#in the wrong for several centuries at this point thus she will not even risk making that realization | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tackyink · 5 years ago

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Why do I do this to myself, I ask, as I post the next chapter two weeks after the first one, which took four years, thus defeating the entire point of extensive editing and risking a huge tone shift. Then again, I’ve been whining about it so much that it would be odd not to share.

Chapter 1

— — — — — — — —

Chapter 2

The sun pounds down with criminal intent as Alex and her friend run across the terrace of Mrs. Isabel’s monumental house. They are adventurers this time, or maybe pirates. It doesn’t matter. The reflection of the light on the colorful tiles and whitewashed buildings is blinding, and her friend’s blonde hair makes her glow like she’s wearing a crown woven with sunlight. They are wearing matching pendants of stone that she picked for them while she was on a trip.

Laughing, her friend turns to Alex with a toy chest between her hands, but Alex can’t hear the sounds coming from her mouth and her face is a featureless blur that she can’t make sense of. Who’s this person? The stress of not being able to focus on her face makes the image vanish into white, then black, then...

When Alex woke up, she vaguely remembered dreaming about home, so she didn’t give it much thought. She very rarely remembered dreams, and dreams related to the past were the worst because they were filled with people she hadn’t seen in years, so she wasn’t going to make an effort to recall only to feel bad.

Getting up with a lot effort, she remembered she had gone straight to bed as soon as she got home the day before and she needed a shower. She groaned as she undressed and dropped on the nightstand the seastone pendant she usually wore under her clothes. It was a small, useless thing that may have at some point been used as a bullet and repurposed, but it was a gift from a family friend, and she liked how it looked. A good luck charm of sorts that clearly wasn’t doing its job.

The shower seemed to stretch to infinity as she reviewed the events of the previous day and what she needed to do from then on. She wished that had been a dream. If only things were always that easy.

True to word, the pirates had left with the rising sun. Alex didn’t get to see their ship, even though the first thing she did that morning was go to the port to sneak a glance and contemplate the fish-shaped submarine in its entire tacky splendor. She’d always liked watching ships, ever since she was a kid and sat down at the beach or near the shipyard to see them from up close.

The following weeks were a haze of bureaucracy and preparations to leave her post at the library. She booked a ticket for a passenger ship to the city-island of St. Poplar with the intention of catching another ship from there that could sail her to the Sabaody Archipelago. Then she’d need to request permission to cross the Red Line, and once she was there, well, it wasn’t like she was in a big hurry to return home. But if she didn’t enter the New World soon, there was a chance that once the Poneglyph was be discovered and she’d be held up as soon as she set foot on holy land.

Nearly a month and a half had passed by the time she was able to get all her ducks in a row: training her replacement at work, sending letters to friends and family telling them she was moving, as well as shipping a couple of boxes to the Sabaody Archipelago. When that was done, Alex spent the longest three weeks of her life inside that passenger ship, trapped in a vessel wondering where the heck was her life going, but after several stops along the way, in a very early morning, she arrived to Saint Poplar. She had about a month to go until the renovations started and she became officially a fugitive. Probably. The fact that she wouldn’t be able to know if she was overreacting unless shit hit the fan didn’t help her feel secure in any decision she took, but hey, if she was wrong and nothing happened in the end, she could always go back to Duster Town.

The first thing she did upon arrival was consult the ship schedules at the port. Several pages with timetables were tacked to a board with a glass cover. It was better kept than most information boards she had come across, but it was to be expected, since Saint Poplar and the surrounding islands were popular tourist spots.

By the looks of it, she had missed the last direct ship to Marineford by two days, and the next one wasn’t scheduled yet because there was an Aqua Laguna alert. Joy. She had to explain her predicament to a few locals until one of the women working at the port gave her something useful to work with.

“There should still be a liner leaving Water 7 in a few days. They usually wait until the last day so as many people as possible can leave the island before the sea gets too rough.”

Alex took this information as well as one would take a knee to the solar plexus. Another trip meant more money wasted. It was becoming increasingly evident that she’d have to pick up a job somewhere before she was able to cross the Red Line, because safe passage required money. Lots of it. And unless she robbed a bank, she didn’t think she’d be able to get it before the archive renovation started. She had a gun. And she entertained the idea for the entirety of two seconds before coming back to reality.

“Okay,” she said. If nothing else, she’d be able to sightsee. That was an island she had wanted to visit for a long time. “Do you know where can I take a ship to Water 7?”

“There are no ships to Water 7,” the lady replied, amused. “There’s the Sea Train.”

“Oh! I forgot.” It was very much like her to know the Sea Train was a thing and not remember that it had an actual purpose, besides making a city famous. “Is the station far from here, or…?”

“No, it’s…” She looked below the ship schedules in front of them. There was a faded map of the city behind the glass. She pointed one spot, on the opposite side of the city. It was mostly a straight line from where she was if she followed the main streets. “Here. It’s easy to find.”

She had to resist the temptation to pull out of her backpack a fountain pen and draw the map on the back of her hand, since she didn’t trust her memory all that much, and instead she said, “Thank you very much!”

The woman smiled at her, lifted a crate bigger than Alex without breaking a sweat, and went on her merry way. Meanwhile, she spent the following minutes staring intensely at the map to make completely sure that she wasn’t going to take a wrong turn even though there were absolutely no turns to make. Anxiety was a wonderful condition.

By the time she started moving, she was looking at the next hours in a different light. As inconvenient as this detour was, Alex felt more excited than anything else at the idea of riding a Sea Train and going to the city where it originated. She’d seen the pictures, and it was supposed to be all canals that the locals navigated with little boats instead of wheeled vehicles. May as well enjoy the trip as much as she could, right?

Humming as she went, the trek across the St. Poplar brought her through streets of stone lined with tall buildings, some made of that same stone, but most of them in a more polished classical style. The pediments she saw suggested fifteenth century, so not too old. The less ostentatious houses were brick painted in light tones, with planters hanging from balconies that added little splashes of color to the otherwise muted palette and, in the case of those that were more worn out, provided the exciting possibility of said planters falling on a passerby’s head. Better to stay away from some of those cornices, too.

The atmosphere more than made up for the stoning risk, though. The city was as lively as it could be, and she found herself wishing that she had an excuse to remain in it for a little longer, but it was not to be. Come to think of it, wasn’t there a huge carnival going on in San Faldo around those dates? That explained the people walking around in costumes and elaborate masks. If she ever got to go on vacation again, she was making this area of Paradise her priority.

But if an Aqua Laguna was approaching, she needed to be out of its range as soon as possible, or she risked getting stranded in a place highly frequented by government employees where she could be spotted without backup. Moving swiftly was a priority until she could settle down and lay low to see how the situation unfolded.

She took longer to get to her destination than if she hadn’t kept getting distracted with every little thing that caught her attention, but eventually she was greeted by a platform and a white-gray building with a sign that identified it as Spring Station. She looked out to the sea, unable to see anything at first, until she noticed a shadow beneath the water. Railways swayed back and forth with the waves, a feat of engineering that she wouldn’t have believed had the train not been functional for over ten years. It even connected directly with Enies Lobby, so it had to be reliable. The government wouldn’t be using it to routinely transport their own people otherwise.

She walked into the station and headed straight to the timetable next to the ticket window. There were people sitting inside with bags, and many of them in costume. She wished she could spare the money and the time to join in, or at least run her hands over the velvety fabrics and intricate embroidery. She had done her fair share of sewing and the construction and materials of the costumes were seamstress porn.

The train was scheduled for departure in two hours. Better not to wander too far.

❦

There were many people inside Alex’s car, some dressed in regular clothes, some in costume. She would have liked to sit next to the window, but she was stuck in an aisle seat, and though she wasn’t uncomfortable by any means, she lamented having to spend the trip looking at her feet instead of the sea.

The seats were really nice, though. She wondered how luxurious first class had to be, if her butt was already on velvet and her feet on fluffy carpet. That was where the government agents must go, since when they stopped at Enies Lobby, nobody entered her car or the adjacent ones, judging by the lack of noise.

About an hour passed without incident until she noticed a faint smell, like smoke, and soon after, someone spoke through the PA system.

“Dear passengers, we inform you that the Sea Train is going to make an unscheduled stop at Shift Station for maintenance. The new hour of arrival to Water 7 will be 12 PM. We are sorry for the inconvenience. You may leave your seats until it’s time to resume the voyage.”

Varying degrees of protests filled the car, but Alex couldn’t say she minded. The train was starting to get stuffy with so many people, and she sensed an incoming headache from the nonstop chatter of the group across the aisle.

A scarce minute later, the train reduced its speed until it came to a halt, and immediately after, a stewardess appeared to unlock the doors. Alex decided to get up, find out in what kind of place this Shift Station was, and stretch her legs, because the seat may have been velvet, but the cushion under it was long flattened. First class was hoarding the good ones for sure.

The smell of saltwater hit her in the face with the subtlety of a Buster Call. She was very confused at how much water she was seeing until she realized that the station was little more than a platform on each side of the rails, a lighthouse, and a house in the middle of the ocean.

There wasn’t much to see once the first impression wore off, though she could have easily spent hours just watching the hypnotic swaying of the waves. There had always been something drawing her to it. She thought about how terrifying it had to be getting caught there during a storm, and how solid the little house on the platform must have been to still be standing there for a decade. The station master, if there was one, had to have nerves of steel.

Since she had nothing else to do, she stretched and began to pace around the platform, watching the passengers who had also gotten off the train. Not too many, considering the amount of people that were travelling in it, but she had to admit the platform amidst the waves was not for the faint of heart. She was certainly not going to get close to the edge. She saw mostly the same types of people she had been sitting with, but from the first car appeared a group dressed in expensive clothing and another of men in black suits.

She did a double take when she saw a familiar World Government insignia on the lapels of their jackets. Embroidery work was wasted on those people. They were Cipher Pol agents, and while their presence was more than reasonable, they still put her on edge. Best not to get close. How did one try their hardest to not look guilty without looking even guiltier?

Faced with this unsolvable conundrum, she diverted her gaze to look anywhere but at them, and out of the corner of her eye she noticed one of them look in her direction for a moment before going back to their conversation. Slowly and innocently, if steps could be walked in such a way, she ducked into the building and decided to keep to the shadows until the train was ready to go. Out of sight, out of mind, they said, and in case she actually became a fugitive, she didn’t need to be remembered by a member of an intelligence agency.

The fresh air was nice, though. Definitely worth sharing her vital space with government agents for a few minutes.

“Chimney got clogged again, didn’t it?”

Alex wanted to jump out of her skin when she suddenly heard a voice behind her, but the upside of being in a constant state of mild anxiety was that she just tensed up very hard when she got spooked. Shoulders squared and butt firmly clenched, she turned around to see an old woman with a grin so wide that it dipped into the uncanny valley. She was stocky, with lime green hair tied in braids, and wore a hat with Water 7’s initials that probably meant she worked there.

This was not how Alex had expected the station master to look, and if she had had it in her to worry about complete strangers, she would have been concerned about the woman’s safety.

A small girl with lips and hair conspicuously similar to the woman’s spoke up from behind her, annoyed. “I didn’t! I’ve been going every day!”

The older woman laughed loudly. “I meant the train, not you!”

The girl huffed and left, but the older woman stayed.

Now that she was facing her, her breath hit Alex, and it reeked of alcohol. Oh dear. She hoped the woman didn’t have a terribly important job there. She didn’t get what was so funny about the exchange, but she didn’t want to ask, either.

“I don’t know,” she replied with hesitation, realizing she had been asked a question. “They just told us we were going to stop for a while.”

“It happens sometimes.” She said. The grin was perpetually etched in her face. “They made the chimney too long, but Tom always said it looked nicer that way. You’d think Iceburg would have more sense once he took over, but he says he doesn’t want to change it.”

As soon as those names were dropped, Alex’s brain began to try and make connections like a madman with a wall covered in papers trying to make sense of a conspiracy theory. She didn’t know if the woman was assuming she knew who those people were or she was so drunk that she didn’t care.

Fortunately for Alex, she did know, marginally, who she was referring to – Iceburg, Water 7’s current mayor, was famous worldwide thanks to the Galley-La Company, and by Tom she assumed she meant the man who designed the original sea train. That name would have escaped her, had not a number of coincidences engraved it in her mind.

She couldn’t say if Tom had been forgotten as a relic of a past era or forcibly ejected from public memory as a result of being connected to Gold Roger and ever-present racism. He was a genius inventor, the one who put Water 7 on the world map by building the Sea Train, and the world returned the favor by executing him.

Most executions relating to the Pirate King had happened when Alex was still very young and didn’t pay much attention to anything that went on outside of her immediate vicinity, but Tom’s happened much later, when she was twenty and being aware of the world’s geopolitics was an indispensable part of her studies. They granted him a few more years to finish the Sea Train, and everybody back then had been convinced that his service would be repaid with a pardon, but that wasn’t how the World Government worked.

Unstoppable in their mission to purge every little thing that remained of Roger, they eliminated the man who built the Oro Jackson. Alex’s friend opened a bottle of his wife’s good whiskey, and then another, and suddenly it was four in the morning with him slurring and sobbing on the table, and his wife was halfway through the second pack of cigarettes of the night and Alex was so drunk in solidarity too that it was a good thing that her chair had a sturdy back and armrests, because otherwise she was pretty sure she’d have slid to the sticky floor and stayed there listening to old stories. He had a killer hangover the next day and Alex was just sleepy because young bodies were capable of amazing things, and then everything seemed to return to normal.

That had been a bad year, and a combination of everything happening at once and managing to torpedo her own academic career meant that putting it behind wasn’t an easy thing to do. Aside from Tom’s execution bringing down the mood considerably and her own personal problems, passage through the Red Line was also shut for months after queen Otohime’s assassination, meaning that Alex couldn’t return home at the time the country was going through the worst political unrest in centuries, and even if she had been free to go, the long absence would have made her flunk the year and lose her scholarship. Alex remembered that year like one remembered a fever nightmare: fuzzy, never ending, with huge gaps in the middle, yet sinking its claws so deep within that it was just a mention or reminder away from resurfacing. Sabaody got worse around that time, too, due to Doflamingo’s rise to Shichibukai and king status. His auction house started operating in the archipelago while Marines looked the other way, and kidnapping crews grew in number and activity.

All in all, not the best time of her life. In fact, current technically-not-on-the-run Alex was still faring so much better than past Alex that the thought wrapped around from depressing to funny.

She looked at the Sea Train, trying to imagine it with a shorter chimney. Two men were at the top of the smokebox with big brushes. “I can see their point. The proportions would be off.”

The woman must have been in a very good mood, because she chuckled. “I’m not an engineer or an artist, so I can’t say. Why are you here, anyway? Do you need anything?”

“Oh, no, sorry, it’s just—” She thought about the Cipher Pol agents out there. “There’s a lot of people on the platform.”

“And it’s windy, too,” she said, looking at the sky. “People have gotten blown away before, you know.”

“…Oh. That’s good to know, thanks,” she said, timidly taking a step back into the house so she wasn’t being hit by the wind anymore. Alex still had some time to kill and was curious about the woman, and talkative as she was, she assumed she wouldn’t mind a bit of prodding. “You mentioned Iceburg and Tom. Do you know them?”

The laugh that came next didn’t sound as happy as the other ones, somehow. “Know them? I’ve known Iceburg since he was a little brat. Tom was a good friend. Did you know that Iceburg was his apprentice? Not that these people care,” she nudged her head towards the Cipher Pol agents and Alex sank even deeper into the little house. “Tom died so they could save face, but they won’t touch Iceburg because he’s useful. That’s all they mean to them.”

Alex didn’t know very well how to respond, but she felt the need to say something. “I have a friend who said the same. He sailed on one of Tom’s ships years ago.”

The woman looked at Alex, and beyond the drunken stupor, some clarity shined behind her eyes. “Oh? And what did he think about it? Was it smooth sailing?”

Alex smiled just a little bit. “Not really, but he says it was the best ship in the world.”

The woman cackled, happily this time. “Of course it was! He made the best ships! Not even Iceburg or…” She trailed off, and Alex couldn’t tell if she had forgotten where she was going or she had done it on purpose. “Say, are you headed to Water 7?”

“Yes, why?”

“I need you to do me a favor. All this talk’s gotten me nostalgic and the Aqua Laguna will be here any day, so…” The woman walked to a counter, pulled out a notebook, wrote something, tore out the page and kissed it before folding it twice. She waddled back to Alex and gave her the paper. “Give this to Iceburg.”

Alex’s hand froze with the paper already in it. “I… don’t think I can do that. Isn’t he famous? How am I supposed to meet him?”

The woman brushed her concerns off like nothing, and Alex’s nerves didn’t appreciate that. “Nah, it’s not a problem. Go to Dock 1 in the afternoon, he’s usually there avoiding official duty. Tell them Kokoro sent you. That should be enough.”

“Okay…?” She said, still unsure. “I won’t promise anything, though.”

“No need for promises, just deliver it. I need a drinking buddy.” And she added, “You should go to Blueno’s bar while you’re there. The booze is cheap and the food is good, and that isn’t something you can’t say about many places in the city.”

“Oh?” This new topic was interesting. “Is it very expensive?”

Kokoro laughed. “You’ll see when you get there.”

That sounded ominous for her budget, and Alex didn’t feel too good about this ordeal she had been roped into because the last thing she wanted to do was enable an alcoholic lady. But maybe Iceburg would look after her…? They were longtime friends, according to her.

At any rate, there wasn’t much point in refusing the errand. If delivering the note happened to be too complicated, she could pass and no one would be none the wiser. Her priority was to find a ship and get to Sabaody the sooner, the better.

And when she was there, maybe tell her friends that she had met a friend of a friend.

❦

When Alex arrived to Blue station, she had to remind herself that she had several objectives in mind and sightseeing came second. She put on her sunglasses to block out the glare of the sun and its reflection on the water, and looked up.

In front of her stood a colossal city built upwards and turned fountain, with five different levels of construction that culminated in an upwards surge of water. It was collected by a series of canalizations that crossed the city from the top to sea level and divided the second tier in smaller areas.

Water 7 was one of the many independent state-islands in the area, and though not affiliated with the World Government – it hadn’t been a notable location at all, before the Sea Train that ironically connected it to Enies Lobby was put in motion – its globally renowned shipyards often worked on Marine ships and other vessels for people with important positions in the government. It was said that nowhere else in the world could you find better shipwrights than in Water 7, and the man famously acclaimed for it was Iceburg, current mayor and owner of the aforementioned shipyards. He had founded the Galley-La company a few years ago, recruiting the best shipwrights he could find for his behemoth of an enterprise, and it worked. Alex was actually excited to see firsthand what all the fuss was about.

But first things first, and before taking the mysterious note to the mayor, she needed to find the ship that would take her to the Sabaody Archipelago.

She got unnecessarily lost several times inside the labyrinth of canals and side streets because she refused to walk up to people and ask, but eventually, she found the Grand Canal of the island and the harbor where most ships docked.

It didn’t take her long to mind a means of transport, thankfully. The passenger ship departed the next day in the morning, and with a lot of pain, Alex had to fork over a good chunk of her remaining savings to secure a ticket on such short notice. It wasn’t the end of the world, since, she already counted on having to stay in Sabaody for a while to rebuild her budget, but it stung.

After the more pressing issue was dealt with, she took a walk around the area to find somewhere to eat, maybe try some local specialty, but she felt her hunger vanish when she looked at the prices of the menus outside. Kokoro had been right. What was the place she had mentioned… Bruno’s? Blueno’s? Yeah, that sounded familiar.

Unfortunately, a cursory glance didn’t reveal its location. If it was cheaper, it was probably somewhere less central, and if that was the case, she’d have more luck crossing the bridge to Green Bit unscathed than finding it without assistance.

Face with the unavoidable fact that she had to ask someone if she had any hopes of finding the place, she took a look around and decided she might as well procrastinate on it for as long as she could. She started to walk towards the upper part of the city, the Shipbuilding Island, where the docks were located, or so multiple signposts said. It really drove home that they were the main attraction of the city, more than the canals of the amazing architecture.

Getting there was going to take a while. She could have rented one of those cute Yagara boats, but she was cheap as hell, and, not less importantly, the critters seemed a little overenthusiastic. After the trip, all the walking she had done and the lack of food, she wasn’t in the mood to be social with anybody, human or not.

Maybe she would be lucky and come across Blueno’s place as she went to the shipyards. Yeah. That was a hopeful lie she could hang onto while she forced her body to walk way more than it was used to.

