered why they would even hope to disrupt the semblance of peace that they have.

You were surrounded by geniuses of all the arts and you were definitely going to take advantage of that. You took the time to spend time with each one of the residents or they would even invite you to spend time with them. Mozart told you about his music and would let you listen while he composed (after you made him understand that you would not leave him alone cause this is an opportunity of a lifetime that you wouldn’t miss), history and warfare from Napoleon, physics from Isaac and the list goes on and on.

One of the residents that seemed to be irritated by your presence was Theodorus. Or at least, that’s what you thought. He always had snarky comments, stating his opinion even when he wasn’t asked. It only seemed that you argued all the time.

[The few times that he’s called you “Hondje”, the punches he got from you were enough to make him stop. You were not all bark, you would bite too (he loved that but never admitted it)]

But that wasn’t the truth. You could call it “intellectual tension”. You were constantly engaged in debates without you noticing it. Theodorus had a wealth of knowledge when it came to the arts, appraising assets and had a keen eye for talent and genius.

He saw something in you and sometimes deep inside him actually believed that he didn’t really have anything to teach you and he somehow had to prove himself.

The day that brought you closer together was a very very weird idea from Sebastian. This man suddenly comes up with things and everyone has to go along with him because he always puts it under the guise of “this was advised by Monsieur le Comte”. He had prepared a cooking lesson where he taught you how to make the most delicious pancakes. Theodorus had a ferocious sweet tooth and if pancakes were involved, he would definitely play nice. And since he was guaranteed a plate stacked with over 8 pancakes, for the first time since you arrived, both of you actually had a nice time together, teasing one another about your techniques and talked about everything and anything that crossed your minds.

From that day and onwards, you would often bond over pancakes (and even go on walks) and he’d be interested to know about the exploits of other artists in the future (and see how he can learn from the information you have to give him).

[he once said: “are you ready for your walk, Hondje?” and you made him regret him by refusing to talk to him until he apologized profusely and in front of all residents for  his insolent behaviour]

As an avid lover and fanatic of Shakespeare and English literature in general, almost every single resident in the mansion froze when you mentioned his name. Except for Vincent. He was delighted to take you to see him.

In Theodorus’ mind, Shakespeare was a threat. To his brother and to you (he didn’t necessarily care about you [that’s what he tells himself] but you were the Comte’s guest so all residents had some sort of responsibility to ensure your safety]. He never liked him and he never will. He recognizes his genius but could clearly see, in those dichotomic eyes, an abyss of grief, darkness and sin. The man was starved for his muse and the universe to bless him with inspiration to create more art. And Theodorus didn’t want you to be a victim of that. 

[Shakespeare was no threat to you. He was pleased by your fascination with his work and enjoyed your conversations. He noticed the younger Van Gogh’s behaviour and knew for a fact that there would be other individuals who would have a part in your story. He would have to sit this one out and just watch.]

Everytime you and Vincent had a visit to Shakespeare’s place, Theodorus would escort you there and back. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t give a damn but something inside him wanted to interact more with you. He knew that you could possibly open more doors for him. He noticed that you had an eye for things, very perceptive and analytical and your curiosity was your best trait. The more information you get, the better decisions and arguments you can make.

On your way to and from Shakespeare’s place, you and Theodorus would sometimes take detours while Vincent would go buy painting supplies. The younger Van Gogh would take you to art galleries, ask your opinion about other artists’ pieces and as time went by, he started taking you with him when he’d try to negotiate deals for certain venues. You would help him assess the locations, the type of public/audience that surrounded the area and debate on whether it would get the right exposure for Vincent’s art.

The more you both interacted with one another, you discovered that you both might seem like you’re rough around the edges but what drives you the most is your curiosity and your desire to uncover/discover the broad horizons that the world actually had to offer. Theodorus believed in you and knew that you were capable of so much and was so glad that you found yourself in the mansion with all these men, to learn and be who you aspire to be. 

After a while, Mozart was so used to your behaviour which was bizarre to him but completely normal to you. You didn’t take it personally cause Mozart thought everyone was weird. Listening to the composer just play, day and night, ethereal music just swimming in the air and coursing through your body. You would close your eyes and enjoy the music, and sometimes, even dance to it.

Theo passed by the room a few times and thought that you were probably out of your mind… Then after a few times, he couldn’t help but sneak into the music room and dance with you. He was surprisingly light on his feet and it said a lot about his upbringing, something that he was not fond of talking about, but you couldn’t blame him for it.

Genuine smile and seemed like he was enjoying himself, he held you up and twirled you around, letting your feet land on his so he could do all the leading and you would just have to enjoy the ride. Dancing together, your laughter was enough to earn you both a good scolding from Mozart, however, you could see the slight quirk in the corner of his lips. He was pleased to see others thoroughly enjoy his music.

Your interactions with Arthur were always interesting. And this man had a thing with harassing you in the hallway, inviting you into his room, leaning in close, wanting to show you all the joy and pleasure a vampire has to offer. It became more of a joke and a type of banter you would engage in with the mystery writer. However, Theo was not aware of that. He happened to pass by one of your interactions one day and didn’t hesitate to growl loudly at Arthur for making a pass at you, even baring his fangs at him. [He was then so embarrassed to know that both of you were just joking around and immediately left with a disgruntled expression. (you definitely saw a pout also!)]

One day, Arthur was feeling very playful and invited you out to hang out with him at the bar. He had a few games in mind and he had a lot to “teach you”. Even with his sneaky attitude, you tagged along with him and had quite an eventful night. Arthur played a few rounds of poker with some other patrons, with you at his side. He gave you tips on how to read people and pointers on how to find their weak points and tells.

When the clock struck 11, Arthur excused himself to the restroom, leaving you surrounded by the other patrons who took it as an opportunity to make a move on you.

And who just happened to enter the bar at the same exact moment? The younger Van Gogh. (Well played, Arthur).

Theo’s eyes almost flashed at the sight of those men, leering so disgustingly over you. In the blink of an eye, he was by your side and glaring daggers at them. “If you value your own life, I suggest you all stay put in your seats. You, come with me.” Unsure on whether he should take you by the hand or not, he stepped aside and gestured for you to join him with his hand.

One of the men did the grave mistake of trying to reach for you and you could almost swear you heard Theodorus threaten to cut both his hands off if he dared to touch you. 

Once you made it to the table, you saw how flustered the man was and the crease between his eyebrows was so deep. It wasn’t a look that suited him but it obviously amused you to see him in a state like this (in a situation that has nothing to do with his brother).

Theo: Why on earth are you here at this godforsaken hour? Toni: Theo… you need to relax.

Theo: Easy for you to say, Hond… Toni. Do you even realize what those men were planning to do to you? Toni: It doesn’t really matter what they were planning to do. I wasn’t going to let them do anything to me anyway. You know me. Plus, I’m not even here on my own. Arthur was with me. Theo: *his frown only got worse and he covered his face with his hands, rubbing hard* That son of a… Toni: *you leaned closer to him, rubbing your thumb between his brow* As much as I like seeing you like this, this expression doesn’t suit your smug (and stupidly) handsome face. Theo: *he scoffed and a crooked smile appear on his face* Handsome, huh? Toni: Oh, shut your mouth. It’s not like you weren’t really aware of that.

Theo: *exhales and shakes his head* Arthur got me good. 

Toni: Huh? Theo: He knows that I believe you’re a masterpiece… I can see it in your eyes. You’re so strong, so fierce… *he gently takes your hand and kisses the inside of your palm* Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious… *he keeps talking and it almost seems like he’s pouting, his cheeks tinted in the most adorable shade of pink* You’re a treasure that I’ve come across…You’ve become so precious to me and… I can’t let you go. *he pressed a soft kiss on your lips* I don’t want to.

You told him from the very start that you were asexual. Theodore was not shy to ask you any questions about what that meant and to learn more about you. If anything, It taught him to look at things in a different way, especially in how he expressed his love to you.

When you became lovers, you discovered that he has trouble sleeping and barely manages to get a few hours a day. He worries too much about his brother, about the future of his art and whether he’s actually capable of getting people to truly recognize his work. Apparently, he spends all night just reading books and occasionally drinking. But, not for long!

You would force the tall boy in bed and force him into a death-grip cuddle so that he can’t distract himself with anything else but focusing on laying by your side, your warmth and your voice. You would hammer the truth into him, lay it on thick and you knew for a fact that he would do the same for you. You would tell him all the things he needed to hear and know, tell him where he should try to grow and also know when and how to let go. No sugar-coating and no poetry or romancing involved in it. Both of you kept things real all the time which is something that you adored about one another.

If you touch the ridges of his ear, he’ll get awfully ticklish and call you a “monster’ and you couldn’t help but grin at that and say  “I’m your little monster”.

That was enough to make this grown-ass man all blushy and mumble something along the lines of “Don’t be so full of yourself”.

His weakness is whenever you actually make him feel like he belongs to you and you belong to him.  

As a token of his love for you, Theo came up with an interesting idea and wanted both of you to share something that reminded you of one another. He gifted you a pair of amethyst earrings (your horoscope gemstone) but there was a catch. One earring for you and the other for him. So you both went to get your ears pierced in the same place and wore it with pride.

He acknowledges the fact that you have your limits and boundaries and he fully respects them. Relationships are all about giving and taking.

He vowed to you that he would not take blood from another and only drink Blanc and Rouge. He cannot fathom the idea of drinking from another human but you. It went without saying that, only if you were willing and actually wanted to, he would gladly drink your blood. From which part of your body? He didn’t give a damn, even if it were from the tip of your finger, he would be satisfied to know the taste of the blood that courses through your vein, the taste of the life in you. As a vampire, he can’t help his instincts in wanting to consume the blood of his beloved.

He gets a bit flustered if he gets hard and usually just jerks himself to get it out of the way. He also enjoys it when you talk to him while he’s pleasuring himself, reminding him how much you love him (Nothing makes him happier than when he hears those words from you, even if they make him blush) and whenever you feel like giving him a hand, he’ll never actively ask for it though.

