#i was so indecisive with this one its been in my drafts since may | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

misstrashchan · 3 years

Text

So just as a heads up, this is a continuation of this post about which of Smirke's 14 Fears from the Magnus Archives team RWBY+Pyrrha would be aligned with and @im-the-king-of-the-ocean asking my thoughts on Winter, Ozpin and Oscar (sorry it took so long to get back to this! I've had it sitting in my drafts for a while)

Winter: The Slaughter

Winter as an Avatar of the Slaughter is something I hadn't thought of but it actually fits insanely well. The Slaughter does often bring up the question of whether anger and violence is just senseless and mindless, or following orders followed by rationalisation; or if we're entirely conscious of the choices we're making, and which is worse, which is something that Winter's arc has been dealing with A LOT. In how she follows Ironwood's orders and has to rationalise his actions to justify her own and her "choices", like how she explains to Weiss how she accepts her role as the Winter Maiden being her destiny, though it was something Ironwood groomed her into and how she tries to explain to Penny why they have to internalise however they might feel about abandoning Mantle and trust Ironwood.

There's the element of anger which you bring up, and Winter's relationship with anger is interesting to me to think about, because she seems very much afraid in indulging that emotion, or any emotion, and because of the military industrial complex and her abusive controlling upbringing, leads to a lot of emotional suppression and refusal to think on those feelings or deal with them in any healthy way. Which of course leads to everything boiling over, and there's this. Rage, an passionate fury that's boiling inside her. But I wouldn't say it's something she thinks she needs or enjoys right now, quite the opposite. (the idea of being afraid of being hurt, of needing to have control of her situation and to throw back her hurt of the world fits more with Cinder than Winter in my mind, and I think Melanie's relationship with anger and needing it reminds me a lot more of Yang. It justified her need for it and fed into it, and Melanie liked that, she wanted it, but for Winter her anger is something she's ashamed of, something to be locked away)

But I actually do think with where her arc is headed that thinks she will come to indulge in that feeling more. The one time we see her have an angry outburst expressing her true feelings is at Jaques at his dinner party, and she scolds and shames herself for allowing herself to get angry, that it was childish and immature. To which Penny disagrees, saying she thought she was just speaking from the heart. But Winter believes that to precisely be the problem. She cannot allow herself to think, or feel just for herself, because that terrifies her. So she only allows herself to follow orders. Again, similar to a lot of the Slaughter statement givers who were soldiers in wars of some kind and become numb to the atrocities they are made to commit, the sensless violence of it all, but her choice to accept her lack of agency and self worth still makes her complicit and is still a conscious decision on her part. This sort of meandered and I'm not sure if it made any sense but yes, I hadn't thought of it but the Slaughter actually fits Winter really well for a lot of reasons. And I think we will see her Go Feral in the near future, the thing she's most afraid of, showing how she really feels, and oh boi all that confusion, emotional repression, the lingering bitterness and jealousy towards Penny being the Winter Maiden, and projected feelings of thinking of leaving or betraying Ironwood she's been having and her conflicted feelings pushed onto Weiss, who betrayed and left first, just a whole over boiling pot that's a mess of emotions manifesting as Big Feral Winter Feelings.

Ozpin:

The Eye, Ceaseless Watcher, Beholding/The Vast, the Falling Titan, Awful Deep

Ohohohoho Ozpin. I can't tell you how many times I've listened to TMA 151 imagining Ozpin as Simon Fairchild or vice versa. Simon's VA was told that his character had to give off the impression that he might offer you a plate of cookies or fling you off a cliff and when I heard that my mind immediately jumped to Ozpin back in v1. And Ozpin's VA said that if he didn't have the weight of the world on his shoulders, he'd be a lot more chaotic and fun. And that's the thing with Ozpin though, is that he wants to be Simon Fairchild, so so badly. I think he wants people to see him as that kind of person too. But in reality, he's stuck being Jonathan Sims. (The Ceaseless Watcher's/God of Light's Special Little Boy assdkjhkk) Oz is 100% an Eye Avatar. Fair warning, like with Ruby and the End, I have a lot of Big Feelings with this one.

I see where you're coming from, but the thing with being an Avatar of the Vast is being so overwhelmed by the expanse and eternity of everything that you just accept your own insignificance as well as everyone else's, hence why they rarely form attachments or work with others. It's a very nihilistic perspective that it's Avatars tend to be very hedonistic as a result, we're all insignificant, nothing matters, let's just do whatever we want and try to have a good time, who cares what happens. And I do think Oz is Vast aligned, since he encourages the people around him, and tries himself, to enjoy the little things and have fun when he can, since he knows Salem is unstoppable and everything could go to shit at any given moment. And yknow. Him enjoying flinging students off of cliffs during initiation a bit too much.

But Ozpin cares so much about humanity. He desperately wants to believe, and tries to, in humanity, and tries for them. He's been fighting so hard for so long, and believes humanity is worth fighting for (even if he has trouble actually having faith and believing in them). Everything matters to him. He agonises over every choice he makes and impact that has, takes on so much responsibility on himself, is so guilt ridden that he admits to making "more mistakes than any man, woman or child on this planet" that he practically paralyses himself with indecision and guilt. He’s also someone who has been shown to be paranoid, (his reluctance to fully trust the people around him out of constant wariness that he may be betrayed) and afraid of being perceived for who he truly is and having his secrets exposed, which are all very Eye related fears. Ozpin’s very much in this position in which he is the one who knows everything, who passively watches and waits and knows, from up high in his tower. “Oh please, your god is nothing! The Eye, Beholding, Ceaseless Watcher, whatever you call it, that’s all it does, it watches and knows, sitting bulbous and comfortable in the ignorance of infinite knowledge.” (TMA 89) In the Lost Fable, he believed he needed to be the one to know everything (think to how he only trusted himself to hold onto the relic of knowledge, believing it to be “his burden to bear” and was desperate to take it back from Ruby) and as shown in his past lives, sought after Jinn’s knowledge in the belief that knowledge would help him in his cause, only for the ultimatum of the answer in “Salem can’t be killed” to break him and make him lose all hope of doing anything more than maintaining a perpetual stalemate. In the words of his speech in vol1, in which is a very good example of Ozpin desperately needing to practice what he preaches;

“I'll...keep this brief. You have travelled here today in search of knowledge--to hone your craft and acquire new skills. And when you have finished, you plan to dedicate your life to the protection of the people. But I look amongst you, and all I see is wasted energy, in need of purpose – direction. You assume knowledge will free you of this, but your time at this school will prove that knowledge can only carry you so far. It is up to you to take the first step” (RWBY 1x03)

There’s also like. A lot of Eye statements, particularly those relating to Jonathan, that relate heavily to Ozpin and his character, including this one:

“And at last, the Archivist looks up. At last, he looks into the eye that sees all, and knows all, and clutches at the secret terrors of your heart. The Ceaseless Watcher of all that is, and all that was; the voracious, infinite hunger that tears at his soul, invoking him to discover, to observe, to experience all, and everything, and forever. It stares into him, and it stares out of him, and he is falling into the devouring eternity of its pupil. He wants to cry out in horror, but he cannot.

He. Is. Whole.

And still he does not wake. Wandering his slim collection of gifted nightmares, passing the grey and lifeless remains of severed dreams he can no longer watch, he waits- but not for long- before they can all begin again”

Like if that doesn’t describe Oz’s endless reincarnation and merging, becoming “whole”, and living all these lives is discovering, observing and “experiencing all and forever” then I don’t know what does. And then there’s the last statement we had before the s5 break, also an Eye one, revolving around the “Minister” which also gives off major Oz vibes:

God, the children. They won’t stop looking, won’t stop following him with their piteous, desperate gaze that speaks so loudly his knees feel like they will buckle. ‘Help us.’He will. Of course he will. He wants to. He hasn’t lied to them, he really hasn’t. He used to be one of them, he remembers what it can be like. He is there to speak for them. And if necessary, he will join them again. The minister grips his black leather briefcase closely to his chest, bile rising in his throat at the sudden jolt of fear that races through his veins. Where did that come from? Is he afraid of it, returning, of that sharp stab of hunger, the shivering of a cold you can’t escape? Or is he afraid that should it come to that, they will see him as a deceiver?”

“On his side of the arena the shouts should be sharper, more angry, but their tone and pitch are such as to merge seamlessly with the others. There are no golden stakes on this side pinning down his would-be comrades. But the minister must be careful not to look too closely, or else he might see how many of his allies are fused to their own chairs, on which they have sat comfortable for so long"

"His eyes drift away, through the walls to the crowd outside. Their baying cries for justice cannot be heard in here. If any whisper should make it through, it is utterly destroyed in the deafening shouting that surrounds him. But he cannot forget their eyes, watching him, piercing him with their wounded humanity.”

Another thing is that one of Ozpin’s allusions aside from the Wizard of Oz is Odin, and Raven and Qrow are meant to be his Huginn and Muninn, two Ravens that act as his “eyes” spying and gathering information for him. If you look at Raven and Qrow’s emblem, they have a left and right bird’s eye respectively, with Oz’s gear emblem inside the eye. In v4, Salem, upon hearing that Tyrian poisoned Qrow, says “the last eye is blinded” as in,the belief that with Raven having left Oz and Qrow now dying, Oz would have no more eyes to “see” with. You also have Jonah Magnus, whose corpse is missing his eyes, but is able to watch through the eyes of the Archive employees. That and the whole body hopping host thing is a little similar in concept (and Peter Lukas mentions near the end of s4 that if Elias died, Jonah would have chosen Jon as his new host which is just. Terrifying). There's a lot of other little things too, like Oz in the first three volumes is usually shown watching events like the iniitiation, the fight at the docks, and the vytal festival through his cameras in his office, a passive observer rather than someone who is actively involved. And Yang at the end of v6, when Oscar tells them about Oz saving him, says "so he's just been watching is that whole time?" The underlying tone suggesting that he could've come back at any tike but chose to watch them instead, through Oscar, and everyone looking at him like that's pretty weird or creepy (except Ruby tho, because she's Ruby)

I feel like I could go on, but this is probably waaaaay too long, so, in summary, Oz serves the Eye, is basically a perfect candidate for the Archivist, and is also Vast aligned, and in different circumstances would have totally been a great Vast Avatar.

Oscar: The Spider, the Web, Mother of Puppets

Oscar. Was. HARD.

This lil shit is part of the reason it took so long to make this post. Because see, with other characters the most obvious indicators would be their semblances (which are often manifestations of coping mechanisms for their personal fears or trauma) or songs (which delve deeper into their characters), or have very specific fears that I can focus in on as to how that factors into their arc. But Oscar? He doesn't have a semblance. His whole THING is that he's scared. All the time. His song is called Fear for Pete's sake. Now, he is Oz's reincarnation, and Oscar does also share a fair few things in common with the Archivist and his character arc, (Elias's plan and the whole plot of the first four seasons was that he was trying to align Jon by having him touched by ALL the fears, aka, to fill Jon with fear of everything, so that he became a walking living record of fear) he persistently calls out people's BS and takes issue with people withholding information, also similar to Yang (who I firmly believe is Eye aligned). So like. Eye, right? But that just... doesn't properly fit Oscar. He's not Ozpin. The Stranger, then, becoming a stranger to yourself, perhaps? That is something Oscar's afraid of, right?

"Everything changes when you see a stranger, feel proud or betrayed" (Fear)

But Oscar is growing more confident in his own identity and figuring out who he is. He’s not becoming Oz, he's becoming his own person. And even if he was becoming Oz, Oz is hardly a Stranger to Oscar. The merge, from how it's described in the show, seems more similar to how the Distortion functioned, except Oscar and Oz don't fit into most of the Distortion's themes.

I was sort of uncertain, and I wanted to wait and see till I was more certain of where Oscar's arc was headed this volume, since he's being pushed to his limits and wanted to see how he acted and what choices he made. At the start, because of how he was regretting all the choices he'd made previously, and was telling Oz how badly he didn't want the merge to happen, I was speculating about the possibility of him being manipulated by Salem and Grimm!Oscar happening, which might fall him into the Corruption, but no.

Oscar is the Web.

It fits with his fear of being controlled, of his will not being his own, and like Jonathan, who was marked and scared for life by his encounter with the Web as a child, it is his greatest fear. Only, where Jon was so afraid of the Web he sought the Eye as his refuge, believing it would keep him safe, Oscar realises that can be used to his advantage. (Which actually makes him more like Anabella Cane, which is. Hilarious) He's trying to do what Salem does, focus in on people's weaknesses and fears and dig at them, manipulate and push them, divide them, only like, steering them into the opposite direction than Salem. He's trying to use the fact that people see him as Oz to his advantage and trying to manipulate their impression of him. He's just got this very sneaky, cunning and pragmatic streak in him that people overlook because he's also incredibly kind and just. Good. But those qualities very much scream "Web" to me the more I've dwelled on it.

#rwby #winter schnee #ozpin #oscar pine #tma #smirke's 14 #the entities #the magnus archives #tma spoilers #the web #the slaughter #the vast #the Eye

19 notes · View notes

beauenfer · 3 years

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ̨𖥔 ִ ་

one ━━ ★ ⌒*･ﾟ𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒃𝒆𝒔

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

: *✧𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫: @beauenfer || : *✧𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,149

❝ You were happy for Caroline, the girl who pined after Stefan for years until she eventually became his wife. In college. Yes, you were happy everyone had somebody and you didn’t. So, so happy. ❞

♡. 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎; The Vampire Diaries

♡. 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈; Caroline Forbes x platonic!reader

♡. 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈; this is boring, pretty damn boring, reader is a negative Nelson

♡. 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚; Caroline makes reader go to a Lonely Heart Convention the college is throwing. reader isn’t having the best time

ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀*⋆.*: .: ⋆*･ﾟ: ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ .: ⋆*

“THIS IS SO FUCKING BORING.” You took a final look at the room before turning your head to Caroline, sipping out of your punch glass with a juvenile twisty straw. You raised a sassy brow at the blonde with your obnoxious slurping of the punch, leaning back on one of the hightops. The music was utterly depressing, and instead of encouraging people to go to the dance floor it made people want to stand back and cry. Although the place was crowded with the single students of Whitmore College, it was uneventful and quiet. People were huddled in their own little groups, wearing puffy dresses like an underwater themed prom.

Caroline gave you a look.

“What?! Oh come on, you promised you would at least try to have fun!” She exclaimed, talking about a week earlier when she handed you the glittered flyer, asking for your attendance to The Lonely Hearts Convention Whitmore was hosting for its more unfortunate students.

You frowned at the memory, recalling the exact moment you said such a thing.

“I don’t recall ever saying such a thing. I do remember you threatening me, however.” You joked, taking another sip from the red juice. You hid your smile whenever she gasped, refusing your accusation.

“Anyways, I only said I would come because I was intrigued with the idea that there would be adult beverages. And I thought there would be a much more lavish buffet. Both of those expectations were crushed.” You pouted, looking down at the fruity drink you had that had stained your lips and tongue red. You looked at the empty dance floor, but only to distract yourself from looking at the thrown up finger sandwich you rolled up in a napkin. The shit was not good, not at all.

The room, as energetic as it was, still had pink lights vigorously flashing in a desperate attempt to get people moving, but it was fruitless. All of the heart streamers, pink and red heart cookies with some sort of endearment, the red napkins and paper plates, and sad love songs playing were just a sick reminder of how lonely these people really were. Half of the people here actually came with the presupposition that they would meet somebody just as forsaken as they were, then hit it off and basically meet their soulmate. The other half was just like you. They didn’t have anything else to do on a Friday night. But to be fair, there was probably a miniscule part of them that was too proud to admit that there might be a small chance for them to meet someone, too.

“I invited Bonnie. But she didn’t even come! How rude.” Caroline crossed her arms after looking around the room for the witch, a pout on her pale face. Did she not know?

“Caroline, you do remember she’s been hooking up with a guy, right?” You said with a confused expression, remembering the moment you saw Bonnie and some kid in her class making out in your shared dorm room. And lucky for Bonnie, he was pretty cute. Caroline gasped, looking offended.

“She’s been what! She never told me! Is it that guy in her little wiccan group? The one with the different colored eyes? I knew they had something going on! ” Caroline rambled to herself as you just stared in amazement, not feeling guilty for exposing Bonnie’s little fling. Honestly, you were just happy she was dating someone that wasn’t Jeremy Gilbert. Their relationship was rocky, at best. You were happy for all your friends, actually. Elena, as much as she’s been through, she finally has the happiness she deserves with Damon. Bonnie, with her mysterious man we have yet to meet. You were happy for Caroline, the girl who pined after Stefan for years until she eventually became his wife. In college. Yes, you were happy everyone had somebody and you didn’t. So, so happy.

You didn’t realize you were glaring at the floor until Caroline spoke again. You unclenched your fist around your drink and snapped your head up to look at her.

“What?” You mumbled, eyebrows furrowed as you realized you heard nothing she was saying. She gave you a sympathetic look, a soft exhale leaving her nose.

“I was talking about Bonnie’s absolute betrayal, but you weren’t listening. You seem to not listen a lot lately. What’s your deal?” You felt like you were suddenly put under the knife whenever she asked you that. You didn’t want to say, and you didn’t like the tone she used to ask. Did you make her mad or something? If she was somehow angry at you, you couldn’t think of what for.

You shook your head and hummed in indecision, hoping that would suffice.

“Oh come on! I feel like we haven’t been talking like we used to! You know, ever since college and the travellers and the Gemini Coven and the weird mad scientist professor guy. You know you can talk to me about anything!” She whined, pulling on your arm for emphasis. Still, your reasons for being inattentive were your own, and personal. You knew all she was saying already, you knew Caroline would never judge you, but you didn’t feel comfortable explaining to your newly married friend that seeing everyone so hopelessly in love made you...jealous. She wouldn’t understand. So you decided to lie, something you’ve grown to do effortlessly.

“Caroline, can you please just trust me when I say there’s nothing going on? You know me, I’m easily distracted as it is. And don’t you think if I really had a problem I would tell you?” You gave her a look, holding onto her hand to reassure her. She just gave you a nod, but you still saw doubt in her eyes.

“Exactly. I am fine, really. I’m just bored honestly.” You shrugged, seeing her smile back at you.

“As long as you’re okay, then I’m okay.” Caroline smiled sweetly, wrapping her arms around yours and leaning her head on your shoulder.

You did the same, her hair tickling her cheek. The both of you stared out into the empty crowd, at the groups of people laughing around a hightop, or the scattered loners who drunk punch around the room, shyly looking up at the others to see if they had enough courage to talk to each other. Suddenly, your perspective had changed entirely. These people may not be as pathetic as you thought they were. Maybe they were all just like you. Maybe they were all pining after a relationship of their own to make themselves feel whole, and maybe they were in the same predicament you were in. Maybe they were lying to their friends saying they were fine, maybe they were jealous. Either way, you had a newfound respect for your fellow peers.

After all, they were all just as heartbroken as

you.

authors note:

I have a much MUCH better idea for this concept, but this was just sitting in my drafts because I didn’t really know where else to go with it.

