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perpetual-help · 3 years

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@loki’s-right-nut

I saved some segments from your post but your response on tumblr is gone, so I will place this in its own post in hopes you will see it. Maybe tumblr is being weird, or maybe you deleted your response, I’m not really sure. Either way, you raised some points that are worth answering.

*Quotes and scripture references belonging to loki’s-right-nut will be noted in red and italicized to prevent any confusion.

I see you are Catholic as well? I also see you are quite learned in the scripture. So tell me, do you remember what Isa (that’s Jesus’s actual name and I’m sure he’d be very flattered if you used it) said about judging others? Luke 6:37 “Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven.” Let Isa and his father be the ones to bring back the wayward. Because since he is love, he is also understanding and compassion and patience. Those who “turn away” from him have their reasons and he understands this. Isa is all knowing, yes? So he knows. Let him take care of it instead of trying to start another crusade online.”

Luke 6:37 is true. God alone can judge the heart. This means that I cannot say whether a certain person went to hell, or will go to hell. I cannot read their hearts; this belongs to God alone. However, we can and are called to judge actions and to correct and instruct others.

2 Timothy 3:16-17

“All scripture is inspired by God and is useful for teaching, for refutation, for correction, and for training in righteousness, so that one who belongs to God may be competent, equipped for every good work.”

Now, in regards to Christian witches, Isa also said something and I really hope you remember. Because Isa actually spoke to someone very much like yourself. Mk 9:38-41

“At that time, John said to Jesus, "Teacher, we saw someone driving out demons in your name, and we tried to prevent him because he does not follow us.” Jesus replied, “Do not prevent him. There is no one who performs a mighty deed in my name who can at the same time speak ill of me. For whoever is not against us is for us.”

They have found another way to work for Him and he is pleased by that. They do his work in another way in which they can better let him into their life. They call it “magic” but he calls it “A mighty deed in his name.”

Those driving out demons did so in the name of Jesus, not in the name of some false deity or spirit or demon. In Acts, there is a passage that talks about a woman who is possessed by a spirit that allows her to tell fortunes.

Acts 16:16-18

“As we were going to the place of prayer, we met a slave girl with an oracular spirit (spirit of divination), who used to bring a large profit to her owners through her fortune-telling. She began to follow Paul and us, shouting, “These people are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation.” She did this for many days. Paul became annoyed, turned, and said to the spirit, “I command you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her.” Then it came out at that moment.”

1 John further illustrates a need for discernment of the spirit, and expands on the fact that there are many false prophets in this world.

1 John 4:1-6

“Beloved, do not trust every spirit but test the spirits to see whether they belong to God, because many false prophets have gone out into the world. This is how you can know the Spirit of God: every spirit that acknowledges Jesus Christ come in the flesh belongs to God, and every spirit that does not acknowledge Jesus does not belong to God. This is the spirit of the antichrist that, as you heard, is to come, but in fact is already in the world. You belong to God, children, and you have conquered them, for the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world. They belong to the world; accordingly, their teaching belongs to the world, and the world listens to them. We belong to God, and anyone who knows God listens to us, while anyone who does not belong to God refuses to hear us. This is how we know the spirit of truth and the spirit of deceit.”

Sorcery is condemned in the Bible. I included the passages for this in my original post, but I will also include them here for you to reference if needed.

Galatians 5:19-23

Revelation 21:5-8

“You are quite right about the Tyrant view. In fact, I began to see it at a young age. I remember being in Youth Group when I finally voiced it. I said "I can't bond with Him (god) because I fear being struck down. Like I am a mere slave bowing before a mighty king who will knock me down to the dust should I make one misstep."

God is Just and He is Merciful. For those who truly seek to love and serve Him, He aids them in all matters. This fear of being struck down over a misstep is understandable, but it isn’t entirely accurate. We are given the sacraments for a reason - one of those being confession. God doesn’t desire to condemn, He desires for us to repent.