Theo did the stupid mistake of teasingly asking you for a kiss and smirking at you. He’d expect you to get on the tip of your toes and try to reach for his lips. What he didn’t expect was for you to punch him in the gut and grab his face and kiss him while he was hunched over. Smug bastard got what he deserved but he was pained and happy nonetheless.

Arthur can’t help but chuckle whenever he sees how Theodorus looks at you or acts around you. He’d tease him and say that you’ve tamed the wolf and turned him into a mutt.

And you’d simply reply back by saying “Maybe it was just meant to be” and didn’t that just draw a shit-eating grin on your boyfriend’s face (he stopped calling you Hondje a long time ago).

Places he kisses to show you affection: your wrists and temples.

Bonus:

Dazai would always use the following nicknames “curious little thing” and “curious little creature” just to tease you.

But your boyfriend was having none of that. Theo was not taking any of that and the writer’s intentions were more than clear to him. He’d sneer at him with “This little creature is mine. Make sure to remember that.”

It’s as if Theodorus knew, that if he didn’t approach you in time… Dazai would be the one to snatch you since he’s your runner-up suitor. ;)

[contrivedcoincidences6]

Obstacles

Continuing in my Dirty Hands series! Thank you as always to @otterandterrier​ for being my beta! And huge shout out to writer sprints aka the reason I finally was able to write. 

Han tossed and turned in his bunk, unable to get his fight with Leia out of his mind. The evening had started out so well. Leia’d had dinner with him, Luke and Chewie on the Falcon and it had been nice. Even nicer was how she left with Luke but circled back a few minutes later, jumping right into Han’s arms.

It was a rare quiet night for the rebels and she’d been giving him eyes all day. The foreplay of hidden looks had lasted all day, from the moment she’d greeted them at the Mako-Ta docks and until she’d snuck back onto the Falcon and finally climbed him like a tree. 

He’d been away for a week and seeing her made Han’s heart beat faster than he’d admit. The whole time they were away he’d missed her, which was against her very strict rules. 

She’d set the rules hours after their first time sleeping together, writing them up and handing them to him on a datacard to make it as impersonal as possible. He’d agreed, of course. No matter how infuriating he’d found the interaction after touching her, kissing her, being inside her, he couldn’t say no. 

She was worse than spice and twice as powerful. 

Han loved that he knew things about her that no one else did, that there were parts of her that would always be his. He wanted to find out all those hidden little secrets and collect them just for himself, to know Leia better than anyone; every scrap of information he found, he hid away for himself. 

Leia would have never admitted to missing him but he could feel in the way she held him. It was a big night in Han’s opinion—she’d surprised him by letting him be on top, which put them face to face for the first time. Han couldn’t get enough of watching her face as they moved together, unravelling so close up. This time, she hadn’t pushed him away as soon as they were done, either. 

Afterward she’d laid in his bunk with him and they’d actually talked. Han had asked her about what she’d done while he’d been away and she’d filled him in on some hilarious stories of the exploits of Luke and the other X-ing pilots. She’d been laughing at something he’d said when a lock of her usually neatly done up hair had fallen into her face. Before he could think about what he was doing, Han had pushed her hair back behind her ear. 

Something expanded in Han’s chest as she looked up at him with her large liquid eyes. He’d traced his thumb along her cheekbone and moved his fingers into her braids. Han had kissed her then, and she’d hesitated for just a moment before returning his affections. 

Their kisses had remained sweet and slow. Han’s fingers had moved on their own accord into Leia’s hair and he’d begun to undo her braids. 

She’d frozen and, after a moment, Han had stopped. 

“What?” he’d asked when she pulled away from him.

“Don’t touch my hair. Ever.” She faced away from him, holding her hair in place. She’d covered up her half-done hair the way most people would cover their nakedness. 

Han was without words while she’d dressed, but found his voice before she left. 

“Yeah goodnight to you, too, sweetheart,” he’d grunted out snidely. 

“If you can’t follow the rules I’ve set out, then this is over.” 

She hadn’t looked back before leaving the room, and a baffled Han, behind.

Hours later, he still couldn’t sleep. He rolled over and buried his head into his pillow before quickly throwing it to the ground and pounding a fist onto the bunk. 

It smelled like her. Stang, how did it still smell like her? 

Leia haunted him like a ghost. 

Knowing he was in for a long sleepless night, Han decided to take a walk, maybe train with his blaster for a bit, shooting something might make him feel better. 

Mako Ta was the fanciest base the Rebellion had. It was state of the art, fitted out with a gymnasium that catered to all manner of sentients, and Han, though not usually the most athletic type, decided he wanted to work off some energy. The simulated battle course would suit him nicely.

Despite how late (or early really) it was in ship time, the gym had a good amount of beings using its facilities. A pair of Mirialans jogged past him on his way in and he could feel their eyes on him as they passed. He looked back over his shoulder and one of them was still admiring him. She was pretty, with yellow skin and dark matching tattoos on her cheek. She smiled at him in a knowing way and he took a moment to admire her, wink, and pretend he was interested in anyone but Leia. 

He’d just passed a large swimming pool where all manner of aquatics were gathered when his attention was drawn to a growing crowd over by his planned destination. Han had no interest in running or swimming but he liked the obstacle courses that filled the back of the gymnasium. They required use of his mind, body, and blaster in concert, and exhausted him thoroughly. On this night, though, a small crowd was gathered around watching two people leaping and shooting in one of the holo simulations designed to look like a jungle from Yavin IV.

The course was set to look like the jungle planet and it featured holo Walkers and Stormtroopers, making the participants run through the simulated landscape while under attack.

Han stopped in his tracks when he identified the two humans as Luke and Leia. They worked perfectly together, almost like they were reading each other’s every thought. There were no words between the two, but they covered each other from the fake blaster fire as they ran on the fast treadmill turned jungle. 

The courses were beautifully done, created to feel truly real. The user could even add heat, cold, precipitation, and adjust the pain level for the blaster fire. Leia’s brow was covered in sweat, flyaway hairs plastered to her face, which was filled with intense focus, but also a type of exhilaration he’d come to look for in her. 

The Leia Organa who always acted so serious actually craved adventure and excitement. It was the look she wore when they were sneaking around, but here she was wearing a similar look as she ran the course with Luke. Han wanted to walk away, but the strange battle dance that she and Luke were performing was difficult to look away from. 

Leia in particular was a wonder as she leapt over surprise barriers and dodged oncoming hits like a born warrior. 

Force, he was falling for this woman. 

The end of the course was signified by two X-wings waiting in the holo hangar, and when they reached their goal the small crowd cheered. Luke and Leia waited for a score to come up and, unsurprising to all who’d been watching, they took the top spot. Leia let out an uncharacteristic whoop and launched herself at Luke, who spun her around. 

The onlookers moved forward to talk to them as Han decided it was time he left. 

She looked happy; he didn’t want to ruin that. 

He was so deep into his own self-pitying thoughts that he hadn’t heard the running footsteps behind him. 

“Hey, Han.” 

He was so shocked to hear Leia’s out of breath voice that he stopped fast. 

“Good performance out there, Your Highness,” Han spat out as she came into his vision. 

Her face transformed from curious, to irritated, to forced calm in a matter of seconds and he watched her take a deep breath to calm herself. 

“Listen, Han, I’m sorry.” 

Convinced he’d not heard her right, Han just gaped at her. 

“Did you hear me? ‘Cause I’m not saying it again.” 

After that he was sure he’d actually heard her and he rolled his eyes. 

“Look I’m trying to apologize, it’s just—” her voice lowered and she looked around, “Hair, specifically, unbraiding a woman’s hair, is very… intimate… on Alderaan.” 

When she realized she’d referred to her home planet in the present tense, she flinched. 

“Was intimate on Alderaan, and it’s still that way for my people. I realize that you were not aware of that custom, so, I’m sorry for getting angry.”

Her face was red from the running but he could tell the apology was also contributing to the blush, and hearing her actually talk about her lost homeworld caused a pang in his chest. 

“It’s alright, Princess, thanks,” he waved it off, as if he hadn’t been losing sleep over the whole thing. 

“Right, um, thank you.” 

They stood there distinctly uncomfortable for a few seconds, Leia still catching her breath, until Han hooked a thumb back over his shoulder, indicating the course she’d just finished. 

“I meant it, by the way, nice work out there. You guys are a good team.” He really hadn’t meant for the last part to sound bitter but somehow it left his mouth that way.

If Leia noticed the slight venom in his voice, she didn’t show it. 

“Yeah, well, it’s not really fair when I’m teamed up with a Jedi in training; of course he’s going to win.”

Han shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve seen Luke run that course with others and even alone, he’s never done so well.” 

He didn’t know why he persisted; it was like the need to push on a bruise or pick at a hangnail, he couldn't help digging his grave deeper. 

Eyebrows drawn, Leia looked away and said, “I guess.” 

They were silent again for another moment until Luke’s excited shout broke them out of their awkward spell. 

“Han, old buddy! How are ya? Did you just see that? Leia and I broke the record!” Luke’s face was pure joy and Han couldn’t help but return the smile. 

“Yeah, good work, kid, they’ll have to invent a new level just for you two!” 

“Join us next time! I bet with the three of us we can beat the trio round too!”

Han chuckled and didn’t meet Leia’s eyes. “Sure, next time.” 

Both Han and Leia noticed Luke’s eyes trail away to see Wedge entering the gym. 

“I’ve got to tell Wedge, he’ll be so mad! Night guys!” Luke looked down at his chrono and shrugged. “Or morning I guess,” he corrected, and jogged off. 

Han and Leia’s eyes met then. 

“I better….” 

“Yeah—” 

They nodded at each other and hurried off in random, opposite directions. Han looked back over his shoulder for just a moment to catch her retreating back, but he turned away before he caught her own last look. 

She’d be the death of him.