She hummed on her way up, singing to herself when she went through empty streets. As it turned out, the difficulty of reaching the shipyards by foot wasn’t finding the way up, but rather being in the proper sidewalk when she happened upon the next bridge or set of stairs, and after an hour she had lost count of the amount of times she had reached a dead end and had to turn back to the nearest bridge to cross the street and ascend, from the third instance onwards accompanied by a cranky ‘GAAAAH’ as she ran in the right direction. One would have thought this wouldn’t have won her any points with the locals, but she heard a few snickering at her and saying something in a language she didn’t speak but universally translated as ‘hahaha, tourists.’

She’d be the first to admit that going up that monumental city while carrying a backpack wasn’t her brightest idea, but she was damned if she was going to cave in at that point and rent the Yagara. She’d wash downstream on the way back if it came to that, but she had to get to the top now by her own means.

The moment she set foot on Shipbuilding island, she walked a few steps away from the staircase to not block it, dropped her backpack, and then her ass next to it to catch her breath.

When she recovered enough to raise her head instead of thinking how miserably sore she was going to be in the morning, she was greeted by an even better view than when she arrived to the Blue Station, and she pushed her glasses up for a moment to better see the colors of the city.

The lowest level of Water 7 extended below her, clusters of white houses and orange roofs covering the entire expanse of the island that wasn’t occupied by the canals. The wind blew harder at that level, too, with less obstacles in its path, since that part of the city was built on a steep incline, and it carried with it the spray of the central fountain, painting a timid rainbow across the sky. She imagined the view at night being just as stunning.

She chose to view this as the reward for her efforts, and then snorted at her the consolation prize of her own making.

As nice as it was to stare at the city and the sky and sea beyond, she was there with a double mission of getting the note to Iceburg and being a little nosy, so she looked at the monumental stone door she had just crossed with the number three painted on it. She was willing to go out on a limb and assume that that wasn’t Dock 1, so she began to circle around the area to find the next one, and once again she had to go the way she had come when she saw the next door had a four. Alex would be the first to agree that the most powerful force in the universe was cosmic irony, but after the sidewalk business while she made her way up there, this seemed a little excessive.

At least the circular shape of the area and the conveniently located bridges allowed her to cross over the canals with ease, saving her from getting lost again, and in a matter of minutes door number one, wide open, came into view.

At first she didn’t know where to go, since each dock could have easily been a town on their own. She began to walk upwards, wondering how was she supposed to find Iceburg and with little intent to go out of her way to find him if she didn’t have luck. A couple of minutes later, she noticed a group of townspeople standing in a half circle and staring at something. Alex decided to approach them and see what was going on. There was a good chance that the mayor himself was attracting the crowd, if he really was as popular as the rumors said.

Standing at a safe distance from the group, she realized that it was composed mostly by women, and she looked at whatever had them so interested. A man with his torso covered in tattoos was carrying a couple of long planks over his shoulder with surprising ease, and another one, farther away, was sawing a tree trunk so big that it couldn’t be for anything but a mast. He caught Alex’s attention because for some reason he was wearing a top hat that clashed horribly with the rest of his outfit and there was a pigeon sitting on a nearby pile of crates and watching him work with surprising focus. None of them, obviously, looked like mayor material.

Alex wasn’t sure what the crowd was doing there until she heard a hushed comment about the shipwright’s arms and being able to break concrete with those. Oh, God, they were there to ogle at the shipwrights? Alex wasn’t nearly straight enough for this. How was that even allowed? She took a step away from them, but by then a cheerful man wearing a tracksuit of questionable taste had noticed the group and acknowledged them with a wave and a smile. One of the girls swooned, and Alex died a little inside, then died some more because she had worked hard on leaving behind her ‘not like the other girls phase’ but the circumstances weren’t helping matters.

The other workers were busy, but the new face seemed to be free at the moment, he looked friendly, and she had come to the conclusion that she’d have to communicate with strangers if Kokoro’s note was to be delivered. She waved back at the man with the paper in her hand and something that resembled urgency on her face. She wasn’t hopeful, but to her surprise, he started to walk towards her. At the same time, the man with the top hat finished the cut he was making and the white pigeon stood up, cooed at tracksuit guy, and flew to rest on the shoulder of his coworker.

“Hattori is so cute,” one of the women said.

Alex didn’t know anymore who of the three was Hattori. She was even more confused when top hat guy passed near his colleague and the pigeon said, “I’ll take care of it.”

“Lucci’s coming our way!” One of the younger girls said, excited.

“Do you think he’ll pick another fight with Paulie today?”

“I hope so! Did you see what his fingers did to the—”

Alright, time to unplug from the conversation. She could guess that Lucci was the name of the man, because she didn’t think a pigeon, no matter how articulate, could inspire so much passion.

The name gave her pause.

Where had she heard it before? It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Maybe she had heard someone talk about him at some point. He had to be a renowned shipwright if he was working in Dock 1 of Water 7, of all places.

Lucci was tall, but she didn’t realize just how much until he was right in front of her, staring her down in a way that, in any other context, she’d have assumed meant that he was about to snap her neck. Was he taller than Trafalgar Law, or did the top hat made him look like he was? She only knew that if she ever had the back luck of bumping into the guy, she would likely split her forehead against his pectoral muscles. The man was built like a classical marble statue with facial hair, tattoos, and a serious case of resting bitchface. She could empathize with him on the latter.

“Can I help you?”

Alex didn’t know whether to look at the pigeon or the man, and in a panic, she settled on the man because it felt wiser to not lose sight of him than a bird.

And what a bird. That pigeon was easily the size of her head.

“I met a woman named Kokoro at Shift Station. She asked me to give this note to mayor Iceburg,” she said, showing the folded note to him.

He extended a hand for her to pass the paper, and she wasn’t sure how ethical it was to let another person read a clearly personal note with a kiss stamped on it, but to be quite frank, she didn’t care and he and the close attention his group of fans was making her anxious.

A pair of strangely-shaped eyebrows lifted when he read the message.

“Kokoro?” The bird repeated. There had to be a trick there. That was a pigeon, not a parrot, they weren’t supposed be able to enunciate like humans. It was probably unreasonable of her to revoke her suspension of disbelief due to that when she knew there were so many strange creatures living in the Grand Line, but she had to draw the line somewhere. “Mayor Iceburg is doing his rounds right now. He should be here in a few minutes. You can wait for him over there,” he said, gesturing with a wing at a pile of neatly stacked timber across from where his owner had been working, and Lucci returned the note to her. “Don’t be noisy.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she retorted with a mix of indignation and embarrassment, reflexively taking a step away from him and the group she had just been associated with. The movement telegraphed against her will that she found him intimidating, which only served to embarrass her more. “Thank you.”

There really was no way anybody with functioning eyes could mistake her for one of the group. The ladies looked nice, and Alex looked like… well, she couldn’t tell, but she was glad she didn’t have a mirror on hand, because if she looked as sweaty as she felt, she wasn’t a pretty sight. The boots and big backpack on her back were also clear signs that she wasn’t from around there.

Wordlessly, Lucci returned to his job while Alex was left with the impression that she had just been made fun of, not that anybody could tell by the shipwright’s stony face. She relaxed a little when he left her alone, not in small part due to the attention of the group being lifted from her.

That place was nothing like the shipyards she was used to. Canals ran through it, same as in the city below, and led to other slide-like canalizations that connected to the lower levels. There were a lot of those all around the city, she had noticed, acting as roads for the Yagaras, and, she guessed in the case of the larger ones, to help transport the newly built or repaired ships from the docks to sea level.

Some time had passed when she caught sight of a blue-haired man in a striped suit walking in her general direction, closely followed by a blonde woman with a strict expression, and while he was busy inspecting the work of a shipwright, she noticed Alex was away from the crowd and made a beeline for her.

“Excuse me.” The tone of the pleasantry suggested that it was actually her who was excusing Alex’s presence. “Do you have any business here?”

Alex didn’t enjoy being talked down to, so the reply came out harsher that she meant. “As a matter of fact, I do.” When she realized how snappy she had sounded, she explained quickly, “I was told by Kokoro to deliver a message to mayor Iceburg, and he,” she gestured at Lucci, who was busy with his job and not paying them any mind, with the note, “said I could wait for him here.”

“Did he, now,” she replied, sending a skeptical glance at the man, and she extended her hand towards Alex. Someone must have pissed in her coffee that morning. “Let me see.”

That note was going to places, she thought, but the woman must have found its contents acceptable, because she returned it to Alex and told her, “Wait here.”

Alex was about to start having flashbacks of all the bureaucratic mess involved with her recent move out of Duster Town. The woman went to the man in the suit and directed him towards Alex while she walked over to Lucci to tell him something she wasn’t able to hear because she now had to pay attention to the mayor of the city.

“Hello,” he said, sounding much politer than the woman. “Kalifa tells me you have a message for me.”

It was curious, comparing the old descriptions she had heard of the man with his current appearance. He wouldn’t have been caught dead in a suit twenty years ago, for instance.

“Yes, from Kokoro. Here,” she said, finally giving the note to its intended recipient and feeling like she was set free from a curse.

“Hm?” He opened he note, and after just a split second his face turned into a grimace. “Ugh, gross!”

“Uh, what?” The note had already passed two filters, so she couldn’t imagine what could warrant that reaction.

He showed her the note and Alex read it for the first time. Same place, same time? It said. The lipstick imprint of the kiss was smudged and stained the whole page. Iceburg didn’t waste any time in crumpling the paper and tossing it over his shoulder.

“Thank you for delivering the message.”

“Mr. Iceburg! No littering!” The woman from before warned, but someone else replied to her.

“Don’t speak like that to Mr. Iceburg, you wretched woman! And show some property while you’re in the docks!”

The woman didn’t reply, but she sent a death glare to the man who had spoken up, and Alex could have sworn that she pulled down the zipper of her jacket lower than it already was, drawing an even bigger reaction from him.

“Nmaa, don’t mind them,” Iceburg said, sounding bored. WYou don’t seem from around here. Are you visiting?”

“Just passing by before the Aqua Laguna comes,” she replied. “But I wish I could stay longer.”

He smiled with something akin to pride. “It’s a good city, isn’t it? What have you seen so far?”

“Oh, well, I walked around the Grand Canal and the shopping district earlier, and I saw a bit of the city while I walked up here, but—”

“You walked here?”

Oh, this was so awkward. She should have tossed that note into the sea. “I’m a historian,” she replied, because that was an excuse that always curbed people’s curiosity. “I wanted to take my time exploring.”

“If that’s the case, have you seen the maritime museum yet? It’s near the Grand Canal, and there’s a showcase about the origins of the city right now.”

She wasn’t a big fan of museums, truth be told, but professional habit compelled her to go anyway. The list of places she had to visit didn’t seem to shrink. “No, but I’ll be sure to—Oh, that reminds me!” Might as well ask while she had his attention, she thought. “Kokoro recommended going to Blueno’s bar while I was here. Where can I find it?”

“Ah, good idea!” Iceburg’s face lit up. “Let’s see, what can we do… Since you don’t have a Yagara, let me ask Kalifa if she has a map of—”

“No need, Mr. Iceburg.” Someone else piped up. “It’s time for my break, so I can show her.”

The guy in the tracksuit from before was walking up to them, showing a warm smile.

“That would be perfect,” Iceburg replied, and the said to Alex. “This is one of our foremen, Kaku.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Kaku looked young and sounded old at once. “Likewise,” Alex replied. “I’m Alex.”

“Well then, Alex,” he said in a suspiciously cheerful tone. “I don’t have long, so we’ll have to get there in a jiffy. Are you ready?”

As ready as she was ever going to be until she had a good night’s sleep. “Sure. Whenever you…”

A not so inoffensive grin spread on Kaku’s face and he broke into a sprint in Alex’s direction, so fast that she couldn’t duck from his path before he threw an arm around her, easily lifting her from the floor, extra weight from the backpack and all, and he kept running toward the edge of the level and jumped.

She thought she yelled, but she couldn’t hear her own voice against the roar of the wind in her ears and her blood pressure rising at the absolute certainty that she was going to become a pancake, the only doubt being whether she’d be dry or wet at the bottom of a canal.

On reflex, she grabbed tightly onto the only thing available, which was Kaku’s arm firmly wrapped around her torso, and her grip was met with stone hard muscle. What was up with these shipwrights?

She saw Dock 1 get smaller and smaller at breakneck speed as she fell backwards, and she braced for impact and shut her eyes as the first rooftop approached, but they didn’t crash against it because Kaku did something before he hit it. She felt it in the shift of his body, like he had bounced off the surface.

Alex paid more attention to his feet after she realized she wasn’t going to die splattered against a rooftop, and the second time she saw it: right before his shoes touched the roof tiles, he jumped again, stepping on air, effectively creating the illusion that he was jumping from building to building.

The adrenaline-fueled fear of impending doom was suddenly replaced by cold dread.

She had seen that before. She knew what that was.

A civilian couldn’t possibly know how to do that.

So who was the man carrying her right now? The only thing separating her from certain death? Could he have learned to do that anywhere else or could it be a different technique? There was always a chance that he was retired, but he was so young, and already so skilled, and she knew for a fact that the Marines didn’t like letting go of those.

…Marines?

Where… where had she heard the name Lucci, again…?

She had to be imagining things, for sure, but she also had a strong feeling that she needed to take her leave from the island as soon as possible. She was sleeping with a gun under her pillow that night.

With a few last hops, Kaku landed on firm ground and Alex thanked her lucky stars when he put her down safely. She felt lightheaded, and wasn’t sure if it was because of the sudden freefall or that her all-consuming paranoia had her doubting the intentions of one of Galley-La’s foremen, which sounded increasingly stupid the longer her feet where in contact with solid stone.

“Here we are,” he said, gesturing at something behind Alex’s back.

Her reaction was slow, but when she turned around, she saw a door with a big red sign above that said Blueno’s.

She felt a pang of guilt for being afraid of the guy when he had done her a huge favor, albeit in a kind of dickish way. Dock 1 was a good ways away, and she would have given up if she had had to walk there. She looked at him and admitted, “That was pretty cool once I got over the heart attack.”

She still sounded kind of breathless and didn’t know if asking how he had learned to extreme parkour was a good idea.

Kaku laughed with joy that rang true. “My apologies about that. I rarely ever have company on the way down.”

She tried to picture Kaku grabbing Lucci the same way he had done to her and jumping down, and her brain broke during the attempt. “Yeah, I can’t imagine that colleague of yours with the top hat jumping down the…” She trailed off, interrupted by her own thoughts and questions about that other guy, and the pause became awkward. “Anyway—”

“You can ask,” he said, smiling.

She jumped at the opportunity. “Is he a ventriloquist?”

“It’s a hobby,” Kaku replied, amused, as he pushed the door open. “Ladies first.”

Alex didn’t know what it was with every strange man he came across lately that their courtesies sounded vaguely threatening, but she entered the venue, nonetheless.

It was much nicer than she had expected. The bartender was a wide man with a circle beard and hair sticking out like horns, and he was appropriately wiping a set of glasses behind the counter, like every barman should during their first introduction.

“Good afternoon, Blueno!” Kaku greeted him before Alex could say anything, going inside after her.

“Same as always?”

“Please.” He leaned against the bar. Alex sat on a barstool near him and tried to be emotionally ready to be the third wheel in two strangers’ interaction. “Oh, and something for the others, too. Whatever it is. We’re finishing a big repair today and you know how it goes.”

“Is it the Marine warship?”

“A windjammer for a private client. Working metal is a pain, and they want it yesterday.” He sounded displeased for the first time since they had met. “You can’t rush a good job.”

“The customer is never right,” Blueno agreed.

Kaku raised an eyebrow at him. “I hope that wasn’t directed at me.”

“Of course not,” Blueno’s reply sounded paternalistic. Alex could sense the history behind these two. “It’s odd to see you with someone else.”

Kaku put aside his mild annoyance to introduce her. “She’s Alex. She was visiting the shipyards and I brought her along on my way down.”

“Hi,” she said, looking for any other words she had learned during the course of her life and drawing a blank. Someone kill her, please.

“I see. I thought the landing sounded heavier than usual,” Blueno observed.

“Attentive as always.” Kaku commended him. “But what an awful thing to say to a young lady. She’s light as a two-by-four.”

“No offense meant,” Blueno said to her in good humor. “It’s part of the job.”

“None taken, I’m at least a four-by-four.”

There was a hint of a smile, on his face when he asked, “What will you have?”

“Whatever you recommend. I haven’t eaten since I woke up.”

“Can you believe she walked all the way to Dock 1 to sightsee?” Kaku chuckled. “I didn’t think historians were the sporty types.”

“You heard that?”

“I have pretty good hearing, too.”

“I can’t imagine what type of madman wouldn’t ride a Yagara to make that trip,” Blueno replied. No doubts about who he had in mind this time. “A historian, huh? I suppose this city’s fairly old.”

“The architecture’s really interesting.” She replied, finally reaching a topic that she could talk about. Though she was a bit concerned that they knew what she was because Suspicious Foreman was suspicious, she didn’t see what harm could come of it. “It’s impressive to think this is all supported by wood pillars.”

“They keep sinking year by year, though. At this rate, there won’t be a city in a few decades,” Kaku said, surprisingly grim.

“Thanks for showing me the rooftops while they’re still visible, then,” Alex joked in a weak attempt to bring his good mood back.

It worked. He had such a cute smile. “You’re more than welcome.” He turned to the bartender. “Now then, Blueno…”

“Right away,” the man replied, going into the kitchen and leaving Alex and Kaku alone for a few minutes.

A companionable silence, until Kaku broke it and his question put Alex on edge again. “Where do historians in the making study nowadays, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Marineford, mostly. There aren’t many places left.” The same people offering the current curriculum had made sure of it.

“And what drives someone so young to be so interested in history?”

She had been asked that question so many times, and the real answer was always curiosity. To learn the truths that shaped the present. She had the folder with the Poneglyph transcript in her backpack to account for that.

But even partial truths could be dangerous given her current situation, so she replied, “I could ask the same of you. How does someone so young get so good at building ships?”

There was a flash of surprise in his face at the question being turned against him. It was quickly substituted by one of his smiles, but Alex had the impression that he was very aware that she was deflecting on purpose. “I’ve liked them since I was a kid,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you why.”

She shrugged, mirroring his smile. “There’s your answer.”

He laughed lightly and turned to look at the bottles behind the bar with an amused expression. He didn’t insist or say anything else, and the more at ease he looked, the more anxious Alex grew.

It wasn’t long until Blueno showed up again with a bag full of sandwiches wrapped in paper in one hand and a towering plate of pasta with black sauce on the other that she set in front of Alex.

“Thanks,” Kaku said, putting the money on the counter and grabbing the bag. “See you later.” And he faced Alex one last time, lifting his cap a little in a polite gesture and revealing a blonde mass of curls. “It’s been a pleasure. Good luck on your travels.”

“Thank you!”

He left the bar, and his departure added to the leaning tower of pasta made her think that her day was starting to look up until she remembered that she had only mentioned she was leaving soon to Iceburg.

How long had he been listening in?

❦

She couldn’t sleep.

Despite her misgivings, the rest of the day had passed without incident. She booked a room for the night at an inn off the beaten path that Blueno had recommended, checked out the maritime museum, and nearly fallen asleep after half an hour because that was the effect that, sadly, most museums had on her. But she did see an old picture next to a Sea Train model of Tom, his two apprentices, and the master of Shift Station.

Time didn’t wait for anybody, she thought as she flexed her aching hands.

She ended up walking around again, this time only through the lowest district, rejecting even the mere sight of stairs, and saw a cape where someone had built the weirdest and most colorful house of the city. Near it was a scrapyard, and though she had no intentions of going close to either, a couple of locals told her to watch her belongings while she was there. It was a bit nostalgic.

It was difficult to believe, she thought as she stared at the ceiling of her room, that such a vibrant city was sinking under its own weight, and that as soon as the sea swallowed it, there would be nothing but stories being told about it. Maybe that was how those legends of ancient islands that disappeared came to be. Maybe Water 7 would become a legend to, a few centuries down the line.

She fidgeted with the stone around her neck, a nervous habit had for as long as she’d been wearing it. It was better than biting her nails, at least, but it looked weird when she wore it inside her clothes and unconsciously reached for it, so she did her best to avoid it.

She was very tired and sore from all that walking, but try as she might, she couldn’t turn off her thoughts. After way too much tossing and turning, she decided she would rather see more of the city than waste her time in bed. She could catch up on sleep when she boarded the ship to Sabaody, anyway.