“There is something very wrong with some of these teachings. On the surface level, yes, most of these can be good wisdom. "Love thy neighbor" and such. But a large majority of these messages hold a toxic amount of self denial and utter dependency on this deity. The more you look, the more you realize, he doesn't want you for you. He wants you to mold you into submission so he can easily control you. if you withstand the treatment and somehow leave, he'll see it as betrayal and send you to the fiery pits for eternity”

God is a loving Father and we are made in His image and likeness, with the purpose to love Him and all people as He loves us. He calls us to servitude and sacrifice, and He has given us the most perfect example of this in Our Lord Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. Like the loving Father He is, He encourages all people to rise above the passions of the flesh and the pleasures of this world in order to recognize this need to subdue the flesh and grow in the spirit. Self denial promotes a deeper level of submission to the will of God - and, since God is Love and all things Good and Holy, this is the only way we can reflect such virtue. Humility is the opposite of pride. It is a state of being more than it is a singular action. Humility is truth because it is the honest recognition of what we, as humans, are. We are creatures chained by our passions, deluded by our own egos, self-serving, reveling in all kinds of sin. We do not see this sin for what it actually is, but God sees it. He saw all sin that ever was and ever would be committed while He hung on the cross. It was our sins that wounded Him and drove the nails into His hands and feet, and the spear into His side. Every single day our sins offend Him in the moments of His Passion. Without God, we cannot even begin to attempt to loosen our bonds of sin. We are entirely dependent upon Him - and that is where we recognize what we are. We are little and weak and prone to sin. Still, God is magnified in our weakness and in our recognition of this littleness, and He is forever eager to fill our hearts with His infinite Love so that we might reflect His goodness like polished mirrors. Thus, we can rightly say God alone is worthy of all glory and honor and praise. When we understand the role we, as each individual person, has played in the torments of Our Lord during His passion, this is where a desire to suffer for love of God begins to bloom. Those who love God seek to lessen His torments even by one iota - to sacrifice themselves in His place, should such a thing be possible. They seek to follow in His footsteps more closely, and to offer all sufferings for others, for the souls in purgatory, and all united with Jesus on the cross. God sees this love and great sacrifice and how the soul strives to reach closer to Him, and they in turn are blessed to taste the depths of pleasures in His infinite love.

#catholic #roman catholic #christian witch #catholic witch #witchcraft #response

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virlath · 4 years

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halam'shivanas: the sweet sacrifice of duty

It implies the loss of something personal for duty’s sake

===

How tragically ironic would it be if Solas, the rebel god and breaker of slave chains, is in fact bound to Mythal’s will, much like Abelas or the drinker of the well of sorrows is?

We can assume his duty was to advise/protect Mythal, as based on the imagery and statues that depict him. Mythal’s murder would have meant he completely failed at his duty, meaning he is still bound to her even after banishing the false gods and creating the veil.

This is why he cannot be swayed on his path. He walks the dinan’shiral because he is bound by his duty to the people, and to Mythal. He can’t just walk away like Abelas can at the well. He can’t even tell the Inquisitor the truth even if he wants to because his duty to Mythal always comes first.

We all know Bioware love their tragic characters and this would just be the icing on the already delicious cake that is Thedas lore.

Note: Assumptions and theories ahead are based on speculation and theorising only- this is simply a potential take on Solas’ motivations.

===

Firstly, why would Solas even agree to serve Mythal?

Fen’Harel statues are often seen as a symbol of guardianship. In the Temple of Mythal he is depicted as a guard dog. Guard dogs infer protection and servitude to its owner. That’s the impression I get from his statues - that he guarded Mythal willingly and with great pride.

The only reason he came to be remembered as a god at all is because he takes the form of a powerful wolf beast, and walks amongst all factions freely as a rebel leader against slavery.

If Mythal is “the best” of the evanuris (and remember, the evanuris are self proclaimed gods who all owned slaves in some sense), how could Solas lead a slave rebellion while he was still on good terms with Mythal?

It can be assumed from clues throughout the game that Solas used to be a pure spirit in some sense before manifesting as a material elf. He refers to a person’s essence through their “spirit”, and it seems like he very much misses being a pure spirit himself.

Cole: You don't need to envy me, Solas. You can find happiness in your own way. Solas: I apologize for disturbing you, Cole. I am not a spirit, and sometimes it is hard to remember such simple truths. Cole: They are not gone so long as you remember them. Solas: I know. Cole: But you could let them go. Solas: I know that as well. Cole: You didn't do it to be right. You did it to save them. Inquisitor: Solas, what is Cole talking about? Solas: A mistake. One of many made by a much younger elf who was certain he knew everything. Cole: You weren't wrong, though. Solas: Thank you, Cole.

(if Cole becomes more human)

Solas: How do you feel, Cole, now that you dealt with the Templar? Cole: I don't know. He hurt me... hurt the real Cole. I'm angry at him. Cole: I can't let that go. I have to become more, let it make me real. Solas: You may well become fully human, after all. I never thought to see it. Cole: When did you see it before? Solas: I did not say that I had. Cole: No, you didn't. It's harder to hear, sometimes. Sorry. Solas: Good luck, Cole. You have taken a difficult road.