So don’t even stress because something better will be coming out soon.

#tvdforever #tvd oneshot #caroline forbes oneshot #caroline forbes x reader #caroline forbes imagine #caroline forbes #candice king #the vampire diaries imagine #the vampire diaries

45 notes · View notes

theouterdark · 4 years

Note

Hello! In the light of Storyteller Saturday writeblr event, I'm sending some questions around & since I love your work, I wanted to ask you something too even if you don't participate. :P Sooo, you haven't told us much about Topiary Black. How is it going, first of all, and what are some of your plans for it at the moment. How is Coldwater Sound's 2nd draft going, you had mentioned you were thinking of two different versions of it. No pressure, this is only if you wish to talk about them. ^^

I’m somewhat restrained when it comes to revealing details about my WIPs while I’m drafting, and what I do share is only after deliberate consideration. That said, I’d love to answer your questions, but I want to touch on my reservations as well because I don’t think I’ve ever talked about it here.

Oversharing cripples my process and my work because:

A) My creative well empties

If I receive validation or catharsis from revealing information or excerpts before the work is truly done, my brain will trick me into thinking I’ve accomplished something, thereby:

B) I become unproductive

Which inherently is my natural state, which gives me unintended distance from the narrative, thereby:

C) The story wanders from my active memory

That’s mostly why I err toward ambiguity. But. Since I’m not actively working on these for a few more weeks, let’s jump in.

Status: Outlining

Topiary Black is progressing, if somewhat leisurely. I know most of the major beats, and some of the minor ones, but I’ve been indecisive on matters of setting and character. The main cast needs to be pruned, for starters (one of my weaknesses is adding far more characters than necessary in the initial draft, so I’m trying to save myself oodles of time by shedding some of the extra weight now).

I’m also having antagonist problems that I was cognizant of early-on but chose to ignore because problems like that are for Future Dylan. I think I’m zeroing in on something interesting though.

Occasionally, I’ll pen a scene when I can’t contain it anymore. But for the most part, there is too much on my plate with this project to begin writing in earnest.

As far as a timeline, my goal is to complete draft one by mid-late summer 2020. I think it’s doable, but I may postpone work until I get more of the worldbuilding firmed up.

I know that’s not much in the way of actual interesting information so here are some nuggets:

The bulk will be recounted in the first person by the member of The Aviary known as “Loon”

Also planning on using a frame story for her “present” timeline

It will tackle sexuality and identity far more than any of my previous works

Inspirations for Topiary Black include “The Library of Babel,” the Akashic records, Rabbits, Mr. Robot, and the art of Simon Stålenhag

It takes place in an alternate 1980s

I’m currently planning it to be one of three semi-connected projects, the other two being “The God Machine” and Deerfield Run, that will form a loosely-connected speculative fiction trilogy, but each will read as a standalone work

I think that’s about all I can reveal at the moment, let’s get on to the next WIP.

Status: Drafting

Oh boy, what a mess.

In short, draft two isn’t going. I touched on this in an earlier update post, but my current struggle with Coldwater Sound is not a fun one. I have two entirely different conceptions of how the novel should go, and in my heart, I know which one is gonna win.

And it’s the one that requires me to re-write the entire thing.

At its heart, it will remain the same. The characters and their relationships won’t differ wholly from the first draft, but the bulk, as it is, is far too convoluted. I’ll be trimming the core cast, cutting locations, and refocusing the plot on Blake the mystery of Penny’s disappearance.

That means losing a lot of stuff I like about the original, sadly. Such is the way of things. I may reconsider this by holding another reading of draft one.

Honestly, I’m far more focused on a different project that you didn’t ask about, but I’ll tell you about it anyway:

Status: Seeking Alpha Readers/Drafting

I haven’t done an official ask/announcement, but I’ve gained enough distance from The Devil from the Outer Dark to begin the Alpha Read. I know some of the changes I want to make, but I’d still like some reactions to build from. I want to keep it small, likely 3-5 readers, if anyone out there is interested.

It is technically a sequel to Coldwater Sound, but the first is not required reading. Just like The Murder of Roger Ackroyd isn’t required reading for Murder on the Orient Express. Blake is still the main character, there’s still a mystery for her to solve, and horror lurks around many a corner, but spoilers for Coldwater Sound are mild at best.

If you want to help me out or learn more about the project, shoot me a message here on my blog.

Tagging: @writingmyassoff, @erin-writes-stuff, @midnightstreetwanderings, @byjillianmaria, @bethwrotethis, @doux-ciel, @hilunawrites, @ghost-possum, @zmlorenz, @doubleviewfinder, @veronicadent, @els-writes, @dantedevereaux, @tlbodine, @hypotheticalwriterquestions, @hazeywrites, @reeseweston, @dor-rose-love, and @katabasiss. (Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from future tags for any of these projects).

#storyteller saturday #on sunday (sorry)#writeblr #writeblr community #topiary black #coldwater sound #the devil from the outer dark #p:tb #p:cws:d2 #p:tdftod #update #get to know me #get to know the writer #Dylan speaks #seeking alpha readers #seeking readers

11 notes · View notes

maximumphilosopheranchor · 5 years

Text

“This is the most one-sided biography of Mary Stuart, “the unluckiest ruler in British history”, for years. Even Lady Antonia Fraser handled some of the more controversial incidents in Mary’s life – the discussions over the fate of Lord Darnley at Craigmillar Castle in November 1566, or Mary’s “kidnapping” by the Earl of Bothwell at the bridge of Almond in April 1567 – with caution. Guy simply accepts Mary’s account as gospel. Lady Antonia’s Mary is essentially the story of a redeemed sinner. In 1988, Jenny Wormald mounted a challenge to the sympathetic approach, in Mary Queen of Scots: A study in failure. If little more than an extended essay, it was still based on Wormald’s own revisionist studies of the Scottish nobility, which replaced the cliché of an unruly and factionalized country with an emphasis on the constitutionalism of Scottish political behaviour. Mary was a failure not just because she was both indecisive and not very bright, but because she attempted to rule against the grain of Scottish politics.

Guy will have none of this. His Mary is a model ruler who faced a violent, self-seeking and greedy Scottish nobility (no revisionism here) and an organized clique of republican (Guy’s term) Presbyterian bigots led by John Knox and George Buchanan. The novelty of Guy’s approach lies in his attempt to write Mary’s life from the perspective of what can be called the “St Andrews school” - Roger Mason, Jane Dawson, Guy’s own student Stephen Alford, and most recently Pamela Ritchie – who for two decades have dominated the study of Anglo-Scots relations in the sixteenth century. Their central argument is that Scotland was the prey of two rival imperialisms, one French and Catholic, the other English and Protestant. Mary was herself the agency of the French scheme, serving to unite Scotland to France through her marriage to Francis II. At the same time she was the barrier to a Protestant union with England. Her strongest enemy was not Elizabeth I, but Elizabeth’s secretary Sir William Cecil, the principal supporter of a Protestant union. Having seen Mary as the main threat to his plans, Cecil (whom Guy calls Mary’s “nemesis”) assiduously sought to remove or destabilize her. Curiously, Guy’s Mary has no dynastic ambitions herself, she was simply the victim of the wider imperial rivalry, in which her French relations were as self-seeking as her Scottish enemies.

It comes as no surprise to find Guy arguing that Mary was innocent of the murder of her husband and that the famous Casket Letters were forgeries. The conspiracy behind Lord Darnley’s murder was masterminded by the future Regent, James Douglas, Earl of Morton (“the most sinister of the leading Lords”), but instigated by Cecil. There is nothing particularly new in accusing Morton, but there is in accusing Cecil. Unfortunately, on his own admission, Guy cannot prove the charge: “It is not, of course, that Cecil conspired to assassinate Darnley: he was far too clever for that. But, from the beginning, his policy towards Mary had relied on attempts to destabilize her rule by causing mayhem at critical moments”.

On the Casket Letters themselves, Guy follows Gordon Donaldson and Lady Antonia in arguing that the letters were not necessarily complete forgeries, but manipulations of otherwise innocent items. This case for forgery is made largely on textual grounds and for that reason it suffers from a certain subjectivity. At the same time the forgery claim has created a further issue, which has not (to date) been adequately addressed. If the letters and the documents associated with them are accepted as genuine, there is a coherent account of their discovery. As Buchanan observed, Bothwell saved them as an insurance policy in case Mary tried to repudiate him and make him the scapegoat for Darnley’s murder. They were brought to Morton’s attention between June 19 and 21, 1567; a considerable number of people were aware of their existence in June and July 1567; and they are mentioned in the Act of the Scottish Parliament justifying Mary’s “retention” in December 1567. Finally, copies were in circulation in England in the summer of 1568, before the originals were brought south in the autumn.

If, however, they were forged, when did the forging take place? It could only have been undertaken in concert with the drafting of a narrative of Mary’s misdeeds (which took its ultimate form in the Book of Articles) that the letters were to substantiate – a point Wormald has appreciated. Lady Antonia dated the forging to the summer of 1568, when Mary’s arrival in England made it necessarily to prepare a case against her. How then are the 1567 references to be explained? Even if Morton’s account of how the letters were found is also dismissed as a fabrication (despite the fact that he cites a number of witnesses, not all of whom were allies of his), the others remain. Guy does not tackle this issue directly, except by bringing up an apparent discrepancy between Morton’s account and the Act on Mary’s imprisonment. Morton’s account of how the letters were found during June 19-21 is contradicted by the Act (Guy states), which declared ‘“the cause and occasion of their taking the said Queen’s person upon the said 15th day of June’ was ‘by divers [of] her privy letters’ said to be wholly in her handwriting. These Lords [sic] confidently assured Parliament that Mary’s letters had been found before they had forced her to surrender…”. Unfortunately, what the act actually states is that the cause of the taking of the Queen’s person on June 15 and all the actions “touching the said Queene” since the death of Darnley “wes in the said Queenes awin default [my italics], as in sa far as be divers her privy letters… and be her ungodlie and dishonorabill proceding to ane pretendit mariage… it is maist certain sche was previe, airt and pairt… of the murther”. The letters were cited only as evidence of Mary’s “default”; it is not even implied that they had been found before June 15.

This example of selective quotation is not unique. One of the problems of “My Heart Is My Own” is Guy’s curiously casual handling of evidence. He also succumbs to the inherent fallacy of conspiracy theories. There is an “official account”, which is microscopically examined, every discrepancy noted, every omission considered suspicious. But when the conspiracy is finally unveiled, it is based on evidence even more flimsy than the official account. The conspiracy here is not Scottish, but English. At its heart was William Cecil, who masterminded Mary’s downfall from 1559 until her execution in 1587, as well as plotting the destruction of English Catholicism through a series of fabricated plots against Elizabeth – a conspiracy theory the Jesuit historian Francis Edwards has been arguing tirelessly since the 1960s. Guy quite rightly observes that the rivalry between Elizabeth and Mary has been greatly overplayed and that Elizabeth was more willing to reach a compromise with Mary than she has been given credit for. He is also justified in emphasizing that Cecil was more suspicious of Mary than Elizabeth. I pointed out, in 1987, that the distrust of Mary that Cecil and his brother-in-law Sir Nicholas Bacon shared was little different from Knox’s. But at the end of the day, Cecil was Elizabeth’s servant and it was her policies that were implemented. The one obvious exception was Mary’s execution, but the explosion that caused is conclusive proof that it was not business as usual. As his treatment of Lord Darnley’s death reveals, much of Guy’s Cecilian conspiracy is innuendo.

“My Heart Is My Own” is a tribute to the fascination that Mary Stuart continues to exert. This in itself is not surprising, for, as the Romantics fully appreciated, she was a Greek tragedy in kilts. The fascination may also explain why Mary’s historiography has been littered with conspiracy theories, the most important of which she started herself. Nevertheless, one would have expected a historian of John Guy’s calibre to have employed a little more discrimination in his treatment, not so much of Mary, but of her contemporaries, who are reduced to the level of caricatures. The result is not a radical new interpretation, but another in the long line of Marian apologias.”

Simon Adams reviewing “My Heart Is My Own”: The life of Mary Queen of Scots by John Guy. “Queens’ Moves.” TLS, no. 5267, Mar. 2004, p. 8.

#Simon Adams #John Guy #Mary Stuart #Mary Queen of Scots #William Cecil #Elizabeth I #historiography #Simon Adams is the voice of reason again

52 notes · View notes

space-unicorn-dot · 6 years

Text

SSO HTTYD AU - Jaime Ravenshield

YEET, I was actually semi-around for the talk about this one and am actually here to show up on time with a developed character to actually participate. And this is perfect because Jay is perfect for this and I guess it’s not hard to tell I’ve been literally all over getting to develop and write him more. So, without further ado!! @sso-trainyourdragon Uhhh... I also realize this isn’t done, but if I save it just to my drafts, I’m gonna lose it, not know where it went, and never finish it. So, yeah, I’m gonna tag this, and please hold.

MEET MA BOI

Name: Jaime Ravenshield - Jay to friends

Age: Twenty-three

Occupation/Trade: Adventurer, mercenary

Magic: Illusions (disguising and masking things as something different, usually something a little more “normal”), Moon Circle/prophetic visions, water manipulation

Physical Appearance:

Yeah, I do genuinely think his hair would be longer in this AU verse, and, I mean, ignore that this doll creator was obviously kickass Viking woman (Iloveit) and, y’know, I did what I could. BUT ANYWAY.

He’s a bit of a human tower, standing at least six feet in height, and probably some change (read: I haven’t decided an exact, so just know he’s tol), with light blonde hair and heterochromia. His left eye is a warm brown and his right is a pale blue. I went with pale blue in the doll thing because you can’t choose two different ones, but you get the idea. I do really like how this turned out, lol.

Clothes & Style: Jay is on the move often and his typical style reflects that, and his preference for functionality. He’s often carrying at least a blade with him - either a sword or a dagger/some throwing knives, but also carries a bow and quiver for easier hunting. I may or may not have found myself mildly influenced by the presence of Assassin’s Creed Origins and Odyssey lately in my life. >.>

Uh, yeah, he’s also probably almost always in long sleeves, the light armor, boots, and pants. It gets a bit cold out there. The headpiece/helmet is probably mostly only when he’s actually flying, and the cloak is probably under a similar sort of use.

Build: Fit, healthily(?) muscled? You can tell he’s active and he practices his trade well enough to get more than by on the skin of his teeth, but he’s no hulking Stoick the Vast, ya feel?

Defining Characteristics: Typically wears some sort of blue paint in a few varying patterns - either something like the stripes in the picture or some runic designs. He has some claw scars on his left arm from a bit of a closer call with some ~disgruntled wildlife, and some more with scraps of the more human kind on his torso, not that anyone will be seeing that without some platonic bonding beforehand. Don’t get too excited, kids. I mean, there’s also his heterochromia. That probably gets noticed a fair bit.

Signature: Is this talking about like writing style? Signature feature? Weapon? Style? I don’t know and I’m not a cool kid that can do that fancy make your own font sort of thing because I’m lame, lazy, and don’t have any of that fancy tablet stuff, so you’re gonna have to bear with my vague description. His writing probably has a slight slant to it no matter what he’s writing - not necessarily the “I can’t write in a straight line without a line of reference” kinda slant, but like... a stylistic one? And he’s pretty neat. Probably mildly fancy. Because that shit’s pretty.

Personality: While “mercenary” might sound contradictory to all of this, “vigilante” might work a little better for a true description of what he does. Most people just end up calling him the former, anyways. He’s grown independent and self-sufficient out of necessity, considering he was an orphan, but he’s quite the compassionate individual, almost always willing to detour from the task at hand to help someone in need. He’s typically pretty soft-spoken and understanding. He’s not a particularly open book about himself, but he’ll take time to listen. Incredibly loyal and protective of those he cares for.

Talents: In free time, he’s been fond of sketching - lots of Star, but also of some of the scenery they’ve seen on their adventures. And, he’s a bit shy about it, so he won’t really admit to it unless you really press, but he likes to sing - again, mostly to Star.

Fighting Skills/Style: Jay has always been able to rely on Star to work with him in combat situations - as a distraction, with his strength, as a quick escape option, you name it, Star and Jay would trust each other to help. As for him alone, though, he prefers a shield and a trusty bow with a good range for his combat. In a sense, he likes to fight light on his feet - nimble and dodging or parrying incoming strikes so he can work quickly with his sword and daggers instead of depending on a shield for protection. If tackling a large group, he’d prefer to move with his bow first, to reduce the enemies he must take on and reduce his change of getting detected and stuck in a fight where he’s too outnumbered to take care of himself.

Relationships: Jay’s spent a lot of time mostly on his own, mainly with just Evergray, his mentor as company. Look, ‘cause I can. I love that bastard.

As for romantic, I have no idea, lol. Jay hasn’t really been on the market for a love interest, but that don’t mean he wouldn’t be open to one if something came up.

Pets: A light gray fox with a particular fondness for puddles, splashing up water, and who simply adores when Jay allows him to come with him and Star. His name is Ash.

Miscellaneous:

STORY

Origin: Somewhere high in the mountains; his memory’s a little blurry since his parents were killed when he was very young (and he’d, thus, rather not think too hard or long on it), and he was taken in after by the occasionally odd, but ultimately kind-hearted Evergray when he was young, maybe no more than six. Idk, I’m indecisive. xD Don’t make me number things.

Motivations: It’s not that his life is bad. But something feels likes its missing. The idea of seeing the world was a nice one, too, but, really, he’d also like somewhere he felt like he belonged.

DRAGON

Name; Starstone, usually just Star

Age: Mid to late-teens, probably, maybe an upwards of 20.

Species Name: Stormcutter

Description: Dark blue scales cover most of his body, with a very light blue undertone on his belly and his face that fades into the darker blue. His wings are also the light blue. His eyes are a deep gold color. Jay found him when he was still a young, barely full-grown dragon, with a bit of growing left to do, injured and a bit sickly, but they seemed to trust each other almost at first sight. Jay nursed the dragon back to health almost entirely on his own, only taking advice from more experienced elders, but letting few (if anyone at all) lay a hand to help.

Personality: He’s very wise, old-soul kinda friend, compassionate, supportive, and, above all else, would do anything for Jaime and to keep him safe. While he moves and holds himself with experience showing, he’s also soft-spoken and doesn’t mind trying to keep up with the occasional antic from other younger or more energetic dragon friends. He’s the kind that would sit there with a straight face while you wave a Twizzler in front of him and, just when you’re ready to begrudgingly give up because it looks like he won’t play with you, tackle and roll you into a gentle scuffle. Would ten out of ten use his tail as a playing lure for kiddos and let them practice pouncing on them. Loves soaring in the night sky, and regularly lets Jay sleep on him in various ways. Sometimes just on his back, sometimes under his wing, sometimes even wrapped in them when he hangs upside down. Overall, really chill, loyal ride or die. Also a wise counsel; Jay regularly consults and takes his advice.