She picked up the same pair of jeans she had been wearing all day, the black tank top she usually wore under her sweaters, and tossed around her shoulders the same red shawl she used to wear like a scarf in Harlun. It wasn’t cold outside, but the night breeze was somewhat chilly. Better safe than sorry.

She debated whether to pick up the gun in her backpack or leave it there, and she decided on the former. A present from her father when she came of age for the sake of her safety, and one she had never liked.

It wasn’t too late yet, only a few minutes past 10 PM, and there was still a healthy flow of people on the streets. Alex made her way to one of the many Yagara rental shops still open and paid for one of the small ones. There she went, defeating her own purpose like the hypocrite she was.

“One question,” she told the shop owner as she settled on the boat, “Are the docks open at this hour?”

“They usually leave the doors open, yeah. Sometimes there’s people working at night.” He replied. “Why, you want to go now?”

“I was thinking of checking out the view from the highest part of the city.”

“That so? Then you just need to go up one of the main canals in the Shipbuilding Island.”

“Thanks!” She said, and then patted the Yagara on the head. It was cold, wet and scaly. “Can you bring me to Dock 1? There’s no hurry.” She had seen one of them speeding through a canal early and she was not ready for that.

The Yagara uttered a high-pitched guttural sound that no fishlike creature had any business doing and started to swim at a relaxed pace.

Alex didn’t know how long it took them to get to their destination, distracted as she was watching the city from a different viewpoint, but the higher they went, the less people that seemed to be out. By the time they reached Dock 1, the area was devoid of human presence, and all the ship parts and materials Alex had seen in the morning had been either moved somewhere safer or covered by tarps to protect them from the weather.

The Yagara continued its slow ascent through the canal that separated Dock 1 and 2, and the base of the fountain wasn’t too far when she heard hammering sounds. Someone was still working.

Curiosity, as was usual, got the best of her and she told the Yagara to slow down. Whoever was there also noticed her presence, because the hammering stopped.

A man stepped under the light of a streetlight, hammer in hand, to check out the canal, and Alex realized with surprise that he was none other than Water 7’s mayor, though he had shed the jacket and shirt. He was wearing only an undershirt with those awful striped pants from before and business shoes.

“Who’s there?” He asked.

Alex realized the light didn’t reach her, so he was probably just seeing a shadow, and in the deserted dock it had to be more than a little unnerving. She nudged the Yagara towards the light and replied, “It’s me from before! Sorry to interrupt, I was just passing by!”

Iceburg looked at her with interest and approached her, so she thought it was only polite to step out of the boat.

“Where are you going at this hour?” He asked, stopping at arm’s length of her.

“I was trying to get to the top of the city.” She smiled apologetically. “I’m sightseeing.”

He relaxed upon hearing the explanation, and with a smile, he said, “Glad to see that the scare from earlier didn’t kill you.”

It was official, everybody in Dock 1 had decided to pick on her. “It could have!” She replied. “Does he do that often?”

“Jumping? Yes, but most of the time he doesn’t take people with him. He did it to Paulie once and he was foaming at the mouth when they landed. Never heard the end of it for a week." The fondness with which he spoke betrayed that he hadn’t minded the aftermath as much as the words suggested.

She didn’t know who Paulie was, but he was justified in being upset. She also thought that it was nice to meet a boss that seemed to appreciate his workers. “I don’t see other shipwrights around. Are you working here alone?”

“Nmaa…” he started lazily, “I sent them home. The heavy lifting was done; I can finish it myself.”

Iceburg may have been a shipwright before becoming president of the company, but Alex hadn’t expected him to do manual labor when he had paid other people for it. “The windjammer?”

“Kaku told you?” He sounded pleased, and he answered the unspoken question from before. She assumed he got it a lot. “My day job is meetings, papers and ass kissing all day long. I prefer this.”

This was much easier to reconcile with the stories she had heard of Water 7. “I can’t say I’d mind the papers, but the rest sounds exhausting.”

“Bodies need to move. Weren’t you doing field research today?”

“By accident.” She couldn’t help the smile that appeared on her face. He was easy to talk to, and seeing this side of him, she didn’t feel like she had to watch her words so much. “I’m trying to find a way home. Train and ship schedules brought me here.”

“You chose a difficult time of the year to sail. Is it far away?”

She nodded lightly. “It’s still a ways away.” Nonetheless, she was glad for this detour. Maybe that was why she found the courage to say, “I have a friend who came to this city about twenty years ago. He said you worked on his ship.”

Maybe it was because she lost filters when she was tired.

“Is that so?” He said, curious. “I’ve worked in many ships. Things were very different back then.” He glanced away, at the district that had only taken this shape a few years ago, thanks to him. “Did the ship do its job?”

She wondered what to say. Nothing that could do it justice, for sure. “Brought them to the end of the world, in fact.”

She wished she had been there to see it.

Iceburg’s eyes widened with surprise, and after a short, contemplative silence, he said, “That ship took much from us.” There was hurt in his voice. “I think Tom knew it would be one of his last, so he put his everything in it. He would have done anything for his friends.”

It was easy to forget that every great story had real people behind it. “Sorry for bringing it up.”

He shook his head. “We never regretted it, so… don’t. It was a magnificent ship. Tom’s best work, after the Sea Train.” He paused. “Is your friend okay?”

“Doing alright for sure. He’d be all over the papers if something happened to him.”

“That’s good to hear.” A smile that reached his eyes came back only to morph into a sigh in an instant. “Well, I need to go back to…”

“Of course!” She said very quickly. “Sorry for holding you up. It was a pleasure to meet you.” And to put a face to the stories, too.

“I should say the same,” he said, and it didn’t sound like an empty pleasantry. “Fair winds on the way back home.”

“Thank you.”

As he started to walk away, Alex hopped back on the boat and pulled the shawl tighter around her. Perhaps she should have put on a jacket, after all.

The view from the top of the district was as spectacular as she had hoped.

❦

She wasn’t sure how she got up from bed the next morning. Must have been the fairies that pushed her upright, because everything hurt and she was so exhausted that she couldn’t even open her eyes after a thorough face wash. Somehow, she managed to drag her feet to the dining room and have a light breakfast. Bless the laziness that had prevented her from changing into her pajamas again before she dropped on the bed when she returned from the docks, because she didn’t think she’d have been able to stick her legs in the right holes of the jeans.

She returned to her room, triple checked to make sure she wasn’t leaving anything behind, and checked out of the inn.

Despite the brief but intense stay, and the uneasy feeling she had since she had met Kaku, she didn’t really want to go, but she had done the right thing booking passage for the ship to Sabaody. Imagine getting stuck in a city next to one of the government’s main islands because of a high tide. No, thanks, she hadn’t come this far to fail when she was a week away from her destination.

So it was with a bit of regret that Alex boarded the passenger ship that would carry her to the archipelago, but she had always been good at ignoring what she felt like doing in favor of what had to be done, and this was going to be no exception.

From the deck, she saw a pirate ship sail past them, black flag with a straw hat billowing in the wind.

#what are tags even and what are titles #degrees of separation

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lesetoilesfous · 5 years ago

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ON THE RIGHTS OF MAGES - AND THE LIBERATION OF THEDAS

(Here’s my version of Anders’ manifesto. I wrote it for my Fenris/Anders fic, A Song of Love from Long Ago, but I figured it might be fun to share with y’all. I cannot believe I have now written a manifesto for a video game, but here we are. Also, writing manifestos is HARD. Please be kind)

The Maker’s Children

Andraste suffered at the hands of magisters. Thus, she feared the influence of magic. But if the Maker blamed magic for the magisters’ actions in the Black City, why would He still gift us with it? The oppression of mages stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker.

Andraste said “Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker.” Perhaps mages are the least of the Maker’s children: if they were, would not harm without provocation break the law of the Maker?

What provocation justifies the harm of children in the eyes of the Maker? If a child breaks a pot, is this provocation? Without magic, certainly not. And yet with magic, I have seen children barely walking harmed severely for far lesser crimes. At what point is a mage child provoking harm? By using magic? This is as natural to them as breathing, weeping, laughing.

Can a follower of Andraste truly say they have listened to Her words, and obeyed them, when they would harm a child for existing?

Furthermore, are not we all children in the eyes of the Maker? Magic is more than just a weapon. It heals. It brings joy. Only turn your gaze to such apostates as the Darktown Healer for evidence of this.

If those who bring harm without provocation are accursed and hated by the Maker, what of those who prevent healing? Who would stop mages using their Maker given gifts, who would extort the free citizens of Thedas for the privilege, and keep their healers locked and beaten behind walls built by slaves?

No citizen of the Free Marches should live in fear of abuse. This includes the mages.

The Fereldan Blight

Where do donations to the Chantry end up? Following the Fereldan Blight, thousands of refugees found themselves on the shores of Kirkwall, neither welcomed into the city nor able to return home. This, surely, was a time for the holy sisters and mothers of the Chantry to act - for the Templars to act, to provide aid and safety to all in need.

Are we not all the Maker’s children?

But such action didn’t come. Hundreds died of their injuries below the cliffs of Kirkwall. Hundreds died of starvation and disease. Many who survived those first months and years came to regret it later, forced into work that was dangerous or illegal or both. What freedom is this? Can it be called Justice?

The plight of the Fereldans, like so many in our free lands, could have been eased by magic.

Mages can heal: even the most common hedge witch can prevent infection. They can help boil water and purify it, clearing disease. They can cook food, prevent illness. But where were Kirkwall’s mages, when they were so badly needed?

They were locked in their tower. They are still locked in their tower. Reader: the mages wanted to help. The Circle would not let them.

On Community

There is much that the poor of Thedas and its mages have in common. If you have lived as a citizen of the Free Marches, you have seen its injustices. You have seen the way in which ordinary people are treated by the rich and powerful. How many amongst you have lost a sibling or a child to an Arl’s lustful eye? How many have served in so-called noble houses only to be kicked and beaten like dogs? This is not justice. This is not freedom.

If you have lived with your head bowed, afraid of meeting the eye of the rich and powerful, then you know what is to be a mage.

We are not so different! Together, we are so much stronger than the sum of our parts. Kirkwall was reclaimed by a slave rebellion. We can free Thedas. Freeing the mages returns power to the people of the Free Marches, redistributing it across our lands. No longer are the mighty only those with coin enough to buy a sword. Our power is in our children and our neighbours, our friends and our lovers.

Our oppressors seek to divide us. They seek to make us hate one another, because it is so much easier and less frightening than engaging in a battle we may not win.

Remember these words: We can. We shall. We will.

The Matter of Tevinter

If Mages are to have their freedom, it cannot follow the route of destruction cleared by the Tevinter Imperium. Freedom built on the backs of slaves is no freedom at all.

Many believe that mages in Thedas see Tevinter as a paradise. This is not true. Consider the following, and you will understand why no mage should ever wish to be a magister.

Point the first: the matter of the elvhen. In the Circles of the Free Marches, there are many powerful, respected elvhen Enchanters. First Enchanter Orsino is a great example, a man with a reputation for kindness and just dealings. The human mages of Thedas are not taught to see elvhen people as below them. They are their colleagues and friends. No human mage would wish the perverse brutality of the Tevinter magisters on any one of their friends, on anyone at all. This includes the elvhen.

Point the second: the question of power. Not all mages are powerful. Their power, like the body’s strength, varies from person to person. If one woman can lift a hay bale, another boy might not. It is the same with mages. Some apprentices may only ever be able to summon sparks. Others can rain down fire storms. In Tevinter, weak mages face slavery and humiliation as much as those without magic. As with the body’s strength, ‘weak’ magic is normally tied to factors like diet, lineage, and illness. Our weak, our poor, our sick, would be enslaved. That is no paradise.

Point the third: common suffering. Do you truly think a mage who has fled across the Free Marches - who has risked Blighted townships and beast infested mountains just to seek their liberty, has no concept of how it might feel to be a slave? It’s true that the brutality faced by slaves in Tevinter is exceptional, and not every Circle is as cruel as that of Kirkwall.

But mages do know something of captivity. If you have too, you will understand why they would not wish to inflict it on another.

The Brutality of Templars

One of the most crucial arguments for the liberation of mages is the abuses of the Templars. Founded under allegedly noble principles, the order has become a sanctuary for the cruel and cowardly: people who hide behind the name of Andraste, and use Her name and kindness to excuse everything from needless humiliation to the torture of children.

Both within and without the Circle, the Templars rule with an iron fist, and it is the poor, the elvhen, the mages, who suffer for it. Unsupervised, corruption runs rife, with Templars extorting innocent neighbourhoods for protection money and inspiring fear in the vulnerable populations which they claim to protect. This is to say nothing of the illegal trade in Lyrium.

The working people of Thedas do not see a Templar and relax, knowing themselves to be safe and guarded by a servant of the Maker. They get out of the way. There is something wrong, here.

If you have ever known the edge of a Templar’s blade, consider now the plight of the mages. Most are sent to Circles in childhood, where they are kept away from the sun and open fields, where their magic is monitored and leashed. They are not taught to fight: why would they be?

Never mind that their Harrowing will demand the greatest struggle of their lives. It serves the Templars far more effectively to see their mages defanged and dull. If the result is a few teenage corpses which could have survived their Harrowing, had they only been taught how to lift a sword? So be it. It is a sacrifice the Templars are willing to make in the name of Andraste, regardless of Her will.

Free mages: apostates and hedge witches, must learn to fight if they are to survive, and resist the attentions of thieves and slavers, as so many citizens of the Free Marches are forced to do. But if you are an ordinary person, if you must work to eat, if you have ever known a Blight or been a refugee - then you understand the profound disadvantage at which lack of coin might leave you.

How can a poor hedge witch who has only ever served his community afford anything that will protect him from greatswords and plate armour? How can an apostate, with her stolen staff, hope to protect herself from cavalry and crossbows? We are hunted, like animals. And we are beaten when we are caught.

Magical Knowledge

The improvement of magical knowledge is a thing that is not only of use to mages.

Any person who has been treated by a magical healer should know this: because almost every healer owes what they know to the mages who have come before them. Circles have long been centres of study and learning.

Reader, it is not the Circle itself with which I take issue, necessarily. It is the removal of choice. It is control by the Chantry. It is the abuses of the Templars. It is the limitation of magical knowledge.

Due to an increasing atmosphere of paranoia and outright slander, the Chantry has begun to stifle magical learning with more and more prejudice in recent decades. The progression of magical knowledge in Thedas has ground almost to a halt, whilst our neighbours in Tevinter have moved forward in leaps and bounds. I do not, perhaps, need to explain to you the danger of having a power-hungry slave-trading nation at our borders which knows more of how to weaponise magic than we do.

Beyond the practicalities of war, perhaps the most egregious area in which this suffocation of knowledge has taken effect is that of healing. Issues that were solved in Tevinter half a century ago are barely understood here: treatments for chronic illness and disease, ways to ease pregnancy and childbirth, effective and safer methods of surgery. For what possible reason could the Chantry wish to limit this knowledge, and restrict the movement of those who could use it for good?

I can find only one conclusion. They fear mages more than they claim to care for their people. To use a Fereldan idiom: they would cut off the nose to spite the face. The Chantry has decided your sacrifice, your illness, your injury, is a price they are willing to pay. Have you?

Safety in the Circle

The fundamental principle behind the Chantry’s interference in the Circles of Thedas is, ostensibly, one of safety. They claim that the Templars exist to protect the mages - from external threats, from demonic temptation, and, if necessary, from themselves. The reality of course is that the Chantry oversees the Circles in order to control them.

The Chantry has at its fingertips a concentrated force of every healer and magic user powerful enough to present a threat to them. Thus, they stifle the possibility of rebellion. Thus, they wield more power across the Free Marches than any city-state.

Templars do not protect mages. Some might claim to do so, might even mean to do so. But throughout their training Templars are taught that mages are poisonous and corrupt, fallen from the Maker’s light, spurned by the mercy of Andraste. Combine this with the common side effects of the lyrium onto which they are weaned: obsession, paranoia, waking nightmares and delusion - and perhaps you can imagine how a Templar begins to abuse their charges.

Heavily armed as they are against unarmed mages as young as six, there is little that can be done to protect oneself from a Templar within the Circles. They see crimes and disobedience everywhere - agitated by their lyrium, haunted by their faith. And this is only those who would not otherwise have seen the opportunity to bully and intimidate hundreds of unarmed people and exploited it without hesitation.

Templars of both schools run rife throughout the Circles of Thedas - mad and cruel, they rarely see consequences for their actions. Instead, mages learn to live with these abuses, and do as they are told, even when what is asked for them is violent or humiliating. Even when it is a violation.

I repeat. There are mages in the Circles as young as six. Is this the will of Andraste?

The Freedom to Love

In the Circle, love is only a game. It gives the Templars too much power over the mages in their care if there is something they couldn’t stand to lose.

Can you imagine that? Being afraid to love, from childhood, for the rest of your life, for fear that you and your lover would be torn apart?

Over the centuries, mages have found other ways to share these things: coded languages and secret intimacies that are all we can borrow from the simple freedoms enjoyed by the people of Thedas outside our towers. We cannot marry, we cannot have children. We can only exchange secrets, and take one another’s hands in the hope that no one sees us.

If you are one of those who has loved a mage, you will understand something of the agony of this. If you have been in any way imprisoned, or abused, or enslaved, then you may well understand the things of which I speak. If you have not, I am afraid I cannot explain it. Only look at the people you love, and imagine being as afraid of your own affections as you are commanded by them. It is a terrible thing, to be afraid to love.

Instead, within the Circles, mages are forced to perform a twisted mockery of love. It is not uncommon for Templars to become fixated on one or more of their charges, driven by the madness of lyrium and obsession. The mages are asked to do ‘favours’ for their captors. I will not detail the nature of these things. Suffice it to say that there are children in our Circles, and that these are things that should never be asked under threat of violence, from anyone.

Tranquility

The Rite of Tranquility is intended to protect a mage and those around them from suffering the devastating effects of demonic temptation. It is, legally, meant to be used only on mages who have not passed their Harrowing. A mage who has passed their Harrowing has proven, at risk of their own life, that they are able to resist the many dangers of demons in the Fade.

However - not only have multiple mages who have passed their Harrowing been illegally made Tranquil, many more have been prevented from undergoing their Harrowing in order to force a Rite of Tranquility on mages deemed troublesome or, in too many unsavoury cases, desirable, by their Templar keepers.

Some mages request the Rite of Tranquility. This, to an uninformed reader, might be difficult to understand. I must remind you: we are taught from birth that we are poison. Corrupted. Demonic. Evil. We repeat these lessons daily. We are taught to love Andraste, we are taught that she despises and fears us. The most common cause of death for mages in a Circle is suicide. It is not difficult to find books on parenting in Thedas that suggest drowning a child is a better fate than letting them live with magic.

I am sure that there are some mages who make the choice to become Tranquil with a clear mind and peace in their hearts. But I am also sure that there are many who make the choice out of fear and self-hatred, sickness of the mind and grief of the heart.

Imagine how unhappy you must be to willingly forego the right to dream, to love, to laugh, to live freely and with feeling as you once did, only in order to cut away a part of yourself.

Then imagine that you could not, would not part with those things. Imagine the anger that has kept you alive when you were in danger, the grief you felt for those you lost, the love you have for your companions. Remember the joy you feel when you dance. Imagine these things being taken from you, against your will, because you disagreed with a Templar.

The Rite of Tranquility is unjust.

Every mage in Thedas fears it, and the Tranquil themselves - who are still thinking, living, breathing people - are treated as little more than slaves. At best, they are tolerated. But they receive no care, no reprieve. They make convenient workers because they do not possess the desire to protest. So they work.

If the mages of Thedas are to be free, the Rite of Tranquility must be abolished.

If the people of Thedas are to be free, we must treat the Tranquil with respect and dignity, as we should do to all. They are people. They must be treated as such.

Revolution and Freedom

It has often been said that if those who are oppressed seek freedom, they must pursue their cause with non-violent means. It strikes the writer that it has most often been said by those who wish to perpetuate oppression, or else live among the ranks of those powerful and privileged enough to live freely and safe from harm.

Who, in our society, defines what we count as violence?

Is it violent to imprison someone for the rest of their life because of who they are?

Is it violent to remove children from their parents?

Is it violent to force lovers apart?

Is Tranquility violence?

Peace is, always, an ideal to which we must aspire. Violence is chaotic and unpredictable. It is not moral. It cannot be moral. None of us can ever predict the true consequences of our actions.

However, if one group of people assigns moral superiority to their own violence and calls it Justice, what must we do then?

We are asked, told, taught, to turn the other cheek as we are beaten. Our priests demand that we accept our suffering as divine, even when it is borne from the hands of men.