Could Solas have been a pure spirit of wisdom before he took on a physical form to be at Mythal’s side? Did the ancient elves use spirits to do their bidding, and those with greater power used physical bodies to transcend singular character traits to gain the full complexity and spectrum of emotions and actions? Perhaps that seemed appealing to Solas at the time - to become more than he currently was?

To gain wisdom you have to actively seek it. That means travelling and learning, a trait that Solas embodies. He elaborates on more of his travels if you ask him at Haven.

“The Fade reflects the world around it. Unless I travelled I would never find anything new.”

“The Fade reflects and is limited by our imaginations. To find interesting areas, one must be interesting.”

I have explored the Fade more than anyone alive, but even I can only visit in dreams.

Then in Trespasser, Cole cryptically reveals more snippets of his past (presumed).

Cole: He did not want a body. But she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face.

Cole: He wants to give wisdom, not orders.

So, why would Solas willingly serve Mythal if he is so against slavery and servitude?

I presume it is because he actively sought more wisdom and inadvertently fell into Mythal’s will to attain more knowledge. Whether or not he deliberately became Mythal’s servant/advisor is up for debate. His circumstances could mirror his personal quest in DAI, where Mythal summoned him as a spirit to be her advisor, turning him from wisdom to pride. Or, this could just be a red herring.

Abelas sheds a bit of light on what serving Mythal actually entails:

“Brave it if you must. But know you this, you shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal....Bound as we are bound. The choice is yours.”

I personally think Solas could very well have chosen to attain more wisdom at the cost of serving Mythal- becoming her personal guard dog if you will. He was after all, cocky and thought he knew everything.

In any case, in forming a physical self, he inadvertently came into great power, becoming Fen’Harel, deified in his own right.

And once you have power, you always want more. It’s what forms a part of being human- he touches on this a lot in banter and dialogue throughout the game. To a wisdom spirit who simply sought more wisdom in the world, it makes sense he would always want to learn more and know more and be more.

To gain more wisdom, he had to constantly seek out greater things, and being in a position of great power as Mythal’s right hand man allowed him to collect this wisdom he so desired.

Solas traded wisdom for a physical body, thus he lost his spirit form permanently. He traded the simplicity of being a spirit of wisdom, for the complexity of being a mortal elf with all the emotions tied to it. He traded the very essence of his being to become one of Mythal’s own trusted advisors.

That was the cost of him gaining more knowledge through Mythal’s position of power- without this sacrifice of self, he would never have seen more, or known more, or been more than the singular trait of wisdom.

This is perhaps why he feels so lonely and betrayed and like he can’t trust anyone- because as a spirit, life was simple, he simply collected knowledge and passed it on. As a physical being, he learnt the brutality of war and the cost of betrayal. These events define his overall perception of physical beings, which is why he doesn’t view people as people. He simply views them as pawns to be used, like a game of chess. “He wants to give wisdom, not orders.“

It could also explain why he disdains physicality and envies Cole - he simply wishes everything were that simple, but it can’t because he is now a material being. When he realises his love for the Inquisitor is real, and that the companions in the Inquisition are real, it shakes the entirety of his core beliefs about what makes people, people. He only falls back to his sense of duty because he has to. He failed Mythal when she was killed, and she wants revenge. To achieve vengeance, she needs her guard dog to do her bidding.

===

Solas’ purpose changed

As the ancient elves warred between themselves, Mythal would have needed advisors and trusted friends. She would have relied on Solas heavily, because he was a willing servant full of wisdom and advice, and his wisdom would be invaluable during a civil war. What Solas was to the Inquisition, he was probably even more so to Mythal.

This may be the reason why Mythal actually uplifted Solas as the dread wolf, helping him shape the image of fear and rebellion. She allowed him to be free of his vallaslin and create his rebellion- it was all subterfuge and part of her master plan to create chaos amongst her rivals and their slaves.

The side benefit was Solas took the fall for her in almost every respect- she came to be remembered as Mythal, the patron of motherhood and justice, while Solas came to be remembered as the trickster “god”, the dread wolf who sabotaged Mythal’s enemies while freeing slaves at the same time.

It was a symbiotic relationship for both of them as their actions aligned with each other’s motivations. It wasn’t out of love that Solas served Mythal, but his bonds of duty, personal desire for wisdom, and eventually his personal quest to end cruelty and slavery. He says himself he did not lead a rebellion without getting his hands bloody. Solas is not a saint and it’s easy to forget that- he was part of the institution as well.