Markings & Scars: He has some grayish-white stripes running down his neck and back, narrowing as they reach his tail and only going down the first bit of it. He has some scarring on his chest and some lighter ones across his hindquarters from close calls with his faithful rider.

Fighter or Passive?: Typically passive, like his rider, but, also like Jay, not afraid to “throw hands” when push comes to shove.

Anything Else Notable?: He has never been ridden with any sort of saddle or harness. Jay’s relationship with him is founded on trust and respect and, therefore, the only thing he’d ever maybe consider would be additional armor for his friend if they were getting into something he worried his dear friend couldn’t take, but they’ve made it this far without, so it’s not very likely.

#sso #star stable online #my oc #writing #my writing #sso httyd au #sso dragon au #jaime ravenshield

8 notes · View notes

moonlightheretic · 6 years

Photo

Well here we go~ Finally posting my Solas/ trespasser fic. I've had this in my head since 2015. I'm not sure I'm satisfied with it but...I can't delay it anymore. Please go back and read the summary or...be prepared for the winding path which fate incurs. !Please listen to which witch by Florence and the machine.! https://youtu.be/_dridksAWI0 The song inspired this fic almost entirely! * * * * They were coming. Sooner than later. What did I have but mere moments encapsulated in Minutes? Would time be kind? The answer would come with the soldiers. Time is a one way tunnel, the light forever looming ahead. An illusion, for there may be no end. If I could I would stop. Stand still. Neither forward nor backward. I needed to soak everything in, absolutely everything down to the most insipid detail. Momentary panic littered my resolve like an orlesian ballroom. My legs rubbed together but there was no where to run. I could break the window and dive to my death but there was too much to live for, too many things left undone. My body fidgeted in anticipation. I winced. The iron restraints were heavier than I remembered. They chaffed against the loose threads of my bare skin. Iron intentions cast for those with the status of 'criminal', for the last three weeks that was my title. Along with 'enemy to the Inquisiton', 'colluder', and 'spy', replaced the once fragrant 'Herald' and 'Andraste's Chosen'. Yes, I'd seen better days. First it had been lurking suspicion, house arrest and now full blown imprisonment. I was locked in my grandiose room, heavily guarded with no way out. Chains fitted to keep everyone else from possible harm. I was blessed with the absence of interrogation, specifically Leliana's form of the art. They had all the proof they needed anyway. My claims could be easily refuted when everything fit so nicely together in place. Dust suspended by drafts glimmered in the streaks of sunlight that cut across the rugs. I took note of every precious detail, for today would be my last day to take everything for granted. Here I waited for the day to come. I had no more tears to shed. This Injustice was too formidable to fight against. Today, if everything went according to plan, I would be sentenced and most likely executed. There could be no defence for me, not one shred of hope thrown my way. The afternoon light gave me a lengthy visitor, I would not die alone, at least I still had my shadow. The door opened with a deafening bang. Four soldiers filed in, some were still sympathetic. I could see it in their faces. They wouldn't see me, just my boots and the floor. They didn't need to say anything. I knew, they knew it too. I stood up and followed them. The red haired elf slipped behind us all and gave me a quick nod. The soldiers were not displaced at her presence. She was an elf and to the human men, unlike me, she was easily dismissible and harmless. She held a tray with a rag folded on top. The reason to the soldiers was for possible gagging if I required it. Two guards led the way while the other two held on to my arms. For once I savored the long winded hallways of Skyhold. If I could I would have let my fingers graze against the bold stone walls. We strolled to the end of the hallway and entered the side chamber of the Great Assembly Hall. Five children stormed up from the lower levels and rammed into the front soldiers. We stopped abruptly but the two soldiers in front weren't so lucky. The children fell and the soldiers toppled over them cursing in all likes of profanity. Soundlessly, the chains on my hands behind my back were unlocked, I held my hands together to keep the untethered restraints from falling off. They soldiers were oblivious. Hope bloomed like a tiny bud in my heart. After receiving a harsh admonishment and some severe death glares the children scampered off unscathed. They weren't allowed to be in this area in the first place. We reached the main hall without incident afterwords. Cullen met us at the door--to personally escort me to the center stage. His features were stone cold, preferring the numbing effect of duty rather than dealing with emotions of despair. My throne, once reserved for my hind quarters only, was occupied by Divine Victoria. I could not see her face. The crowd of onlookers filled the hall, stretching it's seams and bled out into the courtyard. They gasped and pointed upon seeing me. Some angrily wailed and others threw insults like punches. There was also the tiny few still in denial and they planted themselves at my feet in protest. This was public after all. The guards quickly intervened and hoisted them up and carried them away. They all pushed and shoved, my escorts could do all but barely keep them off. But, who was I to deny them their outrage? I was herded into the front before the Divine and kneeled without being forcibly brought to my knees. The woman who I would always remember as Seeker Cassandra, watched me grimly. As did many dignitaries and representatives from other nations. Fereldon and Orlais being the most scornful, though it was difficult to tell behind the mask. At that moment I really wanted to hide behind one too. Not trusting my intentions, the escorts beside me drew their swords and held the deadly iron at my throat. My reflexes were pleading with me. Like before they looked away in shame. Cullen took his place beside Leliana and Josephine on the far left of the throne. The ever graceful Antivan still held the look of disbelief, like she was waiting to wake up from a nightmare. She held her evidence in her shaking hands and moved to stand in front of me. Leliana kept her eyes narrowed and watched me. Connecting dots in her mind on how I might try and escape. "Lady Ambassador, if I may?" The Divine asked before Josephine could speak. "Of course, Most Holy." The Divine visibly cringed and twisted her fingers in her lap. "I address this matter solemnly. This is not the reason I wanted to visit Skyhold. Yet, here I am, for a purpose other than what anyone wants, Inqui--uh-Moon'Hwa Lavellen." She stumbled over my forsaken title. Her reassurances were lost on the crowd and someone screamed "Hang her already!" The man was swiftly hauled out. Cassandra looked shaken for a moment before she regained her composure enough to finish her last words. "I would greatly like to find doubt within these claims, but it seems impossible... I..." She was wrought with indecision. "Please proceed," She motioned for Josephine who had fresh tears in her eyes. She moved with a lack of pace, delaying the process in any way she could. Josephine held up her hand to silence the murmuring that had overtaken the boundaries of order and began, "Moon'Hwa Lavellen, amist undeniable truth you are convicted and charged of heresy. An agent of Fen'harel himself, you used your position to gain power, infiltrating the ranks of our order and have single handedly aided him. You also delivered classified information to him at the infancy of this organization." The crowd jeered and stabbed with their words in excitement. They waited for justice for their betrayal on the edge of chaos. "Countless souls died for you, yet you led them astray. Essentially, you used the Inquisiton's resources and troops to kill Fen'harel's main enemy, Corypheus, to pave the way for his ultimate goals. While the Inquisiton acknowledges the good deeds adminstered under your position as Inquisitor, it is eclipsed by the actions taken by you in accordance to your allegiance to Fen'harel." Cold as the surrounding mountains, I didn't respond. "The proof is here!" Leliana exclaimed and held up the crumbling evidence of my collusion. She stepped aside Josephine and let the crowd take in the sight of the journal. "Here, is where your lies end and truth begins!" She flipped through the pages, flexing the them beyond capacity, not caring if they ripped in the process. "Translated expertly-- Moon'Hwa is to lead a small party to the temple of sacred ashes and hereby secure the Foci from the blight creature after it is opened---correspondence--I understand. Initialed 'M'." Leliana glared at me, "Surely, I don't need to read the date...for we all know when that was." The mass of people, outraged and heated shouted in agreement. Even the Divine closed her eyes in remorse. Josephine touched Leliana's shoulder in concern, "Enough, we do not want to incite violence." She ignored her, "You were the soul provider that gave Corypheus the orb to open under Fen'harel's command!" What unfolded was insanity. The hyped crowd lashed out, at each other and me, successfully grabbing me more than once, pulling on my collar and consequently the swords pointed there drew blood at my neck. I was most worried about my holdings falling off. Being yanked back and forth I could feel them listing to one side. The soldiers struggled to break the siege of heartbreak and betrayel that knawed at their very being and propelled their actions. The Divine stood, safe behind her army of guards and screamed, "Enough!" But it was useless against the onslaught of rage. Amist the chaos, peaking her head around a spectator was the maid from earlier. I saw her signal briefly, knowing my eyes couldn't linger since Leliana still watched me. I shook my head slightly pretending to be upset, although I actually was. Leliana quickly saw through it and frantically hunted for whomever I was motioning to, though the Auburn hair maid was gone. Embers exploded from the rafters and showered upon the crowd blasting the rampage from their minds. "Oh, look! Reminds me of home. Sorry I'm late." Dorian tapped his staff against the mason floor, The ambient magic returning in screaming ribbons to its conductor. The crowds cowered away from the mage and thus provided an open pathway. The announcer marched up to the Divine and hastily spoke, "The ambassador of Tevinter, Most Holy." Cassandra rolled her eyes, "Yes, I can SEE that, thank you." She had gone completely pale and almost looked sickly. Overwhelmed with the army of spectators and the proven allegations against me. "Most Holy." Dorian bowed. "It is good to see you again, Ambassador." There was no sincerity in her voice. "Please, Dorian is adequate enough." He was ushered to sit in the empty chair next to Orlais and Fereldon, Arl Teagon wrinckled his nose at his mere presence. While Orlais immediately engaged in petty conversation. Dorian's eyes were glued to me, calculating. He stroked his curled mustache in consideration while pretending to engage in the meaningless blather of the Orleisan council of heralds. The Divine placed her head in her hands. Cullen was no better than a statue, Leliana still seethed and Josephine dapped her eyes. Dorian lept from his chair. "I'd like to make an offer, seeing as no one else is putting options on the table. Most Holy." He nodded to her. "You just barely got here and now you are making demands?" Josephine admonished. The Divine gestured to let him speak. "On behalf of Tevinter, I would like to offer Inquisitor Moon'Hwa asylum." Leliana scoffed, "The answer is the same ambassador, as it was in your numerous letters. We will not be granting such amnesty to a crime as outstanding as hers." "Why, I don't know, secluded in some hut out of any range of a haberdashery doesn't sound like amnesty to me." Leliana paced in front of him. "Making light of her crimes, Now, mage? Is your land truly as lawless as the tales suggest?" "Not--" She cut him off, "You, yourself you should also proceed carefully." "Oh, and why should I, Dear Spy master?" He arched his brows. "Because you are insistent, and it is starting to look like Tevinter has something to gain by acquiring our former leader. Or perhaps you were an accomplice all along. Passion for a friend can easily be twisted." "All depends on who's doing the twisting, Sister Nightingale. Also, what stake does Tevinter have in helping an Elven God? You do realize we still enslave their people correct?" "That remains to be seen." "Both of you, enough!" Cassandra scolded. The onlookers began to crowd in again, hesitantly pooling a couple strides length from the gaurds but still close enough to hear. "This is no time to squabble amongst ourselves." Dorian went back to his seat with an air of defeat clinging to his brow. Leliana still glowered at him, trailing his shadow with her eyes. "The charges are...great, Inquisit-" She sighed at her mistake, "-Levellan. I knew they weren't particularly irrefutable but I did not realize they were this incriminating. I..." Her hands squeezed into fists, emotion sinking in. The betrayal hitting her like a rockslide. Whatever hope she had left dissipated at the proof Leliana preached. She composed herself suddenly, determination narrowed her eyes and tightened her lips. "Proceed with the sentencing. I do not wish to hear more." Josephine made her way back to the spotlight. Without looking at me she read out, "The heretic, Moon'Hwa Lavellen is to hang by the neck until death, in so relinquishing her power over the Inquisiton, matters of Fen'harel, and...her life in all ascpects." Her voice shook towards the end. "Do you have any last words?" She asked, head bent away from the sight of me. I nodded my affirmation. "Go ahead," The Divine spoke in place of Josephine. "Forgive me, Most Holy." I begged. "Inquisitor, the Maker will, but I cannot-" It took less than a second. They had no time to react. I rose, knocking the swords from their hands and slammed both guards with my cuffs. The horde of soldiers charged, though it was pointless. The air warped and contorted green, breaking sound barriers and the blast engulfed the hall in darkness, snuffing out every candle. I stood with my hands free, left hand raised and they all scrambled to get away. The hundreds of people behind me screamed they climbed over one another to escape, standpeeding to the exit. Soldiers jumped to the Divine's defense, though they were slow at best, swimming through the chaos the twisting rift conjured. I escaped through a side chamber and then a dark stairwell, then through another set of doors and another before I found the light. She was waiting for me, just outside the back entrance. She was failing to keep the restless warhorse still. Red hair poking out in all directions, tiny frame trying to subdue the large animal. The mare snorted and sidestepped, pulling at its freedom. "There is no time." She whispered. "You could be killed if they find out." I warned. I mounted the horse, getting a foot hold in the stirrup. The horse stood and mouthed at the bit, ears turned back and waiting for a command. "That doesn't matter." "It does to me." "Go! Stop him and succeed. Make my death worthwhile." She slapped the horse's rump and we jolted forward. The charging mare parted the crowded courtyard rather quickly, common folk and dignitaries stumbled to heed the demands of the thunderous hooves, lest they be run-over. We raced across the drawbridge, the threshold in our dust, no time to glance back. I could hear the dubious shouts, then the alarm bells, and not a split second later, feel the vibrations as arrows plummeted into our shadows. The mare's pent up energy allowed her to practically fly, eagerly pulling at the bit to free her head. In no time at all we reached the other side and through the slow moving gate. "Inquisitor!" I heard Commander Cullen cry before I left the range of hearing. There it is! It's probably terrible but....I had the worst time trying to write the first chapter. Please leave a comment below if you made it this far! Lots of things remain to be seen so stay tuned! All questions will be answered in time!

#myfic #solas x lavellan #solas dragon age #solas fanfiction #Moon'HwaLavellen #dragonageinquisition #da: inquisition #dai #dragonagefanfiction #oc #inquisitor #theheretic #rewritingtresspasser #solasmance

1 note · View note

funkymbtifiction · 7 years

Note

Hi Charity as you are an ENFP I wanted to ask you how to do you see Si and Te in you? How was it clear for you that you were Ne dom and Fi aux and not the contrary? You said in the past that you cinsidered yourself socially introvert or shy, which I think is my case and I'm not sure about INFP or ENFP for me. Thanks a lot

My main way of recognizing my status as an extrovert, beyond my need for external stimulation all the time (NOTHING HAS HAPPENED IN TEN MINUTES, MY LIFE SUCKS) is that I am not a Fi-dom. So excuse me, while I once again travel into the land of indecisive Ne to illustrate my point; then I will return to your initial question.

If you compare the INFPs on this blog to the ENFPs, you will notice that the INFP’s Fi is often very prominent and “runs the show.” This is also true with real life INFPs, who as judging dominants, have and express very strong opinions. Since they are in contact with their inner self most of the time, they often know what they like and dislike, what they want to do or refuse to do, and how they FEEL about most things. There is rarely indecision on that point, especially when it comes to the strength of their inner moral focus.

While I have extremely strong opinions in a few areas, in the broader scope of reality, I am far more indecisive and disconnected from my feelings, to the point where half the time, I rationalize them out with Te, or question my “right” to feel this way at all, rather than just use them. Something I admire about INFPs is they tend to be more decisive than I am, especially in their likes and dislikes. As a Ne-dom, my likes and dislikes can change from day to day.

An INFP I know had a fight with her friends once and door-slammed all of them. She knew how she felt, that they were dissing her opinions and not respecting her true self, and after she had enough, she was done. And she did not waffle on that decision. She just quit. She made up with them much later on, but only after her temper cooled, and she had space and time to mature in her own way (and they matured also). She knew what she wanted: them gone. For now.

I complained the other day to my mother about Elizabeth of York in Philippa Gregory’s novel / miniseries, The White Princess. She is so indecisive. She changes her mind from one chapter to the next about who she is, what she wants, and answers “I don’t know” to half the questions posed to her. Some days she likes her husband, some days she doesn’t; she intends to give up on him, then turns around and falls for him again. It’s seriously annoying.

Once I got done with my rant, my mother smiled and said, “So she’s basically you, in literary form.”

Gee, thanks mom.

My mouth hung open for a couple of seconds, while my Fi had a little tantrum, and then my Te immediately snapped in and I went: “I guess. But I’d make a BAD heroine. Heroines need to be decisive! Books need plots! Heroines need to know what they want, or at least figure it out, and get there, not be lost in indecision! The plot must move forward!”

Unlike me. =P

Ne-dom makes me changeable. And it annoys me. One day, I might want this. The next day, I might not. One day, I might decide that this friend sucks. The next day, I might think I was wrong and they’re awesome. They did not change. My Ne flipped the situation around for a different perspective. It runs right over my Fi and what it wants, all the time. This means that I either do not KNOW what I want or cannot ADMIT to myself what I want, nor give myself permission to want it. It annoys me, it annoys my parents, it annoys my friends, and it annoys my cat. But that’s how it is.

I WISH I had some Fi to haul Ne’s ass into a chair and decide: NOPE. But no, instead Ne hauls me around with Fi going “Um… I don’t know how I feel yet?”

But anyway, rant aside: back to your question.

How do I see Si and Te in me?

I see Te a lot when I ‘temporarily loop’ in order to avoid dealing with my feelings. I do not LIKE my feelings. I consider them a major pain in the butt. When my grandpa died, I was a wreck before it happened. I didn’t even know him that well, but it took him a long time to die. His organs slowly shut down. I was so immersed in the pain of what was happening to my loved ones, that I cried way more than any of them. But after his death, my Te immediately kicked in. Mom wanted to clear out his house. Like, immediately. That’s how she copes.

So we did. I put aside my emotions, went into that house, and went through all my grandparents’ stuff. We filled a dumpster. I organized everything we decided to keep in piles for the family to choose from after the funeral. A lot of my decisions were people-motivated – my cousins loved playing these games with Grandma. Shall we keep them? I’ll make sure they have all the pieces and put them in nice piles. I did the funeral video. Everyone needs a Ne-dom for that. It wasn’t just about Grandpa, it was about his life. His dreams. His parents. The culture he grew up in. I managed the voice-over, without falling to pieces.

And then, I moved on.

My Si is very poor. I may be adverse to CHANGE when people announce it (and I have to deal with it a lot, my parents literally cannot live six months without changing their house around, the yard, etc) but I am not stuck in the past. Half the time it never comes to my mind. The past flows beyond me. A day can seem a week ago, and three years ago can seem like yesterday. I gaped when a friend showed me a picture recently with 2014 stamped on the bottom. That was that long ago!? My grasp on time sucks. My awareness of time sucks. My own carelessness with time… sucks. A Si-friend recently said, “You should take more pictures with your cat. You will want them when she’s eventually gone.”

I stared at her. “I will?”

See, I don’t think like that. When people, places, things, are gone, I miss them. I love them. I still think about them sometimes, but they are gone. I do not pour over pictures. I do not sit and endlessly talk about the past. I do not want to think about the past. I moved on.