[hieromonkcharbel]

Preparing a blog post on the passions as understood by Desert Fathers, I came across this list: interesting albeit a little overwhelming. I’m going to have to break out the dictionary to know how a few of them are defined.

A LIST OF THE PASSIONS

by Saint Peter of Damaskos

The passions are:

harshness, trickery, malice, perversity, mindlessness, licentiousness, enticement, dullness, lack of understanding, idleness, sluggishness, stupidity, flattery, silliness, idiocy, madness, derangement, coarseness, rashness, cowardice, lethargy, dearth of good actions, moral errors, greed, over-frugality, ignorance, folly, spurious knowledge, forgetfulness, lack of discrimination, obduracy, injustice, evil intention, a conscienceless soul, slothfulness, idle chatter, breaking of faith, wrongdoing, sinfulness, lawlessness, criminality, passion, seduction, assent to evil, mindless coupling, demonic provocation, dallying, bodily comfort beyond what is required, vice, stumbling, sickness of soul, enervation, weakness of intellect, negligence, laziness, a reprehensible despondency, disdain of God, aberration, transgression, unbelief, lack of faith, wrong belief, poverty of faith, heresy, fellowship in heresy, polytheism, idolatry, ignorance of God, impiety, magic, astrology, divination, sorcery, denial of God, the love of idols, dissipation, profligacy, loquacity, indolence, self-love, inattentiveness, lack of progress, deceit, delusion, audacity, witchcraft, defilement, the eating of unclean food, soft living, dissoluteness, voracity, unchastity, avarice, anger, dejection, listlessness, self-esteem, pride, presumption, self-elation, boastfulness, infatuation, foulness, satiety, doltishness, torpor, sensuality, over-eating, gluttony, insatiability, secret eating, hoggishness, solitary eating, indifference, fickleness, self-will, thoughtlessness, self-satisfaction, love of popularity, ignorance of beauty, uncouthness, gaucherie, lightmindedness, boorishness, rudeness, contentiousness, quarrelsomeness, abusiveness, shouting, brawling, fighting, rage, mindless desire, gall, exasperation, giving offence, enmity, meddlesomeness, chicanery, asperity, slander, censure, calumny, condemnation, accusation, hatred, railing, insolence, dishonour, ferocity, frenzy, severity, aggressiveness, forswearing oneself, oathtaking, lack of compassion, hatred of one’s brothers, partiality, patricide, matricide, breaking fasts, laxity, acceptance of bribes, theft, rapine, jealousy, strife, envy, indecency, jesting, vilification, mockery, derision, exploitation, oppression, disdain of one’s neighbour, flogging, making sport of others, hanging, throttling, heartlessness, implacability, covenant-breaking, bewitchment, harshness, shamelessness, impudence, obfuscation of thoughts, obtuseness, mental blindness, attraction to what is fleeting, impassionedness, frivolity, disobedience, dullwittedness, drowsiness of soul, excessive sleep, fantasy, heavy drinking, drunkenness, uselessness, slackness, mindless enjoyment, self-indulgence, venery, using foul language, effeminacy, unbridled desire, burning lust, masturbation, pimping, adultery, sodomy, bestiality, defilement, wantonness, a stained soul, incest, uncleanliness, pollution, sordidness, feigned affection, laughter, jokes, immodest dancing, clapping, improper songs, revelry, fluteplaying, license of tongue, excessive love of order, insubordination, disorderliness, reprehensible collusion, conspiracy, warfare, killing, brigandry, sacrilege, illicit gains, usury, wiliness, grave-robbing, hardness of heart, obloquy, complaining, blasphemy, fault-finding, ingratitude, malevolence, contemptuousness, pettiness, confusion, lying, verbosity, empty words, mindless joy, daydreaming, mindless friendship, bad habits, nonsensicality, silly talk, garrulity, niggardliness, depravity, intolerance, irritability, affluence, rancour, misuse, ill-temper, clinging to life, ostentation, affectation, pusillanimity, satanic love, curiosity, contumely, lack of the fear of God, unteachability, senselessness, haughtiness, self-vaunting, self-inflation, scorn for one’s neighbour, mercilessness, insensitivity, hopelessness, spiritual paralysis, hatred of God, despair, suicide, a falling away from God in all things, utter destruction – altogether 298 passions.

These, then, are the passions which I have found named in the Holy Scriptures. I have set them down in a single list, as I did at the beginning of my discourse with the various books I have used. I have not tried, nor would I have been able, to arrange them all in order; this would have been beyond my powers, for the reason given by St. John Klimakos: ‘If you seek understanding in wicked men, you will not find it.’ For all that the demons produce is disorderly. In common with the godless and the unjust, the demons have but one purpose: to destroy the souls of those who accept their evil counsel. Yet sometimes they actually help men to attain holiness. In such instances they are conquered by the patience and faith of those who put their trust in the Lord, and who through their good actions and resistance to evil thoughts counteract the demons and bring down curses upon them.

A LIST OF THE PASSIONS, Saint Peter of Damaskos The Philokalia; The Complete Text compiled by St. Nikodimos of the Holy Mountain and St. Makarios of Corinth, Volume Three

[theculturedmarxist]

What will reading Marx do for my bank account?

At the very least, because the people that determine what is in that bank account study Marx, and so you should as well.

A valid, but very revealing question. It’s a common sentiment, especially considering all the economic factors effecting the working class today, everywhere in the world. The accumulation and capital is an overriding concern, both for practical reasons, as well as the logic we absorb from living in a capitalist society. All human endeavor is reduced to cost analysis. Time spent not making money is time wasted, and wasting time—not making money, either for yourself or others—is a cardinal sin of capitalism. The drive to convert every aspect of the lives humans live into a monetary transaction is relentless, and has become so common that it simply goes without question. It has seeped into and colored everything people do, their romances, their careers, their passions, their lusts. The logic of accumulation and transaction eliminates the person and in its place leaves a bank account, a debit card, a dumb repository of value in relation to what they can do for someone else.

The less you eat, drink and buy books; the less you go to the theatre, the dance hall, the public house; the less you think, love, theorise, sing, paint, fence, etc., the more you save  – the greater becomes your treasure which neither moths nor rust will devour – your capital. The less you are, the less you express your own life, the more you have, i.e., the greater is your alienated life, the greater is the store of your estranged being. Everything ||XVI| which the political economist takes from you in life and in humanity, he replaces for you in money and in wealth; and all the things which you cannot do, your money can do. It can eat and, drink, go to the dance hall and the theatre; it can travel, it can appropriate art, learning, the treasures of the past, political power – all this it can appropriate for you – it can buy all this: it is true endowment. Yet being all this, it wants to do nothing but create itself, buy itself; for everything else is after all its servant, and when I have the master I have the servant and do not need his servant. All passions and all activity must therefore be submerged in avarice. The worker may only have enough for him to want to live, and may only want to live in order to have that.>

So entrenched has this mindset become that in the mainstream it goes utterly unquestioned. People are immersed in it from birth, and might go to their grave without even knowing that there was any possible alternative, or even that they should desire one. Marx (for instance, he’s certainly not the only one) offers both a perspective outside of this logic as well as the analysis that can not only allow people to see it, but dismantle it. Marx and Marxist analysis provide a vocabulary and framework otherwise missing from the average worker’s lexicon. They are missing not because they are so esoteric and abstract that they require an imparted understanding, like a teacher to a child, but because the people in charge of workers’ lives—government officials, police, landlords, institutional educators, and bosses most of all—have done everything they can to strike them from the record. Billions are invested in making the thoughts themselves impossible, in inverting human tendencies and behaviors and values to make even the idea that the system is unfair a shameful one. Everything drives at ensuring that the worker stays isolated, ashamed, and desperate.

The benefit of reading Marx and other communists is that they understand this arrangement, go to great lengths to explain its whys and wherefores, and offer workers the tools not only to reframe the narrative in a manner of speaking, but the ideological guidance necessary to undo and escape it. Where capitalism breeds alienation, communists advocate socialization. Where capitalism fosters isolation, communists urge community. Where capitalism cultivates war and hatred, communism professes peace and international solidarity.

Marx tells the worker why he has to consider his bank account in the first place. He explains the mechanisms by which it is filled and drained and to whose profit. The confusion of chauvinism, nationalism, racism, classism, genderism, and so on is dispelled when revealed to be the deceptive antics of the very people that keep the working individual in perpetual anxiety over their bank account.

And still, even though Marx was writing about events that seem like a distant memory, does any of this sound familiar?

Dazzled by the “Progress of the Nation” statistics dancing before his eyes, the Chancellor of the Exchequer exclaims in wild ecstasy:

“From 1842 to 1852, the taxable income of the country increased by 6 per cent; in the eight years from 1853 to 1861, it has increased from the basis taken in 1853, 20 per cent! The fact is so astonishing to be almost incredible! ... This intoxicating augmentation of wealth and power,” adds Mr. Gladstone, “is entirely confined to classes of property.”

Again, reverse the medal! The income and property tax returns laid before the House of Commons on July 20, 1864, teach us that the persons with yearly incomes valued by the tax gatherer of 50,000 pounds and upwards had, from April 5, 1862, to April 5, 1863, been joined by a dozen and one, their number having increased in that single year from 67 to 80. The same returns disclose the fact that about 3,000 persons divide among themselves a yearly income of about 25,000,000 pounds sterling, rather more than the total revenue doled out annually to the whole mass of the agricultural laborers of England and Wales. Open the census of 1861 and you will find that the number of male landed proprietors of England and Wales has decreased from 16,934 in 1851 to 15,066 in 1861, so that the concentration of land had grown in 10 years 11 per cent. If the concentration of the soil of the country in a few hands proceeds at the same rate, the land question will become singularly simplified, as it had become in the Roman Empire when Nero grinned at the discovery that half of the province of Africa was owned by six gentlemen.