===

Solas’ is a mortal mage whose weakness is pride

Solas isn’t infallible and he knows this. He makes so many mistakes out of arrogance it would be funny if it wasn’t sad. I mean, he gave his orb to Corypheus...what possessed him to think that was a good idea?

His pride is his weakness and he severely underestimates the complexity of human emotions and motivations. Where once he simply desired more wisdom, now, he thinks he knows better than anyone else because of his pride. He thinks modern Thedas is full of “tranquil” because he is so arrogant to believe that his past was better than the future he helped create, even though ancient elvhenan was chock full of slavery and cruelty.

In fact, his position of power was enabled through the evanuris, and Mythal herself, who was at the top of the pecking order.

Somewhere along the way, Mythal used him as a general or commander in the war. That is when I think Solas changed from an advisor to one that embodied pride. In doing so he took on the form of a reptilian wolf / dragon hybrid. “I would not have you see what I become...”

If you drink from the well, and have high approval with him, he will be very upset after the fact:

“You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god!...You are Mythal’s creature now. Everything you do, whether you know it or not, will be for her. You have given up a part of yourself.”

Solas knows what the Inquisitor has given up because perhaps he also gave up a part of himself for her.

===

Solas vs. Mythal

At the end of DAI, Flemeth specifically says to Solas “I knew you would come”

When he says “I am so sorry” to Flemeth, she responds in kind. “I am sorry as well...old friend”.

It’s not a “I’m sorry you failed” sorry. It’s a “I’m sorry for what I’m about to get you to do” sorry. It’s hard to be certain at this point exactly what power Mythal bestows upon Solas, but I think the fact remains, Solas isn’t simply Solas anymore. Through his bonds of duty to Mythal, his actions will be for her whether or not he knows it.

With the essence of Mythal’s power, the things he will do in the name of saving the elven people will likely also form a part of her master plan for vengeance against the other evanuris.

#dragon age #dai #dragon age 4 #da4 #solas #flemeth #mythal #thedas lore #da theories #drabble

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rpgsandbox · 4 years

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The Gaia Complex is a cyberpunk RPG set on earth in 2119. Towards the end of the 21st century, the third world war, which became known as the Resource War, pushed mankind to the brink of destruction and brought ruin to the Earth’s atmosphere. Small pockets of humanity survived this horrific conflict, eventually forming the eleven metropolises. These incredible mega-cities have since grown and prospered, largely due to developments in atmospheric processing and significant technological advancements. Now cut off from each other, these heaving urban landscapes must each face their own difficulties and hardships. The Gaia Complex focuses on the largest of these metropolises; New Europe, a single sprawling city that covers much of what we currently know as mainland Europe. New Europe is a world of street violence, corporate espionage, vampiric uprisings and an overzealous A.I., known as Gaia, which functions as the city’s governor and the protector of its citizens.

The Gaia Complex is a dystopian world of urban violence, exploring the age of cybernetic enhancement through a vision of Earth that is somehow ‘changed’. This vision of the future injects both vampires and a strange species of people known as ferals, who are able to enter the minds of animals. This is a game of conspiracy and brutality, where players take on the roles of Mercs; former police officers, hackers and street-savvy dealers who are hired to fight back against the system and ultimately unravel the secrets of The Gaia Complex.

Of course we'd love you to back this campaign and be a part of making The Gaia Complex a reality, but before you do, maybe you want to give it a whirl for yourself? Good news - you can do this right now.

While this campaign and the updates throughout will talk about the game setting and rules, our free (well, 'pay what you want', but please, enter £0 and just grab a copy!) 48-page Quick Start for The Gaia Complex is out right now and will allow you to read and play for yourselves. This PDF contains a huge amount of lore surrounding the game, offering an in-depth insight to the world of The Gaia Complex and what it means to be a Merc in 2119. In addition, the booklet is jammed full of gorgeous artwork and gives you a good idea of what to expect from the full core book.

Go and grab your copy of the Quick Start by clicking this link

The cast of playable characters from the Quick Start

The Gaia Complex core book will be 'at least' 256 pages of full-colour hardback beauty - take a look at the Quick Start for a general idea about how it will look. We say 'at least' as we have a whole host of extra content that we might just squeeze in, either through stretch goals, or because we end up deciding certain things just need to be there.