Sometimes, people tell me I should slow down, or take more time with that, since they do not want me to “look back one day, and regret this moment.”

Thing is, that probably won’t happen. I rarely go back.

Unless I hurt someone badly, and never received their forgiveness, or am beating myself up about something I should have done to stop something bad from happening, I don’t look back and regret. You cannot drive a car staring into your rear view mirror. In that way, I am careless. But I don’t know how to NOT be careless. Things matter right now, and then they’re gone. I loved that show, but it’s canceled. There’s new stuff to watch. I take in so much of it (as a Ne-dom), only a few things stick longer than six months.

And sometimes, I desperately want them to stick. I sit with someone or something loving it, immersed in its beauty, and think, “How can I hold onto it? I already feel it slipping away! WHY CAN’T I APPRECIATE THIS MORE?”

Inferior Si.

This is going to sound weird, because it is weird. But, under stress… I start obsessively tinkering with sensory elements. I’ve been editing and rewriting a book for what seems like forever (forever to me is four months, but I don’t want to talk about how this is the eighth draft of the fourth version of this book in two years) which is very tedious, Si-driven work. My Te is happy to help out with deadlines, and charts, and word counts, and I have a nice little sheet of paper with things marked on it, where I enter my progress each day to keep myself motivated. But I swear on my soul, yesterday when I opened the file, my Si went nuts and said: I don’t like this font. It curls funny. Change it.

So I did.

And then I sat there for at least ten minutes, changing the font, again and again, then the sizing several times. I printed out a page to see how it will look in book form, then promptly forgot which configuration I used (poor Si!) and had to print several more sheets in different sizes. I never did figure out which was the font and what size I used for that first sheet. (Shame, I like it the best.) Then I resized the file across my screen, to try and get the font to ‘curl’ how I like it, so I could read it. I cannot read it, unless it’s the right size. And font. And I must edit so there are no paragraphs that end with one word on the next line.

(Are you laughing yet? Is that not pathetic? Welcome to my life.)

Screw inferior Si. It’s bullshit.

I never know how to say this without hurting feelings but… Fi-doms are sensitive and since INFPs have higher Si, they do not forgive you fast.

Think about two terrific insults against NFPs (from future husbands) in literature and compare them to how you process things.

Gilbert Blythe pulls Anne Shirley’s braid and calls her carrots. The little INFP smashes her slate against his head and screams at him in class. She then tells Diana “the iron has entered my soul: I shall never forgive him,” and proceeds to ignore him, compete with him, and refuse to speak to him. For years. Gibert has to grovel to get on her good side, many times. She is super sensitive and her emotions flare up immediately. “You hurt me EXCRUCIATINGLY,” she says. She means it. He DID.

Mr. Darcy insults Lizzie’s appearance (she is not handsome enough to tempt me into a dance – ie, she’s not that pretty) in Pride & Prejudice. ENFP Lizzie gapes at him, then promptly turns it into a joke. She never brings it up again. She’s mad, but more mad about what he does to Jane than his insult. She finally confronts him when he proposes, but not about that. No, it was not the insult that hit her; it was the impression she formed of his character, based on it. And when he writes her a letter that basically calls out her family for being loud, obnoxious, inappropriate trash, she is pissed but has enough high Te to realize: he has every right to feel that way about us, based on what he saw. Once she realizes WHY he thinks how he does, her anger cools. And her mind changes about him. The anger dissipates.

Did he hurt her? Sure. Deeply? Not so much.

Someone walked up to my INFP the other day and insulted her appearance. It hurt. A lot. She will probably never speak to him again.

A person insulted me to my face at dinner a few years ago. He basically implied the people I work with and the caliber of their work is poor, and I should do a better job selecting the material we work on together. (IE: Wow, you suck.) I bitch-slapped him good with a Te-snarl comeback and … promptly moved on. I was mildly annoyed by it, and it certainly colored our interactions from that point on, but I wasn’t hurt by it so much as annoyed. We stayed “friends.”

I can count the number of times people have actually hurt my feelings on one hand. My Te is strong.

How do I know this?

I’m one of the first people to come up with a rational, non-emotional “fix it” to problems. I often discount my own feelings or put them aside entirely, to get a job done. I remember one time, a friend PM’d me after I wrote a movie review and said, “But did you LIKE it?? You wrote an excellent review, but it was so non-emotional I don’t even know what YOU thought of it.” I criticized the poor elements and talked about the good ones, but there was none of “me” there.

I admit, I was a little more emotionally reactive as a child / young teeanger, but Fi still wasn’t running the show. Most Fi-dom children are very sensitive. When asked what I was like, various family members (without consulting one another) have laughed and said, “Your focus was on being a comedian. You wanted to make people laugh. But you were not especially emotional.”

I’m not. It’s true. Sometimes to my own determent.

- ENFP Mod

PS: If you get to the end of this certain you are an NFP, but you don’t know what you do in a situation in order to compare it to Lizzie or Anne’s emotional reactions, congrats: that’s shitastic inferior Si. You are an indecisive Ne-dom.

#question #enfp #infp #enfp x infp #mbti

151 notes · View notes

douchebagbrainwaves · 4 years

Text

STARTUPS AND EXTREME

Com in order to win. If you said them all you'd have no time left for your real work. If you're at the leading edge of some rapidly changing field, you can say later Oh yeah, we had no experience in business. The other extreme, I think, is that my m. There was something else I wanted more: to be good enough to act as a magnet, drawing the best people to work for a while before you have suffered through writing a dissertation, you're already about 10% of startups succeed, but increasingly they'll have to do anything hard in. The whole language always available.1 If Sarbanes-Oxley must have. It's so easy to change, its design can benefit from the imagination of man, he meant that if you can achieve the same results with much more complicated the world had become.

The company may do additional funding rounds, but in different enough words that no one would care except a few real estate agents. But what you tell him doesn't matter, so long as it's interesting. And when we're talking about the five sources of startup funding. For example, Ulf Wiger of Ericsson did a study that concluded that Erlang was 4-10x more succinct than C, and since most founders are surprised by how much better it feels to be working hard enough. You'll need an executive summary and maybe a deck.2 It might dilute the value of safe jobs. I'm making, though sloppier language than I'd use to describe the atmos. They don't actually hate you.

I slip and call it Viaweb.3 In fact it's our explicit goal at Y Combinator is not in itself enough. But how does it work? That's what compilers are for. Notes sh In Shakespeare's own time, though, the news is all good.4 You might also want to learn how to operate a steam catapult on an aircraft carrier. They could take everyone and keep just the good ones. That difference is why there's a distinct word adult for people over a certain threshold of intelligence, which most startups are, and this trend has decades left to run.5 At our end, money is almost a recipe for chaos, think about a world in which Windows is irrelevant.

More can be stolen by things that are a safe target for the entire school.6 They all just did the right things. Like a lot of time. It meant uncle Sid's shoe store. But cars were such a firm, I'd recommend it to startups in the hope you'll be able to say they planned to vote against him, like a car spinning its wheels. We knew Lisp was a piece of paper on your wall and every day plot the number of startups that get bought early and most is still unissued, and the higher your valuation, the narrower your options for doing that. It's hard to engage an opponent inside a castle in hand to hand combat. Instead of trading violins directly for potatoes, you trade decreased financial risk for increased risk that your company won't succeed as a startup. One expert on entrepreneurship told me that he did so many different styles. As an illustration of what I mean about the relative merits of Ford and Chevy pickup trucks, that you needed $20,000 in capital to incorporate.

Plus if you didn't put the company first you wouldn't be promoted, and if you've made a better story that a company as small as they might drop the dog off at a kennel if they were talking to other programmers and they mentioned where they worked, there were a giant transformer nearby.7 There's an intriguing middle ground where you build a semi-automatic weapon—where there's a human in the loop. And early adopters are usually other startups.8 But valuable ideas are not merely a better strategy in an absolute sense, but the Lisp that we actually ended up with was: someone who doesn't expend any effort on enterprise search. Like a lot of thoughtful people in it will go in one investor ear and out the other. It helped us to have Robert Morris, Trevor Blackwell has made a handy calculator you can use is: always produce. But publishing has advanced since then: present-day English speakers have a different character. A couple million would let them. Really, Google was funded with angel money.9 The idea of switching to your current name. You're just asking to be made a fool of, because these are such powerful forces leading us astray, it's not enough for a CEO to have someone to make the case to everyone for doing it. If you can use from any browser will be enough to make our way through this enormous book.

If you look at the ones that went on to do great things, it ensures the problem really exists. You need persistence because everything takes longer than you expect, so they rewrote their software not to. So you start working. What you should spend your time travelling around, or playing in a band, or whatever we were, search could safely be allowed to wither and drop off, like an umbilical cord. Much of the time, but also those ideas will increasingly be outweighed by the pull of existing startup hubs.10 There are few sources of energy so powerful as a procrastinating grad student. Thanks to Ingrid Bassett, Trevor Blackwell, Jessica Livingston, Greg Mcadoo, Fred Wilson, and Qasar Younis for reading drafts of this. Essayer is the French verb meaning to try and write down what made Java seem suspect to me.11 As you read this, a whole week's backlog of shit accumulates.

Just thinking about it at that point Lisp had essentially the form that it has to be more restrictions on what someone can put something on my todo list, and indeed the venture business, which have evolved the way they push out more interesting ideas. The current high cost of fundraising means there is room for a new Lisp shouldn't have string libraries as good as they could which turned out to be a novelist, are you really out of your way to the extreme of doing the opposite; they admire the eminent so much that Lisp has no syntax. I'm thinking particularly of investors and acquirers. Maybe, though the list of n things is in that direction. There's nothing about knowing how to program that prevents hackers from understanding users, or a lot of arrogant people. But though I can't predict what's going to happen unless you let them run the company. Some people thought of it. When you get a termsheet.

Notes

By mid-twenties the people they want to get endless grief for classifying religion as well.

No, we should remember this when comparing techniques for discouraging stupid comments instead. Many of these companies when you have a standard piece of casuistry for this point.

Hint: the company down. If PR didn't work, but bickering at several hundred dollars an hour most people than subsequent millions.

But in this respect. As willful people get older or otherwise lose their energy, they were supposed to be discovered. A larger set of canonical implementations of the world population, and only big companies have never been the first person to run on the programmers, the most important subject. Html.

In this context, etc. Life of Isaac Newton, p. They're so selective that they will only be willing to provide this service, this is what we now call the Metaphysics came after meta after the egalitarian pressures of World War II had become so embedded that they imitate even the flaws of big companies to build their sites, and although convertible notes often have valuation caps, a market of one investor who invested in the 1990s, and one or two, because the ordering system, which is not whether it's good, but we do the equivalent thing for startups overall.

I've been told that they can be surprisingly indecisive about acquisitions, and b when she's nervous, she expresses it by smiling more. For example, the thing to do good work and thereby subconsciously seeing wealth as something you can tell that everything you say is being compensated for risks he took earlier.

This gets harder as you raise as you raise money succeeded, and a t-shirts, to drive the old one. Not least because they're determined to fight. At some point, when in fact they were still employed in your classes because you could out of school.

Treating high school writing this, on the software business.

People only tend to get a poem published in The New Yorker. One source of income, which wouldn't even cover the extra cost.

There is always raising money in order to win.

The second biggest regret was caring so much about unimportant things. The founders who take the term literally.

Thanks to Paul Buchheit, Joshua Schachter, students whose questions began it, Sam Altman, Trevor Blackwell, Robert Morris, Paul Kedrosky, and Fred Wilson for the lulz.

0 notes

haleyfury · 4 years

Text

April was another month filled with ups and downs. I’m super grateful for my health and safety right now, but I am definitely missing college life and like everyone, wondering when we’ll be able to get back to some state of ‘normalcy.’ This month, I technically finished my undergraduate work (online), had some fun Zoom sessions and reunions with friends, and again had so many books and TV shows as comfort.

The Thousandth Floor by Katharine McGee | 4/5 Stars

The Thousandth Floor was the first book of April that fit my ‘let me catch up on all the YA dystopian contemporary (trust me it’s a category)’ and shortly after reading, found myself buying books #2 and #3.

Undercover Bromance (Bromance Book Club #2) by Lyssa Kay Adams | 5/5

Undercover Bromance was such a great companion sequel to The Bromance Book Club. It also made me realize how much I need a book featuring the Russian.

Brunch and Other Obligations by Suzanne Nugent (ARC) | 4/5

It had been a while since I picked up a women’s fiction book, but I enjoyed Brunch and Other Obligations for its slightly comedic twist.

Behind Closed Doors by B.A. Paris | 3/5

My sister finally got me to read Behind Closed Doors in April. It definitely wasn’t the best book ever (sorry sis), but at the same time, I couldn’t seem to put it down.

Not the Girl You Marry by Andie J. Christopher | 4/5

I took a little break from (adult) contemporary romances in April , but I’m glad I still read Not the Girl You Marry. Despite the mixed reviews for this one, I thought it was a cute & funny read.

Kindred Spirits by Rainbow Rowell (novella/reread) | 5/5

I finally started my rereads of 2020 in April, which began with Rainbow Rowell’s novella, Kindred Spirits. Now having seen 8/9 of the Star Wars films – so excited that Rise of Skywalker will be available on May 4th on Disney+! – and The Mandalorian, I was able to really admire and relates to its adorable Star Wars-ness.

Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan | 4/5

Staying at home has caused me to take all the books I haven’t read off my shelves, which included Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore. Not my favorite book in the world, but I see what the hype is about and did appreciate its bookishness.

More than Maybe by Erin Hahn (ARC) | 5/5

My favorite book of April, I cannot stop thinking about Erin Hahn’s upcoming, More than Maybe. Everything was PERFECT about this July 2020 release following two teens who have a love for music and secret crushes for each other.

You’d Be Mine by Erin Hahn (reread) | 4.5/5

More Than Maybe made me want to reread Erin Hahn’s You’d Be Mine. I usually procrastinate on my re-reads but I immediately started reading You’d Be Mine after finishing More Than Maybe. I actually enjoyed You’d Be Mine even more upon my reread. It’s definitely the darker of the two books, but I really appreciated the story, romance, and character development this second time around.

The Selection by Kiera Cass | 4/5

Yes, I finally read The Selection in 2020, and yes, I’M ADDICTED!

You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone by Rachel Lynn Solomon | 3.5/5

I loved You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone’s story and writing style, but I could not stand one of its two main protagonists.

The Elite (The Selection #2) by Kiera Cass | 4/5

Still addicted to this trilogy, but America annoyed me so much with her indecisiveness.

Younger S1 (TV Land) – Many people who love books and publishing seems to watch Younger. I blew through the first season in three sittings – it’s 100% the type of show that you can watch 5 episodes in a row without realizing. However, I didn’t think it really brought anything new to the table and it was really inaccurate about how books and publishing work at times.

Unorthodox (Netflix) – Definitely my most serious watch of the month, I really enjoyed Unorthodox, having loved its storytelling and cinematography. After watching, I added Deborah Feldman’s memoir of the same name to my TBR.

Below Deck S7 & Below Deck Sailing Yacht (Bravo) – This month proved that reality TV is a comfort of mine, as I consumed the entirety of Below Deck S7 and the first 9 episodes of Below Deck Sailing Yacht in under two weeks- I’m currently up-to-date with the latter and watch every week. Below Deck Mediterranean S5 was recently announced for this summer, so I’m debating on trying to watch the first four seasons before then. There are so many good shows coming to Netflix in May, so we’ll see how fast I fly through those first before giving into Bravo.

Baker and the Beauty S1 (Prime) – Because I have to be both a TV and book hipster, I decided to watch the original/Israeli Baker and the Beauty before diving into the American version on ABC. I really loved this show and thought it was so funny. I’m looking forward to watching the second season in May and starting the American adaptation.

Schitt’s Creek S6 Finale (PopTV) – I talked about the Schitt’s Creek finale in my April If We Were Having Coffee, but I’m still feeling both so content about the way the show ended and sad it’s over.

Continued Watching: Family Karma (LOVED IT!), Brooklyn Nine-Nine S7 (Meh about it)

Reviews

FOODIE ROM-COM: Tweet Cute Review & Inspired Recipe

FEMINIST TEAM SPIRIT: We Are the Wildcats Review

LIVE LOVE BROMANCE: Undercover Bromance Review

HONEY READ ME: The Honey-Don’t List Review

SWEETEST YA: What I Like About You Review & Inspired Cupcake Recipe

Bookish & Fangirl Fun:

STRESS PURCHASES, ARCS, & LIBRARY HOLDS: April 2020 Book Haul

What I Watch on YouTube

Binge-Read Recommendations: What I’ve Read in 2020 So Far Edition

Bookish News Round Up #2: Release Date Changes, New Books, & More

Fangirl News Round Up #3: Upcoming Books, TV, & Event Updates

If We Were Having Coffee: Current Entertainment Faves & Other Life Things

The Prediction Book Tag

My Middle Grade Reads: Inspired by The Eye of Zeus

Officially done with undergraduate work – Graduating is a bittersweet experience to begin with, but even more so for my fellow seniors and me since we had to finish our degrees online. I’m still working for my on-campus job and have a few online celebrations over the next few weeks, but I submitted the draft of my media & communications capstone today! My school is holding a virtual commencement on our original graduation day, but they recently scheduled our (tentative) in-person commencement to August! I guess you can say that I’m graduated, but it won’t be official until the end of the May when my graduation application is confirmed and my diploma comes in the mail in the new few weeks.

Twenty Young Podcast – One of my best friends and I have been listening to a lot of podcasts lately, which made us think 1) where all the podcasts for women in the twenties and in between college and professional life? And 2) why don’t we give podcasting a try? We then decided to create the Twenty Young Podcast, available on Spotify! I’m going to have a blog post all about our podcast in May.

What did you read and watch in April? Have you read or watched anything I mentioned? Share in the comments!

CONTEMPORARY READS & REALITY TV MOOD: April 2020 Wrap Up April was another month filled with ups and downs. I’m super grateful for my health and safety right now, but I am definitely missing college life and like everyone, wondering when we’ll be able to get back to some state of ‘normalcy.’ This month, I technically finished my undergraduate work (online), had some fun Zoom sessions and reunions with friends, and again had so many books and TV shows as comfort.

#April 2020 #April Wrap Up #Wrap Up

0 notes

kershmaru-blog · 6 years

Text

Is there still a gender bias in STEM? The perspective of a non-feminist

As I explained in two previous blog posts, I am not a feminist. I am absolutely in favor of equality and vehemently oppose inequality and discrimination based on superficial characteristics beyond anybody’s control, like sex, race, sexuality, and gender.

I include this information here mainly to caution you against any bias I might hold. I am not in principle opposed to the idea of sexism, not even of systemic bias. But I also know that it is close to impossible for a human being to rid themselves of bias and presupposition. Bear that in mind.

My critiques of feminism are mainly with their dogmatic assertions about the nature of our world, its dismissal or cooption of male issues as well as with what I perceive to be shortsighted or even counterproductive political policy.