I do not wish to start a war. It has already begun. I only want it to end.

We cannot defeat an army without violence. Others have tried. They were murdered.

My people are dying. Our people are dying. Children are dying.

We must fight.

It will not be perfect. It will not be right. The greatest lie ever told is that there is morality in violence. There is only suffering, and survival.

But I am a man, and I love my people. I want to survive. I want to be free.

I believe it is the right of every person, in every land, to live freely, to love freely, and to exist without fear of abuse.

If you agree, reader, I have one final question.

Will you join me?

#long post #anti chantry #da2 #anders #anders was right #mage rights

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sepublic · 5 years ago

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Order of Mata Nui

A paramilitary organization shrouded in secrecy, the Order of Mata Nui was created as a way of fighting back against the Powers That Be in a manner that is discreet and untraceable. The brutality of their enemies and the harsh realities that Xians have to face have conditioned the Order to be similarly ruthless; Many saw the downfall of the Volunteer Militia as being contributed to the heroes’ ‘softness’ and blatant publicity. In contrast, the Order of Mata Nui operates entirely from the shadows, taking great pains to keep their existence a total secret. Even to the Barraki, their potential presence was considered, but never outright confirmed; And in their fight to liberate Xia, the Order has committed many acts of espionage, extortion, blackmailing, assassination, torture, etc.

The Order of Mata Nui was founded by their ancient leader Helryx, as far back as the War of Six Kingdoms; Back then, Helryx was but a small, young, and fragile human girl who could do little to fight back against the bloodshed that her home regularly witnessed. Determined to make a difference at any cost, Helryx vowed to not let the deaths of others be in vain; She too would kill, but she promised to let her murders accomplish something in the end.

Since then, the secretive Order of Mata Nui has operated from the shadows, recruiting members from any corner of Xia. They have tracked the progress of Xia’s industrial revolution, working to undermine the Powers That Be as much as possible, to varying success; It is unknown how terrible the situation on Xia would be had they never existed.

The Order of Mata Nui worked to assassinate dictators and tyrants, and influence public opinion against such groups. In the Artidax District, many of them are employed as hackers, working to undermine the propaganda of Turaga Dume and leak the secrets of the Xian aristocracy to the public; The truth must be known. When the Nynrah Incident occurred, many Order agents worked quietly to facilitate evacuations and contain threat, while just as many also found potential servants and recruits amongst the mutated Vorox.

Unlike conventional ‘heroes’, the Order is willing to perform unethical acts, in the name of the greater good. Helryx has seen what noble intentions and actions have done; But for now, it is best to keep noble intentions, while trading in heroic actions for more underhanded and even downright despicable means. In the past, the Order have experimented on others without consent, killed, robbed banks to fund their own activities, etc. Many of Xia’s Lekara were experimented upon them without consent to become ideal, underwater assassins. In order to maintain important secrets, the Order has even killed many innocents in the past; All in the name of the greater good.

Because secrecy and anonymity is their key to survival, all Order members have access to masks, cloaks, and other means of disguise. They are trained in the arts of stealth, interrogation, code-breaking, etc., and communicate with one another almost entirely in encrypted messages, usually delivered manually; Wireless communications can be intercepted and are thus a liability, with the individual known as Nidhiki having accessed a few Order of Mata Nui messages himself.

And while quick to strike and utterly ruthless, the Order of Mata Nui also recognizes that its numbers and strength is small and few compared to that of the Powers That Be; If they feel the risk is too high, members will not go on a mission to avoid being compromised and found out. Agents that are a liability and at risk of revealing the truth –whether they want to or not- will sometimes be killed by their comrades to keep them silent. Mysteriously-funded projects are supported through proxies, many of whom know little of what they are doing, and are just as quickly assassinated to keep quiet. Many mysterious deaths have been attributed to organizations such as the Dark Hunters; But in reality, it is the Order of Mata Nui. If at risk of being caught, agents have access to suicide pills, and some even have Viruses that will completely devour their body and leave nothing behind; Although these vials are helpful in assassination, at least one is always kept on an agent’s person in case it needs to be turned on themselves.

Weakness cannot be allowed within the Order, and it is often beaten out of one another in hellish training grounds, the majority located in their hidden base of Daxia. Skills are regularly tested and honed between missions. Code-breakers work day and night to decode encrypted transmissions that pass through Artidax, hoping to decipher the secrets of the Powers That Be and anticipate their move. Official agents have access to personal ‘tokens’ that bear the insignia of the Order, to prove membership; If in danger of being caught, such tokens are to be completely destroyed.

Due to the secrecy of the organization, many members do not know the identities of one another, and most refer to one another entirely through codenames, their faces entirely hidden. It is not out of the question for two Order members to argue about which mission they should take, before later on passing one another in public life without recognizing each other. These painstaking measures are all for the sake of ensuring that if one agent is compromised, the entire organization will not follow; Only Helryx knows everything about the Order of Mata Nui… allegedly.

Information and data is stored almost entirely in coded print, to prevent hacking. The locations of data are mixed amongst various high-ranking members, who have miniature-explosives surgically injected into their skulls, designed to detonate at will in case they are in danger of being interrogated.

The Order of Mata Nui has agents in just about every sector of society, and even a few nobles and their servants serve as faithful members. The Order also operates through countless servants, many of who know nothing about the true order of their commands; Some are just paid and told to keep quiet as they work on their jobs in secrecy. The Order of Mata Nui has even hired Dark Hunters in the past to do their own dirty work, with the mercenaries unknowingly contributing to projects designed to hinder The Shadowed One.

All agents within the Order of Mata Nui have their minds telepathically shielded to prevent; These mental shields keep them immune to mind-reading, brainwashing, and attacks on the mind. As a result, they are entirely immune to Night Wraiths, and their ability to infiltrate the dreams of others. The exact nature of how Order members accomplish this a closely-guarded secret. Ideally, the mental shielding of Order agents keeps them from having their minds read, against their will; But in case all else fails, the aforementioned suicide pills and explosives are worth considering. Some risks just can’t be taken, especially since the Order doesn’t know everything about the enemy- And to them, knowledge is the true power.

Members of the Order don’t just exist on Xia, either; Prior to the merging of worlds, there were a select few on Okoto as well. It was through these agents that Helryx knew of the happenings of that mythical island, and for a while, Okoto’s existence remained another closely-guarded secret amongst the upper echelons of the Order of Mata Nui. When they knew of Okoto and how they discovered it is also another mystery.

Decades after the Great Cataclysm, Helryx sent trusted agents Axonn and Brutaka to Okoto, to find the Mask of Control; She hoped to use it against the Powers That Be. Arriving on the mythical land, Axonn and Brutaka succeeded in locating the Mask of Control, but to their dismay a portion of Makuta’s soul was infesting it. When Makuta’s role in the deaths of several Okotans to create the Mask of Life had been revealed, a mad scrambled by the Mask Hoarder to don his forbidden mask resulted in the Mask of Control being knocked from his face, siphoning a portion of his soul in the process.

Axonn and Brutaka realized that whoever would don the Mask of Control would be subject to the influence of Makuta, who would then be able to locate his lost mask and use it through the proxy of his soul fragment and whatever puppet he had seized. With no way of purging Makuta’s influence without the Mask Hoarder noticing the Mask of Control’s presence, Helryx gave the order to contain the Mask of Control within the Labryinth of Infinity; It was a liability and could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.

For centuries, Axonn and Brutaka guarded the Labyrinth of Infinity, with only the two of them knowing how to access the specific path leading to the Mask of Control’s chamber. As per Helryx’s orders, they remained a secret to all on the island, choosing not to intervene lest they attract the Brotherhood of Makuta’s attention.

At some point, an Order Agent was compromised, captured by the rogue Morbuzakh and interrogated; When they ingested a suicide pill, Morbuzakh countered this with a rapidly-synthesized antidote. Despite the Order agent’s training and mental shielding, Morbuzakh eventually succeeded in pulling vital information out of them, before killing his unfortunate prisoner- Helryx never learned the fate of this agent and was deeply troubled over what information may have been compromised during this disappearance.

Eventually, miners in the Voymari District unearthed a massive, hill-sized block of bohrok, one that was later melted down in the Great Furnace to reveal the lost Mask of Light. Realizing this was a dangerous weapon that could not fall into the wrong hands, Helryx had Order agents infiltrate the facility that the Mask of Light was kept in. The Order of Mata Nui succeeded in retrieving the Mask of Light, defeating UP-VK 8596 (later known as Seeker). The Mask of Light was contained within a specialized module to let it be safely handled; Physical contact with the Mask could burn and blind a person, if not outright incinerating them.

With the help of Order agent Botar, the Mask of Light was transported from the island of Xia, taken to Okoto. Axonn and Brutaka took custody of the Mask of Light, and were ordered to prioritize protecting it over the Mask of Control; Helryx compared the Mask of Light to a Xian Heart that was set to go off at any moment.

Like the Mask of Control, the Mask of Light was contained within the Labyrinth of Infinity, with additional security measures added to ensure that nobody could find it; Maze-like symbols and cubes would be needed to act as keys, which would unlock the 777 Stairs leading down to a series of chambers. In such chambers, various guardians placed by the Order of Mata Nui would act as obstacles to the Mask of Light. To top it all off, the path to the Mask of Light was even MORE complex and difficult to navigate, than the one leading to the Mask of Control.

(When Brutaka went rogue and betrayed the Order, he made sure not to tell Makuta of the Mask of Light; He could allow the Makuta to take the Mask of Control, but letting the Brotherhood have access to Nuva would be a step too far for him.)

During the Okotan Expedition to Xia, the Order of Mata Nui kept track of the Toa, Protectors, and their allies. While Kopaka fumbled his way through Artidax, a few agents anonymously contacted the Toa of Ice, using him to help fight back against Dume’s tyranny and authority. To the surprise of many, Kopaka didn’t die in any of his tasks. Later, Kopaka’s ‘anonymous allies’ helped him and a few others pull off a heist in the Archives, retrieving the Fragment of Earth in the process.

Since Xia’s relocation to Okoto, many Xians have begun to rise up against their former masters. Seeing the paradise of Okoto and its society, which is able to function without the strict class-hierarchies of Xia, has been the final straw for many; They know now that the order set by the Powers That Be is a lie and a sham, and one too many incidents have piled on, ranging from the disappearance of Kratakal, to the Powers That Be prioritizing the securing of wealth over protecting citizens from the quakes when Xia flew.

Now, an open Xian rebellion, the likes of which history has never seen, has begun to arise. And with the Okotan Alliance right next door, Helryx has seen a once-in-several-lifetimes opportunity; A chance to finally turn the tides against the Powers That Be. And with the Okotans needing help against the Barraki, and the participation of the Brotherhood of Makuta and the rise of Kraltarak…

The time has come. The Order of Mata Nui has emerged from the shadows, revealing its existence as a paramilitary organization of spies and assassins. They have aligned themselves with the Xian rebellion, its leaders showing some suspicion; But beggars can’t be choosers. In turn, the Barraki are incensed and seek to utterly eradicate the Order, angered that so many Xians would dare defy them for so long, and eager to kill now that the closest thing to a face –their masks- have been seen.

The Okotan Alliance is skeptical- There are some who want no part in assisting any Xians. But many, including the Toa, Protectors, and Ekimu, recognize that they need all the help they can against the Barraki… Besides, the Order of Mata Nui helped Kopaka after all. Even if the Order has blood on its hands, it’s better than nothing; And if both groups weren’t to collaborate, they wouldn’t be as effective, which would lead to a longer conflict and thus more atrocities committed for ‘necessity’.

While the Order’s new allies are skeptical about their unethical acts and will even contend them, one cannot deny the greater threat at large. Thus, their allies in the Okotan Alliance and Xian Rebellion will turn a blind eye, for the most part, as they work together; The help of inside-agents within these organizations has made the Order of Mata Nui’s alliance with them easier. And as the Order of Mata Nui’s more heinous crimes are revealed, Dume has taken towards highlighting such atrocities to the Xian populace as ‘proof’ of the chaotic lawlessness of the rebellion.

Alas, the average Xian is used to the same, and worse, from the Powers That Be; At this point, most aren’t even fazed. And the difference between the Order of Mata Nui and the upper-class is that one genuinely wants to make a change for the better, and will actually work and die for it…

Makuta himself is also wary of the Order of Mata Nui; He is curious to how Helryx has lived for so long, and now knows how they have hindered him in subtle ways in the past. The knowledge of their past secrecy has made him somewhat paranoid of infiltrators amongst his ranks, and as he combs his Brotherhood for traitors and spies, he also seeks to unlock the truth behind the Order’s mental shielding.

Intriguingly, many of the Order of Mata Nui’s higher-ranked agents have unusual abilities… Ones that cannot quite be explained by science. Many agents have subjected themselves to various experiments to become more powerful, but these unique members seem to have inexplicable powers, some related to the realm of Space. How the Order of Mata Nui’s agents can unlock such abilities are unknown, and Makuta hopes to potentially infiltrate the organization himself one day. For now, his Night Wraiths prove useless at accessing the minds of members that he’s managed to capture.

The Order of Mata Nui knows the risks it is taking. Each agent chose their life of secrecy, with some completing disappearing from society and being reborn under a new face, mask, and name. All agents have accepted their burden; Only the most trustworthy are allowed into the organization. Motives vary, but generally speaking, all members have been hurt and scarred by Xia in some way, shape, or form; Or they’ve seen others been hurt and cannot stand by such injustice. So although many of their past actions are indeed terrible, one has to note that the Order performs them beneath dire, desperate circumstances; And should the war end in victory for Okoto and the rebellion, perhaps finally the Order of Mata Nui can lay down its arms. Some agents are not averse to accepting the consequences of their actions and punishment, if it means that Xia can finally be liberated…

The Order of Mata Nui has many members, in addition to the elusive Helryx;

Axonn is a powerful, burly knight wielding a gigantic battle-axe, who can compel others to tell the truth. Once a conquerer, he helped Helryx establish the Order of Mata Nui. He helped to guard the Masks of Control and Light, and while faithful he has been criticized for being too much of a bleeding heart, compromising his own secrecy to help others; He once risked being noticed by Fenrakk when he rescued a young Takua from the Skull Spiders in the past. As the Xian-Okotan War rises, Axonn has been temporarily transferred from his duty of protecting the Mask of Light, to helping in the fight against the Barraki and Brotherhood.

Brutaka is a rogue member, a former friend and close comrade of Axonn. Disillusioned by the centuries of brutality with no end in sight, he has seen the Order of Mata Nui commit atrocities that have barely made a difference. Seeking to do things under HIS command now, Brutaka has joined the battlefield as his own contendable player; He has assisted the Brotherhood of Makuta, and is allied with them once more alongside the Barraki. Using his knowledge on the Mask of Light, he is also helping a group of rogue Dark Hunters, led by Zaktan, into finding the hiding place of Nuva. Brutaka’s true goals are unknown.

Botar is a towering giant of a creature, feared by even Axonn and Brutaka. He has a massive, fanged maw and a horrifying visage. One of the Order’s most powerful agents, Botar has incredibly powerful abilities of teleportation, able to warp across entire miles with objects and passengers in tow. While faithful to the Order of Mata Nui and usually serious, he can occasionally have his own dark sense of humor.

Hydraxon is a senior-ranking Order agent. Once a prison warden, he realized the corruption of Xia and has since reformed, discarding his old name and identity in favor of the mask and codename he now bears. Hydraxon is responsible for training many of the Order’s new recruits, and is armed with a variety of blades, daggers, and boomerangs, a few of which can explode on impact. A master of the martial arts, he is a mentor to many and frequently assisted by his pet Energy Hound, Spinax; A creature capable of taking in the ‘scent’ of a target’s soul and tracking it across the distance between both islands of Xia and Okoto, back when they were separated.

Trinuma is an Order agent with an uncanny ability to talk others into doing exactly as she desires. It is unknown if this is some sort of hidden power, or merely the result of genuine charisma; Either way, she is a skilled negotiator who has helped in securing useful deals for the Order of Mata Nui. She has recruited a few members into organization herself, and convinced a few of the Order’s prisoners and enemies into performing missions for them.

Tobduk is a towering Vorox. Once a meek, dainty housewife, she was one of the first victims to be transformed by the Nynrah Incident, after being captured by rogue Visorak spiders and mutated into the being she is today. Horrifically traumatized by the incident, she was recovered by the Order of Mata Nui and inducted into the organization. Feeling a disconnect between her past life and current identity, the new agent renamed herself Tobduk and rapidly rose through the ranks as a feared, ruthless assassin. Tobduk is responsible for many of the Order’s most heinous acts and has innocent blood on her hands. She bears a personal vendetta against the Visorak and the Nynrah Ghosts. As a result of her mutations, Tobduk is an agile, powerful titan who can enter a berserker state. She wields poisoned daggers and machetes, as well as a staff shaped like a Doom Viper’s head, which can shoot forth white-hot beams of energy.

Johmak is an obsidian, crystalline being, able to shatter into countless tiny crystals. These crystals can form into a floating cloud, or be used to tear apart and penetrate enemies. Johmak’s ability and unusual nature allow her to recover from just about any form of physical damage, and she is practically immune to it as a result. As a cloud of crystals, Johmak can enter tight spaces and is a skilled saboteur. Armed with a shield formed from her own essence, Johmak is a strong-willed agent who believes in ideals of freedom and resistance.

Krakua is a grey-armored warrior with a powerful control over Sound, able to manipulate it to silence others, amplify noises, mimic voices, etc. Krakua has used their Sound abilities to a devastating effect, able to access frequencies that shatter almost any material, and cause internal rupturing of organs to enemies. For these abilities, Krakua is an ideal assassin, infiltrator, spy, torturer, and warrior. They are armed with a ‘tuning fork’ blade consisting of two long, silver prongs with which to better attune and amplify Krakua’s power over Sound.

Jerbraz is a charming agent and spy for the Order of Mata Nui. A botched experiment resulted in him being rendered permanently invisible. He wields a Twilight Blade that can turn practically invisible alongside him, or blind opponents. He is a skilled assassin and infiltrator, and has been frequently teamed up alongside Krakua to watch enemies completely undetected, sometimes right next to them. Most intriguingly of all, the failed experiment has caused Jerbraz to have a presence in both the Light and Dark Worlds; If one were to warp between either realm, they would find Jerbraz still there, existing across the veil between worlds. For this reason, he is an ideal enemy against Night Wraiths, and is able to see into the Para-Realm; Allowing the Order to keep track of the Kraahl as well.

Mazeka is a skilled decoder, encrypter, and hacker amongst the Order of Mata Nui. Once a skilled programmer, a massacre for the secrets of the company worked for led them down a long chain of events that resulted in their status as an Order agent. Now, they regularly work to intercept transmissions in Artidax, decode messages, encrypt Order communications, etc. They made anonymous contact with Kopaka during his arrival on Xia, helping guide the Toa of Ice in resisting Dume; Mazeka has long been stationed in the fight against the dictator’s propaganda and control of information.

Scowe is a winged member of the Order, skilled in quiet transport across the skies. She has functioned often as a manual messenger, transporting physical letters containing encrypted data within to other agents in the dead of night. An incredibly stealthy flier, Scowe has managed to evade the sights of guards and cameras through her unusual ability to automatically ‘see’ through the eyes of everyone in her proximity. The owners of these eyes are completely unaware as Scowe is able to map out blind spots, navigating a completely unnoticed flight path through them.

Deralte is a hulking, four-armed warrior armed with horns and a multi-bladed axe. He has the unique ability to ‘ignore distance’; When he swings his axe, the effects of that axe cutting into something will travel through the empty air between him and whatever is closest, immediately cleaving that object. Thus, he can swing his weapon, and in real-time, whatever is in front of him -within the distance of about a mile- will be sliced as if Deralte was right there. This applies to any of his actions; A hi-five will be immediately felt across a field as he reaches to meet it, for example. Because of Deralte’s unique ability to ignore the distance between him and a target, he is an ideal if unconventional ‘sniper’. Although his power only applies to his body and the axe he wields, Deralte has still managed to kill many unwitting targets, who die believing they were attacked by an invisible assailant that had somehow gotten close. The only way to avoid his attacks is either to get out of the way, or place something –or someone- in front of oneself.

Boggon is a Vorox with well over a dozen, serpentine heads, with which he can survey the area all around him; Or attack with his fangs, while wielding a weapon in his hands. Operating within the Nynrah District, Boggon acts as a spy for the Order of Mata Nui, reporting the goings-on amongst the various Vorox clans, while researching into the potential existence of whereabouts of the mythical Keetongu.