In the domain of Political Economy, free scientific inquiry meets not merely the same enemies as in all other domains. The peculiar nature of the materials it deals with, summons as foes into the field of battle the most violent, mean and malignant passions of the human breast, the Furies of private interest. The English Established Church, e.g., will more readily pardon an attack on 38 of its 39 articles than on 1/39 of its income. Now-a-days atheism is culpa levis [a relatively slight sin, c.f. mortal sin], as compared with criticism of existing property relations. Nevertheless, there is an unmistakable advance. I refer, e.g., to the Blue book published within the last few weeks: “Correspondence with Her Majesty’s Missions Abroad, regarding Industrial Questions and Trades’ Unions.” The representatives of the English Crown in foreign countries there declare in so many words that in Germany, in France, to be brief, in all the civilised states of the European Continent, radical change in the existing relations between capital and labour is as evident and inevitable as in England. At the same time, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, Mr. Wade, vice-president of the United States, declared in public meetings that, after the abolition of slavery, a radical change of the relations of capital and of property in land is next upon the order of the day. These are signs of the times, not to be hidden by purple mantles or black cassocks. They do not signify that tomorrow a miracle will happen. They show that, within the ruling classes themselves, a foreboding is dawning, that the present society is no solid crystal, but an organism capable of change, and is constantly changing.

The colonial system ripened, like a hot-house, trade and navigation. The “societies Monopolia” of Luther were powerful levers for concentration of capital. The colonies secured a market for the budding manufactures, and, through the monopoly of the market, an increased accumulation. The treasures captured outside Europe by undisguised looting, enslavement, and murder, floated back to the mother-country and were there turned into capital. Holland, which first fully developed the colonial system, in 1648 stood already in the acme of its commercial greatness. It was

 “in almost exclusive possession of the East Indian trade and the commerce between the south-east and north-west of Europe. Its fisheries, marine, manufactures, surpassed those of any other country. The total capital of the Republic was probably more important than that of all the rest of Europe put together.” Gülich forgets to add that by 1648, the people of Holland were more over-worked, poorer and more brutally oppressed than those of all the rest of Europe put together.

Today industrial supremacy implies commercial supremacy. In the period of manufacture properly so called, it is, on the other hand, the commercial supremacy that gives industrial predominance. Hence the preponderant rôle that the colonial system plays at that time. It was “the strange God” who perched himself on the altar cheek by jowl with the old Gods of Europe, and one fine day with a shove and a kick chucked them all of a heap. It proclaimed surplus-value making as the sole end and aim of humanity.

Even these examples removed by time have their parallels and echoes today. Now just as then, capitalists refuse to raise wages, claiming it will bankrupt them. Now just as then, capitalists accumulate by rape and pillage the wealth of lesser nations. Now just as then, capitalists one and all make their fortunes through the pitiless exploitation of the working class. You worry about your bank account because it’s been emptied to fill the hoard of the person that owns all you make and for which they’ve never labored themselves.

That’s why you should read Marx and all the rest, because you have a bank account to worry about in the first place—a clock perpetually ticking down towards your ruin, and the only means of escape is joining with your fellow workers and building Communism.

[merryfortune]

A Fear Unfounded

Ship: Forte/Margaret

Fandom: Rune Factory 4

Word Count: 2,004

Tags: Love Confessions, Light Angst, OOC

  Forte was stunned when she arrived at the lake to the west of town. Margaret seemed to relish her surprise as Forte, clinking armour and swishing dress and picnic basket and all, drew in closer to where Margaret had set up not a camp but a picnic.

  She looked the perfect picture of hedonism, sprawled out as it were on a check stripe blanket, light and cottony with interlocking colours of white, pastel pink, and cherry red. She also had a woven straw picnic basket nearby, as well as her lute, all entwined with flowers and her love of music. She laughed blithely when Forte lugged her own basket towards her at the glistening lake’s edge; delicately so, her delicate hand in front of her lips.

  “I couldn’t stop Kiel; the moment I mentioned that you wanted to go on a picnic, he insisted on making some treats for me to share with you.” Forte sheepishly explained as she knelt down awkwardly and joined Margaret on the picnic blanket.

  “Now we definitely have enough to feed an army.” Margaret joked.

  “As Selphia’s sole knight, I will certainly prove that. I won’t let a single morsel go to waste.” Forte sounded as though she were taking some grim vow upon saying that but her earnestness only amused Margaret further.

  It also endeared her further. That was her ever so serious Forte, alright. She wouldn’t have this young woman any other way.

  “May I?” Margaret asked once the moment had cooled off from the japes and the like.

  “Of course.” Forte replied and she let Margaret have at her picnic basket. Meanwhile, almost gluttonously, Forte made her move on Margaret’s picnic basket. She glanced back towards the elf. “May I?” The words barely left her mouth, she was near soundless as her hands grappled the vine-stricken handle.

  “Yes, of course.” Margaret replied

  “Thank you muchly.” Forte beamed; even her happier expressions grave.

  Margaret was quick to find cupcakes stocked in Forte’s larder of a picnic basket. She was all to overjoyed to peel back the waxy casing and eat it. The plush cake’s sweetness danced on her tastebuds and was quick to disappear as Margaret had a swift appreciation for the flavour of it.

  “Simply scrumptious!” she crooned, clasping her cheek in her hand, crumbs splayed over her chubby cheeks. “My compliments to the chef.”

  “Kiel will be pleased to hear that, though let’s pray that he doesn’t develop an ego over it, I adore him but I’m certain he would be insufferable.” Forte smiled.

  “All boys - even men - are like that though but I truly do love Kiel’s baking, it is a very narrow second to Porcoline; he will be an excellent chef once he matures a bit more.” Margret continued to gush.

  “Yes, I agree.” Forte murmured, head dipping slightly as she contemplated whether the accent taste to the egg sandwich that she had taken from Margaret’s picnic basket was mustard or not.

  Unlike Margaret, Forte has opted for a savoury option first. She thought it was gauche to have sweets before something decent, but for once, not to protect her image. Margaret knee her too well for that which was why she could eat freely, without prettiness or essential etiquette making that maybe the order of food eaten didn’t really matter. But it was probably, no, almost certainly, mustard in her mashed egg sandwich which really was delectable.

  “It’s a splendid afternoon, don’t you think?” Margaret asked Forte quietly.

  “It is. Your foresight to pick today of all days for this get together is impeccable, Margaret.” Forte said.

  “Thank you. I did put a lot of thought into it. I chose today because it’s still summer but is nicely on the cusp of autumn, making for beautiful sunshine and crisp weather without being painfully warm.” Margaret explained; her face drew lines of concern. “I worry about you in summer, seeing you in all that armour. I understand why but still. I worry.”

  “I know but my constitution is vast.” Forte assured her.

  That bittersweet grimace didn’t disappear from Margaret’s face. That, in turn, concerned Forte. Margaret’s fist clenched by her side and Forte suspected that this wasn’t the saccharine outing which she thought that she had been invited out onto. It was just like Margaret to play games like this; to set the mood right, create a lull of false sense of security so that she may exploit emotional and conversational vulnerability. She didn’t like open confrontation, after all, as it was too violent for her. And it was just like Forte to fall straight into such a social faux pas of a trap. That was how she played Margaret’s games, after all. After all, she didn’t like underhanded means of working out aggression, preferring the simplicity which came with the swing of a sword against a foe.

  “I want to support you and your endeavours as a knight, but I worry about you.” Margaret said.

  “Fear not. I am strong.” Forte said with her chest puffed out. It wasn’t a boast, she possessed far too much humility to boast but it was not arrogance to be rightfully confident as her abilities as a swordswoman were without match, in Selphia at least.

  “I know. You are very strong but...” Margaret murmured. “But I’ve been thinking, with Frey as our acting princess, I fear that your glory is tarnishing as more people rely on her rather than you to keep our town safe. You patrol every night and just looking at you fills people with ease. People who are not me, at least.”

  “Margaret...” Forte didn’t know how to reply to that.

  “You work tirelessly, thanklessly. At least I, when I busk or when I perform at Porcoline’s, I get tipped but no one ever does so much for you.” Margaret continued.

  “I don’t mind. I don’t need to be paid or thanked. My pride is all that I need.” Forte gently rebuked Margaret.

  “I can wait endlessly, you know, but can you?” asked Margaret, tears shimmered in her eyes.

  Her sudden shift in conversation caught Forte off guard. “Can I wait for what?”

  Margaret was silent. Thinking. Grimacing. The sunlight overhead seemed far too sharp, all of a sudden, with an unbearable heat gracing them thickly. Yet a breeze blew around them, cooling them, nonetheless. It rustled the leaves of the trees and the grass too, toyed with their hair as Forte waited for Margaret to come to some explanation both in her head and in her voice.

  “Elves are very long lived compared to other humans...” Margaret murmured. “But normal humans are so short lived compared to Elves. I can wait, wait for you to retire so that I don’t have to worry about you being injured, or worse, but can you?”

  “Margaret, I do not follow what you’re asking of me.” Forte sounded like her heart was breaking, she was fighting back tears.

  “I love you, Forte.” Margaret confessed empathetically, placing a hand on her breast.

  Forte’s eyes widened as the words continuously rang through her head like an echo. Over and over. Her heart hammered in her chest.

  “Oh.” she murmured, gaping, really.

  Margaret looked away from Forte, “I love you now, I know I will love you in many years to come, but I just fear that our circumstances might keep us apart. I find it unideal, to merely pine for you until your duties are done.”

  “Why… Why do you think my duties as a knight have to be concluded for us to be together?” Forte asked.

  “Selfishness, mostly. I can’t distract our most dependable knight, after all.” Margaret was lying; though, there was likely a nugget of truth in what she had said, the way more tears streamed down the side of her face betrayed her. She pawed at them, hopeless. “You were an illicit affair, yes? Your mother had Kiel at an advanced age, compared to you, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry for your losses. Even all this time later, I am.” Margaret said. “But from them, I assumed that it was wrong for a knight to show that much emotion, attachment to people like that. I thought a knight, especially one as prominent and dear to us as you, were expected to uphold all values and virtues, including chastity.”