I could go into more detail here. But I feel the blog will be long enough without doing so. For more information, see my earlier - and maybe future - blogs.

But there are indeed fields in which some form of bias might exist. I am talking about the STEM (=Science, technology, engineering, mathematics) fields. There are numerous factors at work here, and I don’t want to go on a tangent about the earnings gap - I already superficially talked about that and plan to go into more detail in a future post.

Just for clarity’s sake, here is the TL; DR from my first blog post about the gender wage gap.

It exists, there are multiple factors involved, the most significant one I see being differences in risk aversion between the genders. Those seem to be biological, but at the same time to be reinforced by cultural and societal norms. In my view, both strictly biological and strictly socially constructed worldviews lack merit.

But enough of me. The Subject of this blog are women in science.

In a 2017 article

https://www.wired.com/story/why-men-dont-believe-the-data-on-gender-bias-in-science/

on the matter, Professor of Physics Allison Coil quotes four peer-reviewed papers:

1. Wennerås & Wold https://www.nature.com/articles/387341a0

(A fascinating paper about the number of women leaving science despite having the qualifications, investigating whether the peer review process in Sweden controlling academic grants has a gender bias. It strongly suggests that this is indeed the case and that there may be a problem with nepotism even if the affiliated committee member recuses themselves; the paper is applying a methodology I can find no fault in. Bear in mind that I am no statistician, and my expertise with scientific papers is limited by my own experience - or rather lack thereof - due to my young age and standing merely at the beginning of my career. I have my qualms about using number of publications, first authorship, and journal of publication as the sole metric for scientific merit, but that is a subject for another article or blog. My only critique of the paper used is that the used dataset is over twenty years old, and therefore may no longer represent reality. A lot can and likely has changed in the last twenty years. That is by no means an excuse for earlier or potentially present discrimination. Another petty grievance is the addition by Nature that the paper had been reviewed by three men.)

2. Moss-Racusin et al. http://www.pnas.org/content/109/41/16474.full

(A Yale university paper addressing the discrepancy in reactions to identical CVs for a labor manager position by universities in the US. CVs by “women” were viewed as less qualified than identical ones by “men.” Male applicants were offered a higher starting salary and more mentoring opportunities. The participants believed that they were giving feedback which would help or hinder a real student. Again, I found no problems with the paper’s methodology or use of statistics. The only thing I could object to is the use of the modern sexism scale, but my criticism here would be due to my lack of knowledge wheater this scale accurately measures sexism.)

3. Milkman et al. http://www.apa.org/pubs/journals/releases/apl-0000022.pdf

(A Paper examining how race and gender influence the pathway to academic positions. Fictional Students contacted professors to discuss research opportunities before formally applying. Professors were more responsive to white males than to all other groups collectively, especially in high paying and private institutions. It observes, interestingly, that representation didn’t improve the observed trends. I see no obvious problems with methodology here. Statistically one might critique the scope of the study, and that it would be more meaningful if it contained fewer variables between the applications, i.e., only tested white males against white females. However, the sheer mass of data circumvents problems that could otherwise occur.)

4. Hadley et al. http://www.pnas.org/content/112/43/13201.full

(A paper testing the acceptance of gender bias research in the broader public and within the members of STEM. It concludes that men view gender bias research less favorably than women, especially within STEM. They did so by showing true and altered research, one version - the true one - reporting on gender bias, whereas the altered one purports that no such bias existed. Again, there were no obvious problems in methodology or statistics. My biggest caveat is one they mention in their discussion section: the evaluated research papers were mere abstracts and not full texts. People might react differently to the research in its original context and full scope.)

(since I accessed those through the hospital library in Vienna, where I currently am treated for depression, I cannot guarantee that the .pnas links will work for you. If they don’t, replace .full with .abstract to see the abstract at last. If you have access to a university library, you might be able to access them through computers there or remote access. Academic paywalls are a significant and IMO unfair hurdle for interested laypeople)

Each of these concludes that there is a problem in scientific fields, with women needing more effort and distinction to gain the same amount of recognition. In her article, she also mentioned, based on study number 4, that male scientists devalued real research asserting gender bias while falling for fake research that purported no such bias existed.

The article is striking in its argumentation. Disregarding the earnings gap, there may well still be a problem about women in tech. I expressed, in a previous blog post, specifically, in my blog post about rape culture, that I believe that it may be necessary to let “gatekeepers” - people in positions of power abusing it - die off, or face scandal and the justice system. The same might be required for STEM. I don’t know. I apologize to the reader that I am so indecisive and unopinionated on the matter, but this is relatively new information to myself, and I haven’t had time to form an educated opinion on the subject.

Fact is, if there is still a culture of discrimination in STEM, that is something I would like to see rectified.

But I am not sure what the correct path towards this goal is, whether this problem persists or if there are only isolated cases left, and whether there is a path. I guess greater minds than mine will have to prevail and come up with possible solutions.

I encourage each and every one of my readers to read my sources with an open mind, and draw their own conclusions, think their own thoughts, make up their own minds.

The significant question here is whether there is or can be a systemic gender bias in STEM. And there might be.

I am not saying this is due to a perception that woman make better or worse scientists. Such a bias might be influenced by a lot of factors, like the evidence-based dropout rate of women scientist. In layman's terms, a scientist or scientifically minded person might observe the dropout rate and conclude that women are less likely to stick to their guns, thus directly contributing to the drop out rate that was found in the first place. In this way, through a positive feedback loop, a bias may reinforce itself.

Another question is lifestyle choices. Are these pursued freely, or influenced by discrimination or negative experience? Are women merely better at taking care of their own wellbeing and therefore dropping out at higher rates? Does this effect play into the negative perception of women by academic professionals and create a positive feedback loop? Those are but some of the questions we need to consider.

In an effort to gain an outside perspective, I asked the following of several women scientists:

I would like you to share how you feel about feminism in general, in your own words, and whether you self-identify as a feminist.

I had a discussion long ago with Nr. 1 (My cousin and the first scientist I interviewed) about a co-worker of hers, who semi-jokingly said that she didn't believe that many of the women present would stay in science. As far as I remember she was irate. Would you mind sharing what you think about that, and why?

You are a female scientist. What drove you to science?

The data shows that women leave science more often than men do. What reasons do you see for that?

Last question. Do you believe that work-life balance is easily achievable for a scientist in general, and a female scientist in particular?

You will see their answers in my next major blog post next week.

I asked these questions to gain some insight into what women in stem actually think and feel. Each of the women answering was given the option to do so anonymously, or under their name and had access to an earlier draft of this blog post as well as my minds.com account. But there are things we can discuss today before the interviews are completed.

The dropout rate, for example, might be influenced by yet other factors. A superficial search on PubMed surfaced, i.e. this paper https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4943602/ , which points to a lack of confidence in mathematical skills as a potential culprit. Personally, I do still believe that biological differences - again, aggravated by cultural and societal norms - undermine female self-worth and self-confidence.

Those differences in self-image exist. Wheater they are cultural or biological is, ultimately, inconsequential. The question is how to address them. I am generally in favor of offering noncompulsory workshops to teach women to be more assertive and confident in their own skills.

I believe that gender inequality based on bias, unconscious or otherwise is a problem. Though I don’t think there will ever be parity between the genders - due to my belief in biological difference - I am ready to concede that certain fields haven’t yet reached their natural balance point, and there is work to be done. I think some of the policies advocated by feminists - diversity quotas, “positive” discrimination to name the most outrageous offenders - are, ultimately misguided, addressing symptoms instead of problems and might well prove to be counterproductive. But I believe in strengthening women’s self-worth and assertiveness. Other measures addressing unconscious bias may be warranted. Otherwise, the above described positive feedback loop will continue to propagate itself.

One way to do this is by showing them positive female role models. While I personally don’t think it is strictly necessary for your role models to share superficial characteristics like sex or gender with you, I am not a girl dreaming of being an astronaut or a firefighter and being repeatedly told that she cannot because women don’t do that. I am open to the idea that especially for young people it might be crucial to know that it isn’t so. There are women in every walk of life holding their own and succeeding as much as men do. Sometimes more. They can offer a differing viewpoint on some matters due to their lived experience which can be enriching for their team.

I yesterday attended an event honoring and subsidizing female scientists, amongst others my cousin. I was very proud and honestly quite starstruck by the people there, their research and stories. In all honesty, I wished my own sister, sometimes plagued with self-doubt - she is on a STEM path too - attended. While I oppose some measures of feminism I observe as being counterproductive, I want women working hard in these fields to succeed. If that means living in a world where female scientists have a spotlight shone on them for being potential role models, so be it. I wished I lived in a world where such measures are no longer necessary, where people are perceived as equal. What I desire most of all is open dialogue and discussion on how to move forward. Only together can we move towards a more open and equitable society and address the “leaking pipeline” of women leaving STEM.

In a video I can’t seem to find again - otherwise, I’d source it - several erstwhile female scientists speak about their experiences. One describes her ouster out of STEM as “death by a thousand paper cuts.” Here is where I will disagree with a lot of people I personally respect, even admire.

While I can sympathize with everybody plagued by self-doubt and depression, this is something every one of us experiences. I am not asserting women on average don’t face more doubters or naysayers. They might well face precisely what Professor Coil implies: A culture that victimises and places undue burdens in a multitude of ways on women in STEM. I am saying this is ultimately an irrelevance. Whether they do or don’t, they need to face their demons, like I do. Like all men do. If criticism - due to bias or otherwise - makes you leave the most competitive field on the planet, then I am sorry, you may not be cut out for it. And I am saying that as a man terrified of his own future.

Here I need to say again that I am not opposed to women in science. I welcome them with open arms, as the invaluable contributors to humanity’s collective potential they are. And I think the most significant step is to teach girls and young women that barriers, to somebody both competent and confident, are ultimately in the mind. All of us are our biggest critics.

Bigotry, in all its forms, is but a hurdle, not an insurmountable obstacle. If somebody rejects you for any reason, apply again with a bolstered CV and more papers under your belt. If your paper is rejected first on some bullshit reasoning, write it again. Three times. Ten times.

On a sidenote, I have my own gripes with peer-reviewed papers and impact factor, most of all how students and fellows are peer pressured into quoting papers that have little to nothing to do with the subject matter to inflate a publication’s or paper’s impact factor- a rudimentary metric how significant they are, based on how often they are quoted. Also, I have a massive problem with how inaccessible scientific publications are made, both by overuse of technical language that can make a paper hard or impossible to interpret by anybody but experts in the field and by academic paywalls. I also have Issues with the current structure of ethics boards - among other things, the inclusion of a representative of the majority religion of the country, thus moving the debate from pure ethics to religious dogma - and the accepted definitions of what is ethical or moral. I might write an article on the matter on minds. Lastly, I, as a creative writer have problems with the stringent format scientific papers take. But I digress. I merely wanted to express that there are indeed areas where the scientific process might improve, and if gender bias is amongst them, I am all in favor of taking steps to ameliorate the problem.

The question is, what to do about it? I am of the opinion that the first instance of peer review, as well as the approval for research grants, as well as application for posts in STEM, should be done in an anonymous fashion; that would also affect nepotism.

That way, one could be reasonably sure that unconscious bias didn’t play a significant role in the selection process. Not entirely, because interesting algorithms like “apply magic sauce” https://applymagicsauce.com/ show that it is indeed possible to predict a lot about the author of a given piece of writing, amongst other things their probable gender.

That, the unconscious cataloging of a writer as male or female, along with their publication history - which may reasonably be included in an application - may still influence a potentially biased decision maker.

I would recommend to include relevant papers and letters of recommendation in an anonymized fashion, but if the decision maker in question has already read them, which isn’t an altogether absurd notion given the narrowness of expertise most scientists necessarily have, they might remember the gender of the author and be influenced by that.

And indeed, just anonymizing papers, in general, is unthinkable in the modern process. Too much of a scientist’s work and, dehumanizing as it may sound, worth is reflected in what and where they publish.

Above all else, I would avoid teaching girls and young women that they are not qualified or suitable for given fields, or that they will face insurmountable odds. Unfair as it may be, others walked the stony path before them. Successfully.

What are your Ideas to close the gender gap in STEM? Do you think there is a problem there in the first place? Why/Why not? I welcome your thoughts and criticisms. The declared goal of these blogs of mine is to provoke a fruitful dialogue between what now are, but don’t have to be, hardened fronts. Discussion may help us to navigate the legislative minefields in front of us and avoid making long-reaching and shortsighted decisions.

Next week I will hopefully bring you some interviews I am organizing with amazing female scientists I had the pleasure to get to know a bit in my academic career, private life, my treatment for depression and over my cousin, who is also the first of the scientists I plan to interview.

#feminism #anti-feminism #discussion #women in stem #women in science #work life balance #leaking pipeline

0 notes

theouterdark · 4 years

Text

1,000 Followers: Appreciation

Well sometime in the last week or so— while I was busy exploring every paperback in my possession—I surpassed a thousand followers. Even though the last year has been fraught with setbacks and indecision, I sincerely want to express my joy to all of you. That I could reach anyone with my stories, even if you’ve seen only snippets, touches me deeply. Thank you.

I also know that I’ve gone somewhat radio-silent. This is not due to any bad occurrence, but simply owed to the fact that I’ve been...I hesitate to say busy...so...distracted.

Firstly, I moved from the west coast to the midwest in late February, on the cusp of COVID-19 running rampant, back in with my folks for a transition period to new horizons. Like many, my paying work trickled to a stop, so the timing could not have been better, but, for the most part, I’m stuck here now.

The internet here is atrocious. But this is not without its benefits.

Secondly, I’ve been thrust ever deeper into my creative works. Coldwater Sound is being drafted once again and I suspect will be completed in mid-May. Topiary Black is being outlined, drafting scheduled for late May and early June. And, another project has been circling my mind...one that has me excited and enthralled. I’m hesitant to say more about it now.

I’ve been dealing with social distancing the best way I know how: focusing on unrealities, and thanking every god of luck that I’m in a position to do that, instead of unemployed and homeless in southern Oregon.

So, thank you once again. During this period of working diligently on my projects, I’ll likely be a little less active than I’d like, and perhaps less than some of you would like, but, I haven’t gone anywhere.

If you have any questions about my WIPs or anything in general, feel free to reach out, include me in tag games, etc. I’ll be a little slow in rolling out my responses, but I’ll be here.

Shoutouts: @zmlorenz, @saccharinemornings, @erin-writes-stuff, @byjillianmaria, @midnightstreetwanderings, @dotr-rose-love, @sassypandacandy. Thanks for your support since I joined this community.

Is that all for now? I think. I think that will do.

Thanks, all of you.

#amwriting #writeblr community #coldwater sound #topiary black #p:cws:d2 #p:tb #p:dr #follower appreciation #appreciation post #1000 followers #writeblr #update #updates

5 notes · View notes

rosheendubh · 7 years

Text

This draft is so pre-draft rough(ruff) it's barking its language...forgive the bad pun;)

–I’m putting this here to paste into my WriteWayPro file later. Its OTT, way over-narrated, and sort of stream of conscience, including my personal thought asides on notations to address later, bc it’s better having more material with which to work when editing later, and refining after that, than less… –This is part 2, actually after the opening (not posted on my tumblr) told from Artorius’s POV, which started on ‘how does a man enter Rome’? –Rome, spring 182 CE Early, early spring, the second year of his honored majesty’s rule, Emperor Lucius Aurelius Commodus, banquet celebrating the deification of the beloved Marcus Aurelius –The theater, some private theater mentioned in my most recent audiobook venture, 'The Architecture of Ancient Rome’, which was utilized for smaller venues hosted by the nobility, including the Imperial family… ~~ The headache was with her all day, a throb in the back of her skull that felt like a siege hammer pushing through her forehead to the back of her brain. It had started in the morning, barely noticeable, but had grown steadily with the falling night, made her eyes ache/strain in the light, and curled her stomach with faint waves of nausea. They had plagued her since adolescence, these 'cephalgia migrainosus", which is what Galen called them, and the had grown steadily worse Since the death of her father, more frequent, hammering through her brain, and sometimes incapacitating her for 2 and 3 days at a time. The days when her maid could attend her at home, and she could lay in her sleeping quarters, the cool breeze wafting up from the (Hamilton…just kidding)__Heights, sun freshened air chasing the stagnancy of the lower streets hanging heavy in the chill mist that clung to Roman mornings in the early spring, with her favorite lute-player strumming a soothing melody, and her daughter rubbing her temples, she rebounded within a day. It was when her brother summoned her to court, the drill she played between his excesses and outrages, his impetuousness and boredom, which, if he indulged it, turned to malicious amusements unless she interceded, the way she had cultivated through the years, teasing and tailoring, softening and easing Commodus’s temperaments in counterpoint to the Ruffled sensibilities of the old patrician Senators, taking care to not overstep that tenuous boundary imposed by his favorite hangers-on. The headaches on those days were interminable, but she has learned to sublimate them, subsume the pain, and construct her mask. A public facade, the flawless serenity she shows the world, –She’s taken a place at a window, facing north (I need to establish if this setting is at the Theater of the Nobility/or the Palace/and decide the direction toward the Tiber…) across a sea of darkness, broken by the faint lamps and torches that line the maze of streets and plazas, down the _____Hill, toward the docks of the Tiber, sipping wine she knows will make her headache/weariness worse, but it warms her stomach, spreading its soft glow to her clenched fingers, grasping the vessel, and slows the rapid burst of her heart against her chest. The Scent on the night wind reminds her for a moment, of that week in Hispania, when her father paid visit to a branch of an equestrian family, native to the (Neopolitan region), the gens Artorii, who had settled along the sea-battered cliffs of Asturias, and supplied cavalry mounts from their breeding farms outside of Isirium/Coruna. A retired veteran, Aelius Artorius Verus had one son, a restless youth on the eve of his 2nd decade, Lucius Artorius, who was grappling like a caged beast w/ambitions to see the wider world, and for a young man of provincial equestrian status, that meant joining the army. She had been newly widowed, an empress, now a mere emperor’s daughter once more, and thinking she was to enjoy a welcome respite from domesticity, enjoy her father’s company as his confidant, in place of her often frail mother, anxious over her infant sisters, and her favored brother. But she was the most gifted of his children, for all she was a daughter and not a son. Her rebuke to her father had been sharp that morning, discovering she was to be bartered off in yet another marriage, to another eastern low-born catamite. Marcus Aurelius’s unruffled, philosophical regard/equanimity only set her off her more, and she stormed in angry tears from his quarters, used as his temporary audience hall, whilst they resided at the home/villa of the Artorii. Her upset took her out into the stables where Artorius, in the process of grooming and saddling one of their private mounts, stopped frozen in his task, tongue tied/stuttering out some greeting. Lucilla, accustomed to the adoration she often observed upon the faces of the varied retainers of her father’s men, learned to accept such worship with nary a pucker or a blush, as serene as her father, and properly haughty when necessary. But this day, she had no patience for such awkward/untried/infatuations, snapping at him to ready another of their horses, and to ride out with her, letting loose another rampant of temper when he tried to insist there was no horse in his father’s stables gentle enough to act as a woman’s pony. *You think the only sorts of horses I rode while crossing the rocky footpaths of Dalmatia with my husband were slow-broke nags and docile ponies? My safety isn’t a concern of yours or anyone’s but my own.* Artorius had flushed, the shade harsh, making his ruddy, sun-touched skin only darker, but his eyes, a steel-gray that made her think of storm-clouds low over a squalling sea, met hers, saying firmly. *I did not mean imply you have no talent for more spirited horses, Lady. But I’ll bear your anger to correct you in saying that your safety, in fact, is of the utmost importance, bc it’s my life forfeit if it’s in my company when you happen to be unseated from your mount and break your neck, or your head is dashed upon rocks bc you’re thrown. It will be upon my conscience that I did not caution nor guard you close enough, and it will be upon my family’s honor that I, who ought to have been responsible for the Augusta’s life, failed in my duty.* Shocked into silence, it took Lucilla some very long, slow breaths to work through the turmoil in her mind, not used to being opposed/countered in her demands. He was obviously not the callow, infatuated, all-worshiping youth she had thought; though she could see him starting to glance away from her stilled gaze uncomfortably, looking like he wanted to be anywhere the other side of hell than in her presence just then. Her sudden peel of laughter took him aback, his eyes leaping back to her, consternation in his frown. *Indeed, Artorius Castus, forgive me. You are right–about my flippancy toward mortality anyway. As for the title, that’s no longer mine to claim.* His face eased into a gradual smile, a cheeky half-grin at first that lifted his earnest melancholy, a flash of white teeth and twinkle in his gaze that made her, in that moment, uncomfortably aware that he was quite handsome, in that roughened way of men who spent their hours outside tasting of wind, sun, and chasing the clouds or the waves in all elements. His laughter was warm and deep. *We aren’t as inclined to track titles, my Lady. You’re the daughter of an emperor. And you were the wife of one. Your husband being dead makes you no less an empress. That alone elevates you above the common stock.* His words hit like a cold ice-crush into her chest. *Today, I don’t wish to be anything other than…me. Lucilla.* She willed him with all her heart, trying not to let the edge of panic/desperation/hysterics take her voice. *Please, take me out with you today. I’ll ride whatever horse you feel suited.* The set of his mouth revealed his inclination to protest. Studying her, she wondered what he must have seen in the intensity she could feel drawing tight the muscles of her jaw/the strain over her brow. *I can’t go back to face my father right now* *As you wish*he nodded, after a moment’s indecision.