#bionicle #bionicle rae #order of mata nui #helryx #axonn #brutaka #botar #hydraxon #johmak #krakua #tobduk #mazeka #jerbraz #trinuma #xia #okoto

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designsfromtime · 5 years ago

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Imitation is NOT the Sincerest Form of Flattery:

When I first started out designing custom couture costumes, there was a brief moment of temptation to imitate those I viewed as “successful.” Thankfully, my integrity guided me to find my own artistic expression. But, I get it. You see an artist’s work all over the internet and hear about how busy their commission calendar is and you covet their success.

In the desire to reach another’s “presumptuous” pinnacle and enjoy a FULL commission schedule, it’s tempting to copy from them. But patience, practice, and perseverance are the necessary companions of success in this business, and success isn’t necessarily reflected by dollar signs.

This post is motivated by a recent incident involving a client that contacted me about a commission, but it’s much more far reaching than that. In this instance, he had three pictures of men’s 16th Century noble costumes that he presented me. This is a usual and customary step in my consultation process, as it gives me an idea where their tastes lie, and guides me in sketching out a concept I feel encapsulates their favorite features. As I worked to draw out more information from this client, to include his preference in color and textiles, he was rather vague. He’d referenced one of my original designs in his original message when he contacted me, then supplied me with three pictures - but wasn’t specific about the overall design points he liked; other than to state when I offered him samples of historical styles that he did NOT want “poufy” pants. Translation: short paned slops. He wanted royal blue, and had picked out a brocade from my Pinterest board.

Feeling confident that I was heading in the right direction - based on his expressed likes and dislikes - I sketched out my concept using my “historically accurate” model I have developed in the cut of my clothing, and worked up a design board complete with samples of the fabric in the colors he requested. After expending many, MANY hours (once again) in consultation that spanned a couple of weeks, he replied back with one of the pictures he had sent me previously, describing in detail what he liked about it, and asked me - in no uncertain terms - if I would “copy” that ensemble. Copy? As in reproduce the exact garment? - with the exception of different textiles of course.

My reply? I politely informed him that I felt it was unethical to copy another artist’s designs. I offered him something of my own design collection, but stated that ethically I wasn’t willing to copy another artist - even though I would be using different textiles. Call me crazy, but that’s just not something I will do! Not even at the risk of losing a commission - which I did!!

Look, when you approach a designer - who has already established themselves and has developed their own design “aesthetic,” to be shown a garment that isn’t yours, or isn’t remotely historically accurate, and ask them to “copy” it, feels like a slap in the face. You obviously thought enough of that designer’s work to contact them? - Right? What’s more disconcerting is that the dude canceled the project because I refused to plagiarize another’s work! Okay, so is it pride on my part? - or Ego that they want you to replicate someone else’s work rather than yours? Yeah, I suppose my reaction could be labeled thus. But what drives me in these situations is my integrity. The garment is all over Pinterest. It’s nice work. The cut isn’t historical, but it’s recognizable, ya’ll!

But more than anything this situation begs the question: “Why contact an artist whose style and quality of work is already established and then request they copy someone else’s work? This situation hearkens me back to my “Nicole” experience and my advice about not accepting a commission simply for the money. Sometimes fate steps in and works it out for you - as in this situation. But other times you will need to be perceptive enough to know the warning signs and exit stage left.

So, if I haven’t already established my position, let me clarify:

I WILL NOT copy another designer’s work. Period. End of discussion.

Draw inspiration from? Yes. Copy it exactly? Absolutely NOT!

I will put my own spin to it, but I’m not going to replicate it. I feel as an artist copying another’s work is a cop out! In essence, what you’re saying is that “I don’t have my own vision, or the confidence to create my own aesthetic, so I want to ride on the coattails of someone else’s hard work and investment of time.” You gotta do the work, ya’ll. Pay your dues, so to speak. As the artist who’s being copied, it’s infuriating, and it’s just WRONG.

In all sincerity, I am happy if my work is so well received that someone would like to draw inspiration from it, but I would be highly upset if someone were to purchase the same embroidery patterns and replicate my work - and sell it! I’ve actually had a similar situation occur with someone I have a long-standing working relationship with and who I respect as an artist in their own right.They replicated one of my skirt and forepart designs to market their embroidery patterns rather than just seeking my permission to use pictures of mine. Thankfully, they took the high road and honored my request to take down the picture of my “jocked style.”- And I am SO appreciative of that! I’ve had other experiences that did NOT end so amicably. In that particular instance, I had loaned my prototype for an Elizabethan headdresses inspired by “The Tudors” to a fellow guild member. I have the copyrights to my pattern. I had scoured the internet for a pattern, but after several years decided to just draft my own. I worked on it on and off for two damn years before finally perfecting my pattern. I had, at one time, considered selling my patterns, but decided against it. This “person” took my prototype home with the intention of wearing it to an upcoming event, but then showed up wearing a COPY of my headdress! When I saw the pictures, I freaked!! I contacted her in a snit and asked her what the hell she thought she was doing copying my pattern and informed her that it was copyrighted. She replied that she liked my headdress so much she wanted one. My translation: I didn’t want to pay for one of yours, so I stole your pattern. What was I supposed to do? - Act a fool and rip it off her head and stomp on it? I chose to let it go with the stern warning that if I suddenly saw replicas of my work floating around she and I would be meeting in person in less than amicable terms.

It’s bad enough that artists have to deal with unscrupulous hacks overseas who steal pictures of our work and use it to dupe naive customers into a sale - - Only for that customer to receive a hideously styled and cheaply made knock off that doesn’t look remotely similar. What sucks is that YOUR work, in that situation, is now forever connected to a scam!

To artists or costumers seeking to parlay their passion into a small business, I have this to say: BE ORIGINAL people! Develop your own aesthetic, rather than mimic someone else’s work. It’s what will set you apart from the thousands of costumers out there who have the same goal. With the exception of COSPLAY don’t copy another’s work!!

You gotta find your niche and market it.

My business model has been to scour the internet and find items that no one else is offering, or offer something similar in an elevated version. Look, historical clothes are similar in their cut and pattern, so it takes some creativity and inspiration to find a unique spin to these typical garments - especially if you’re using commercial patterns. There is only so much one can do using textiles and trims, as so much of what you see out there is similar. However, I built my business model on quality construction and customer service. It isn’t my fellow costumers out here in the real world from which I draw my inspiration, but rather extant garments and those in the theater and film industry who actually get it right!

From the beginning, as I honed my abilities, I strove to create pieces that matched the quality of those seen by professionals in the film industry and by pieces owned by museums..I create my own textiles using historically based embroidery, in an effort to create my own aesthetic. Because so many costumers are using the same patterns and accessing the same vendors for textiles, there will be similarities you see out there. But to intentionally copy another artist’s work sticks in my craw. Maybe my work ethic is indicative of my generation, I don’t know. But I will stand by my ethics in this regard and sleep better knowing that if nothing else, I’m original.

#historical costume #historical fashion #Costume

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callsigndreadfrost · 5 years ago

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Just an excuse to introduce a creature and writing practice. 4 pages and 1,763 words. Personally I don’t think it was graphic enough to warrant the warning but just in case trigger warning for body horror.

Norway Sunday, April 22, 869 C.E.

They set out at first light, Sanaa, Grete, and Eli at the front. Ingvarr and Jørgen behind the women, concern and concentration adorning their faces; swords at the ready. In front of the group, Agnarr, leading them to the very curious finding that made its way into his property only to collapse and die from wounds sustained in battle.

The old man had heard tales of the phenomenon since he was a small boy almost a century ago. He’d heard stories of creatures with no form of their own but could steal the form of others with just one glance. They could become perfect copies that looked, behaved, and even smelled just like that which they mirrored. The only tell was the way they spoke. They couldn’t control their voices; they’d speak in broken sentences that made little to no sense. They spoke like an infant who was first learning to speak but there was no emotion behind their words. Only a monotone echo of words they heard from those they mimicked. Thus, the name stuck, mimics. It was worse when they managed to copy the shape of an animal since they had perfected the look and the sound. Once a mimic took on the shape of an animal it was impossible to tell the difference.

There were dozens even hundreds of theories as to where these creatures came from and what their original shapes were. The most common theory was that they came from another realm and that they are incorporeal creatures with no shape to call their own. Mirroring others was how they hunted and hid from predators and hunters alike.

“Caught between a deer and a wild boar.”

“For how long?” Grete asked.

“I’m not sure. I woke up this morn’ and found it. My guess is it was near death when it dropped on my doorstep. Had large slashes all over its body and big bite marks. Now I know why my dogs were barking all night long. Animals can tell, you know.”

“I was under the impression that it was impossible to tell.” Sanaa observed. She was fascinated and eager to see the creature. Ever since she found herself in this land she’d heard of the mimic, how it moved amongst people, how it used speech or what passed as speech to lure victims, how it could shift into animals to escape pursuers, how no one had ever seen what they actually look like. It seemed intelligent and some of the people even debated if it was sentient though most doubted it. It was fascinating and it reminded Sanaa of her home. Her people dealt with all manner of oddities from the small to the celestial and beyond.

“There’s the thing.” Agnarr announced as they reached his home.

Out in the front lay a massive carcass with equally massive injuries. Grete walked past Sanaa and Eli and slowly circled the creature to examine it. She was bewildered by the specimen at her feet, she slowly crouched down to get a closer look.

“Be careful, Grete.” Jørgen said as he squared up. His brother followed suit and both siblings braced themselves in case the creature was merely feigning death.

“Ah, don’t worry. It’s dead all right. Poked it a few times with a stick to check.”

“This is…incredible.” Grete whispered as her eyes darted over the body. The torso was that of the common wild boar seen in the wilds, the tail of a boar but much shorter, all but the left hindleg was of the deer, the hindleg resembled a boar’s. Clearly it ran on the other three legs seeing as the other was shorter. Grete then turned her attention to the hooves. They were horrible fusion of boar and deer, she guessed walking was uncomfortable and running was out of the question. Her eyes moved along the neck, long like a deer’s but wide as a boar. The head was a sickly mix of a deer and a boar, both seemed to fight for dominance but neither won. Snout as wide as a boar with no teeth and half a tongue, the one side of the skull facing upwards was a deer’s. The deer side had a tusk protruding from the eye socket and on the other side was a single horn, the surface cracked like dry tree bark and broken in several places. Missing an ear on the deer side, most likely torn off by whatever attacked the thing. She carefully lifted the head to see the other side. Just as she suspected, the other side resembled a boar but to her shock the ear on that side was shaped like a human’s. It was covered in thick brown fur, but it had the shape and flexibility of a human ear.

“Have you been hearing strange sounds around here?” Grete finally spoke up.

“None whatsoever. Everything’s been real quiet.”

“This mimic was trying to take a human form but died before it could continue. Left ear is in the shape of a human’s. Most likely to try and get help from you.”

“How? It was twisted.” Agnarr asked as he pointed to the mimic.

“I’m sorry, twisted?” Sanaa asked.

“Mimics can…well…mimic people and animals. Usually they shift quickly, almost in the blink of an eye if they have to.” Eli said. “Sometimes though, something goes wrong and while they shift to a different form, they can become confused in the process leading to what you see before you. A mix of two, three, four or maybe more animals. The twisted mimic cannot untwist itself and every time it tries to shift it just deforms further until it’s deformed it can’t move. Eventually it dies of hunger or thirst or something else kills it.”

“Is it always twisted with animal features?”

Sanaa looked at the group as it fell into an uneasy silence. Apparently, she asked a delicate question. Eli cleared her throat as she recalled a tale her great grandfather had told her once.

“When I was a young girl there was a family that had recently lost their eldest son to a fever. He’d gone off to explore the wilds and lost his way. He was found a few days later with a bad cough and a burning fever. They tried to save the boy, but the fever took him. That year the winter was especially brutal and unforgiving, so much so that animals risked hide and limb just to be closer to the village as it was warmer due to the fires. The bolder ones took shelter in our homes. Then one night the entire village awoke to the sound of horrible screaming. It sounded painful and agonizing. Several people took weapons and torches and ran into the wilds following the loud screams. They called out but only the screams answered so they followed them. Crawling on the ground was a twisted mimic. Torso and head of a human, the boy who died, it was pulling itself by it’s one good arm because the other had shifted backwards and was missing all fingers. From the hip down it was a mess like it had been a cat at some point. The patches that weren’t covered in fur you could see skin broken by bones protruding in the wrong direction. The screaming was the worst part, it was mixed with crying, but it didn’t have any feeling behind it. As if the only time it heard a person they were crying and that was all it could imitate. Obviously, it was put out of its misery and the body was disposed of. It tried to mimic the boy but became twisted.”

“It’s a rare occurrence though.” Agnarr reassured. “We figured the damn was freezing and starving, so it tried to imitate a human to seek shelter from the elements. Most likely saw the boy when he was lost and remembered his shape.”

“Are they violent?” Sanaa asked, more fascinated than worried.

“It depends but they have been known to lure people out into the forests. We sometimes don’t find more than blood on the ground.” Ingvarr said.

“Hmm,” Sanaa exclaimed while reaching into her bag and pulling out a small but sharp blade and an old piece of cloth and crouched down beside Grete, “Are they loners or do they roam in packs or pairs?”

“They never attack each other but they stay as far away from one another as possible. I’ve tried to study them from afar and I can’t even tell you if they mate and reproduce. They mark their territories so whenever we kill one, we take their bladders and coat the outside of the village to keep them away. Which reminds me, Agnarr, you should think about spreading some of it around your home before you get rid of the carcass.”

“Aye, will do.”

“Is there a tell?” Sanaa scrapped some of the fur off the creature’s hide and placed it neatly in the cloth and carefully put it back in her bag. “You know, is there a way to tell if one perfectly imitates a human? A mark? Some kind of sound they emit?”

“Well, they can mimic animal sounds perfectly so it’s impossible to tell when they take the shape of an animal. But if they imitate a person, they talk weird.” The group turned to look at Ingvarr and then at Jørgen when he elaborated on Ingvarr’s answer.

“Yeah, they can’t seem to form sentences correctly. It’s sort of like when a very small child is trying to learn to talk but it sounds false. Whatever they say has no feeling behind it, they don’t even respond correctly to anything you say or ask. They just say anything they might have heard before.”

“Animals can tell.” Eli said as she turned to Agnarr. “Animals out in the wild give them a wide berth or sometimes run away from them. Agnarr said his dogs were barking all night long.”

“That’s right. First one of these things to show itself around here in twenty years.”

“Yes, but there’s been a decline in their numbers in the last ten years that I’ve noticed.”

“That’s interesting.” Sanaa pulled out a small glass container from her bag and filled it with the creature’s blood and held it in her hands to observe it as it swished around in the container.

“What’ll you do with that?”

“Well, Ingvarr, I don’t trust these for medicinal purposes, but something tells me I can unlock some secrets that could benefit us.”

#001022 #Legion tag #Eli tag #Sanaa tag #Ingvarr tag #Jørgen tag #Grete tag

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uneryx · 5 years ago

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Renee Gets Salty About Dark Magic

This post got long, and got away from me, so I’ll tl;dr it

1. dark magic is a metaphor for consumption and materialism and is ultimately bad because it harms others unnecessarily and is not a sustainable resource

2. the elves were dicks for banishing humans but (especially if humans sucked all the magic out of the land themselves) they were kind of justified, even if it was an extreme measure

3. Eating meat is not the same as dark magic if you’re looking at things from an animistic point of view, which the elves likely do

4. it’s okay to like problematic characters and you don’t have to portray Ezran as a monstrous enfant terrible to feel okay about thinking Viren is justified in what he does. In fact, pretty please stop doing this, everyone in all fandoms. It’s fine if you don’t like the protags but that doesn’t mean you get to say Ezran or Rayla or whoever is EVIL. It’s called Ron the Death Eater and it’s a fandom trope that has pissed me off for going on fifteen years. Deliberately misreading the text isn’t cute. Stop doing it.

5. The show isn’t over, be patient, you’ll probably get to see some comeuppance for stuff anyway. And if you don’t, there’s always fanfiction.

6. For the love of baby adoraburrs please tag posts that go in the vein of “the writing is bad because Viren is portrayed as a classic villain/elves good humans bad/the protags aren’t held accountalbe” with “TDP CRITICAL” I would greatly appreciate it because I’m getting super annoyed with posts that deliberately misrepresent canon to uphold a favored side and it’s affecting my enjoyment of the show. Now! Actual long and discourse-heavy post under the cut!

Ugh I don’t want to start a big ol’ argument with people because I’m still on vacation and don’t want to spend the rest of today arguing about cartoons on the internet, but this has been on the kettle for a while and I feel QUITE STRONGLY about some of these things, so just... let me express my views here and don’t come for me because I’m about to talk about religion and sociology.

Dark Magic is a metaphor for unchecked consumption and capitalism. 1. The theory i’m seeing floating around that got my dander up is that the elves and dragons drained the western half of the continent of magic to keep magic away from humans. I think that, based on what we’ve learned from canon, this is highly unlikely and would be weaker writing than what I think actually happened. Instead, Dark magic was going on for a good solid 800 years (Rise of Elarion is 2000 years before canon) before Sol Regem faced off with Viard (1200 years before canon). The division of Xadia was another 200 years after that. Humans had a solid honking millennium of unchecked dark magic. It is quite likely that the reason the west is entirely devoid of magic, and that humans were banished there, is because they sucked all the magic out of that half themselves. Poor innocent baby humans nothing. They got a taste of power and progress and, like real world humans, let that get WAY out of control.

2. “But Lujanne eats bugs, she’s a hypocrite for saying Claudia can’t squish bugs for pancakes” I want you to go down to your local new-age/witchy bookstore and find yourself an animist that eats meat. You are going to get glared at SO HARD if you whip out the “you think animals have souls but you eat meat!” chestnut. Because here’s the thing.

Eating meat/animal products is an act of life, necessary to sustain the life of someone else. We don’t vilify wolves for eating deer. You gotta eat to live your life, and the human (or, we can assume, bipedal humanoid) diet includes a need for complex protein chains, quite often found in animal meat.

But the reason that we find cannibalism repulsive in western society is because it’s eating another human, despite the fact that humans are made of meat. It’s eating something that we consider sentient, dignified and possessed of a soul. Of course, the taboo also derives from the fact that you can contract prion disease from consuming human meat, but people in 11th century Normandy didn’t know that. It is quite likely, especially given what we’ve seen of magical creatures and Ezran’s ability to talk to animals, that elves view non-human/elf creatures as sentient and possessed of a soul. If that’s the case, then OF COURSE they would see dark magic as horrific.

But eating meat is not on the same level because, as we see from the assassins, death is a part of life, and sometimes necessary. I imagine that hunting and taking a creature’s life for food is an act that is done with respect. The creatures are honored or thanked before they’re eaten or turned into leather. Highly ritualized to dignify that creature’s life. Dark magic doesn’t do that. Dark magic sucks the whole life out, without so much of a how do you do. It’s treating a person like a thing. It’s sucking all the life and essence out of someone so you can shoot fireballs or make fluffy pancakes. Lets be real - you don’t need to do either of those things, so the creature thus died in vain. 3. “The elves are selfish bastards for hogging all the magic.” I agree. Granted, their attitudes may have cooled in the ensuing centuries. It’s a new dawn, the era of Zubeia. We might see elves getting over their uppity selves and working to help teach humans magic. We might also see the show explore that kind of prejudice as Callum learns more magic. In fact, I hope we do. However, two wrongs dont make a right. If Japan bombs the absolute fuckshit out of Hawaii, that does not make it okay to flash-fry Nagasaki with a weapon that blights the land and its people for years and years afterward.

To the elves (who are magical creatures and therefore totally usable as spell components), that’s what dark magic is. Suddenly, haha oh fuck, the humans have a fucking NUKE that every elf and dragon in Xadia is vulnerable to. If a weapon was devised that ONLY a certain portion of the population was affected by, you better bet your sweet bippy that people would panic and make it forbidden and illegal, and severely punish the people who created it. ESPECIALLY if those people were already marginalized. Sucks, don’t it? Doesn’t mean the writing is bad for portraying people having a realistic reaction to something that is harmful to them. The elves aren’t justified in hogging the magic, and I hope future chapters will explore that. But the elves ARE a liiiiiittle bit justified in freaking out. I hold they could’ve come up with a better solution than BANISH HUMANS, but they didn’t. Makes for interesting story conflict, doesn’t it? 4. “Humans NEED dark magic!” / “Calling dark magic a shortcut is dumb” Did they tho? Did they really? Really really? We, modern day humans, don’t NEED smart phones (which rely on several rare earth minerals and are causing untold ecological disaster in areas where they’re miend). We, modern day humans, don’t NEED coal power (which is controlled by coal companies, who keep telling us that we totally do, despite many scientists saying that renewable energy is ready to go whenever). We don’t NEED blackberries from Mexico year-round, or a whole hell of a lot of the things we have come to rely on and consider part of our every day lives. All of these things are unnecessary and shortcuts to progress.