At the time of launch, the core book writing is roughly 90% complete and layout for final proof-reading has already been completed for some chapters - this is a significant strength for this project, having completed so much of the writing ahead of launch. Artwork at this point is around 40% complete and new art is in the pipeline to be finished (and shown off) during the campaign. The art direction for this book is very important and great care is being taken to ensure the visuals support the writing as closely as possible.

The structure of the book is split over 12 chapters, plus an NPC (non-player character) library at the end. We'll go into more detail about the chapters over the coming weeks via the campaign updates, sharing some key information as we go. Alongside the rules, background and resources for playing the game, the book also includes multiple pieces of short fiction that slowly unfold the real story behind The Gaia Complex. These stories, and the characters they describe, lay the foundation for the world in which the game is set and allow us to explore New Europe in 2119 in much more cinematic detail.

The engine behind The Gaia Complex is called 12.3 and can be taken for a test drive in our Quick Start by clicking HERE.

The basis of the system uses 2d12 (that's two twelve sided dice - but you're all roleplayers, so I'm sure you knew that!) to make the majority of tests on a 'roll under' basis. Whenever a test is required, the GM determines a potential difficulty for the test, ranging from 1 (easy for a child to accomplish) to 11 (impossibly hard). A character will compare the difficulty to their relevant statistic and if the stat is equal to or greater than the difficulty, the test is a success - There is an emphasis in the game on keeping the action flowing and not making tests unless they are really needed.

If the character's stat is less than the difficulty, a test is required: the player rolls 2d12, requiring a result that is equal to or less than their relevant stat. An 11 fails (without cybernetic enhancement) and a 12 is a Critical Failure. To pass, a character requires one or both d12s to succeed depending on whether they are skilled or unskilled - The Gaia Complex does not consider 'ranks' in various skills like the majority of RPGs, instead a character either possesses a skill or does not (though becoming a specialist in certain skills is possible).

During combat, d3s are also used to determine damage - you can use funky d3s like the ones available on this campaign, or simply use common d6. The engine for the game uses d3s to enable a more consistant result when rolling multiple dice together and to remove the chance of whiffing a result of a 1 in situations that should always achieve a minium degree of success (thus 3d3+3 damage represents a weapon with more consistent output than one that does 1d12 damage) .

Of course, the game includes many other rules - some core, some optional - covering a huge array of options, but at its root, the game falls back on 12.3 to keep it rolling (pun intended).

During the course of the campaign we'll dedicate a couple of updates to specific areas of the rules and give you a deep dive into them beyond what you can get your hands on in the Quick Start.

Characters in The Gaia Complex are known as Mercs. At their core, Mercs are citizens of New Europe who have chosen to rebel against the system and take up arms by making themselves available on the freelance market. The seedy clubs and bars of NeoMunich are the most common place to find Mercs and while their work is entirely illegal, there is enough anonymity that it isn't worth the expenditure of resources for Gaia or its police force to worry about shutting down the network.

Most Mercs are hired to run jobs against one of the many corporations in the metropolis. From hacking R&D servers to kidnapping, assassinating or Bio Hacking company execs; there are few limits when it comes to taking a job. Ironically, the primary employers are the corporations themselves, all looking to get a leg up over their rivals, employing Mercs to do the dirty work in order to maintain complete deniability. Of course, it's not just the heaving corporations that are the enemy; outsider vampires that lurk in the subway tunnels and outer fringes of the metropolis, the cybernetic police force controlled by the LE1 A.I. subsystem, or even Gaia itself - the all seeing ruler of the metropolis - everyone is a potential mark if the score looks big enough!

The core rules contains a detailed character creation process, allowing players to play either human or feral (a mysterious group of people who can enter the minds of the metropolis' animals) characters from one of ten varied roles, each with their own unique rules, benefits and style. Characters can choose from:

Operator - Former law enforcement, corporate security and guns-for-hire that pack the hottest weapon tech that the black market has to offer.

Core Hacker - Hackers and coders who live their lives in the digital pathways of The Core.

Bio Hacker - A new wave of hacker, dedicated to hacking the cybernetic brains of their targets and inducing 'forced servitude'.

ParaMed - Former TactaMed paramedics who have realised they can earn more money patching up Mercs by being one of them!

CyberDoc - Back-alley hackjob specialists and cybernetic installers. An often riskier, but cheaper approach, to main stream cybernetics clinics.

MilTech - Weapons techs, tinkerers and specialist drone pilots. MilTechs keep the team's gear working and provide invaluable technical support.

Mech - Drivers, pilots and expert mechanics. Mechs keep the metropolis rolling and give Merc teams much needed access to reliable transportation.