  Her explanation followed to reason. The underlying implication that Margaret perceived Forte as just and noble flattered her. But it was in that explanation that Forte saw where her dear companion faltered. Ever sure of her perceptions of her the world, it took a lot to convince her of contrary evidence and the like, completely unlike another elf who shall not be named, Margaret prided herself on the vision she carried and sometimes exerted over others.

  “Whilst it is true that a knight ought to be a paragon of virtue, there is no rule disallowing fraternising with the general populace. We have codes of honour for that too, my lady.” Forte told her.

  Margaret prickled to hear that, her lips pursed in surprise. It appears that she had wasted tears but Forte thought otherwise. She leaned in and wiped away what remained of those shed tears in Margaret’s forget-me-not coloured eyes. She smiled gently beneath her choppy and blunt fringe.

  “Thank you kindly for your consideration but you are mistaken, I am afraid. Your observations, whilst keen, have misled you. Though I will admit, I find it rather romantic that you are certain that you could wait for me but fortune smiles on your field, you do not have to wait a single second longer for me if you wish to court me.” Forte told her.

  Perhaps Margaret should have been embarrassed for coming to such conclusions, but she wasn’t. Only relief coloured her cheeks pink as she found her empathetic reply, replying with her whole chest.

  “I truly don’t want to spend a second longer, Forte, thank you, I love you.”

  Her words were sweet but her kiss sweeter. She caressed Forte’s face as she kissed her so swift to cross the middle of the picnic blanket, over the basket and over the distance of all those years alone that Margaret had envisioned would divide them, so lonely.

  Margaret kissed Forte ardently. Her passion was dulcet, and Forte could not crave it more. Margaret’s kiss was divine. Experienced and yet new; for the first time, in a way. Forte became intoxicated on the floral perfume which drifted around her lover. Her lover. It felt sublime to acknowledge that, even quietly in her own mind, as she was kissed. She felt as though she had become a new woman with a renewed sense of what she heroically owed her dear hometown.

  Forte broke the kiss. She wished very much that she didn’t have to but alas, she needed breath. But this was a breathlessness like she had never known before. She often felt satisfied with how she painted after a particularly challenging round of training, but this was different. Though it did set her heart racing, quite similarly. No, this was something more tender than steel blades and broken hilts. It was more precious, like flowers and cakes. She smiled though, unguarded and somewhat grateful.

  “I really enjoyed that, Meg.” Forte said.

  “I did too.” Margaret chortled. “Though you tasted like mustard and egg salad.”

  Forte blushed. “My apologies.”

  “You’ll just have to fix that then.” Margaret told her, both playful and uppity. So, on Forte’s behalf, she retrieved another cupcake from the picnic basket bearing sweets.

  Forte received it graciously and without her usual, and forced, bellyaching. “I suppose I shall.” She then sank her teeth into the treat.

  She smiled a little wider, a little bigger, as she ate the cupcake. Seeing that made Margaret happier than Forte could know, but what made her happiest of all was knowing that this was all happening in the present. And not some precarious far off future. It was good, even great, she thought, to enjoy things in the moment.

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

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QUEST 11: SLISKE’S ENDGAME

QUEST SUMMARY:

The eclipse is nigh. The end of Sliske’s games draws near. All the gods gather for one final race for the Stone, taking them through a shadowy labyrinth of the devious Mahjarrat’s design. Not only does Jahaan have to survive the trials Sliske sets out for them, but he has to compete against every major deity in Gielinor. Then, and only then, will he have a shot at ending Sliske’s madness once and for all…

CHAPTER 2 - LABYRINTH

Jahaan’s strategy of blindly sprinting around the maze as fast as he could didn’t seem to be working so well so far. He’d encountered a couple of puzzle doors that made his head spin, so abandoned them in hopes of something simpler later on. Unfortunately, simpler didn’t come, so he settled into trying to work out the answer to this riddle door he had come across.

Four small masks were connected to the door, each with a different emotion carved into it - happy, neutral, sad and… broken, for lack of a better term. The mask was smashed in places, an emotion indiscernible. Above them read the line, ‘I am not a morning person. Nor am I a mourning person’.

Aside from that, nothing. No hints, no instructions. Jahaan didn’t know if he had to press just one mask or multiple, or what the consequences for a wrong guess would be. No doubt they wouldn’t be pleasant.

Running his fingertips over the masks, Jahaan tried to think as rationally as possible. Not that Sliske was a rational opponent. But no matter how hard he tried, the mental block refused to lift; Jahaan had never been good at puzzles, and the time constraints around the whole labyrinth concept were stressing him out. He had to move faster if he had any chance of retrieving the Stone.

Hitting the door in frustration, Jahaan groaned, “Fuck it!” and pressed the broken mask.

Instantly, he was shot back across the corridor until he slammed into the wall behind him, twitching from the effects of the static shock.

And to make things worse, Sliske’s laugh swarmed the air around him. “Ouch! That had to hurt! Are you okay there Janny? Do you need a time out?”

Colours danced in Jahaan’s vision as he picked himself up off the ground. He refused to reply to Sliske’s taunts.

“How’s the ribs doing?” Sliske asked, pretending to be nonchalant. “Glad to see you walking without a cane now.”

Jahaan continued to ignore him, breathing heavily to try and drown Sliske out. It had limited success.

But Sliske’s next taunt really tested Jahaan’s resolve. “You know, Ozan’s made himself rather at home in the Barrows…”

Jahaan twitched, and this time it wasn’t an after effect of the static shock. Back at the door now, Jahaan repeated the riddle over and over again in his head, allowing no other thoughts to enter his mind except for that one line: ‘I am not a morning person. Nor am I a mourning person’.

Oh, he wanted to bark back at the smug Mahjarrat. He wanted to shout and curse every obscenity in every language he knew. He wanted to threaten him, to tell him in detail every little wound he was going to inflict upon him… but knew that was exactly what Sliske wanted him to do. So, he refused to give Sliske the satisfaction of a response.

Until he claimed the Stone, at least. Then all bets were off.

After Jahaan reaffirmed that to himself, a calm contentment washed over him, and he was able to look at the riddle with fresh eyes.

Once he did that, the solution became obvious.

He pressed the neutral mask and the door clinked open.

Satisfied and with renewed vigor, Jahaan continued on through the maze. Sliske appeared to have grown weary of trying to talk to him, for now at least, which was a huge relief.

When Jahaan rounded the corner, he saw a somewhat giddy Armadyl at the other end of the corridor, avianse in tow. If Jahaan had managed to catch up to him so easily, either the head start Sliske promised was a lie, or Armadyl had severely failed to capitalise on the advantage. But from the look on the deity’s face, he didn’t seem to mind.

Kree'arra was a proud and majestic avianse with gorgeous wings of gold. Jahaan recognised him from way back in Guthix’s cavern; a being like that is hard to forget. Fortunately he didn’t have to fight him then, and hoped he never had to. Those talons were sharp, and the bolts of the crossbow he wielded were even sharper.

Taka’ara was a broader-shouldered and shorter avianse that Jahaan didn’t recognise. Little did he know, Taka’ara was the strategist who helped secure victory over Bandos.

When Jahaan was spotted by the winged deity, he was summoned over with excitement. “Jahaan! Come, come. Talk to me. Did you know that I haven't moulted in millennia? Not a tail feather has fallen from me since I became a god. But this brief interruption of my godhood… it has got me moulting again. The feathers are falling away from my body. I can feel the flesh underneath! At first, not moulting made me feel unbeatable. If time and the elements couldn't ruffle me, then what could? But then I felt like an imposter among my people. I wanted to be with them, but how could I? Their feathers fell with age. I outlived countless generations. Now, I am sharing the company of the aviansie as an equal! Forgive me, it's exhilarating to lose one's power.”

Jahaan smiled, warmly. He’d never seen such pure, innocent joy on another man’s - or bird’s - face. It’d been a long time, too long, since he’d encountered such happiness. The avianse surrounding him seemed warmed by the deity’s glee. “Always seeing the silver lining, Armadyl. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“Oh, I am. It may seem like such a little thing, but it has helped subside the misery of Sliske’s little game.”

Picking off one of his feathers, he handed it to Jahaan. “Take this. If I get back to my people, it will be something of a collector's item, and if I don't get back to my people, well, it will be even more desirable.”

“Thanks, Armadyl,” Jahaan took the feather and placed it carefully in his backpack.

Motioning for his followers to continue on, Armadyl turned to leave. “Let's see if I lose every feather in this place. That would make for an unusual return to my people - a bald eagle.”

Zamorak, on the other hand, was a lot less jubilant as he traversed the maze. Being stripped of his divinity didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would, but the tedium of the maze and these ridiculous puzzles Sliske had set out grated on him. No-one had any idea that Sliske had planned out an absurdly large labyrinth for the gods to explore; Zamorak was hoping for something a little more combat-oriented.

As backup, Zamorak brought with him a handful of his most trusted allies and advisors. Moia, Lucien’s half-human, half-Mahjarrat daughter who led Zamorak’s army during the Battle of Lumbridge; Hazeel, one of Zamorak’s oldest and closest Mahjarrat friends; and Lord Daquarius, the well-armoured Lord of the Kinshra.

“Your power’s diminished too, Hazeel?” he checked as he brushed a calloused hand against the wall’s surface, sensing the magic within.

“Yes, Zamorak,” Hazeel gravely confirmed. “Sliske has somehow managed to hone in on the slight divinity of the Mahjarrat in order to quell our power.”

Grumbling a Freneskaen obscenity, Zamorak huffed before continuing, “The only thing that gives me comfort in this shitshow is knowing that all the other gods are in the same boat I am. If one of them wants to start a fight, well,” he cracked his knuckles. “It’ll be one less enemy for us to deal with after we claim the Stone.”

“My lord,” Moia called out softly. “What of Vinculum Juris? If Zaros calls upon his favour, you will be compelled to give him the Stone.”