The only - ONLY! - good, necessary thing we’ve seen in canon that dark magic was required for was using the magma titan’s heart for saving people from famine.

A lot of the complaints about sustainable energy and efforts to heal the planet as climate change become increasingly a crisis stem from the fact that doing things RIGHT, in a way that is sustainable and doesn’t strip every last resource out of our home, is that it takes time. It takes SO MUCH TIME to do things properly. Yeah, we can keep going with our coal and our gas-guzzler cars and our fracking and our rare-earth metals... but we ARE going to run out. And then what? Dark magic is the same principle. Eventually, you’re going to run out of resources.

5. Where I think the show is going My main beef with those (and there’s a lot of ya, so I’m not intending to single anyone out) who say that the writing is lazy for dark magic bad elfs good is that the show is not over. Wonderstorm is doing their damndest to give us the saga. And they’ve said, out right, that there WILL be books, if nothing else.

You can’t judge a story’s merits when it’s only been half told. Right now, what the show has done is it has shown us the worst and best of the elves (for example, Khessa’s purity test vs Rayla refusing to kill Ez so she doesn’t perpetuate a cycle of violence) and the worst and best of the humans (ex: Viren forcibly turning thousands of people into monsters against their will vs Viren risking his life in order to save thousands of people from famine). The show has done well to demonstrate that there is good and bad in everyone, and it’s the choices you make and the respect you show others’ autonomy that makes you a good or bad person. The dominoes are in place. The saga has only begun. Being mad that Ezran burned an army (that he likely knew from Soren was invulnerable to fire) or that Aanya shot Kasef in the face (when Opeli would have told her that Kasef conspired behind Ezran’s back to usurp the throne, which is AN ACT OF WAR btw) means you aren’t looking at the big picture. There WILL be consequences for those actions in later seasons, mark my words.

I’m sorry if you’re a Viren or Claudia stan, but they have made choices that hurt other people, and it is in no way shape or form Ezran or Callum or Rayla or ANYONE ELSE’S fault that they made the choices they did. Instead of being mad at the show for not portraying your fav as an innocent victim, be glad that you got such a wonderfully complex set of villains who, quite likely, will get a bomb-ass redemption arc. In fact, I’ll bet you anything that Viren’s walk back from the edge has already begun. The dude fucking DIED, and he’s not going to be eager to get in there and get all grabby with the power any time soon.

That’s what good writing IS - conflict. Tension. People making morally questionable choices. We like it because every day people are hypocrites and morally questionable. You, and I, and everyone we know. Nobody’s perfect and getting cranky and painting the protagonists with the broad villain brush so you can feel good about liking a problematic fave is... some peak tumblr bullshit, tbh. It’s okay to like characters who aren’t perfect. How fucking boring fiction would be if everyone was perfect.

Now if I can ask my mutuals to please tag their criticisms of the show that go in the vein of “the writing is bad because dark magic is portrayed so negatively/they don’t hold the protags accountable/elves good humans bad” with “TDP critical” I would greatly appreciate it. It’s getting to the degree where things are becoming very not fun and making me cranky. Thank you, Renee out.

#tdp discourse #ftr I feel VERY STRONGLY about point 2 #meat-eating is NOT the same as hunting for sport #and if you disagree with me on an ethical level about this stuff then do me a favor and tag your shit #so that we can coexist in our lanes without getting mad at each other over a damn cartoon

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maevelin · 6 years ago

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Hey I was reading through your tvd posts , I absolutely adore your blog! I was just wondering back in season 2 of tvd in the episode “Katerina” in 1492 after Katherine becomes a vampire & returns to Bulgaria why did she go back to her family after they exiled her? I was always just curious

Well…The Katherine we met in TVD was not the same Katherine she was when she was first turned. She was far more innocent and inexperienced. We are literally taking about baby vampire Katerina. Sure she was ruthless when it came to fighting for her survival but she was pushed in a situation where despair and terror kicked in and she did what she had to do to survive. Personally I never understood why Elijah and Rose vilified Katherine for doing what anyone in her place would do. It is not as if they didn’t plan to kill her like a lamb in a slaughter in a sacrifice. They knew it. Rose looked after herself and Trevor. In S2 Rose was ready to offer Elena in exchange for her freedom and Trevor’s. Katherine did the same for herself. Elijah was a hypocrite too. He stood by Klaus and expected Katherine to do what? March to her death and say thank you? And then he acted as if he was the wronged one. I am calling bullshit. And as selfish as Katherine was back then she didn’t know Klaus would go after her family. Elena is called selfless because she was ready to sacrifice herself instead of letting Klaus go after her friends and family but as commendable as that is Katherine back when she was human had no idea what the consequences would be. If she was that selfish back then she would have never returned to Bulgaria. She probably believed she could get to her family first and warn them and she surely underestimated Klaus’ wrath and reach too.

Back then Katherine still believed in love as she had confessed to Elijah. She obviously cared for her daughter that was snatched away from her right after birth. She must have cared for her mother and her family too despite the fact they exiled her. She was a survivor and put herself first but she was also adjusting to vampirism. She didn’t even have a daylight ring. She didn’t have allies. She didn’t have a group of people that would die to save her and hide her and guide her and put her first. Katherine wasn’t coddled in her transition. After transition emotions also run high for vampires. They can be irrational and it makes sense that Katherine would be drawn back to her origins and be desperate enough to risk things that future Katherine later on would never risk. Everything she felt for her family and her daughter got heightened too. Her love, her anger, her nostalgia. She must have been desperate to see them again. To go to someone that would help her or be a familiar face. To not be alone. To find her daughter again. To be on familiar ground. When you are on your own and hunted I’d assume you’d seek help and you’d go to the people that could provide that even if they happen to be part of a dysfunctional family. Even a family that shunned you. Katherine was so young back then. Up to that point she was generally sheltered too. And after her transition she was operating on heightened emotions and instinct. Not only she had made the Originals (and Klaus in particular) her mortal enemies but she was also a woman alone in an age where that was not acceptable or easy. Vampire or not those were different times. A different culture. If we take on account the existing religion and the witch hunts and the prejudices Katherine really was in too deep. She had already broken so many rules by then as a human but this was a situation of life and death. Her family had sent her away to cover the scandal and for her to find a husband. In a way they had disowned her but still kept her under a general protection and that was now gone. Katherine returning to Bulgaria was a one way street at that point. Klaus knew that. He could have waited and get her there eventually but at the same time what he did was far more cruel.

Plus learning how to hide and evade is a work in progress. It must have taken Katherine centuries to create contingencies and back up plans. You need to fail and break multiple times to get to the point of actually mastering an art even when that art is one of manipulation and strategy and hiding. I’d assume Klaus went through the same stages when Mikael was hunting him down but at least he was lucky enough to have his family by his side and not go through that alone. He surely knew that so he aimed to hurt Katherine where it hurt the most. When she was at her most vulnerable and still at her most ‘human’. He aimed at her human ties as she herself had proclaimed later on that a vampire’s greatest weakness is their humanity. In doing so Klaus took his revenge on her for ruining his ritual but at the same time he cut all her ties so Katherine was on her own to create a new life and persona and bury the past and evade him for centuries since she had nothing holding her back. In another person this strike could have crippled them completely but with Katherine it backfired in a practical and emotional way. Klaus got his revenge but also created a creature that instead of breaking down broke inside and ran faster and harder without looking back. Thus Katerina died instead of becoming a heightened version of her past self as a vampire and Katherine was born. Traumatic experiences during transitional times can create severe PTSD and change a person fundamentally or enhance certain traits of survival, negativity and so on. Katherine only cared for Katherine after that point. She had no one else but herself. That was the beginning of how she formed her self centered traits that were part of her survival mode and all that she had experienced.

Katerina went back and paid the ultimate price.

The new Katherine would never go back. And so she never did.

#Anonymous #Katherine Pierce #Katerina petrova #TVD #although I doubt Plec ever went all that characterization #mymeta

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myghostmonument · 6 years ago

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13 x Reader: Darkfall

Notes: Wow it’s only been 84 years since I posted something! I originally intended this to be a christmas-themed fic (and indeed started it in December) but unsurprisingly got too busy with other stuff and just now managed to pick it back up and finish it, with a few tweaks to make it more winter-themed than holiday. It is also gender-neutral for the reader, heck! I have several WIPS (including requests!) and will be posting more soon. Requests are also still open! Summary: It takes a few tries but, annoyed at being labeled a Grinch, the Doctor takes you and the rest of the gang to one of her favorite winter planets. Although nothing goes horribly wrong (for once), you do all learn to be wary of hitting a certain blond alien with a snowball. Ends with a touch of fluff! Warnings: None! WC: 4100

“You’re being a real Grinch, you know,” you panted, straining to reach over your head and hang up a section of the Christmas lights. You failed. “Augh! Ryan, why’d you have to put the hooks so high-” “It’s not my fault you lot are so short!” Ryan came to your rescue, taking the lights and continuing to hang them. “I am not being a Grinch,” the Doctor complained, hands on her hips. She was standing by the console, watching in bemusement as you and the rest of the team scurried around and decorated the console room. “I’m just saying, this is a timeship, decorating for a single planet’s single day’s worth of a single religion’s wildly inaccurate holiday doesn’t make sense-” “Christmas isn’t about making sense, or following a calendar, Doc,” Graham said wisely, sipping from his mug of peppermint cocoa. He was wearing festive, jingly reindeer antlers, and the only reason Ryan was still allowing it was because of the expression the Doctor made every time she caught sight of them. “Yeah, it’s about- being with the people you love, appreciating the light they bring in your life even when the days are at their shortest and darkest,” Yaz added, all but hidden beneath an armful of tinsel. “So basically it doesn’t have to follow linear time, it’s about being with your mates, and it’s for appreciating the past year’s worth of adventures,” Ryan said, ticking the items off on his fingers as he spoke. “Gosh, that sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” you mused, tapping your cheek in mock thought. “It’s so close I could almost put my finger on it-” “Alright! Alright!” the Doctor threw up her hands in exasperation while you and the others shared a grin. “Enough! I’m sorry for doubting Christmas-” “For being a Grinch,” Yaz corrected. “For being a Grinch,” the Doctor amended, glowering at Yaz and then the rest of you. “That’s alright, we forgive you. In the spirit of Christmas,” Graham said, and settled a santa hat on the Doctor’s head. The Doctor’s glower flickered, then she gave up, her face wrinkling into a scrunchy smile as she reached up and adjusted the hat so that it sat more securely. She then spun around, hands dancing across the console’s controls. “Graham, finish your drink. Everyone, fetch your coats.” She looked over her shoulder at you all as the TARDIS made its familiar wheezing groan and began to shudder. The Doctor’s eyes were bright, her face alight with enthusiasm. “You want Christmas? I’ll give you Christmas.” You and the others shared startled, delighted looks, then hurried off to get dressed properly. From behind you, you could just hear the Doctor muttering “teach them to call me a Grinch-” It was sure to have been a grand plan, some exotic and distinctly Christmas-y destination (or at least whatever constituted as Christmas-y, to the Doctor, which was questionable at best), but the TARDIS had apparently not been in a negotiatory mood that day. Which on the whole was fine; you were more than used to the TARDIS’ loose navigational structure, and indeed part of the thrill of traveling in it was that you could never be sure where or when you’d end up. But of all the places that the TARDIS felt you needed to be, did she have to pick a tropical planet? Because she did, and it was hot. Really hot. And not just a dry heat, but full on 95% humidity, ground squelches when you step, the air itself is almost a solid mist, hot. So stepping out into that delightful oven in your full winter gear, only to be immediately whisked away into captivity by the suspicious, warring locals (and thus unable to shed your suffocating winter clothes for some fair few hours) did not end up making your top ten list for ‘most enjoyed travel detours as conducted by the TARDIS’ list. It took several days to sort out that particular mess, and by the time you and the gang had made it back onto the TARDIS, something else had already come up, as it so often did. And by the time several linear weeks had passed (along with several wibbly-wobbly centuries) you and the others had quite forgotten about the Doctor’s Christmas-destination. She, however, had not. You had all been hanging about in the main console area while the Doctor conducted minor repairs, when she suddenly straightened up and whipped off her welding helmet. “Right, that should do it,” she declared, pulling off her smock. “You lot, get your coats.” When none of you moved, she lifted her brows. “What?” “Well, it’s just the last time you said that, we almost boiled alive in our clothes,” Graham said apologetically. “And I’m not keen to repeat it, to be honest-” The Doctor’s brows snapped together in a scowl, and she pulled a lever on the console. The TARDIS began to wheeze, the massive center crystal rising and falling. “I have apologized for that already,” the Doctor said in an aggrieved sort of way, and lifted a finger to point at the four of you. “This isn’t last time. Coats. Now.” Well, there was no arguing with that tone. Accepting the fact that it was better to risk overheating in a parka instead of arguing with an alien and her sentient timeship, you and the others scurried off to do as the Doctor said. The Doctor was waiting impatiently by the TARDIS doors when you and the others reappeared, dressed in your warmest clothes and wearing looks of resigned trepidation. Graham was last to arrive, tucking what looked suspiciously like a sandwich into a pocket as he went. The Doctor raised her brows at him, but didn’t comment. Everyone was used to Graham’s resource guarding by now. The Doctor hadn’t made any adjustments to her own wardrobe save for the rainbow scarf wound about her neck, but you weren’t surprised. She never seemed to feel the elements as keenly as her human companions, which you all thought was distinctly unfair. “If you’re quite ready,” the Doctor said, eyes lingering for a moment on Graham, who looked back blandly, “then behold: Christmas!” She turned and with a flourish, flung the doors of the TARDIS wide open. She then stood aside, letting you and the others step forwards and into the unknown. You glanced up at the Doctor as you stepped past, and she met your eyes briefly. She was grinning, and you couldn’t help but grin back. You felt her fall into place behind you, and your skin prickled with the awareness of her, as if the small space between her body and yours was electrically charged. Looking forwards again, you stepped out of the TARDIS... and into a Christmas card. Or maybe a winter wonderland. Some sort of cliche, anyway. The landscape was definitely mantled in white, pristine snow, and the trees and other flora surrounding you were picturesque in their winter austerity; several branches dripped delicate icicles, and the distant mountains were capped white. You halted, breath puffing into the air in front of you. “Still want to call me a Grinch?” The words startled you; you had been staring in delight at the landscape and hadn’t noticed the Doctor approach and lean over to murmur near one of your ears. She laughed as you jumped, and that low sound sent another thrill down your spine, this one utterly unrelated to surprise. The Doctor’s coat brushed lightly against your legs as she moved past you, but you knew she’d seen your half-hearted scowl. It had only made her smile deepen. “Where are we?” Graham asked. “When are we?” Yaz added quickly. “Welcome to the planet N’robac,” the Doctor said, spreading her arms wide to encompass the landscape. “We’re well off from your timelines, I’d say maybe 2500 years or so? In about, oh, twenty, maybe twenty-five rotations this planet becomes quite the tourist destination.” “What for?” Ryan asked. “It’s pristine winter landscape, of course,” the Doctor said, as if that were obvious. Ryan rolled his eyes. “Well I mean, a lot of planets have got to have nice winters, don’t they?” Graham said reasonably. “What’s so special about this one?” “You’ll see,” was the Doctor’s cryptic reply. “We’re a few hours early.” She put her hands in her pockets, gaze sweeping the landscape. “In fewer than a hundred rotations after its discovered, it’s ruined of course. Utterly destroyed by the traffic; so many beings coming to marvel at it, and none ever think of taking the time to care for it or their impact.” Her voice was sad, wistful as she looked around. “Perks of having a mate with a time machine all over again, then,” Yaz said, and the Doctor smiled, most of her melancholy seeping away. Yaz always knew what to say. You moved towards a tree, delighting in the way the snow crunched under your boots. It was perfect snow; deep and soft, but not powdery; it had enough moisture in it that you left perfect boot-prints, and you guessed that it would hold its shape very well if scooped into, something solid, like a snowball. You weren’t wearing gloves though, and decided against it. Soft scrabbling made you look up; something was moving around in the branches of the tree. Cautiously you stepped closer; traveling with the Doctor had imparted in you both great curiosity and great wariness for the unknown. You tilted your face up, squinting through the snow-laden branches as the scrabbling came again. There was a pause, then a small, round creature landed on a branch above you, its bright eyes fixing on you with interest. It was… a bird? It was camouflaged almost perfectly against the branches, but you could track its eyes, and the way it fluffed and settled its… feathers? Fur? It was hard to tell. Cautiously you moved closer, tried to get a better look. “Whatcha looking at- augh!” Ryan’s sudden words startled both you and the bird-creature, which twittered madly and vanished as thoroughly as if it had teleported. Well, for all you knew, maybe it had. You couldn’t be sure, though, because the creature’s rapid disappearance had resulted in a veritable deluge of snow dislodged from branch the creature had been sitting on. Ryan managed to get mostly out the way in time; you had not. Alien planet or not, the snow seemed as cold and eager to run down your spine as icy melt as earth snow, and you choked and gasped, wiping more of it out of your eyes. You were grimly pleased to see that in his haste to avoid your fate, Ryan had tripped and fallen backwards into a snowdrift. Not quite the same as a pile of snow on the head- but you could quickly fix that. Ryan obviously read the intention in your eyes as you advanced on him; he scrambled backwards on his hands, apologizing in an increasingly high-pitched voice even as you bent down and scooped up a handful of snow. You’d been right, earlier: it was perfect packing snow. You hefted the ball even as Ryan lurched to his feet, then coolly aimed and fired. Ryan screeched as only he could, taking the hit on his shoulder. He looked down in shock, then turned his face to you again in burgeoning outrage…. which was when you adjusted your calibration, and hit him directly in the face. Ah yes, that was much better- you could see the snow piling around his ears and collar. Revenge had been swift and devastating, and now you could both move on. Although it was odd that Ryan was bending down and digging through the snow. Had he dropped his phone? You’d feel bad if he had, he’d gone through so many since meeting up with the Doctor. Maybe you should help him look- oh. He was making a snowball. Oh. “Now wait a minute,” you began sternly, though you were stepping back carefully towards the shelter of the tree. “Mine was retaliation, a proportionate response. You can’t just-” Ryan straightened and launched his projectile, which you only just managed to avoid. You didn’t manage to avoid his second. You returned fire, and traded several increasingly wild volleys while the voices of the others egged you both on until- THWACK In an uncharacteristic display of coordination and timing, Ryan managed to duck your snowball. Unobstructed, the slushy missile continued blithely on its trajectory and exploded all over... the Doctor’s back. You and Ryan both froze. When the Doctor straightened slowly, pivoting on her heel to face you, both you and Ryan immediately pointed at each other in utter silence. The Doctor’s brows lifted, her face otherwise very still, expectant. There was a brief silence, in which Yaz was the only one smiling. Broadly. Something in the Doctor’s expression shifted, and without conscious choice you and Ryan both eased backwards a step. “Now, tell me Yaz,” the Doctor began, and at her musing, professorial tone you and Ryan took several more steps backwards, away from each other, “is it polite, when visiting an alien planet, to skive off and mess around, without listening to your mate who brought you there in the first place?” “Don’t think it is,” Yaz said, watching interestedly as the Doctor bent down, digging her fingers into the snow. “Is it clever, do you think, to go chasing after alien wildlife and get covered in alien snow, without first checking if it’s safe?” “Doubt it,” Yaz drawaled, as the Doctor straightened, her hands busily mashing a handful of snow together. “And most importantly, is it in any way wise, to challenge the annual Rings of Onantal snowball fight three-time defending champion?” “Seems unlikely,” Yaz replied, her eyes shining in what you thought to be a very malevolent way indeed as she watched the Doctor, who had created not one, but three perfect looking snowballs in very short time. The time lord swept her gaze from you to Ryan, and there was a moment of absolute, crystallized silence. Yaz’s smile deepened. Perhaps, out of the corner of her eye, the Doctor noticed this, or perhaps it had been her plan all along. You would never know. THWACK In one smooth motion, the Doctor had whirled, aimed, fired- and hit Yaz. You and Ryan both gasped. And then all hell broke loose. The thing you remembered most, later, (besides the sight of snowballs careening wildly all directions with variable speed and accuracy) was the ever present sound of Ryan’s screeching- you could always tell when he’d been hit because the screech would temporarily triple in pitch and volume. Other notable events that stood out from the general, all-encompassing pandemonium included: Graham (who had slipped back into the TARDIS not long after snow started flying) reappearing and dumping an entire bucket of loose snow on Yaz’s head as she pinned Ryan down (it turned out that she could screech almost as piercingly as Ryan), the Doctor upholding her reputation as a snowball fight champion and nailing almost every target she aimed at, only to trip on her own coat as she knelt down to gather more snow and end up bum over heels and unable to rise as everyone converged on her (Graham was an absolute menace with that bucket), and the suspicious way the TARDIS shields seemed to activate only when the duly deflected snowball was likely to hit someone in the back of the head. Eventually a truce was called and you all trooped back into the TARDIS, soaked to the skin and breathless with the cold. The Doctor flung off her coat (her clothes underneath seemed dry, which was absolutely outrageous) and vanished in the direction of the kitchen, promising to whip up a batch of what she called “hot cocoa juice” for everyone. You, Ryan and Yaz shared a horrified look, then as one blurted “not it!” Yaz finished just a beat behind you and Ryan. Wrinkling her nose, she stuck out her tongue and then trailed after the Doctor in an effort to mitigate the “hot cocoa juice” situation. She was largely successful; when you all gathered a short time later in the library to warm up with drinks and biscuits, only the Doctor’s mug contained questionable content. She drank it cheerfully and seemed oblivious as to why nobody else wanted to try it when she offered to share. The afternoon passed in much that way, with plenty of cocoa, biscuits, and pleasant conversation. At some point Graham had fallen asleep, and Ryan and the Doctor had started covering him in crumpled bits of paper. They had quite a pile going after a while, and Yaz lost a bet and five pounds to Ryan after he and the Doctor successfully began a stack on Graham’s face without waking him. You ended up dozing for a while, and when you woke you found yourself in need of the bathroom, and slipped away. Heading back through the main console towards the library, you hesitated and looked towards the doors. The light had changed; it seemed to be night proper now, or close to it. You thought about the landscape outside, and wondered how it would look at night, wondered if there would be a moon to shine on the snow, and before you had thought things through you were at the TARDIS doors. You hesitated, your hand on the door. You could just faintly make out the voices of the others, drifting from the library. “I lived in this town called Christmas, once,” the Doctor was saying. “No, really- lovely place, I’ve definitely spent worse centuries marooned in worse places. I might still be there, if it hadn’t been for this friend of mine-” You looked up, and could see a softly outlined pile of snow against the TARDIS windows. That decided you. Gently, you pulled open the door and stepped outside, shutting it softly behind you. It was snowing. You took in a slow, deep breath, reveling in the sharp air as it filled your lungs with that scent unique to snowfall on a winter’s night. The last of the day’s light seemed to be almost gone, just a slight glow edging around the distant horizon. You took a step away from the TARDIS, noting the signs of the earlier snowball battle being softened and erased by the new snowfall. You exhaled and closed your eyes, tipping your face back and quietly delighting in the soft pat pat pat of the snowflakes as they landed on your face. It was barely a sound at all, almost its own flavor of silence instead, something felt rather than heard. You realized that you were quite cold indeed, as you had neglected to put on proper outerwear, but as you continued to stand in the pristine, almost heartbreakingly beautiful snowfall, you decided you could make it a bit longer before heading back inside. You didn’t really need to feel your fingers or toes, right? “Didn’t your parents teach you not to go wandering off on alien planets by yourself?” You just about jumped out of your skin, eyes slamming open as you jerked around to see the Doctor stepping up next to you. “Surprisingly, they did not,” you replied tartly, your breath puffing into the air in front of you as you exhaled. Gods, you hadn’t even heard her come outside! “This friend of mine did, though,” you added, grudgingly. “Sounds like a wise friend,” the Doctor replied sternly. “You ought to listen to her.” You wrinkled your nose at the time lord, though you couldn’t help smiling. “I suppose so,” you condeded. “I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong end of one of her snowballs.” The Doctor grinned as she turned to look out across the landscape. “Almost true dark,” she said, sounding satisfied. At your quizzical look, she just shook her head mysteriously. “You’ll see,” she promised. “Any minute now, I should think.” You both stood in silence for a few heartbeats, shoulders gently brushing as your breaths made twin plumes of vapor that shimmered briefly in the sharp air, dissipating gracefully into the oblivion of night. It was really quite beautiful; it was also really quite bloody cold. You shifted your feet in an effort to warm them, and stuffed your hands in your armpits. But you couldn’t help again tilting back your face and letting the snow fall against your skin. The silence stretched out into the endless night, but you felt something in it… shift, as if a piece of it had focused on you. You opened your eyes and turned to see the Doctor watching you with an unreadable expression on her face. In the soft, muted colours of the night, her eyes seemed to shine like the night sky itself, vast and ancient and unknowable in its beauty. In that moment it was harder to forget that she was an alien, with the night shading her features and the stars themselves looking out of her eyes. “You’re cold,” the Doctor observed, though her eyes were not on your balled fists or hunched shoulders, but instead on the snowflakes that had collected on your eyelashes, dusted the bridge of your nose, kissed the curves of your lips. Her expression was still difficult to read, but something about it made your cheeks flush, and you looked away quickly. “I guess going outside on an alien planet without a coat is something else my parents neglected to teach me,” you replied, and the Doctor huffed out an exasperated, amused breath, some of that unknowable mystery receding from her expression. You were half-relieved, and half-disappointed. “Humans,” she muttered, and managed to infuse the simple word with several lifetime’s worth of fond irritation. You grinned. Then she moved to stand behind you and, before you could even begin to register what was happening, had opened her coat and, threading her arms under yours and around your waist, pulled the edges of it around you. She pulled you until your back was pressed against her own body, her arms keeping you in place. You began to warm up almost immediately, but weren’t aware of the fact for quite some time. Your breathing had hitched, snagging almost painfully in your throat, and you couldn’t focus on much of anything but the shape of the Doctor’s body against your own and the deafening thunder of your blood in your ears. “You’re shivering,” the Doctor murmured, and her lips were suddenly so close to your ear that you could almost feel the words against your skin. You could also hear the unspoken subtext, something along the lines of ‘foolish fragile life-form that you are,’ and it grounded you, a bit. Enough to breathe normally again, enough to let your spinning mind grind back into some semblance of orderly function. “This is worth it,” you said. You had meant the beautiful alien landscape, but as the words left your lips they acquired a subtext of their own, one that included the beautiful alien woman pressed against you. You bit your lip, and knew that the Doctor had felt the undercurrent of implication as well as her arms tightened, slightly. “Not yet, but it’s about to be,” she replied. “Ah, look at that! I’m good, tell me I’m good.” “Look at what- oh…” Your voice trailed away, and you just stared in awestruck silence at the trees, at the trees. They were glowing, each and every one. Just a soft glow, a subtle pale gold that limned every branch, rendered every leaf in gilded light. Most of the light was muted, softened and spread out by the snow that it shone through, but in other places it blazed, cutting through ice and fragmenting into geometric splendor. “Bio-luminescent trees,” the Doctor whispered, and the pure, unadulterated joy and wonder in her voice made your heart twist. The fact that she had known what the trees were going to look like, had probably even seen them before, but still managed such gentle enthusiasm when she saw them again, shared them...You leaned your head back, feeling the brush of her hair against your face. She made a soft sound, not quite a hum. “So am I still a Grinch, or-” “No,” you interrupted softly. “This is- perfect.” The Doctor hummed again, a pleased sort of sound that you could feel through her body into yours, then rested her chin on your shoulder. “It’s better than Christmas,” you murmured. “Thank you.” The Doctor didn’t reply. She just wrapped her arms tighter around you, nestling her head more snuggly on your shoulder and filling half of your vision with her curling, snow-dusted hair. You two stood like that for quite some time, and didn’t remember that the rest of the gang had yet to see the bio-luminescent trees (the whole point of the trip) until Ryan stuck his head out of the TARDIS and found you. It was several days before you and the Doctor heard the end of that one. But it had been, as you said earlier, very much worth it.