Tech Trader - Black market dealers, handling everything from illegal weapons and stolen cybernetics, to narcotics and false credentials.

Data Dealer - Information traffickers and dealers of stolen secrets. If there is something worth knowing, you can probably buy it... for a price.

Handler - Exclusive to ferals. Handlers have dedicated themselves to honing the feral's ability to step into the mind of an animal. This is the feral in their purest form.

We'll be taking a more in-depth look into each of these roles as the campaign unfolds.

Kickstarter campaign ends: Wed, October 7 2020 6:59 PM BST

Website: [The Gaia Complex] [facebook] [twitter]

#RPG #kickstarter #The Gaia Complex #Hansor Publishing

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darling-archeron · 4 years

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Beneath the Dark - Chapter Six

What would have happened if Feyre had come to Prythian much earlier? Feyre Archeron has left her mortal life behind, and accepted being demi-fae. She has found her place in the Night Court's Inner Circle. But when her and Rhys attend a ball hosted by Amarantha Under the Mountain, they are in for much more than they bargained for.

A huge thanks to @theleadcinnabon for helping beta this chapter and story!! <33

Three weeks had passed since we had been trapped here. Three infinitely long, dark weeks. Some days passed by as slowly as watching shadows shift. Others seemed gone in a blink.

Amarantha had been toying with Calder all week while everyone else watched helplessly. Some of his family had tried to heal him, tried to get her to stop, but to no avail. Not only were his healing abilities weakened by losing his magic, but some damage wasn’t meant to be survived. That was the kind of damage The Deceiver knew to inflict. Not to mention that she didn’t take kindly to anyone trying to steal her entertainment. But yesterday it had finally ended, as he had gasped his last breaths out, the color of his blood only a bit darker than the red marble floor. It seemed that even his enemies felt some shade of remorse. They had hated him, yes, but...not like this.

Jurian’s eye had gone wild inside her ring as if reminded of his own execution. Indeed, it wasn’t the noble death of a High Lord as I would have hoped – it had been a welcome, sad thing. An older High Fae was High Lord of Winter now, his eyes serious by the burden laid upon him. I hadn't yet spoken to him. I would wait, see what sort of leader he turned out to be.

But in the time since we had first been trapped, some semblance of normalcy had begun to knit itself together. We had all begun to get a feel for the central part of the mountain and the passageways it contained – though the tunnels and catacombs far below were still a mystery. Amarantha had even been halfway agreeable when you considered that she hadn't ordered any more mass murders. The week prior, she had commanded the High Lords to find out what their High Fae needed so she could have it shipped over. Of course, requests of the lesser fae were ignored. Yet, among the most requested goods were fabrics, spices, and various other precious items. As if finery and riches would save us, improve this false court in any way. She had even left a few, though not all, requests for weapons slide by, though I knew it was nothing but a taunt.

Rhys was scarce these days, and I could never decipher where he had slipped off to. I caught glimpses of him at the nightly revels and around the halls, but we had exchanged few words over the bargain bond, and even fewer face-to-face.

I would have been lying if I said his ignoring didn’t sting a bit, even if I knew why it was. In the absence of him and his orders, I made it my mission to learn everything I could about the inhabitants of the Mountain and its layout. Gathering any bit of little information that could help me get Rhys, Nuala, and Cerridwen out.

As it was now, the afternoon was drawing to a close, and I found myself standing in a cavernous room, speaking with males who thought themselves better than me as I held a glass of wine in my hand.

A common occurrence these days. Somehow, nobody had lost their taste for alcohol despite the catastrophic curse it had laid on us.

This time, the males were High Lord Nostrus, who seemed to have the interests of his people at heart, and though he was intelligent, was also weak-willed, and his much younger cousin, Tarquin. Beron had also inserted himself into the conversation and was my least favorite to deal with. Misogynistic and cruel, I would never forgive him for what he had done to Mor.

“Truth be told, Nostrus, I can’t see why any of the Courts should consider consolidating their resources. Maybe Summer is weakened, but Autumn doesn’t need to lean on anyone else.” Beron replied.

“That may be true now, but what about in forty years? Not just for us, but for our people. Our trading with the continent has been seriously impacted by recent events.” Tarquin interjected, ever eager to help.

“Tarquin has a point, but I can’t be convinced that the Courts should consolidate completely, Nostrus. But there’s no reason we shouldn’t plan for it in the future.” I pointed out.