–During week Lucilla/MA visit Isirium, escaping plague sweeping through the east, Artorius and Lucilla escape from dreary boredom of older older adults early morning in spring, riding out along the cliffs down to seaside, finding a sheltered copse ringed by early spring flowers, in low cluster, discuss Varro, Artorius despises, commenting how poets make all rural dwellers sound like they suck the tears of their goats, and fuck their sheep, to which only realized the coarseness of the comment after he says it, apologizing, Lucilla insists she not offended, explaining that she spent most of her married life around her husband’s dissipated crowd…Artorius expresses his frustration, wanting to see the world, to which Lucilla states it may not be all so enticing, Artorius states he will at least have experienced it, Lucilla asks if he would like to hear what offends her, going on to explain how men belittle the fact she’s a woman, and for that reason, can’t understand what it takes to rule an Empire, despising how the borders need reinforcements, and are strained, spend gold to the East for foreign luxuries, eyeing the silk and thread threading of her over gown, while the treasury taxes the people to privation in order to buy Egyptian grain… Artorius insists he’s not offended, but enchanted, and she states how the both have their ambitions…

She ignores the background chatter in the room, finding the dim glow from the streets below, stretching north and east across the Forum___, and climbing up the terraced ____scattering of homes set into the ____Hill less harsh to her pulsing/exhausted vision/sight/stressed sight. “Is it very bad, this one?” The words come from behind her, as she swings around at their sound. “Artorius! How did you escape being announced?” she whispers conspiringly, dropping her head low. “By taking to the streets, on my two feet, like a common pleb.” His grin hasn’t changed in all the years between their first meeting and now, revealing the same cheeky humor, the twinkle in his eyes. “Your attendants were made of more delicate stamina.” “Careful with your criticisms. They’re two of Saertoros’s favorite cosmeticians. You insult them too strongly, and he’ll see that my brother orders you to groomed by an African ape for the amusement of the mob.” “Well, they did wonders with my garb, I’ll grant that.” He gestures over the fine linen tunic of light blue, which falls below his knees, edged in the thin border of porphyry silk, the belt of silver plate-links, the buckle of bronze and gilt working showing Neptune driving his chariot of sea horses across the waves, trident in one hand, whipping his beasts on with the other, the only indication of Artorius Castus’s commissioned status in the chief marine unit of the Emperor. The years haven’t so much aged him as refined the essence of that eager, restless young man who had captured her heart in those brief, sweet days they had spent rambling along the wind swept-cliffs, upon the sturdy steeds his father used to fortify bloodlines of cavalry mounts for the legions, bearing them, clamoring up hidden trails, and winding into the deep green valleys, where they sat and shared their dreams, their memories, with one another beside a sun-dappled river, and a strand of blossoming aspens. Thick black brows crown his strong features, a wide forehead, balanced by deep-set eyes, their gray now shaded by a more staid melancholy than she recalls, the first lines at their corners evidence of sun, wind, and sea, than the ravages of time. His gazes moves over her unabashedly, following the line of cheek, the slope of throat, where the glitter of twined Spanish silver drapes like a slither of snow over her collarbones. She feels her skin warm/face flush beneath the draw/heat in his gaze, his focus sliding along the slight rise of her breastbone, the curves of soft flesh just below, outlined by the gentle folds of Indian cotton, shot with silvered silk, the delicate fabric shivering against her skin with each quickened breath. A handful of stolen kisses, caresses in shadowed corners of fort buildings, the dizzying exhilaration of their movements, his limbs twined with hers on the rare nights she had been able to sneak away to him, the last time they had been together in Aquileia/Sirmium, in that week before her father died, and the world changed forever. Despite their solitude by the window, at the edge of the banquet hall, Lucilla is ever aware of the greedy attention of the guests that track her every move, and posture. She sighs long, gathering her poise, giving him a scrutinizing look, inhaling/sniffing the air about him. “Well, you don’t smell like you’ve been at sea these last 12 months.” He quirks an eyebrow,/puzzled look/caught by her off hand comment, before breaking into a short, gruff laugh. “Your attendants- "Saortius’s attendants.” Lucilla wants it clear, she bears no ties, however casual or trivial such associations may be, with any of the intimates of her brother’s circle, particularly his male-lover. Artorius gives her a pointed, playful look, humoring her correction. “Whoever. They had their hour, primping over me in the baths. Amid the mewling, hissing, and tsking- "Fascinating. Were they cats, or men?” His mouth quirks up at one side, the mirth in his eyes basking over her, not off-put in the least by the tart tone. “They were yowling like cats by the time I was done with them.” “Oh dear,” Lucilla frowns, feigning concern. “You weren’t too horrible to them, were you? They are, after all, rather used to the effeminate world of stage actors and court dancers. Not the demanding rigor of our military men.” Artorius’s voice carries all of his mimed disdain/insult/violation. “They plucked a hair from my chest.” A line of neatly trimmed hairs accents his jaw, matching the dark brown, thick cropped tresses covering his scalp. “They left your beard,” she offers in mock sweetness. “They tried sprinkling me with Rose oil from Antioch,” he blurts in his barley contained indignation. To which she laughs suddenly, Artorius’s deeper timbre adding to her joy. A husky merriment that relaxes the tension cramping/squeezing her temples, chasing away the dull hammer of her headache behind her eyes. She feels…lighter, in that moment. Young again, and wishing to be the woman, the person she always had been with him, the person he had always cherished. Not an icon of power, a vehicle to breed heirs, or even, as her brother acknowledged, an advisor, his echoing confessor, to soothe his impulses, and temper his fears, balancing that fine edge between keeping his favor, and repairing the sensibilities of the senators. Conscious of the attention their mirth has drawn from the other guests gathered about the hall, they quiet into breathlessness. A glance exchanged, Lucilla has to squeeze her lips together, seeing Artorius’s smirk flick at the edge of mouth, threaten to dissolve them into another round/gale of laughter. “You should smile more,” he says. The tenderness in his voice cuts into her heart. He sees the question in her eyes. “You look…” “Younger?” She can’t quite keep the archness/tartness from her tone. “Freer.” Her smile this time, is a sad ghost, a memory of the girl she had been, the hope of her youth, buried, sunken beneath the woman she has become in the years since her father’s death, managing Commodus’s excesses and corruptions, fighting to keep her perfect composure, serenity, and keep his suspicions of her dead. Her eyes cross over the myriad bodies clustered in the private groups, conversing in low voices, sipping from their fine molded, silver goblets. She tone is hard. “The same men who used to surround my father squealing like suckling pigs now cage my brother like scavenging sharks. He and his lover paw each other like humping dogs in front of his wife, and she does nothing. He insults our generals, men who won our father’s victories, spurning their counsel on the eve of triumph to instead, treat with the Quadi, and they do nothing. He degrades our senators, ignores our laws, and squanders our treasury upon his perverse entertainments, and they do nothing. My husband does…nothing.”

“Lucilla?” Her name only, but his tone if full of caution, knowing, not wanting to understand what she’s saying.

Far below, the streets of Rome emanate a faint glow, the soft light of torches mounted outside forecourts, oil-lamps set on open casements in upper story rooms. The season is still early, the night fresh with the spring rains which blow in from the coast, washing out the muddied lanes, and clearing the gutters of their festering filth. She turns from the window, from the dark night beyond the palace, meeting Artorius’s’ frown with a slow, reassuring smile. “It will all be different after tonight.”

“What do you mean?” The question is spoken low, his eyes heavy upon her.

Her smile fades as she glances behind him, seeing her husband, Claudius Pompeianus, approach them from across the banquet hall. On his arm, he escorts his guest. A woman, tall, regal. Striking, despite being on the closing end of her fifth decade, as Lucilla figures her age anyway. Envy, jealousy, or hatred. She ought to feel something other than this empty echo of sadness which rises, a dull ache pressing into her chest. She can’t hide the curl of her lip, her sorrow briefly breaking through. “Nothing,” she repeats the word like a mantra of her emptiness, turning her attention fully to Artorius, “I mean nothing. Only that I am happy you are here. That we are finally together after so long apart,” her practiced poise smoothing away any expression of upset.

The troubled shadow in his gaze tells her he’s not convinced. Despite Artorius’s devotion, his desire for her, there’s little he, nor anyone can do to cure this malignancy, the pain of her marriage. The grudge she still carries against her father, who she adored with all the faith in her being, transforming into the epitome of culture and grace, an empress to match her emperor. She had been the restraint, the light touch of wisdom redirecting the excesses of Lucius Verus’s behavior into victories that secured the loyalty of their eastern provinces. When plague had taken her first husband, and stolen away her role as Augusta, Marcus Aurelius hadn’t granted her the reward of autonomy, but bartered her to a man of lower rank, and dull ambition. For all Pompeianus’s military achievements, he carried little regard for the art of politics, and the intricacies of imperium. He had long ago accepted his wife’s baffling contempt as yet one more necessary inconvenience in the fulfillment of duty. She had given him a healthy son, and in so far as state contracts were concerned, Lucilla had kept her part of the bargain, providing an heir for Pompeianus, and assuring his senatorial heritage. Had she known back in the early years of their marriage, the true source of his coolness toward her, his forbidden, secret affection for the woman now at this side, Lucilla might have been spared the gnawing guilt that had haunted her for so many long, tortured nights.

An urge nearly overwhelms her, to suddenly unburden herself, admit everything of her plans, the reason for her enigmatic words, to Artorius. But Pompeianus and his companion draw near, almost into ear-shot. Instead, her desperation raw in her voice, she whispers, “Come to me tonight?”

She hears the ragged breath of his surprise, his desire, the way his gaze, suddenly bright with need, lances through her, then leaps to her husband and the woman at his side. The conflict of his conscience constricting his face. "Lucilla–“her name harsh, dragged past his lips into silence.

"Please.” She knows Artorius’s opinion of her husband is somewhat more elevated than her own, more favorable. They had served along the Danube together, Artorius Castus a mere centurion at the time. He was honored by Pompieanus, by her father, for his treatment of the Sarmatians, the conscription of over five-thousand horselords to re-garrison the depleted forces along Britannia’s hinterlands. Those shores of cold mist and savage moors, where legionaries described the women as giantesses, war-mad and frothing at the mouth, charging their chariots into battle. The woman striding elegantly beside her husband is tall, taller than the average Roman man. By all appearances, though, she embodies the ease of a Republican matron, rather than a warrior-queen, bent on tearing her enemies to pieces.

“Who is she?” Artorius asks, following the line of her gaze to her husband and his guest.

“The one he ought to have married.” She clutches his hand quickly, feeling the warmth, the power in his answering grasp. "Come to me tonight?”

He traces the delicate band of bronze circling her ring finger. “You still wear it?”

“Always.” She nods, swallowing, her breath catching in her throat, the years of loneliness she’s kept at bay with the precious memories of their loving her only succor in the endless seasons of their separation. “Please. Tonight.”

A moment of silence, marking the time with the thundering of her heart drumming through her hearing. Then…

“Always,” spoken harshly, a sigh, everything of his love, and his reluctance in that one word.

One last squeeze, and their hands drop apart. Claudius and his companion slow, stopping to offer their welcome. Lucilla inhales deeply, greeting them with a bright smile. "Husband! You recall Lucius Ar-

"Artorius Castus!” She’s always hated how he over-speaks her, but Lucilla manages her annoyance, a small bow, and she steps back to Lucius'a side as the men exchange their greetings.

Claudius grabs Lucius’s hand, drawing him into a vigorous hug, their hearty ribbing full of laughter and jest. Her husband is still a well-built man, for all of being in in his mid-sixties.

“Last I saw you, lad, you were pummeling Sarmatians back to their Maker. Then, stroking the scabbards of Marcus Aurelius’s advisors the wrong way–may his soul rest easy–insisting the turds be conscripted.”

Artorius grins quickly/ruefully as the part. “For which I had the dubious task/honor seeing to their transfer across 10 rivers and no less than five provinces, excluding the crossing to Britannia.”

“And soundly rewarded with an assignment direct to the emperor’s fleet out of Misenium,” Claudius says in his clipped/brisk voice/chuckle. Lucilla marvels how he can strip himself of the trappings of a genteel senator, and take on the trappings of his old military demeanor when in the presence of fellow veterans and active legionaries, as though he doesn’t wish to be thought of as soft or indolent these years he’s resided in Rome. “Are you bored yet, with spitting sea salt and basting German whores along the fringe of the Rhine?”

Artorius’s laugh is short, his smirk touching his eyes, a comradely smile passing between the men. “You’ve obviously been keeping a close track on my career.”

“We heard about how your men routed the Quadi/OTHER TRIBES/LAST ENGAGEMENT AFTER COMMODUS’s PEACE at ______Fort on the Danube, where it crosses at____, all the way here in Rome.” Claudius’s admiration is plain across his grizzled features, white brows and silvered hair, his dark eyes shine like a alert hound’s, hungering for the hunt, reliving the glory days of his own command under her father. “Ingenious, using the damming from the winter melt.”

Artorius, more reserved, says only, “We were fortunate the spring thaw was so rapid that year. It slowed their boats/rafts, halted their offensive, or we would have been fighting their parties from two fronts. It allowed time to oil the logs, and have the archers take a position from the trees, and set them ablaze. Gods be thanked, it’s been some years since we’ve seen an active engagement like that. Now, it’s mostly transport, food-stuffs, supplies, occasional livestock, transferring a unit or two, and the like.”

“Ah, the reality of peace.” Her husband can’t quite his disdain/disproval/contempt, her brother’s odious treaties with the tribes among the Danube one of the few points he seems to concur on, feel as strongly as she does, in regards to the ill-reasoned direction of her brother’s decisions in ruling the empire. “Are you Nostalgic for the days of direct action?”

Artorius hears the peculiar vibe of dissatisfaction from Claudius, eyeing him curiously/carefully/cautiously. “Only in so far as it kept the men occupied. Bored soldiers are no good for the integrity of our frontiers.”

A strange look, full of some unspoken meaning that unsettles Lucilla, passes between Claudius and the woman who stands just off to his side. Claudius nods. “Which is why it’s necessary to have men of experience staffing the posts in our hinterlands.”

He sounds like he’s about to reminisce on the glory days of his own command, but Artorius sniffs loudly, an unvoiced frustration/consternation surfacing. “And leaves me in my current quandary. I was advised by my commanding officer not 6 months back I’d receive my next assignment direct from the barracks here in the capital. 6 months later, and there’s been no commission forthcoming.”

“This, perhaps, is where my brother’s wife may of some help.” She waits patiently to be introduced, stepping forward to take Claudius’s hand. wrapped the woman who has accompanied her husband to this banquet tonight, held by her brother. “Maeve, the wife of Antius Crescens Calpurianus, legate of the VI Legion Victorius out of Eboracum, daughter of Lucius, king of the Briganti nation, and heir to the provincial domains of northern Britannia.” She weaves an Alluring portrait/image, a tall, elegantly figured woman in a gown the shade of crushed violets, her black hair, streaked with white, is pulled into an elegant coif, held by a circlet of netted silver and diamonds, her cheekbones high in a long face and probing eyes , her high forehead accented by thick slanting brows, heavy lidded eyes the color of ice, appear serene, ironic, as though they’ve looked on the multi-layered worlds, the souls and actions wrought by men, and little, if any circumstance exists which can still disturb her ease/poise/composure. She must have been stunning in her youth, and now, into her middle years, her presence still invokes a hushed respect in Lucilla, rarely effected by others of rank, a stab of envy jabbing her conscience as Artorius’s gaze travels over the woman’s form appreciatively/admiringly/consideringly. He’s never been shy in his appraisal of the women around him, a trait which would have infuriated her had he not also prized their talents and minds in turn.

“A queen?” Artorius says admiringly, on cue, bending down to kiss her elegant fingers, twined with Claudius’s. “You’re far from home.”

“It’s an impotent title, carrying little more these days, than the symbolism of a fabricated past.” Her smile, fleeting, warms her eyes with a quick, darting humor upon Artorius, and thawing the image of immaculate reserve. “Far from home, and long away as well.” Her voice has a low, smoky lilt, her Latin accented in that cadence of her northern home.

“I imagine you’re much missed by your husband, Lady. What would spur you to leave so far from both hearth and country?”

Her eyes rest upon Artorius, an enigmatic smile ghosts over her lips. “That would be long story for one night. Suffice for now, there’s value in seeing how the world fares beyond the sunrise and sunset of our own lands, whether we’re women and men. Do you not believe so, Artorius Castus?”