#13xreader #13th doctor x reader #13 x reader #13th doctor imagine #mine #this has no real plot beyond 'Jenny wants to write about winter'#djfsdfzsd

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wingletblackbird · 7 years ago

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Number of Children in the Wizarding World

People have been confused by Rowling’s statement that there are about 3,000 witches and wizards in the U.K. with about 600 attending Hogwarts. (She also said 1,000 at one point so I’ll just assume that that number refers to all children, even if they don’t go to Hogwarts. Also, the argument that there are only a couple hundred students at Hogwarts, given we only see five boys in Gryffindor in Harry’s year will be disregarded as a) if they aren’t relevant to Harry, they aren’t likely to be mentioned even if they exist and b) from a logistical perspective neither 200 nor 600 is feasible given what we see. I’ll have to devote another post to that later. Meanwhile, this post will discuss why 600 is more likely/realistic.) This confusion is understandable when you consider that in the modern Muggle UK, children don’t make up up to a third of the population. Surely these numbers make no sense? This would be true of the Muggle World, but in the WW, I think the institution of childhood would be vastly different, and this is why the number of under-seventeens is higher, because in the WW, there are many considerations in having children that just aren’t present in the Muggle world.

Firstly, you have werewolves, hags, trolls, dementors, banshees, doxies, vampires, as well as numerous other potentially deadly creatures. If your child encounters them, they will probably die. In Hogwarts, there are also acromantulae, a basilisk, and whatever else is in the forest that makes it “Forbidden.” Then, you have people like Charlie, who deal with dragons, who have very high-risk jobs. In fact, the original Care of Magical Creatures professor, Kettleburn, had lost several limbs which is why he chose to retire. On the basis of dangerous magical creatures alone, you have a high mortality rate. Ergo, you will have more children “"just in case.”

Secondly, magic in and of itself can be dangerous. Luna’s mother was killed by magic gone wrong. Transfiguration done wrong on a person can have severe damage on someone and may even kill them. Remember that McGonagall warned her students that “any one caught messing around in my class will be asked to leave and not return.” Of course she said that; what she’s teaching could be lethal. Obscurials are formed in children when the magic they’ve tried to repress explodes out of them. Magic, in and of itself, is wild, untamed, and often dangerous. Hogwarts only helps teach one how to control it. Of course, as (I’m pretty sure) Hagrid said, “You lock a bunch of young wizards together for the better part of the year. Parents expect a few accidents.” I’m sure they do; in some cases, it’s even lethal. You’re placing a wand in the hands of an eleven year old, after all. Heck, you’re placing it in the hands of hormonal teenagers. That’s dangerous. This thing can kill. Ergo, you’ll have more children, as child mortality/disability is going to be a bit higher than on the Muggle side of things.

Thirdly, young couples are going to be encouraged to have more children than the Muggle couples are. They need to have kids to maintain the small Wizarding population, preferably even to increase it. This is doubly important, as to maintain the balance of power against the angry centaurs and the resentful goblins, the Wizarding community needs to keep their population up. Goblin rebellions are known to happen after all, so are centaur rebellions. Furthermore, Voldemort was only the greatest Dark Wizard in a CENTURY, at least before he took over the Ministry, which makes it sound like minor scuffles with Dark Wizards is normal. Basically, there’s a lot of tension in the Wizarding World-duelings a thing there too-so young witches and wizards dying in a battle is not exactly unheard of. They definitely should have larger families then. If the WW has a prayer of surviving, they need them.

Fourthly, the WW may have a cure for common colds. They may be able to regrow bones and mend ribs, but they don’t do so well against magical illnesses like dragon pox or spattergroit. Given the number of deaths we see on family trees in 1977-9 and 1990-2, I’d say epidemics are a thing too. Wizards associate too closely with magical creatures not for there to be. You see, often the most deadly epidemics come from diseases that affect animals, mutating, and being contracted by humans. These are called zoonosis. Given how often wizards and witches handle dragons blood or newts eyes, I’d say epidemics are not infrequent. (Especially when you have lots of “wars.”) Vaccinations probably haven’t reached the WW either. They only became popular around the ‘50s, so they’re probably only starting to reach the WW now, if at all, whose medicine has developed differently. The WW may possibly be able to handle cancer, but are hopeless against infectious disease. I bet loads of people die from those too. Answer: Have more kids.

Finally, apart form the high child mortality rate, for socioeconomic reasons, having more kids is pretty important too. Firstly, the WW population is too small to support professional care for the elderly, as a general rule. Moreover, they don’t likely have welfare or foster care. As a consequence, parents need the security of having multiple children to take care of them into old age. They also need the security of having siblings in case their children are orphaned. When the government cannot support you, you only have your family. Hence, family ties are HEAVILY important in the WW. This is doubly true as the WW runs on a system of “bastard feudalism,” or what are, basically, unofficial “patron-client” relationships. In other words, who you know is quite important, as is your reputation and your family's reputation. You need connections to survive in a world where everyone is armed, the government is weak as a result, and it is pretty much the Wild West. Thus, have more kids. You’ll gain more influence and protection that way.

The fact that child mortality is probably high in the WW, even expected, goes a long way to explaining Hogwarts. In the Muggle world you wouldn’t send your kids to school with a “Forbidden Forest” that anyone can access, a lake with a giant squid, merpeople, grindylows, and who knows what else, and a whomping willow. Moreover, when the Chamber of Secrets was opened, some security measures were eventually taken, but it takes the kidnapping of Ginny Weasley to shut it down. A couple years later, you’ll have blast-ended screwts in class, and teenagers facing down dragons-and this was after the Tournament was deemed “"safer.” The attitude here is that children will probably die young anyway. It doesn’t mean the adults don’t care, but that they’re resigned to it. Therefore, the emphasis is on teaching the children to protect themselves, rather than in coddling and protecting them, (Mrs. Weasleys’s antics aside.) It’s a mindset that the Muggles used to have too when they lived in a society that expected war, death, and disease. I’d say that the average family size in the Wizarding world is 3-5, compared to our 1-3, but invariably many individuals will die young.

#Wizarding world #population #children #worldbuilding #notstarwars

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scotianostra · 7 years ago

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On August 1st 1747 Proscription Act introduced, banning tartan and the carrying of weapons. The penalty for a first offence was six months in jail and a second offence resulted in transportation for seven years.

So how effective was this ban? I think the banning of the tartan has been overplayed at times, the main part of the act was to disarm the Highland clans. That's not to say that tartan wasn't banned, just that it should be looked at more closely.

I dug into the subject further and unearthed this excellent article in The National.......

It would, of course, be wrong to underestimate the effect of the ban. It was enacted by a ruthless government that intended it to be enforced and there are records of instances in which it was enforced.

Probably the weaving of tartan in many glens ceased or was greatly inhibited (at least during the early years of the legislation). It should be remembered, however, that the ban only applied in the Highland part of Scotland, it did not apply to women, and judging by the amount of portraits of the time in which the sitters wore tartan, it seems not to have deterred gentry. (Gentlemen who could command three servants, women and boys, in addition to those serving in the army, were exempt from the ban.)

The Earl of Holderness, in 1752, noted reports that “…universally the sheriffs, or their deputies, are very negligent of their duty in omitting to secure [imprison] persons wearing the Highland dress or carrying arms”.

There is, in fact, much evidence, not least from the old statistical accounts, which were written by parish ministers, to indicate that the ban on tartan was far from entirely effective. James D Scarlett, widely considered to have been the best authority on such matters, ventured the following opinion: “Except in the hands of a few Hanoverian officers, who saw in it an opportunity to persecute the Highlanders, the Dress Act does not seem to have been much enforced.”

The point of this is that tartan was obviously enormously significant to Highlanders or the Hanoverian government would have had no reason to ban it. Given this significance surely, in spite of the ban (or in a sense because of it), steps would have been taken to preserve the knowledge relating to tartan and the old traditional patterns. It is inconceivable that the Highland people, faced with this measure from a hated regime, would have tamely destroyed every stitch of old plaiding and applied themselves obediently to the business of forgetting their traditional setts.

Proscription simply would not have brought about a period of racial amnesia during which all memory of tartan patterns stopped being handed down from father to son and from mother to daughter. The oft-repeated assertion that this was so is the real invention. It not only offends common sense, but is contradicted by a sound body of evidence.

We know from the ledger of William Wilson & Sons that prior to the repeal of Proscription their customers were (apart from military and colonial) largely on Scotland’s eastern coast. However, after repeal in 1782, they increased sales of tartan in the Highlands. This is to say that when they began to promote clan tartans they were selling them to Highlanders, many of whom were old enough to remember whether such a concept was authentic or a deception. We also know that Wilsons took trouble to seek out genuine traditional setts from the Highlands.

“Wilsons were known to have toured the Highlands in the late 18th and early 19th century, looking for old patterns that they could use as a basis for their traditional tartans”, (Peter MacDonald, Head of Research, Scottish Tartans Authority).

Even as late as 1822, the year of the visit of King George to Edinburgh, there remained living eye-witnesses to the 45 uprising (Patrick Grant, who had fought alongside the Glengarry regiment at Culloden, was 108. The widow of James Stewart of Tulloch, who gave Prince Charles Edward a pair of brogues at Dunkeld, was 99 – some 30 years after Wilsons had started to sell clan tartans in the Highlands).

Sir Walter Scott played such a major part in the organising of the 1822 visit (and has, indeed, been thought of by some as the inventor of clan tartans) that it is worth considering his views on their provenance. He is often quoted as saying: “I do not believe a word of the nonsense about every clan or name having a regular pattern which was undeviatingly adhered to.”

Less well known is his conviction that clan tartans were “of considerable antiquity” and that he believed that he could demonstrate that they had been worn “a great many years before 1745”. These comments indicate that Scott very sensibly saw that clan tartans had their origins during the era prior to Culloden.

The present author’s suggestion for a realistic definition is: any pattern that has had a special association with a particular clan, probably because it has been woven and worn in a territory dominated by the clan in question, or any tartan known to have been worn in a uniform manner by a clan.

What is being opposed here is the assertion that the concept of clan tartans was invented some 50 or more years after Culloden. It is not the purpose of this article to maintain that all clans necessarily had exclusive setts pre-45, but that there is convincing evidence some clans had tartan patterns particularly associated with them, and that in effect there were clan tartans in Highland society prior to 1745.

Crucial to penetrating this mystery is the actual experience of the generations of Highlanders who lived throughout the 18th century. These were the people who knew, and who handed down, the truth. It is a fact of history that generally only the wealthy and influential leave records of their recollections and opinions for posterity, so relevant material is strictly limited. In fact the present writer has found not a single clear and specific statement from any such person denying the existence of clan tartans prior to 1745.

On the other hand, evidence by statement or by implication to the effect that clan tartans were a reality of the Jacobite era is not difficult to come by.

Anne MacVicar was born in Lochawe, Argyll, in 1755. This was during the period of the ineffective ban on tartan. She married and became Mrs Grant of Laggan, Speyside. Anne was a poet. In 1795 she wrote The Highlanders. When this work was included in the collection Poems on Various Subjects, published in 1803, her notes to The Highlander included this statement: “[Tartan] was the manufacture of their women, and the distinction of their clans, each having had a sett (as they styled it) of tartan peculiarly their own.”

General David Stewart of Garth was the co-organiser, with Sir Walter Scott, of the 1822 Royal Visit. Garth had served in the Black Watch regiment since 1787. He was the author of Sketches of the Character, Manners, and Present State of the Highlanders of Scotland (1739). In his preface to that publication the General explains that he had been fortunate in having received much of the knowledge that he passes on from older men of the regiment, writing: “I had also the advantage of being acquainted with several highland gentlemen who had served as private soldiers in the regiment when first organized.”

Garth then has this to say about clan tartans: “In dyeing and arranging the various colours of their tartans, they displayed no small art and taste, preserving at the same time the distinctive patterns (or sets, as they were called) of the different clans, tribes, families, and districts. Thus a Macdonald, a Campbell, a Mackenzie. &c. was known by his plaid; and in like manner the Athole, Glen-orchy, and other colours of different districts were easily distinguishable.”

Garth adds an observation that though only a statement of common sense, is worth repeating in the context of this article: “It was easy to preserve and perpetuate any particular set, or pattern.”

Those who refuse to accept evidence of this quality must resort to effectively accusing Mrs Grant and General Stewart of having been misled or being in some other way channels of disinformation. Is their testimony to be overruled in favour of a modern prejudice?