Nostrus looked irritated but stayed silent. It was Beron who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“And who invited you to participate in this, Lady Valspian?” Beron jabbed.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Are you going to pick a fight with me, Beron? As Lord Nostrus pointed out, we are all in this together. Perhaps when the time comes, you wouldn't be so quick to shun what Night offers.” I fought to keep the bitter edge mostly out of my voice. Beron was cut off from responding by Tarquin gesturing to behind me.

I turned around to see a grey-veiled female servant standing a few feet away. The fabric distorted too much of her features for me to see her clearly, but I could make out a pair of bright, catlike green eyes. She shrunk back under my gaze. “Lady Valspian?”

“Yes.” The sound of her voice startled me – I had never heard one of these servants speak. They were quiet and submissive, just as Amarantha liked them. Supposedly they were her servants from Hybern, but I had heard rumors of Prythian’s Lesser Faeries being kidnapped, cursed into silence and servitude.

“I have a message for you. Her Majesty requests your presence in her chambers in an hour for dinner.”

I had known this was imminent. I had waited with bated breath day after day, knowing that Amarantha would not forget about me. And I had promised myself I would meet it head-on. I was not weak, not helpless anymore. I knew how to use my powers. I could break into minds and glamour and win a swordfight against someone stronger than me.

And yet – my courage faltered. As those images flashed in my mind. Of all Amarantha had done. Of all the times I had failed.

“Tell Her Majesty that while I am honored, I have already promised dinner with Lady Cyra tonight, and I’d prefer not to go back on my word.”

Behind me, I heard Beron snort.

Was it a shit idea? Absolutely. Was it going to put Amarantha off my trail? Probably not. Through the veil, I could make out the girl’s eyes widening. “I-I do not think it was an optional invitation, My Lady. To dine with Her Majesty is a great honor.”

I narrowed my eyes. “The Queen should know that I keep my word. Now leave, before I have to make myself any clearer.”

She nodded once, turning away and soundlessly retreating down the hall. I prayed that Amarantha wouldn't take her wrath out on the servant.

A little over an hour later, I heard Rhys for the first time in days.

“What the hell, Feyre?”

“What?”

“You refused Amarantha? By telling her that you were dining with Cyra, of all things? Couldn’t you have at least come up with a better lie?” His temper was barely in check, anger so sharp lashing down the bond I could nearly feel it.

“I’m trying to keep my secrets just that Rhys – secret. And you’re always so insistent on me staying away from her, I would have thought you would have been pleased.”

“Well, congratulations. You’ve only succeeded in drawing more attention to yourself.”

A cold feeling crept over me. I had been irrational…I had known all along that this wasn’t a permanent solution.

“I’ll be fine, Rhys. I can take care of myself. But how did you hear about it so fast?”

“I’m entertaining her right now. I’m the next best thing to your delightful company tonight.”

Was that where he had been spending all of his time? With her? That cold in the pit of my stomach grew. “I didn’t realize…I’m sorry, Rhys.”

Stony silence. I attempted humor. “ Is the food at least decent? If you’re subjected to her company you should be fed properly.”

No response. Once again, towering walls of adamant environed him. I didn’t bother trying to get past them.

Holding in a groan, I resisted the urge to ask for something stronger to drink. The gravity of the situation had truly settled on me in the past days. At first, despite the horrors, it had almost seemed like a bad dream. That luxury was fading away with each day.

At least I actually had agreed to dinner with Cyra. The youngest daughter of High Lord Julius, the female was certainly clever, if not a bit shallow. Rhys’s ties with Day were tenuous at best, and if having dinner with one of their royals would help me keep a better eye on them, so be it.

An hour into my dinner with Cyra and I hadn’t figured out if she was asking nonstop questions about Rhysand for political reasons, or because she thought he was handsome and marriage material.

Well, he was. Handsome, certainly. But that was no reason for me to spend my time answering question after question about him, all while trying to turn the conversation back around to her.

“And where does Rhysand spend all his time these days? I can’t say I’ve seen him in – well, I don’t know how long!” She tittered, and I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes.

If she was trying to wile secrets out of me, she was making an interesting approach.

I focused on cutting my chicken into tiny, tiny pieces. “I couldn’t say. He hardly confides in me about his whereabouts And even -.” I was interrupted by the door being violently opened, handle knocking against the stone of the wall.

There in the doorway, framed by faint faelight from the hall, stood Amarantha herself. She looked otherworldly in the lighting, a painting waiting to be created with a crown on her head and a dark dress.

Cyra's fork clattered against her plate.