“I do,” he says with a single, firm nod, meeting her intent expression.

“Good. Then, you’ll understand to my chagrin, I’ve been so long absent, that I’ve only now had the benefit of Claudius apprising me of the most recent reports from Britannia. They’re distressing, to say the least.”

“My sympathies, Lady. If the reports I received as well from the Hadrian limes hold any merit, they also credited your husband, and your sons I believe, with the discipline and courage that has kept our frontiers solid against barbarian incursion these last years.”

A flash of some emotion, anger, lances the coolness of her poise. “It’s your Saramatians, Artorius Castus, who haven’t yet fulfilled their potential as reinforcements in our northern auxiliaries. They’re recalcitrant and have proven excessively difficult to integrate into the deployments, according to my husband.”

Artorius blinks at her sharp tone, nonplussed it seems, but his voice is hard when he answers her remark. “Perhaps it’s that the right man hasn’t yet been found. Who understands their customs without denouncing them, and demonstrates an adequate command of equestrianship.”

Amusement, subtle, washes over/melts across/softens the British woman’s regard, returns his defensive/tense words with breathy, considering little laugh. “Alas, my thought as well.

Artorius’s regards her/studies her/watches her with a closed/guarded expression. "And your husband?”

“My husband tends to concur,” Maeve states with an air of serene confidence. An unease begins to take hold of Lucilla, as the British woman’s crystalline eyes fall upon Claudius, and he motions with a nod in return. “Marcus Aurelius highly commended you. Senator Pompeianus extolls your feats in battle, especially against the Sarmatii, but it was your skill in orchestrating their/the steppe nomads’ peaceful transfer to British shores which snagged the accolades of my husband. Your name crossed the rosters for reassignment in the last year. Antius has had you marked.”

Anticipation livens Claudius’s usually /bland/stern/morbid comportment when required to interact socially with others. “The command is yours, if you wish it, Artorius Castus.”

“And what command is that, Senator?”

Lucilla glances at him quickly, sees the interest sudden, blazing, lighting up his rugged features. He carefully/deliberately avoids her stricken gaze, as she struggled to quash the rising panic, the awareness he is to be taken from her again before they ever have a chance to claim a happiness forever eluding them, duty the despair of their love.

Maeve answers before Claudius can speak. “Prefect of the Cohort of the First Wing of Sarmatian cavalry.”

He ponders her words in silence for the beat/space of a breath. Then, a rueful smile crosses his features. “That was the post Aurelius’s counsellors denied me at the juncture when their Prince, Batrades, was about to embark with the first contingent across the Channel from _____(northern French/Amorican/Norman/Breton port). They told me I treated them too sympathetically, that my interactions with the Iazyges were too familiar, and my orders were not issued to conscripts with sufficient authority or discipline to keep them in their place, subordinate.”

“You lacked the seasoning and rank back then to have been rewarded such a sensitive assignment/position. That rapid a rise would have ruffled the envy of other officers Aurelius considered too essential to snub at the time,” Claudius says. “Times are different now. The opportunities for a talented legionary, the equestrian background–well lad, there’s few who would object to your placement as head of the Sarmatian horselords.”

He’s obviously drawn to the offer, his gaze bright, what regret he might feel, once more being separated from her by distance and duty, rapidly evaporating from his mind.

“But so far?” Lucilla asks, trying to keep her voice smooth, distant/polite, wo the imposing need, but thinking how forced the words, her smile feeling forced, past the constriction of her throat. “Surely after a year at sea, and so many seasons spent in our hinterlands, you would seek an assignment more centrally located to Rome, to your family. The Praetorian ranks, perhaps?”

A strange perplexity clouds his features. “I barely know my family, at least of the Neopolitan branch. My father’s uncle is my closest living relative, who now lies near his last breath, and never gave my father more than a passing indulgence once year around Saturnalia. Home has ever been…Asturias. I’ll accept your offer, on one condition,” Artorius says, his fingers worrying/working the fanged pendant, his determined gaze on Claudius’s. The senator gives a small nod/cautious nod/slow nod. “Grant me leave to see my grandmother, assure the farm is stable, and our household provided for.”

“Done.” Claudius reaches out his hand. Artorius clasps the man’s forearm in a return, a exultant light suffusing his eyes, sealing their deal as Lucilla’s tenuous grasp at joy begins to spin away from her, into a dark abyss drilling a hole of abandonment into her soul.

“A curious pendant, those teeth.” Maeve’s voice moves over them like a gentle breeze off summer seas.

The men part, stepping back from each other. Artorius, still fingering the fangs off the leather tong around his neck, gives a cursory glance down at the yellowed ivory canines. One curved fang embossed with vertical gold etchings like bird’s feet in sand, down its the curve to the narrowed point, the other tooth bare, wo embellishment or mark.

Artorius lets the enameled teeth drop from his grasp, to rest undisturbed, just below his collarbone. “A family heirloom of sorts. It was the only treasure brought from Hibernia by my grandmother, passed to my own father, then to me upon his death.”

“The one with the writing, it’s rendered in the language of the Druids.”

His gaze upon Maeve is measuring. “Do you know what it means?”

She squints, a veiled/hooded expression/unreadable expression upon Artorius, examining the gold-embossed talisman. “It takes some time to translate druid-script into the Latin. What of the other?”

A half grin twitches across his lips. “A humbling reminder, Lady, of hubris–a novice recruit, his first assignment at the northern extent of the Rhine, and a perhaps, too reckless exuberance for adventure that turned into a struggle for survival in the face of a blizzard, between myself and the wolf who had previously made use of that tooth.”

“Would he now propose he’s free of hubris?” Lucilla asks, hurling the question like a thrown dagger, looking directly at him, probing his face, refusing to let him retreat from her silent pain.

Contrition shines from his eyes, but before any other comment can be spoken, trumpets sound through the hall, blaring the arrival of the emperor in a flurried entourage/procession from the high vaulted gallery fronting the entrance.

–Commodus’s entrance, greeting with his sister, announces for his guests to be seated in honor of his father’s commemoration/deification, change in the program of the entertainment, from Aristophanes and Lysisrrata to ??writer and Antigone, a message of familial fidelity, of devotion to one’s parents and one’s siblings, gaze fixed on Lucilla. Premonition chills her, hearing Maeve’s whispered observance, her ice-blue eyes fastened upon her brother’s procession like she’s gazing into a different world/a distant horizon just beyond. “The shadow of death lies on him.”

“What are muttering about, woman?” Claudius asks distractedly, scowling at her. “This isn’t the time to having spells/episodes, Maeve.”

She blinks, a slight pucker, snd a fine crease between her brows forming, her disconcerting gaze shifting to Lucilla. “Oh Claudius, you should have left when I told you with your wife,” she says with a peculiar remorse.

Commodus announces the change in venue, explaining it’s only appropriate on a night for commemorating their father deification, to celebrate a playwright of Antigone who had captured the virtues his father always espoused, of humbleness, modesty, dignity, serenity/patience, asking Lucilla if this is not what their father taught, as he gestures for her, in a change of seating hierarchy, in a bow to familial ties over marital, to take her old position at his right hand as they, the guests about them begin to move toward their assigned places toward the lounge-divans/cushioned/pillowed benches facing the central raised platform of a stage, Commodus’s wife, Bruttia Crispina throwing her a savage/vicious/waspish glare, and in the coup de grace, as Lucilla takes his hand, he proffers her the accusatory dagger, hurt and rage finally contorting his fine-hewn features that he shares with his sister, words filled with venom, 'The Senate sends you this gift, sister’, shock and confusion buzz from the spectators/witnesses, and Claudius demands to know what the meaning of Commodus’s insinuation is, tossing his wife a bloodied dagger, whilst in this juncture, as everyone’s attention is focused on the play between brother and sister, Lucilla stiff as a statue, color faded from her cheeks, fastened upon the dagger in her trembling hand, Maeve has melted back into the shadows at the edge of the hall, noting a slave who directs her to where the latrines are located, skirts stealthy/sneaks out unnoticed, throwing her palla over her hair, and evading groups of guards at the main entrance, as she darts out a rear servants’ access leads out from the fetid drainage/sewer alley in order to hasten back to Claudius’s mansion on foot, through the streets, and get a message off to her daughter, Artorius too is trying to make sense of the situation, 'Lucilla’, shifts Commodus’s attention to him, in a forced theatrical voice, 'Ah, Lucius Artorius Castus, I believe. I recall the praise my father heaped upon you after the close of the Macromanni assault, and my sister’s favor for you, retaining her golden cunt for her particular lovers. What, I Wonder, did she promise you, in dividing of my empire between her enchanted conspirators, Artorius says in a a low, dangerous voice, menacing, Be careful, Commodus, of what you’re charging, to which he bristles, You have no right to address me as such! I am your emperor, spurring Lucilla to intercede before Artorius advances/responds, voice tense, He has nothing to do with this Commodus, and Commodus pierced her with blazing look of despair and hatred, 'Like Ummidius Quadratus had nothing to do with this, like you hadn’t fucked him into treason against his emperor, his face livid, His blood stains that blade sister, bc he tried to take my life at your instigation, a collective gasp rippling over the audience, as she bites out in a voice like acid, 'How dare you, little brother–no more fit to hold the throne of Caesar than you are to mount a donkey. You insult our father by shitting on his vision, and parlaying with barbarians. The Senate abhors you, the people despise you, and the army disdains you. Perverted and corrupt, your reign will be nothing but a curse left to be smashed from the pillars and walls after you die, Commodus stepping toward her, she sees Artorius tense, ready to jump to her defense but her brother, only a finger breadth taller than her, only whispers, I loved you, Lucilla, above all my sisters. I valued your words, and would honored you. We would have ruled in glory, to outshine even our great father. Hesignals the Praetorians to break their formation, coming forward, taking positions around Lucilla and Artorius Castus on all sides. In a voice meant to project to the audience, he says, “Instead, sister, I order your arrest, for treason, sedition, and attempted assassination against your emperor. You will be exiled to Capri–” the Praetorians wo any command, taking up points on all sides around her–“your sentence to be decided. And Lucius Artorius Castus, to be taken into custody under suspicion of conspiracy–” Fear pierces Lucilla’s voice for the first time that night. “Commodus, he had no part in my actions, no knowledge,” Throwing a desperate look to Artorius who makes no protest as two guards move to restrain each of his arms. “Claudius, please,” she begs, “you know he is innocent!” Commodus raises his hand, commanding his guard to pause, and they freeze, like mimes sharing one mind, in unison. “Indeed,” her brother says with a small, sadistic twitch of his lips that leaves Lucilla numb with dread. His gaze falls on Claudius, who looks like he’s aged a century in the moments since his wife’s treason came to light, skin parchment pale, sagging exhaustion beneath his eyes. He shuffles toward the emperor, falling to his knees, kissing the signet ring when Commodus extends his hand. “The clemency I seek, your Grace, is not for my wife, but for this man. He has served your father, and you, fiercely and faithfully, along our water routes, and our furthest boundaries. He could not have had any knowledge of my wife’s betrayal, gods have mercy upon his life.” “Mercy,” Commodus repeats the word, as though spoken in a foreign tongue. “My father promoted justice along with mercy. And we are, if harsh, also just. Rise Claudius Pompeiaus,” he motions with his hand. “And if Lucius Artorius Castus is, indeed innocent,” he fingers clutch Lucilla’s fine-boned wrist, bringing the dagger in its grip to Artorius’s hand, as the guards thrust him, shoving him, before Commodus, “then he may prove his loyalty to his emperor.” Malice fires an ardency across Commodus’s features, meeting Artorius’s defiant gaze. “So, soldier, I ask, how ought my traitorous sister be punished?” She feels Arorius clasp the handle of the knife, his focus unwavering from her. He’s as taut as a catapult, drawn, and ready to fire. The tremor from the power of his grip on the knife, her own fingers still wrapped about its handle, shudders up her arm to her shoulder. “No, Artorius, don’t!” What happens next is a blur of outrage/alarmed cries/bellows, the dagger in his grip driven upwards, Lucilla trying to divert its momentum/force from her brother’s chest toward a point into her neck, unaware of her helpless/stricken utterance echoing through the hall. Commodus’s outraged cry sends the Praetorians into action, the nearest raising his short sword hilt like a bludgeon at the same moment Artorius wrenches Lucilla backwards/pushes her backwards, out of grasp, sending her stumbling to the ground, ramming his shoulder into the man’s armored torso, his fist smashing into the doubled-over guard’s jaw with a sickening crunch. The man behind him flails, his spear flying out of his grip across the floor, scattering the onlookers, as his downed comrade, sluggish/reeling from Artorius’s blow, crashes into him, and spins to marble floor, his shout to look to the emperor strangled by the Artorius’s foot landing in the side of his neck. Lucilla manages to stagger upright, seeing the additional regiment pour into the hall, twenty-five men, in polished black armor, advancing to the scene, as Artorius dives for the lost spear, dodging the third guard’s hapless maneuver with his shield, that he tries to leaver up, and clip Artorius’s rapid motion, but he lunges into a tight roll at the last moment, lurching to one foot just in front of the surprised guard, the closest Commodus, and trying to impose himself between the attacker and the emperor. Artorius thrusts the spear into the thunder bolt blazoned shield, using the soldier’s paralyzed astonishment to yank back, dragging the guard forward, the man loosing his footing, warning Commodus to back away while he and Artorius grapple for the man’s still sheathed sword, dangling at his waist from the leather strapped belt. With the spear shaft as his winch/lever/mast, Artorius Heaves himself bodily into the shield, shoving the guard further back as he tugs the sharpened head out of the rawhide and bronze/alloy sealed wood, maneuvering to come behind the guard, and drive the spear head into the man’s calf as the guard snarls in pain, twisting to his knees, his shield clattering to the floor as his hand flies to where the barbed lance is buried in his muscle, a pool of red liquid leeching out from the wound. Artorius, undeterred by the arrival of the additional soldiers, never stalls, launching himself with a bestial sound, all his disgust/contempt for Commodus in that sound, who staggers back, vulnerable and exposed, face a mask of fear, flinching away from the bloodied dagger Artorius aims at his throat, even as his free hand, flies out to grab her brother beneath his chin, hauling him off his feet, carrying him back, such is his anger and power in his motions, slamming Commodus into one of the grand marble columns/Quartz columns lining the room. “Was this what you thought I would do to your sister,” his voice full of menace, pressing the edge of the blade up to her brothers throbbing vessel in his neck, glaring into Commodus’s frenzied/panicked eyes, rolling in his head. “Artorius, no!” She knows there’s no recourse now. Claudius restrains her from rushing toward them as a contingent of 4 new armored men surround her and her husband, another looking to the beaten soldiers slowly recovering themselves, gathering gear and coming unsteadily to their feet, but the soldier with his leg left bleeding, groaning as a medic trained officer readies to dislodge the spear head driven into the back of his lower leg. She and Claudius are the only two left standing of the other guests as the additional Praetorian regiment cleared through the hall in a ruthless efficiency, they have forced every guest, man or woman, senator, wife, escort, actor, or nameless slave, to the ground with their swords drawn, shields in the front, every 5th man left at the perimeter of the kneeling, prone, terrified audience to survey for any surprise attack. “You’re a dead man, scum,” Commodus chokes out past the iron grip flexed about his throat. One of the black armored guards, flanked by two of his companions advances toward her brother and Artorius. “Release your lord emperor, soldier.” He levels his spear, in unison with the other two guards fanned to either side of him. Artorius ignores the command, keeping the dagger edge pressed against the pulsing artery in Commodus’s jugular. “I’ll make your death a living hell, if dare harm her.” The guards shuffle nearer, spears readied in the grasps, closing from behind where Artorius has Commodus pinned against the column. The leader stresses the words more firmly. “I repeat–release your emperor, soldier, or you invite a harsh consequence.” Commodus’s voice is audible, shaking in his fear, his forehead slick with perpetration, but his malice shines from his blue, reptilian eyes, basilisk’s gaze. “You heard them, soldier,” the word hissed. “Release your emperor. How exactly do you expect to save my traitor of a sister by murdering her brother?” Lucilla entreats Claudius’s understanding, and he releases her arm, seeming to read the plea in her eyes. The strain weighs heavy on him, and she can still see the disbelief of her actions warring with the reality of events spinning faster than he can keep apace from the loss/confusion marring his normally stern features. The troops surrounding them act, at first, to obstruct her purpose. Her raised hand, a pacifying gesture, the regality of her bearing, assure them she intends no threat. They keep their weapons trained upon her warily though, as she glides toward Artorius and her brother, locked in Artorius’s choke-hold. She stops just short of the three guards oriented near enough that could thrust a spear into his neck, or slice an arm with their short-swords if so incited. “Artorius–There is no winning this now.” She passes like a wraith between two Praetorians, coming alongside him, begging silently that he will heed the force of her will in her words and /unmoving/fixed/steady gaze centered upon him. Tension tremors his hand, squeezing the dagger blade harder against Commodus’s neck, just short of drawing blood. Her brother makes a short, strangled sound that alerts the trio of guards to close in, their spears in positioned, the men postured for the kill. Rage burns from Artorius eyes, trained upon Commodus, and for an endless heartbeat that leaps into her throat, stopping her breath, she thinks he’s about to slice the dagger across her brother’s bared throat. Contempt twists his features, and with a snarl, Artorius shoves his elbow forcefully/hard against Commodus’s windpipe, removing his throttle hold from the emperor’s throat with a rapid recoil of his hand, fingers still flexed/curled about the knife handle. Commodus falls to floor, crouched on his knees, trying to relax the spasms of his crushed throat, his blazing hatred centered on Lucilla. “He was innocent of all involvement in this, brother. The responsibility of all of this lies with me, solely.” “Lucilla…,” Claudius calls her name helplessly, a mixture of anguish, shame, and fear in his voice. “You’ve so much as condemned yourself of treason, sister,” Commodus rasps past his raw throat. He struggles to his feet, his quick glance to a guard staying the man who was about to come to his assistance. Even her brother, for all his idle cowardice, still has his pride. “Do you admit your guilt in this failed 'coup’ (did that equivalent exist in the Latin lexicon??), sister? That you deliberately deceived your rightful emperor, and plotted the assassination of your Augustus, and most disappointingly of all, devised the downfall of your only living brother, who has loved you above all his siblings?” She meets his evil/vile smugness calmly, her mind so clear in purpose now, even fear has left her, replaced by a resurgence of clarity and determination. “Will you let Lucius Artorius Castus free? With no accusation of complicity, and innocent of all malicious/malevolent intent?” “Oh, my dear,” Artorius murmurs softly at her side, a sad acceptance imparted with words. “He’s hated me from the moment of our love.” His presence by her side is a warmth, a comforting touch in her mind of reassurance, filling her with courage. She cannot look at him, or she thinks she will lose this last thread of hope to make some kind of reparation for the disaster of her plot. “Will you let him go, without threat of harm or imprisonment?” The smugness across her brother’s face makes her want to spit in his eyes. Instead, she keeps her her gaze placid, drilled on him, awaiting his decision. Benevolence floods/washes over/spreads into a gracious smile over his smooth cheeked face. “Of course, dear sister. As I said, we are, of all things merciful as we are just.” She raises her chin, eyes steadied upon Commodus, defiance, pride, in her voice to the last. “Then at least one us, brother, shall go to our death having tried to preserve our father’s legacy.” Anger tics his mouth in a sneer, immediately repressed by his facade of equanimity. She fully expects him to issue the order to his guards of her arrest. Instead, he shifts his attention to Claudius, who continues to watch their exchange cautiously. “I’ll presume by having not mentioned your husband with the same passion you defended your equestrian legionary, Claudius Pompeianus also had no affiliation with your plotting.” Shame, guilt, resentment all wash through her, reluctantly looking toward her husband’s broken expression. A man of talent whose ambitions had fallen short of greatness, disappointment leaves her with an exhaustion that almost sacks her of her stoic will. Especially when Commodus continues in his pronouncement. “Pompeianus will surely not wish to provoke his emperor’s anger by attempting any additional conspiracy when he mercifully allows Pompeianus to collect his wife for the night, to spend one last evening with her family, snd settle estates or make reparations as she might. For your son, of course, Claudius, my favored nephew, who remains innocent of all wrong-doing despite the sins of his mother.” Something bleak, creeps into Lucilla’s voice when she rallies her response. “You will not harm him, my son?” Commodus’s beneficence is sickening. “Why would I harm him?” He asks innocently. “I love him.” “You loved me,” she returns stiffly, through her dread. Her son, who she won’t be able to protect once death and the earth separate them. “And I still do, sweet sister. I still do.” Commodus inclines his head toward the guards surrounding Claudius, to allow him to approach. Commodus stretches out his bejeweled fingers, thick with the rings of his authority. The aged senator kneels, effacing himself before her brother, humbly posturing obeisance as he places his lips upon the imperial signet. “Remember Claudius Pompieanus, guard her well. The official warrant of her arrest shall be issued tomorrow.” Artorius exhales sharply, but Lucilla stays his protest with a darting glance, a short shake of her head. “A Praetorian contingent will take her into state custody at that time.” “I understand, your Eminence.” Pompeianus awaits Commodus’s permission to rise. “I am ever your faithful servant.” Magnanimously, Commodus gestures for her husband to rise, even offering his arm for the retired army general to use as support. He turns to her, and she’s struck by the haggard/worn pall which makes her husband seem suddenly ancient, shrunken, like a dying tree, is a new thing. Next to her golden haired, trim-built brother, with his high cheek bones and Asian tilted eyes the color of lapis blue, Claudius appears like a withered stump. She’s never noticed how tottering his hair has become, nor how lumpy/swollen his knuckles have grown with rheumatism, as he places a hand hesitantly, almost permissively/or submissively/timidly upon her wrist. “Come wife. Let us go make your preparations.” She feels moved to pity for the pain she has caused him, for first time, she experiences the deeper awareness/burden of the fallout of her brother’s rage that will undoubtedly be unleashed upon not only her fellow conspirators, but all members of the Senate, whether or not they were involved in her plot. Names which must have been ripped from Ummidius Quadratus’s mouth as he suffered extraordinary torment at the hands of Imperial interrogators. *So long as Artorius is spared*. Lucilla would once have sheared herself with guilt at the priority of her affections, before her husband and even her son, but she’s done with self-castigation, with deception, to herself most of all. Her father’s values of justice and moderation were her guiding beacons through her life, but it was the value of truth, to oneself, above all else that Marcus Aurelius instilled most deeply into her heart. Artorius Castus, his love, had been a treasure, a precious gift belonging to her alone. The truth was, What judgements history would later lie upon her sarcophagus, where her ashes would rest in eternal darkness, no longer caused her worry. And she knew all of them, the infamous women with whom she would be staged with posterity, from Cleopatra to Livia, Agrippina to [Vestal murdered by Domition], they were strung upon the wrack of condemnation, torn apart by ambition, led astray by lust, covetous for power, and over-reaching in their grab at immortality, at glory. Lucilla wondered when people of later generations read the story of her downfall, if anyone would read between the lines imparted by the chroniclers. If they would understand the higher purpose she had been trying to serve in her father’s memory, the honor, however miscast as the sort of nobility peculiar to women, which had been the true motive behind her attempt to oust her brother from power. Or perhaps, that was her own deception, and she truly had hungered to rule, bc she ought to have been appointed Augusta in her own right. It no longer mattered. It was now, only the moments she had shared with Artorius, worshipping each other with their bodies, as the shared the hearts and souls. That was the treasure, the gift that was hers alone, and would never be taken from her so long as she met her death, knowing in those minutes, he would still see the sunrise on this side of life the day after. He would still exist in the world, and so would she, carried in his heart, the memory and hope of their stolen seasons beneath that same sun. She lets Claudius lead her toward the arched entry of the banquet hall, sensing the rustling of dispersed guests arrayed on the floor, raising heads, trying to catches glimpse, hear a line, take the measure of the events which so rapidly unraveled, all of them still under the watchful attention of the Praetorians. She pauses, and Claudius makes no objection to her turning, her gaze searching out Artorius’s one last desperate, stolen glimpse of the happiness she had almost won, and slipped from her grasp like the salvage rope from a drowning man’s fingers. “Remember me,” she calls. His eyes hold the cast of stormy seas, anguished. “Always,” is all he can manage. She sees the rebellion, the need to fight, leap to her defense taut in his powerful form, the way his throat works, his anger at his own helplessness, the injustice at her arrest. The guards with their spears trained on him are aware of his coiled anger as well, the leader of the three leveling/weighing him with a warning look, a repositioning of his spear, indicating any wrong move and Artorius was a doomed man. The bronze band around her finger seems to pulse, grow warm, and contract, causing her skin, the bone beneath to burn like she was scalded by hot oil. Perhaps it was true, the insistence of the poets and musicians, that some magical chain ran from the ring finger to the heart, where all life in its pain was a measure of an organ beating away the time until there was no longer the despair or ecstasy of joy, sorrow, hate, loss, and most of all love. Until there was only peace, stillness, silence, and the memory of a life once lived.