At the risk of labouring the point, when William Wilson & Sons started to sell clan tartans to Scottish Highlanders there could have been absolutely no mystery as to whether this was an authentic tradition or a commercial novelty. If a person was too young to remember 1745 and what had gone before, he or she had only to ask a father, mother, uncle, aunt, or an elderly neighbour or friend. It seems unlikely that proud Highlanders would buy into something that they knew to be a racket.

As for the disappearance of all the old setts, no matter how often this has been copied from book to book, it was always too preposterous to require serious attention. Of course big manufacturers made the most of clan tartans, exploited them, if that term is preferred, but they did not dream the idea up out of thin air and gleefully bamboozle a generation of Highlanders.

With regard to provenance, each clan tartan has to be considered individually. Some have been passed down from Jacobite times, some are military in origin, some were designed or adopted in the early 19th century, and yet others are even more recent. There need not be any sense of the romantic and gullible versus the wise and realistic.

In truth, where the history of tartan is concerned, very few are wise. It is surely ironic that such a vibrantly colourful subject is comprised so frustratingly of grey areas. Anyone championing any point of view (including this one) has difficult questions to answer.

Allan Breck Stewart, of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped, was surely a romantic character. Yet he was a real man and Stevenson’s novel was based very much on real events. These events took place during the period of Proscription. Regarding the sett, which we know as Stewart of Appin, James D Scarlett had this to say: “Without being foolishly definite, I would say that it would be probable that Allan Breck wore the Appin Stewart sett and would certainly regard it as authentic.”

#scotland #History

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webmarket01 · 4 years ago

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9 Tips That Don’t Work for Weight Loss, Say Dietitians | Eat This Not That

New Post has been published on https://weightlosshtiw.com/9-tips-that-dont-work-for-weight-loss-say-dietitians-eat-this-not-that/

9 Tips That Don’t Work for Weight Loss, Say Dietitians | Eat This Not That

As a nutritionist, I’ve heard all the tips for weight loss—the good, the bad, and the totally off-the-wall. From the age-old cabbage soup diet to the more recent strategy of eating cotton balls to fill the stomach, there’s no shortage of trendy ways to shed pounds–many of them are not only strange but also potentially harmful.

Even mainstream folk wisdom about how to lose weight can sometimes steer you in the wrong direction. So what do dietitians (the real weight loss experts) have to say about which tips are solid and which make them roll their eyes? I asked several registered dietitians to get their feedback. Here are nine weight loss tips they say to skip, and for more tips on how to lose weight, be sure to check out our list of 15 Underrated Weight Loss Tips That Actually Work.

“Make eating inconvenient.”

In theory, it kind of makes sense that putting obstacles in the way of your eating—like by using chopsticks instead of a fork or eating with your non-dominant hand—could help you eat less. But it’s not exactly a practical solution to the issue of overeating.

“While you might find yourself eating slower, you can still finish a full meal,” says Carrie Gabriel, MS, RD. “It is time-consuming, and if a person is busy, that could be frustrating.”

Besides frustration, eating in awkward ways might just make you look silly. “Think of the mess a person would make if it was a food such as, say, steak or a burger, which need a hand or utensils to cut it into small pieces,” says Gabriel.

“Put on tight clothes before you eat.”

Another lifestyle change that’ll only lead to discomfort? Changing your wardrobe at mealtimes. You may have heard the tip to don tight clothing before you eat in order to stay mindful of each mouthful. But keeping up a constant awareness of your weight at mealtimes creates negative self-talk—which you definitely don’t need when you’re trying to be healthy.

“There’s nothing wrong with being motivated to realistically fit into your own clothing that you recently wore, but it’s more important to dress the body you have and focus on your plate instead of your closet,” says Bonnie Taub-Dix, RDN, creator of BetterThanDieting.com and author of Read It Before You Eat It—Taking You from Label to Table.

In the midst of a busy day, there’s a time and a place for a probiotic-rich fruit and yogurt smoothie or protein shake instead of a sit-down lunch. But opting out of all meals in favor of weight loss shakes is likely to be a mere quick fix.

“While replacing food with a shake can be effective for some, there are important points to consider,” says dietitian and personal trainer Anthony DiMarino, RD, CPT. “Meal replacement shakes are normally very low in calories and fiber and therefore do not keep people satisfied for long periods of time.”

DiMarino adds that many meal replacement shakes tend to be high in sugar, which can spike blood sugar—a major drawback if you’re living with diabetes or pre-diabetes.

Instead, make yourself one of these 100 Best No-Cook Recipes of All Time.

“Eat only one food.”

Remember the grapefruit diet? Or the potato diet? Or any diet that told you to eat just one food? Monotrophic diets—those that advise sticking to a single food or food group—have been around for ages. The idea goes that you can only eat so much of any food before getting so bored you’ll basically stop eating altogether.

It doesn’t sound like a recipe for a healthy relationship to food, says Gabriel. And it sure doesn’t sound like fun!

“This pushes a person into eating disorder territory, in my opinion,” she says.

Meanwhile, if you go too long without a varied diet, you’re more likely to end up in the hospital than in a bikini competition.

“Eating only one type of food for an extended time period will make you deficient in other nutrients your body needs. Eventually, this could result in life-threatening illnesses,” Gabriel says.

“Don’t eat carbs.”

No one can deny the weight loss-boosting effects of cutting back on carbs on a diet like keto or Atkins. But for many people, opting out of carbohydrates completely can become a too-drastic elimination—one that might not even work in the long term.

“The research suggests you will undoubtedly lose weight by cutting out an entire food group,” says DiMarino. “But at what cost? Depriving yourself from carbohydrates (your main energy source) will ultimately reduce your quality of life over time. Low carb diets can cause you to experience hunger, irritability, fatigue, mood swings, constipation, headaches, and brain fog.”

If you’re considering ditching carbs for weight loss, it’s best to talk to your doctor or dietitian before diving in—as well as to be aware of the risks.

“A low-carb diet can put you at risk for kidney stones, osteoporosis, and even gout,” DiMarino says.

“Chew each bite dozens of times.”

This one’s another throwback: Simply chew your food into a liquid pulp and watch the pounds fly off! The art of “Fletcherism” had its heyday in the early 1900s when food faddist Horace Fletcher (the early 20th-century version of an Instagram influencer) advised his adherents to chew every bite until liquefied to boost weight loss.

To this day, you’ll sometimes see this tip circling back around. And, in truth, it’s not a bad idea to chew thoroughly—but it’s no magic bullet for weight loss.

“While chewing your food multiple times before swallowing is ideal and aids in proper digestion, and eating more slowly can make you conscious of becoming fuller more quickly, this can also be time-consuming,” says Gabriel. “Depending on the food and depending on a person’s relationship with food, it can make them obsess over their food and not actually enjoy it.”

For more healthy eating tips, check out our list of 9 Best Healthy Eating Hacks for Weight Loss.

“Cut out fat.”

If there was one prevailing weight loss mantra of the 1980s and ’90s, it was that eating fat made people fat. Non-fat potato chips, salad dressings, and even (ew) ice creams became staples of “healthy” households. Now, however, research has shown that the right kinds of fats are an important part of a healthy diet—even a diet for weight loss!

“Fat is an essential nutrient that not only helps us absorb fat-soluble vitamins and essential nutrients, but it also helps us feel full and satisfied to help prevent overeating,” says Taub-Dix. “The key when trying to reduce your weight or eat healthfully in general (even if your weight is not an issue for you), is to choose the right fats.”

Monounsaturated and polyunsaturated fats are the kind to enjoy regularly in your diet. Taub-Dix recommends including plenty of nuts, avocado, and oils like avocado oil or olive oil.

“Don’t ever indulge.”

Popular weight loss advice is guilty of plenty of untruths—chief among them the idea that, when trying to reach a healthy weight, you can’t indulge in any of your favorite foods. Make one “mistake” by having a donut or pizza, goes the thinking, and you’ve done irreversible damage.

Dietitians know this is far from true.

“Why should you be denied of your favorite foods just because you’re trying to lose weight?” says Taub-Dix. “If you don’t eat any of those indulgent foods you love, there’s a good chance that you’ll wait until you’re ‘off’ your diet to enjoy them. That’s when those foods usually come back with a vengeance—in unreasonable portion sizes and too often.”

Rather than thinking of your weight loss effort as a short window of restricting the joy out of food, you’ll benefit far more in the long-term by (sometimes) including best-loved menu items.

“A weight loss plan that will be sustained should always include foods you love because, after all, this should be a diet you incorporate into your life, not a diet you change your life for temporarily,” Taub-Dix says.

“Just cut calories.”

When it comes to weight loss, we all know the basic concept of calories in versus calories out. It seems like losing weight should be so simple—yet many dieters find that just eating less somehow doesn’t budge the scale. Turns out, multiple factors are often at work in your body to complicate this equation.

“While the prevailing evidence suggests weight loss can occur as long as there is a calorie deficit, the kinds of calories do matter,” DiMarino says. “Human bodies are complex biological systems that process foods with different micronutrient makeups in completely different ways. Physiologic and hormonal changes occur in response to the foods we eat.”

If you’ve found you’re not making progress by sticking to a calorie target, don’t despair! Fortunately, you can experiment (especially with a dietitian’s guidance) with what types of foods and food combinations you consume. One possibility: work on incorporating higher-fiber, nutrient-dense foods as often as possible.

“Choosing to eat less processed, whole foods improve overall satiety (thus limiting overeating), provides steady energy all day long, and improves body composition over time,” DiMarino says.

This content was originally published here.

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xtruss · 5 years ago

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ARGUMENT

‘In-Sha-Allah’ in the Age of Trump

Can the hipster invocation of God’s will survive the coming wave of American Islamophobia?

— By Bethany Allen-Ebrahimian | December 1, 2016 | Foreign Policy

SIOUX CITY, IA - NOVEMBER 06: Republican presidential nominee Donald Trump holds a campaign rally at the Sioux City Convention Center November 6, 2016 in Sioux City, Iowa. With less than 48 hours until Election Day in the United States, Trump and his opponent, Democratic presidential nominee Hillary Clinton, are campaigning in key battleground states that each must win to take the White House. (Photo by Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images)

We English speakers all know: To sound smart (or insufferable), use French. That movie has a certain je ne sais quoi; my grandmother exhibited a true joie de vivre. French has been fancy since 1066 when the conquering Normans ate boef while the lowly English peasants cared for the cū.

Or to sound open-minded (or stoned), use Sanskrit. No one will be surprised to learn that the first recorded use of the word “karma” in a popular U.S. publication was in 1969 — in the California-based Surfer magazine.

These days, another word is making inroads into the American English lexicon. It’s “inshallah” — an Arabic Islamic expression that means “God willing.” Inshallah first made its English debut in the 19th century, but it’s only since 9/11 that the word has become fashionable among non-Muslim, non-Arabic-speaking Americans. You’ve probably heard it already in passing, which is my point. The Atlantic’s James Fallows has tweeted it. Even actor Lindsay Lohan has made a faltering attempt. I’ve heard it in meetings, on the metro, and at a casual Sunday brunch in Brooklyn.

For all these inshallah-invokers, the phrase seems to combine the prestige of French and the multiculturalism of Sanskrit — with an added thrill of risk.

President-elect Donald Trump is stacking his administration with supporters who believe that Islam is inherently violent, dangerous, and threatening. Some who evince this view believe that anything associated with Islam has a diabolical power, an insidious evil that has to be guarded against at every turn as the Puritans guarded against witchcraft.

Michael Flynn, a retired intelligence officer whom President-elect Donald Trump has tapped for national security advisor, has called Islam a “malignant cancer” and believes that sharia, or Islamic law, is creeping into U.S. laws and institutions. Conspiracy theorist Frank Gaffney, who advised Trump during the campaign and is “good friends” with Steve Bannon, the president-elect’s senior strategist, has previously written that the U.S. Missile Defense Agency logo contains a hidden star and crescent, the symbol of Islam, and that it thus suggests “official U.S. submission to Islam.” It’s an argument that comes out of the world of Christian fundamentalism, which has long sought out occult symbols in the most innocuous of sources.

This fear extends to the Arabic language. In 2013, Gaffney criticized John Brennan as President Barack Obama’s pick to head the CIA, deeming him the “single most important enabler of the Islamic supremacists’ agenda in government today.” One piece of evidence Gaffney gave for this assertion? Brennan speaks fluent Arabic. After listing the names of several terrorist organizations at a speech to the American Israel Public Affairs Committee in May 2015, Republican Sen. Lindsey Graham reportedly quipped that “everything that starts with ‘al’ in the Middle East is bad news.” Al, of course, is simply Arabic’s definite article, equivalent to “the” in English.

It should come as no surprise, then, that inshallah has found itself in the crosshairs of these rising Islamophobes. In June, when BBC presenter Nicky Campbell ended his usual segment with crossed fingers and a poorly inflected “inshallah” — “We’re in Uxbridge next Sunday for a special, asking, ‘Are we facing the end of the world?’ So we’ll see you then, inshallah” — it set off a right-wing media firestorm.

Breitbart wrote that the “incident comes just days after the BBC’s Head of Religion admitted that Islamic State is rooted in Islam.” Jihad Watch, a popular anti-Islam website, commented: “A conquered, colonized people adopts the language and practices of its conquerors.” In April, a University of California, Berkeley, student of Iraqi origin was removed from a Southwest Airlines flight after another passenger heard him speaking Arabic on his cell phone; he had ended his conversation with “inshallah.”

The latent Islamophobia the word can conjure seems to be part of the its growing appeal among progressive urbanites in the United States. As the Islamophobia industrial complex has expanded, so has a cultural push against it. Garnishing your conversation with an inshallah or two is a small act of resistance, a direct jab at the belief that Islam — and by association, Arabic — is sinister.Garnishing your conversation with an inshallah or two is a small act of resistance, a direct jab at the belief that Islam — and by association, Arabic — is sinister. It’s the linguistic equivalent of donning a headscarf in solidarity for World Hijab Day. Or the spoken version of the anti-Trump ad near Dearborn, Michigan, a city with a large population of Arab-Americans, which was written in Arabic and read: “Donald Trump can’t read this, but he is scared of it.” It’s a subtle political statement, a critique of Republicans who believe certain sounds, like incantations, must cross the lips in order to defeat evil (“radical Islamic terrorism”) whereas other sounds (“in-sha-Allah,” “Allahu Akbar”) must remain taboo.

“Garnishing your conversation with an inshallah or two is a small act of resistance, a direct jab at the belief that Islam — and by association, Arabic — is sinister.”

But why inshallah and not some other Arabic word? There are dozens of other common Islamic expressions, including bismillah (in the name of God), barakallah (blessings of God), and alhamdulillah (praise be to God), that haven’t crossed into English (though bismillah makes a cameo in Queen’s 1975 classic “Bohemian Rhapsody”).

The reason is that inshallah is a charming, maddening, and undeniably useful expression. On paper, the word is very similar to “God willing,” its Christian, English equivalent. It’s an acknowledgment of the human inability to foresee or control the future while harking to the belief that a Greater Being holds humanity’s fragile plans in its omnipotent hands.

But unlike the English “God willing,” inshallah also serves as a convenient preordained excuse for what may go wrong. If your toilet is broken and your plumber says he’ll come “tomorrow, inshallah,” you may be in for quite a wait. In countries such as Egypt, inshallah has expanded into a society-wide verbal tic invoked by Muslims, Christians, and even the nonreligious for occasions as mundane as ordering a hamburger or riding an elevator — a phenomenon that a 2008 article in the New York Times dubbed “inshallah creep.”

That’s what has made it so easy for visitors to pick up. Inshallah conveys an uncertainty that “hopefully” lacks. “The project will be done by 9 p.m., hopefully” implies that a sense of control still resides in your hands and thus a lingering amount of responsibility if the deadline isn’t met. “The project will be done by 9 p.m., inshallah,” by contrast, indicates that some outside force — an indolent contract worker, slow trains, spotty internet, even fate itself — is now in the driver’s seat and that if things go wrong, it’s not your fault.

It’s also exotic in a way that the down home “God willing” can never be. That phrase conjures images of church pews and pro-life protests outside Planned Parenthood — nothing that progressive Americans typically want to associate with. Throwing inshallah into a sentence here or there — “Tom will be filing that report tonight, inshallah!” — signals membership in a well-educated, well-traveled, and tolerant urban elite.

Arabic-speaking Americans don’t seem to mind this bit of friendly borrowing. Marya Hannun, a Palestinian-American doctoral student based in Washington, D.C., called the trend “charming,” explaining that when speaking Arabic, non-Muslims as well as Muslims use inshallah. She described its use among Americans as “solidarity and finding meaning in a language other than your own.”

“I say it every now and then,” said Thorstan Fries, a New York-based consultant who told me that he picked it up from a college friend studying Arabic. “I started saying it much more frequently after a trip to Morocco a couple years ago. They say it all the time, and I think it’s cool.”

Of course, to view a Middle Eastern import as exotic is also to risk condescension. The very first recorded use of inshallah in the English language was not just atrociously Orientalist — it was also incorrect. In his 1857 work The Kingdom and People of Siam, John Bowring, a British politician and the fourth governor of Hong Kong, wrote, “Inshallah! Such promptitude was, I believe, never before exhibited in an Asiatic Court.” But inshallah is used exclusively for events that have not yet occurred. What Bowring likely meant was mashallah, an Islamic phrase expressing amazement at an existing set of circumstances.

The first to use it in natural speech, not in a grandiose reference to foreign peoples, was T. E. Lawrence, otherwise known as Lawrence of Arabia. Lawrence viewed Arabs with respect, lived among them, and adopted some of their customs — including, apparently, the habit of checking plans against the divine’s schedule. “I have been photographing this last week—and will more next. Developing too inshallah,” he wrote in a letter dated 1911.

Britain’s entanglements in the Middle East, North Africa, and India put it in intimate contact with Muslim peoples decades before the United States became similarly involved. Inshallah followed on the heels of colonialism. For the British upper classes, Arabic was a sign of distinction; the Arabists dominated Britain’s Foreign Office for decades, and Prime Minister Anthony Eden — who sent Britain’s reputation in the Middle East plummeting with the Suez crisis — prided himself on his fluency.

At the time, American English was far more preoccupied with the apparatchiks and cosmonauts of the Cold War. It wasn’t until the expansion of U.S. military involvement in the Middle East, particularly after 9/11, that the region became a national preoccupation. (Though the growing number of Muslim and Middle Eastern immigrants in the United States has also helped popularize the word. One person I spoke to learned it from Arabic-speaking students she encountered at her university; another googled it after he saw Muslim friends posting the word on Facebook.) The study of Arabic has blossomed across the United States, and a legion of American military officials, diplomats, journalists, government contractors, NGO workers, academics, and students flowed in. Upon their return home, many brought with them the ubiquitous, malleable, and easily pronounceable inshallah.

It’s now common currency among the younger generations at the State Department, journalists who’ve spent time in the region, and soldiers who deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan — and, increasingly, among the people who travel in the same elite circles as these folk. As one colleague, who uses the word but has no background in the Middle East, told me, “I learned it because everyone at every damn development NGO uses it.” Others I know say they picked it up from artifacts of contemporary popular culture, like Afghan-American author Khaled Hosseini’s novel The Kite Runner, which was adapted into a movie in 2007, and Rabia Chaudry’s book, Adnan’s Story, published this year.

There’s now a good chance inshallah may find a permanent home in English. But those afraid of creeping inshallah should take heart. This wouldn’t be the first time that the word has imbedded itself in a Western language. Ojalá is a common Spanish word often translated as “hopefully.” In fact, ojalá is merely the Hispanicized pronunciation of inshallah, which made its way into the language during the centuries of Muslim rule in Spain that ended in 1492. Yet as far as I can tell, despite this obvious case of linguistic jihad, neither Spain nor the 20 other countries where Spanish is the official national language has yet fallen to the Muslim Brotherhood.

Nor has asking a waitress for more pancake syrup — from the Arabic sharab, a versatile word that the West acquired during a previous episode of war-induced cultural cross-pollination, the Crusades — ever proved to spontaneously convert anyone to Islam. Nor has spending hours studying algebra — another one of those menacing “al” words — ever made anyone more inclined to funnel one’s life savings to al Qaeda.

It turns out short vowels, sibilants, and fricatives might not be as magical as some have been urging us to believe. Donald Trump and his national security team would be wise to take note. God willing.

— Photo credit: CHIP SOMODEVILLA/Getty Images/Foreign Policy illustration

— Bethany Allen-Ebrahimian is a journalist covering China from Washington. She was previously an assistant editor and contributing reporter at Foreign Policy. Twitter: @BethanyAllenEbr

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