“True, that’s how the contract goes,” Zamorak accepted, but a cunning smile tugged at his lips. “But if I take the Stone and escape Sliske’s games before Zaros’ has a chance to call upon this favour of his, we’re home free. The contract only gives that manipulative motherfucker a small window to ask his favour - the duration of Sliske’s game - leaving us with a massive loophole to exploit.”

Zamorak and company particularly hated the rune combination lock doors; anything that required patience wasn’t exactly Zamorak’s forte, so he allowed Hazeel and Moia to work on it, lest he resort to ripping the door open with his bare hands. Of course, upon encountering the door, that was the initial strategy - break through.

This was much easier said than done, however, and such attempts left Lord Daquarius with a nasty bruise on his shoulder after he valiantly threw himself into the door, ricocheting off the thing and tumbling to the ground.

Eventually, they got the door open the conventional way. Soon after, they ran into Armadyl’s faction.

When Armadyl spotted company at the end of the long corridor he brought his avianse entourage to a halt. “Well, if it isn’t the murderer.”

Zamorak choked out a cruel laugh. “That’s rich coming from you, godslayer. How does killing Bandos fit into your ‘peace, love and justice’ bullshit dogma?”

“That was different,” Armadyl maintained, chin held aloft and shoulders broad. “You murdered almost my entire species. Your attack on Forinthry tore Gielinor apart.”

“Like I had a choice. You and Saradomin stood side by side ready to pronounce my death sentence. What would you have me do? Keel over without a fight?”

“We could have been reasoned with,” Armadyl insisted through gritted teeth. “We would have listened. We would have accepted a graceful surrender.”

Zamorak wagged a clawed finger at Armadyl. “You… perhaps. You still cling to the morality of mortals, perhaps trying to convince yourself you still are one. But not him. Not that fucker. He’s wanted me dead from the moment our war began. He can’t stand the fact that my message is as powerful as his.”

“That does not excuse what you did,” Armadyl growled, a violent, squawking sound that caused the avianse to tense up, ready to fight as soon as their god commanded it. “To save your life, you took thousands of others. Genocide, Zamorak! You nearly destroyed the avianse in your war!”

“Your war,” Zamorak retorted with a growl of his own. “I wasn’t the only one throwing fists in the God Wars. You brought so many of your people to Gielinor - warriors, to fight. It was war, and in war, people die. What did you expect? To roll over my forces without a single casualty?”

“No of course not. I-”

“Then you were prepared,” Zamorak cut in. “You were prepared to sacrifice every aviansie you brought to Gielinor. And hey, you won the war. But you paid the price for that victory. Only you can decide whether it was worth it.”

“That does not excuse what you did,” Armadyl maintained, coldly.

“No, and I’d never pretend it did,” Zamorak replied, “We all have scars to bare. I’ve done things that would make you lose sleep at night, but I’ve done them for the greater good. I... have made mistakes. I’ve seen those that I care about die… but I have owned those mistakes. It’s time you did too. So save your anger for who it’s really meant for.”

“Oh? And who might that be?”

Zamorak laughed mirthlessly. “Isn’t it obvious? YOU brought your people to this world. YOU armed them with swords and spears and sent them out to face my forces. You asked each and every one of them to die - to die FOR YOU. You're angry because they did. Because in your fucking arrogance you thought that you were untouchable and your people invulnerable. Pride can be a terribly powerful weapon, but the blade always points inwards.”

Shifting his stance, Zamorak continued, “So, we can settle this right now and you can risk losing a couple more of your precious avianse… or we can go our separate ways and hash this out after the Stone is claimed. What’ll it be?”

Glancing back at his avianse entourage, Armadyl tried to gauge their reactions for an insight of how they wanted to proceed. Even though they were outnumbered, Kree'arra and Taka'ara were both in favour of the fighting option, hands clutched tight around their weapon and steely eyes piercing holes through Zamorak. Armadyl had always preached peace, but understood why his soldiers were so thirsty for the blood of the man that nearly wiped out their race.

Despite this, Armadyl was less inclined to resort to violence. Not while the Stone was still on the line. And as much as he hated to admit it, Zamorak had a valid point. Armadyl was angry at himself - intensely so… it was just so much easier to direct that anger outwards rather than inwards.

Sighing, Armadyl eventually said, “I do blame myself and rightly so. But I am never going to forgive you Zamorak. I won't strike you down today, but I will not mourn if another does it for me.

Zamorak grinned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

All things considered, the maze was going well for Jahaan so far. He’d passed another riddle door, conquering another line of Sliske’s terrible poetry, and came across one of these rune combination lock gizmos that took far less mental effort than he assumed it would.

Foolishly, Jahaan allowed himself to be confident.

Speeding around the next corner, Jahaan almost tripped over, skidding to a halt so abruptly as he came face to face with Icthlarin. Relief overwhelming his features, he beamed, “Icthlarin… nice to see a friendly face again.”

Icthlarin tried to smile too, but there was something a little bit off about him. “Jahaan... it is good to see you. I am glad... that we could find each other so quickly.”

Noting the odd twitching movements and uncertainty in his usually resolved tone, Jahaan queried, “Icthlarin? You seem… different. Are you okay?”

The demigod shook his head, a frown dominating his expression. “No… I cannot explain it, but no. I feel… I feel as if I am slipping away… my mind is becoming foggy… muddled… I…”

Icthlarin proceeded to sniff the air in front of him. “You… you smell of Friend…”

Jahaan’s eyebrows crinkled. “What?”

Slapping himself on the side of his head, Icthlarin creased his eyes tightly shut, trying so hard to remain focused. “I... I am sorry, that... I just... what's happening to me?”

Suddenly, the maniacal, twisted laughter of Sliske filled the air. “Oh this is wonderful! I was curious as to what you would be like with your divinity curbed, but this is glorious! Far better than I could have ever hoped.”

While Icthlarin growled, Jahaan shouted, “What have you done to him, Sliske?!”

With a sigh, Sliske replied, “It’s as if no-one listens to me… honestly… I explained this earlier. I’ve removed a lot of the divinity from every contestant, including little Iccy here. Now I get to watch as they try and grapple with who, or what, they were before they ascended to godhood. This is Icthlarin's little struggle.”

Icthlarin’s eyes were burning red. “Put… put me back…”

“And save you from this delightful torment? Why in all creation would I do such a thing? This is delightful! Mighty Icthlarin, noble guardian of the Underworld, wasn't always an erudite scholar. Though he might have been the pet of one. He was just a regular mutt. Weren't you, Iccy?”

Icthlarin just about managed to catch himself before he began barking, but his teeth were bared and sharp, desperate for Sliske’s blood.

“Stop this Sliske!” Jahaan ordered, the lump in his throat growing unbearable as he watched his friend grapple with his fading humanity.

In response, Sliske let out a short, sharp laugh. “Stop this? Why would I do that? To help him? To ease his suffering? You've met me, right? I think we've long since established that's not the way I work. No, it's going to be so much fun watching you drift more and more away, Icthlarin. To see you so humbled, so easily. Truly my finest work.”

“SLISKE! END THIS!” Icthlarin roared into the air, but this time, he garnered no reply.

“I don't think he's listening any more,” Jahaan regarded his friend with heavy eyes.

Icthlarin whimpered, “Jahaan, don't… don't leave me here alone. May I come with you? I need someone... to remember who I am… I’m… I’m scared, friend. So scared. My sentience… I feel it slipping away...”

Jahaan tried to force a smile that didn’t reek of pity, knowing how much his friend would hate that. With as much confidence as he could muster, Jahaan rested a gentle hand on Icthlarin’s shoulder and assured, “You’re going to be alright.”

Icthlarin wagged his tail, but upon realising what he was doing, he cleared his throat. “Err, let’s just get through this as fast as… um… fast.”

“Will you stop smashing stuff, Strisath! It's making a terrible mess and you're really far behind!”

Sliske’s announcement echoed through the labyrinth, bouncing off the walls before fading away into the white noise surrounding them. For Seren, that was the steady rhythm of the elves’ heartbeats alongside her own; it was soothing, a comforting blanket of noise to weave her thoughts between.

As they traversed the labyrinth, Seren and her elves had been floating ideas as to the origins of their predicament. Namely, the sudden mortality of the gods.

Seren pondered aloud, “Do you think it is some sort of mechanism?”

Lady Trahaearn, the eldest of Seren’s entourage, shook her head. “It can't be, m'lady. There ain't a nick nack in the world that could strip a god of its power. Plus it ain't scientific. An effect like this would have to be transmitted as light or sound, and there's more walls in this place than Morvran's holiday dungeons. Yep, this'll be your good ol’-fashioned magic.”

Lord Arianwyn added, “If it’s magic, it’s nothing like any I’ve encountered. It doesn’t even share characteristics. See, spells borrow power from one another. That’s the way of magic. Bones to Peaches shares something with Hi-Alchemy. Crystallise borrows from the Lunar Magicks. This feels utterly new, disconnected. It's like a new branch of magic. Which is exciting of course!”

“Exciting, but not exactly helping us determine its origin,” Lady Trahaearn continued with a frown. “Unless...  unless we're overthinking this. Step back, think about what has happened recently.”

“Ha! I see where you're going with this!” Seren exclaimed, wagging her finger excitedly as they skipped around another corner. “Yes, yes, there have been a couple of instances. The World Guardian, for instance. The World Guardian can nullify god magic. I believe Guthix manipulated the anima in some way to achieve this.”

Lord Arianwyn added, “And there’s the edicts themselves. But no one knows if that was Guthix himself casting out the gods, or if it was the anima, the Sword of Edicts, the Stone of Jas…”

“The Stone of Jas is where my coins are on,” Lady Trahaearn stated, trying to examine the walls for any clues as to which direction they needed to go in, using her well-tuned ears to listen out for the faint hum of magic.

Seren responded, “I agree with you, but there are complications. The Stone of Jas does not simply have a switch that turns off god magic. Only a seasoned user would know how to generate that power from the Stone. Either Sliske has become extremely proficient, or someone else is aiding him. Someone extremely powerful.”