It’s in that moment, when she registers Commudus’s motion to his guard, the leader of the trio who still pen/corral Artorius with their spears, and the troops fall upon him. Artorius, surprised by the first blow to his gut, doubles over, the wind knocked from his lungs an audible grunt, wheezing/gasping to breathe even as he makes to spring at his attacker, catching the man’s hand, gripping his spear, shoving it aside before the guard can react, and pummeling his fist straight into the man’s nose, bone and cartilage crunching like a rotten egg, a wet, sickening spray of blood that sends the guard tipping back, letting out a gurgle of choking, red-stained phlegm and tissue. One of the remaining guards imposes himself between Artorius and the emperor. His companion blusters his shield out in front of him , as Artorius wheels to meet them, the spear in his hand. Fellow troops cross the room, leaping into the foray/scuffle/melee. He attempts a valiant rally. The collective battering of spear butts into stomach and back, dull thud of booted feet into knees and groin, and finally a sword hilt to his temple, which downs him at last, occurs in the dead silence holding the guests in an entranced spell of horror, broken only by Lucilla’s screams, bringing her to her knees, even as her husband tries to keep her from toppling to the floor with the agony that seizes the strength from her limbs. The ring blazes against her finger, scalding, and she knows what it is for her heart weep in an explosion of grief, shuddering against Claudius, her pleas to her brother broken by her sobs, Commodus watches/scans the entire scene like a god over his enamored worshippers, in the midst of his black-armored troops, his fine-boned face, like a cherubs in its pleasure, resplendent in his triumph, glowing, his skin smooth as a boy’s over his sharp cheeks, the radiance matched by/accented by his the halo of cropped, golden curls, thick about his head.

#Roughing it #rough draft #Arthuriana #Lucius Artorius Castus #sorry for the length #will insert 'read more' divide later #can't do it from mobile post

0 notes

torncurtain1991 · 7 years

Text

Will Putin Push Russian Troops west to Kyiv, Lviv & Beyond?

The Russo-Ukraine War of 2014-17 has been going on for three years and it has resulted in the occupation of Crimea, Luhansk and Donetsk regions of Ukraine. Its duration so far is about half of World War II, Europe’s last continental military conflagration. So, will Vladimir Putin continue driving Russia’s military machine across Ukraine into Western Europe?

The simple answer is yes, he will, and wishing it weren’t so won’t make it so.

Russian global expansion is its historical manifest destiny – regardless of who is in the Kremlin – and trampling Ukraine’s independence and sovereignty is the means by which Moscow will rebuild its empire. After all, Russia is continuing to mobilize troops on both sides of the Ukrainian border, which doesn’t bode well for peace and stability in Ukraine and the region.

According to Ukrainian Defense Minister Stepan Poltorak, a 40,000-strong diversified Russian army has recently been formed in occupied Donbas, of which 5,000 are Russian regular troops.

Poltorak said Russia has massed about 600 tanks, 1,300 combat vehicles, 860 artillery systems and 300 multiple launch rocket systems on Ukrainian territory. Military affairs observer and member of Verkhovna Rada Dmytro Tymchuk also warned of large-scale Russia military buildup along the border with Ukraine.

“Of course, with this military build-up, it is very difficult to talk about peace, especially with those who do not wish to fulfill the Minsk agreements or is very aggressively against Ukraine,” Poltorak said in an interview with TV Channel 5.

During the past few weeks, including during Christmas observances, which was designated as a holiday truce, Russian forces and their mercenary terrorists have been attacking Ukrainian positions in eastern Ukraine, killing many defenders. Ukrainian military spokesmen have said that the assaults marked a significant escalation in deadly engagements.

With the fighting spiking, the only question that remains is when will Russia unleash the full fury of its imperial assault?

Dr. Adam Lelonek, in an article earlier this month on the Polish-language website Defence24.pl, expressed the point of view that such an expansion is inevitable because Russia will not permit Ukraine to integrate itself in EuroAtlantic structures.

However, Lelonek pointed out, Russia will not yet commence a major ground war but will rather unleash an overwhelmingly vile campaign of dirty operations meant to destabilize Ukraine and camouflage its intentions from Western capitals.

Lelonek cited Ukrainian experts and pundits who believe that while a full-blown war may not come in 2017, that doesn’t mean that Russia hasn’t already begun planning for such an eventuality. After all, he reminded readers that launching a war is not a spur of the moment idea. Wars and invasions take months if not years of preparations before soldiers are put in harm’s way.

Russia’s invasion of the Ukrainian peninsula of Crimea wasn’t arbitrarily done two weeks after the conclusion of the 2014 Winter Olympics. Planning began many months earlier, while free world leaders were probably busy glad-handing Putin at a conference or summit.

While Russia is busy with Syria and elections in Western Europe, Putin understands that at the present time it is a cheaper and safer option to destabilize Ukraine, dishearten the Ukrainian population, discredit the government, isolate it from the West, create a viable fifth column operation, and weaken all levels of the country to the point where Moscow can just pick up the pieces and stick them in its pocket.

According to Lelonek, Moscow’s master plan also calls for destabilizing the internal situations and foreign policies of Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Polish, Belarus, Slovakia, Moldova, the Czech Republic and Germany.

As recent history shows, this operation doesn’t require an army. Destabilization could be the result of fake news, hacking, sabotaging elections, or sleeper agents. Even confusion and indecisiveness can slow down the wheels of government enough to destabilize a country.

“Western experts still seem to mostly ignore the fact that Russian plans, including military campaigns, are prepared for the long run. Scenarios for the annexation of the Crimea or military actions in Donbas were prepared long before the Revolution of Dignity, and the dismantling of the Ukrainian defense structures and infiltration of the Ukrainian state structures by the Russian secret services were being done years in advance for the benefit of the future,” Lelonek observed.

The Polish author added that Russia is also counting on a worsening of relations among Washington, Moscow and Beijing that would distract the world’s attention from Ukraine as well as the West’s ultimate fatigue and boredom with the issue of Ukraine.

Another flashpoint that will be exacerbated by Russia to destabilize Ukraine will be inciting conflicts between the Moscow Patriarchate’s Orthodox Church in Ukraine and the Ukrainian Orthodox Church as well as between the Orthodox Church and the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church.

“There is no indication of the probability of a tragedy this year, however, the majority of Ukrainian experts (theoreticians and practitioners) are nonetheless convinced that a full-scale war is only a matter of time. If Russia recognizes that it cannot stop Ukraine’s progress to the West, most likely, it will decide to apply maximum effort to destroy or seize as many resources as it can including demographic, intellectual, technological and natural,” Lelonek projected.

Andrey Illarionov, a Russian economist and Putin’s former economic policy advisor, was quoted by UA Today and channel 112 as saying that Moscow will take advantage of the interregnum in the United States to intensify provocations against Ukraine.

“This November, before and after the November 8, is the best situation for destabilization. We understand that the US presidential election is the time when neither American administration, nor the political powers in the US and Europe will care about Ukraine. The world will be focused on the developments in the US, and election results,” Illarionov said.

According to him, the world’s attention will be distracted by the US elections and inauguration, creating an ideal situation for Russia “with little or no risk to hold its campaigns in the various countries of the world.” Even a cursory review of American newspapers will reveal that the US is in such an unsafe state of flux about where are its foreign loyalties.

Illarionov reminded that Russia is capable of launching conventional and non-conventional weapons from its well-stocked arsenal against Ukraine – “Nothing can be ruled out” – in order to stop Kyiv’s westward movement.

In an interview with well-known columnist Paul Goble, Illarionov further clarified that Russia’s invasion of Ukraine cannot be called a conflict, but rather it is a war. “This is not a crisis. This is a war. The war in the simplest meaning of the word,” he said.

“This is a Russian-Ukrainian war. To be more precise, this is Putin’s war against Ukraine. Most Russians do not support the war. Putin’s war against Ukraine is already a long-term one.”

I have been referring to it as the Russo-Ukraine War for a couple of years.

Like Lelonek, Illarionov also said he was sure that preparations for the war took years – at least 11 years. “Since 2003. I can say that certain questions relating to the future war with Ukraine were discussed in my presence. I didn't think the talks would really lead to a real war,” he said.

This observation must sink in for western leaders. While they were shaking hands with Putin, toasting him with Russian vodka, signing agreements, and praising his accomplishments, he was busy planning his invasion of Ukraine and other countries.

Illarionov recalled that in year 2004 preparations were already discussed for the future occupation and annexation of Crimea but were suspended during the Orange Revolution. In 2008, Russian Journal published the leaked plan of the military command “in which you will see a detailed draft project of a war against Ukraine.” Information about actions to support separatists in Ukraine began to appear in 2009, he added.

“So, they were preparing the war for a long time. The other matter is that it is a long war that has been continuing for more than 16 months. It was officially launched on July 27, 2013, by Putin's speech in Kyiv on the occasion of the anniversary of the baptism of Kyivan Rus. You can find here clear remarks about the start of the hybrid campaign, an intervention, but not a war,” Goble observed on the basis of Illarionov’s remarks.

Indeed, in the July 29, 2013, edition of The Torn Curtain 1991 newsletter, I also forecast that Putin’s arm twisting of Ukrainian leaders at that event would ultimately lead to Russia’s violent attempt to rebuild the torn iron curtain one way or another: “In Ukraine for the commemoration of Christianity of Kyivan Rus (ancient Ukraine), Putin made it a point to urge Ukraine to unite with Russia because, after all, they’re ‘one people.’ Nothing smacks of a restoration of the Russian prison of nations and the iron curtain more than that.”

Goble wrote in his current column that Illarionov believes the war won’t end in the nearest time.

Illarionov made similar observations to Paul Roderick Gregory in Forbes. The Russian pundit said Putin has already begun waging another type of war throughout Ukraine, one that is being conducted by Russian Spetsnaz (special operations) forces and KGB (now called FSB) agents and its aims is to topple the pro-Western government in Kyiv – destabilization.

The Spetsnaz’ orders include the sowing of civil unrest throughout Ukraine via strikes, demonstrations, staged incidents, and street battles. Putin’s subversive forces will also orchestrate neo-Nazi incidents with Nazi regalia and swastikas on full display. Their mandates also include the deliberate killing of Russian soldiers and of ethnic Russian civilians to prove the hatred and extremism of radical Ukrainian nationalists. These orders come from Putin himself, Illarionov said. Their mission is to create an image of intolerable chaos and loss of civil authority to justify a Russian takeover of all Ukraine. Putin’s goal is the destruction of pro-Western authority in Ukraine, the total humiliation of the West, and a makeover of the geopolitical balance.

Illarionov’s assessment is similar to that of Lelonek. Destabilize Ukraine and make it ripe for the picking.

His urgent advice to President Poroshenko of Ukraine is to place all your efforts into preserving civil order and avoid falling for the Spetsnaz provocations. In other words, the nation shouldn’t become a patsy.

Ukrainian authorities must immediately close all borders with Russia to slow the infiltration of Spetsnaz and FSB destabilization units. The American government has also advised this and is in the process of providing Kyiv a range of sophisticated border control systems.

The free world is also tasked with containing Russian expansion. Illarionov urges the West to understand Putin’s grand vision for restoring the “historic glory of Mother Russia.” He and others are convinced that if Russia is successful in re-subjugating Ukraine, the balance of power in Europe and the world would change for the worse and lead to further “restorations” of the former Soviet Union and ultimately to rebuilding the prison of nations.

So it’s merely a matter of time when Putin will unleash his hordes to reconquer Ukraine and the other x-captive nations.

Illarionov also explained to the Lithuanian Tribune that it’s not only about Ukraine. Russian laws essentially define four categories of Russians, he said: ethnic Russians, irrespective of whether they reside in or outside Russia; Russian-speakers, irrespective of their nationality; all former citizens of the Soviet Union and their offspring living in the territories formerly covered by the USSR; and former citizens of the Russian Empire (pre-1917) and their offspring living in the territories once covered by the Russian Empire.

“Such a legal base allows the Russian army to protect all the Russians listed in the law. Therefore, for the Russian side, such actions of the Russian army beyond Russian borders might seem completely legitimate,” Illarionov elaborated.

The x-captive nations appreciate the dangerous situation they are in and have been increasing their military budgets in hopes of building armed forces strong enough to counter a full-scale Russian blitzkrieg.

Russia’s thirst for new conquests or return of its empire will not be sated by President-elect Trump’s misguided belief in Putin’s wholesomeness and integrity. The free world should not hesitate to vigorously thwart Putin’s war by preparing accordingly.

Some US officials, congressmen and pundits have been warning Russia about this dangerous, destabilizing trend. They have placed their hope for a safer world on a new round of intensified sanctions against Moscow that will force it to withdraw from occupied Ukrainian regions.

As in the past, so too in the future, this generation will be asked, what did you do to oppose Russian expansion and protect the world from new colonialism?

#Ukraine #Russia #Kyiv #Poroshenko #Putin #Poland #Lithuania #Crimea #Donbas #Luhansk

0 notes