Lord Arianwyn insinuated, “Very few beings would have such knowledge of the Stone of Jas…”

Seren’s concern deepened. “I fear I know where you're going with this, Lord Arianwyn. I pray you're wrong, for the sake of this world.”

Lady Trahaearn gulped. “A worrying thought indeed, M’Lady.”

“It is. That’s why we need to make sure that we win the Stone, and that it can be kept in safe hands. Away from Sliske. Away from my brother. Away from everyone…”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

Previous chapter / Next chapter

[qqueenofhades]

Maria rescues Asher from some situation.

Padua, 1678

It is a warm summer’s day, the hum of educated conversation fills the cathedral, and the line to greet the new Doctor of Philosophy, who stands by the altar adorned in the traditional laurel crown, ring, ermine mozzetta, and book, is general. The professors and students of the University of Padua, the Senators of Venice, and the visiting faculty from the universities of Rome, Perugia, Bologna, and Naples are all pressing forward with expressions on their faces that Maria de Clermont approves of, even if she thinks they could stand to look a touch less astonished. This, after all, is unique in that Professor Rinaldini has just awarded a Magistra et Doctrix Philosophiae, rather than a Magister, and the proud graduate is a woman: Lady Elena Cornaro Piscopia, who has just dazzled the masses with an hour-long exegesis in Classical Latin, carried out on difficult and randomly selected passages from Aristotle. Maria and Asher, on a visit to Venice to investigate the making of this new Congregation, decided to pop up to Padua for the occasion, and in Maria’s opinion, it was very much worth it.

“Congratulations, Doctor Piscopia,” she says when her turn comes, stepping up and shaking the other woman’s hand. “It was truly impressive. If you are ever in France, you must delight us with your company.”

“France?” Lady Elena looks surprised, then nods, having heard the accent in Maria’s Italian. “Have you come this far on my behalf, my lady?”

“Only from Venice.” Maria ignores the elderly proctor harrumphing behind her, as if to say that it is his turn now and he wishes to make investigation of the refreshments before those greedy bastards from Rome steal them all. “Though my husband and I are lord and lady of Sept-Tours, near Clermont in the Auvergne. A… charming estate.”

Something flickers in Lady Elena’s eyes at that – not the usual wariness of someone who has heard the rumors, but excitement. She lowers her voice and steps closer. “Are you then Lord Asher and Lady Maria de Clermont?”

“We are.” Maria supposes she need not ask how such a clever woman as Lady Elena has found that out. “Is it of interest?”

“You, surely, knew the master Aristotle?” Lady Elena, also ignoring the proctor’s continued harrumphing, looks as if the golden fleece has fallen into her lap. Even more quietly, she whispers, “In person?”

Indeed, Maria knew the man, who was resident at Plato’s academy in Athens in the fourth century BC. She never cared much for his ranking of natural creatures placing women lower than worms, though she can admit his attractions for scholastic theology, and she wishes to support Lady Elena in her exploits. “I had… some knowledge of him, indeed. As I said, you should be welcome at our estate if you ever wished to hear more.”

Lady Elena, looking delighted, agrees that she shall remember it most devotedly, and Maria wryly supposes this obliges her to recall if she ever ran into the eminent philosopher one day in the agora. But she can see her husband across the way, trapped in polite conversation with the most boring and overbearing member of the entire philosophy department (doubtless burdening the masses with his opinions of what Lady Elena could have said instead), and Asher catches her eye and mouths, Save me, my love. Urgently.

Maria snorts to herself, flutters her fan, and swans elegantly across the transept to her husband’s side. She does like that black and gold doublet on him very much, his tall and lean frame, the artful elegance of his dark curls, his silver eyes, as it strikes her that while she has looked at this man (and done other things with him, believe you her) for almost eighteen hundred years, the attraction still has yet to wane in the least. Indeed, what with this heat, she has in mind the cool balcony of their villa, a bowl of strawberries, and a bed in linen. They shall still be exerting themselves, but at least it will be in their skins.

“Pardon me, Professore,” Maria says, stepping up with an extra-large flutter of her fan and an eyelash-fluttering simper. “I really must collect my lord husband, begging your pardons, but I vow, we were both most fascinated. You truly are very learned. So delightful. Thank you so very humbly, thank you.”

With these and other platitudes, she takes Asher’s arm and steers him away, as he glances at her with amusement dancing in his eyes. “If that man was too foolish to hear that you would have gnawed your own arm off sooner than be subjected to his tedious gasbaggery, there is truly no hope for him.”

“Oh, I think that was never in any doubt.” Maria raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Not in the least,” Asher remarks, putting his hand over hers. “Let us hope that he is prevented from inflicting his abominable opinions on the Metaphysics on poor Lady Elena, though doubtless she has dismantled him half a dozen times on the selfsame subject. I would pay to watch.”

“Mmm.” Maria would as well, but she thinks she has had enough philosophy for the nonce. Asher is the diplomat and the poet and the scholar of the two of them, bless his heart, but she tightens her grip on his arm. “Would it be terribly uncouth if we were to make our excuses?”

Asher raises an eyebrow right back at her – knowing, as ever, exactly what she is thinking. “You are a woman of very forward appetites, Lady de Clermont. And the pair of us in a house of God.”

“And you, Lord de Clermont, look very fetching in that new doublet.” Maria crooks a finger at him. “Really. Do let’s go.”

“You have saved my life, my love,” Asher says gravely, following her to the door, and into the sunlit brightness of the garth. “I can refuse you nothing.”

[dfroza]

Today’s reading from the ancient book of Proverbs and book of Psalms

for September 15 of 2021 with Proverbs 15 and Psalm 15, accompanied by Psalm 88 for the 88th day of Astronomical Summer and Psalm 108 for day 258 of the year (now with the consummate book of 150 Psalms in its 2nd revolution this year)

[Proverbs 15]

[Wisdom Far Better than Wickedness]

Respond gently when you are confronted

and you’ll defuse the rage of another.

Responding with sharp, cutting words will only make it worse.

Don’t you know that being angry

can ruin the testimony of even the wisest of men?

When wisdom speaks, understanding becomes attractive.

But the words of the fool make their ignorance look laughable.

The eyes of the Lord are everywhere

and he takes note of everything that happens.

He watches over his lovers,

and he also sees the wickedness of the wicked.

When you speak healing words,

you offer others fruit from the tree of life.

But unhealthy, negative words do nothing but crush their hopes.

You’re stupid to mock the instruction of a father,

but welcoming correction will make you brilliant.

There is prosperity in the house of the righteous,

but the house of the wicked is filled with trouble,

no matter how much money they have.

When wisdom speaks, revelation-knowledge is released,

but finding true wisdom in the word of a fool is futile.

It is despicable to the Lord

when people use the worship of the Almighty

as a cloak for their sin,

but every prayer of the righteous is pleasing to his heart.

The Lord detests the lifestyle of the wicked,

but he loves those who pursue purity.

Severe punishment awaits the one

who turns away from the truth,

and those who rebel against correction will die.

Even hell itself holds no secrets from the Lord God,

for before his eyes, all is exposed—

and so much more the heart of every human being.

The know-it-all never esteems the one who tries to correct him.

He refuses to seek good advice from the wise.

[Living an Ascended Life]

A cheerful heart puts a smile on your face,

but a broken heart leads to depression.

Lovers of God hunger after truth,

but those without understanding

feast on foolishness and don’t even realize it.

Everything seems to go wrong

when you feel weak and depressed.

But when you choose to be cheerful,

every day will bring you more and more joy and fullness.

It’s much better to live simply,

surrounded in holy awe and worship of God,

than to have great wealth with a home full of trouble.

It’s much better to have a meal of vegetables surrounded with love and grace

than a steak where there is hate.

A touchy, hot-tempered man picks a fight,

but the calm, patient man knows how to silence strife.

Nothing seems to work right for the lazy man,

but life seems smooth and easy when your heart is virtuous.

When a son learns wisdom,

a father’s heart is glad.

But the man who shames his mother is a foolish son.

The senseless fool treats life like a joke,

but the one with living-understanding makes good choices.

Your plans will fall apart right in front of you

if you fail to get good advice.

But if you first seek out multiple counselors,

you’ll watch your plans succeed.

Everyone enjoys giving great advice.

But how delightful it is to say the right thing at the right time!

The life-paths of the prudent lift them progressively heavenward,

delivering them from the death spirals

that keep tugging them downward.

The Lord champions the widow’s cause,

but watch him as he smashes down the houses of the haughty!

The Lord detests wicked ways of thinking,

but he enjoys lovely and delightful words.

The one who puts earning money above his family

will have trouble at home,

but those who refuse to exploit others

will live in peace.

Lovers of God think before they speak,

but the careless blurt out wicked words meant to cause harm.

The Lord doesn’t respond to the wicked,

but he’s moved to answer the prayers of the righteous.

Eyes that focus on what is beautiful bring joy to the heart,

and hearing a good report

refreshes and strengthens the inner being.

Accepting constructive criticism

opens your heart to the path of life,

making you right at home among the wise.

Refusing constructive criticism shows

you have no interest in improving your life,

for revelation-insight only comes as you accept correction

and the wisdom that it brings.

The source of revelation-knowledge is found

as you fall down in surrender before the Lord.

Don’t expect to see Shekinah glory

until the Lord sees your sincere humility.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 15

[Psalm 15]

A song of David.

Eternal One, who is invited to stay in Your dwelling?

Who is granted passage to Your holy mountain?

Here is the answer: The one who lives with integrity, does what is right,

and speaks honestly with truth from the heart.

The one who doesn’t speak evil against others

or wrong his neighbor,

or slander his friends.

The one who loathes the loathsome,

honors those who fear the Eternal,

And keeps all promises no matter the cost.

The one who does not lend money with gain in mind

and cannot be bought to harm an innocent name.

If you live this way, you will not be shaken and will live together with the Lord.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 15 (The Voice)

[Psalm 88]

For the worship leader. A song of the sons of Korah accompanied by dance. A contemplative song of Heman the Ezrahite.

O Eternal One! O True God my Savior!

I cry out to You all the time, under the sun and the moon.

Let my voice reach You!

Please listen to my prayers!

My soul is deeply troubled,

and my heart can’t bear the weight of this sorrow. I feel so close to death.

I’m like the poor and helpless who die alone,

left for dead, as good as the unknowable sea of souls lying under our feet,

Forsaken by Him and cut off from His hand,

abandoned among the dead who rest in their graves.

And You have sent me to be forgotten with them,

in the lowest pits of the earth,

in the darkest canyons of the ocean.

You crush me with Your anger.

You crash against me like the relentless, angry sea.

[pause]

Those whom I have known, who have been with me,

You have gathered like sheaves and cast to the four winds.

They can’t bear to look me in the eye, and they are horrified when they think of me.

I am in a trap and cannot be free.

My eyes grow dim, weakened by this sickness;

it is taking my strength from me.

Like a worn cloth, my hands are unfolded before You daily, O Eternal One.

Are You the miracle-worker for the dead?

Will they rise from the dark shadows to worship You again?

[pause]

Will Your great love be proclaimed in the grave

or Your faithfulness be remembered in whispers like mists throughout the place of ruin?

Are Your wonders known in the dominion of darkness,

or is Your righteousness recognized in a land where all is forgotten?

But I am calling out to You, Eternal One.

My prayers rise before You with every new sun!

Why do You turn Your head

and brush me aside, O Eternal One?

Why are You avoiding me?

Since the days of my youth, I have been sick and close to death.

My helpless soul has suffered Your silent horrors;

now I am desperate.

Your rage spills over me like rivers of fire;

Your assaults have all but destroyed me.

They surround me like a flood, rising throughout the day,

closing in from every direction.

You have taken from me the one I love and my friend;

even the light of my acquaintances are darkness.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 88

[Psalm 108]

A song of David.

My heart is committed, O God:

I will sing;

I will sing praises with great affection

and pledge my whole soul to the singing.

Wake up the harp and lyre, and strum the strings;

I will stir the sleepy dawn from slumber!

I will stand and offer You my thanks, Eternal One, in the presence of others;

I will sing of Your greatness among the nations no matter where I am.

For Your amazing love soars overhead far into the heavens;

Your truth rises up to the clouds

where passing light bends.

O God, that You would be lifted up above the heavens in the hearts of Your people

until the whole earth knows Your glory.

Reach down and rescue those whom You love;

pull us to safety by Your mighty right hand, and answer me.

God’s voice has been heard in His holy sanctuary:

“I will celebrate.

I will allocate Shechem and the Succoth Valley to My people.

Gilead belongs to Me, and so does Manasseh;

Ephraim is the helmet that protects My head;

Judah is the scepter through which I rule;

Moab is the washpot in which I clean Myself;

I will throw My shoe over Edom in conquest;

Philistia will soon hear My victory shout.”

But who will take me into the fortified city?

Who will lead me into Edom?

Have You not turned Your back on us, O God?

Will You stay away and not accompany our armies, O God?

Help us against our enemy; we need Your help!

It’s useless to trust in the hand of man for liberation.

Only through God can we be successful.

It is God alone who will defeat our enemies and bring us victory!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 108 (The Voice)

[saturatedpages-blog]

Suburban Ennui

In the winter, we cannot recognize ourselves dressed in our mother's lace. Shrouded in gold, and you in pearls, we’re whisked away by our fathers cinching, leather grips to the old fishing district. With its nose turned up high on the hill, looking down at the rest our desolate, iced-over tourist town, sits the yacht club. A setting as lively in the summer as it is in winter, where the events held to keep the ennui at bay are disguised as something more-something meaningful. Every wine tasting night, every father-daughter dance, every Christmas dinner all just excuses keeping the townsfolk from their own perilous restlessness until the sun shines over our brimming little beach town again. It’s a place where you and I have to play pretend just to survive. Exploited and used by our families like props and trophies, we’re paraded around like cattle, forced to carve out our widest smiles for the wolves dressed in bow ties and boat shoes. I swear I can still feel the sting, well into the warmer months, from where the old widows slap our hands and hiss “stupid girls! Not like that, smile with your teeth!” Our cheeks would burn, abashed and sore. Nevertheless, we’d comply, too afraid of the consequences that would ensue had we not. With our bare bones exposed, the wolves could carry on gawking, our fathers bragging, and our mothers could breathe poised sighs of relief knowing their daughters were safe for another season.

“There’s something unsettling about their eyes,” You declared one night at a dinner dance, cookie swap, fundraising event or whatever it was at the time. Sometimes we found refuge, hugging our knees underneath tables devoid of any place cards or centerpiece. “It’s like staring into the very nights that claimed their lovers.”

“The widows?”

“If you catch a close enough look, you can see them capsize.”

In spring, we shed our skin between the trees and wash away girlhood in the creek. The world around us is still aside from the trembling in our knees, scraped and laced with diamond pavement and concrete. We’d welcome the season's respite with offerings carried away on the backs of bugs. We’d feast on blood oranges, rip them apart with our nails and wince at the metallic taste. Still, we couldn’t get enough. The entire town couldn’t get enough. The widows thaw back into witches, the wolves suspiciously retreat. Spring was a renaissance, and from high up in the trees-our kingdoms away from home-we had front row seats. I wore mud smeared cheeks well, you wore grass stains better. We used the threads from the tears in the knees on our jeans to reinforce our own loose threads, we used our t-shirts as tourniquets. Naked and raw, running in the woods like infants who just discovered their legs capabilities, all we had to fear then were our mothers. Still numb from the winter, the wolves would run off with their rabbits, leaving them empty nesting, scathing and bitter. They wouldn't like what we got up to in the forests.

“My mom is gonna kill me,” you’d say, with dirty hands mimicking a knife to your throat.

“Don’t joke like that.”

The response to my demand did not pass through your lips. It was not your voice who carried the question, nor was it one that you and I recognized. But we could recognize the feeling it had brought with it, and the butterflies who made their cocoons in the pits of our stomachs began to beat against our insides.

“Who’s joking?”

Come summer, our town becomes overrun like the invasive plants down by the marshes, the ones that swallow you whole lest you got too close. We could never see the tourists coming. It would start with the faint footsteps in late May, only to be heard in symphony with the night owl’s cries. Never bring it up at breakfast, the point would be moot. Even when they get closer and the footsteps began to sound like a stampede, nobody else seemed to notice. Or if they did, they’d never admit to it. We could never see the tourists coming, all we could do was fall asleep to sound of their deafening march and wake up on June first to crowded beaches and congested streets. The mosquitos came with them, moving through the heavy humidity in thick sheets. Bug spray was never enough, but you and I were smart enough to even bother with that stuff, and the witches in the lighthouses were too wise to. We’d make our way through the crowded streets-hiding from more than just the sun underneath the wide brims of our hats-to find them. We’d find them, only after ascending the rusty lighthouse stairs for what seemed like an eternity, concocting spells in the same, casual way that old ladies like to bake. Mud and moss, moth wings and cicada shells, crushed berries that looked less like berries and more like blood. Things we couldn’t quite explain.

“It’s protection,” explained one witch.

“Keep it close, and cherish it like your youth,” said another.

They only ever spoke in metaphors, riddles, or in abstract language that only elicited quizzical expressions from you and me. We’d thank them all the same.

On our way back to town, we’d take the detour route to test out our new protection spells. Far off underneath the canopies of the red cedar swamp where they gathered to store the blood they collect, the mosquitoes avoided us like a plague, disgusted by the vials that hung around our necks.

“If you listen, I mean if you really listen closely and if you stay quiet enough…” You grabbed my hand, trying to quiet me and at the very moment our skin made contact, a blinding thread of heat lightning weaved its way across the sky. Followed by a clap of thunder with all too perfect timing. You simply carried on with what you were trying to say and to this day, you’ve never said a word about the electric hum that followed us home that evening.

“...you can hear the mosquitos whispering.”

I heard them cursing the witches, telling secrets...and I could’ve sworn I heard something about love.

Then came fall, when we’d sit in the graveyards at sunset. There, we’d count the number of new names and unmarked graves, taken by the bugs or the masses. We could never see them coming, but from the graveyards, we had a perfect view of the bridge that guided away the tourists. Oh, how we loved to watch them leave.

“They’re the lucky ones” you’d say.

“Sure are...” I’d solemnly agree, and we’d carry on watching and living vicariously.

You’d inform me of the brightness in my eyes quickly fading, and I’d inform you of the sorry state of your sun-kissed cheeks. As the sun went down over our little beach town, I’d study you closely, thinking in blueprints and escape plans. The trees would shed their own skin, and bend to the will of the wind like skeletons. While the wolves would reemerge, well rested and mean, the witches snuck goodbye letters into our hiding spots by the creek. Ignoring the weather reports that kept our fathers glued to the TV, we’d judge how bad the winter would be by how hungry the wolves were. Our mothers were always far too busy to even think of winter, blind to any impending doom ahead. They frantically packed and prepped our oldest siblings for university, getting ready to send them off, over the bridge with the last of the tourists.

“They’re the lucky ones…” I’d whisper, waving goodbye at the edge of my driveway.

“Sure are…” you mouthed from across the street.

As soon as the minivans were out of sight, as soon as our mothers retreated and our fathers were back inside glued to their TVs, we’d make our way to the creek one last time. Before the ice came to claim it, before our mothers could catch on to where we disappear to in the spring, we retrieved the letters-left by witches and signed by widows, apologizing for what they might do come winter-and left in haste, without any trace to ever tie us to having been there. Come the fall, we fall asleep clutching letters left by witches and signed by widows, holding on to empty vials of what was once protection spell and gripping the notion that one day, we’ll escape ourselves.

“Such imaginations those girls have…”I heard my mother whisper into the telephone one night as she poked her head into my bedroom.

“Isn’t it something?” your mother asked and answered into the receiver.

Pretending to be asleep was both a natural talent and a survival tactic.