“Cyra. You will excuse Feyre. She has much greater plans with me this evening.” Her voice left no room for argument. “Feyre.” A beckoning, as if I was a dog to be summoned. I stood from my chair and followed her out the door, not bothering to look back at Cyra.

A string of expletives going off with each step I took, following close behind her, I hoped I was only being over cautious. She didn’t speak.

I had known from my explorations that Amarantha’s chambers had two entrances – the doors to her bedroom, and an entrance to her living quarters. Amarantha took me to the latter, the door less grand than the main ones but still carved. I wasn’t sure what to brace myself for – heads on a pike, more finger bones, servants waiting on her hand and foot – but no. Instead, it was surprisingly empty. The walls had been papered with a rather gaudy purple and cream pattern, and a giant faelight chandelier hung from the ceiling. Amarantha settled herself on a velvet mauve chaise, hand open and awaiting something. A heartbeat later, a grey-veiled female servant appeared, placing a glass of red wine in her open hand. I stared at her for a moment, and frightened green eyes peered back at me. It was the same servant from earlier - Amarantha hadn't harmed her.

“Feyre. So nice to dine with you.” She scanned me up and down, a catlike smile forming on her lips.

“It’s my pleasure, my Queen.” I dipped into a curtsy.

“Likewise.” She gestured to a chair with a wave of her claw-like hand. “Sit.”

I made my way over to the matching velvet chair nearest to her, dress crinkling around me as I sat. I had barely blinked before a wine glass was placed into my palm. Then both of the silent maids were out of the room, nearly floating like specters. Now that I was closer to Amarantha, I could sense the wards and spells she had placed on herself, making physical attacks impossible. Of course, magic ones were already out of the question.

“So.” She angled her body towards mine, eyes crackling with dangerous power. “I'll do you a favor just this once and not mention the way in which you slighted me this evening. I trust it won't happen again."

I scrambled for a response. "Of course. Thank you, My Queen."

Her entire demeanor changed then - from threatening to untroubled in a heartbeat.

"Then, how are you faring? Are you comfortable here?”

I nodded. “I’m doing just fine, thank you.”

She rolled her eyes. “A boring answer. Come now, Feyre. I find you interesting. So entertain me.” Indeed, I had never quite seen this side of her. How many sides did the Deciever have?

This was what she had called me in here for? Petty gossip and entertainment? I took a long, slow sip of my wine.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to report on.”

She took another sip of wine, otherwise unmoving. I had to force my fingers to stop playing with the fabric of my dress. “I won’t dance around niceties anymore. I’m sure you know why I’ve called you here. You have quite a unique skill set.”

I had considered this at length. To play dumb or go along with this. And I still wasn’t sure that my decision was the right one. “I do.”

“I was quite surprised at first. You seemed so ordinary, and yet you walked so close to Rhysand the night of the masquerade. He valued you, and now I know why. You might be the only other of his kind on the continent. I never imagined you’d reveal your secrets on your own so quickly. You fought rather spectacularly in the fight. You even brought down one of my personal guards. I didn’t think many women fought in the Night Court.” She took another swallow of wine, and then lowered her hand again, resting it on the side of the chaise.

For the first time in weeks, the idea of a painting flashed in my mind. The dim lighting, the glinting jewels, the rich fabrics – it would make for quite the portrait. For a moment, I wished that was that she had called me here for instead. It was almost laughable, and though painting her would have been like ripping off a bit of my soul, it would have been infinitely simpler.

I let out a short, mirthless laugh instead. “I have no desire to be weak, to be considered lesser, among these males.”

“Perhaps if you revealed your true gifts, you wouldn’t be.”

“I have already done it without that. Why would I show my true hand?” I countered.

“Powerful and a strategist.” She mused. “What other gifts are you hiding?”

I did that bored half-shrug I had seen Rhys pull off so effortlessly.

“You’re from Night, so you must have some sort of shadow manipulation, correct?”

Right – at least sort of. I could manipulate shadows, but not even close to the extent that Rhys could. They were half inconsequential things of smoke, shades of Rhysand's wonderous creations. Usually, if I wanted shadows, it was easier just to create a glamour.

"I've also seen you walking. You practically prowl, your feet are so silent. In another life, perhaps you could have been an assassin," she mused.

Damn it. Just like that, she had me pinned down.

“Since you insist on knowing, yes. I can manipulate shadows, I can break into minds, I can stab someone before they even know I’m in the room.”

“You’re my kind of female, Feyre Valspian. And we could do great things together.”

“What are you proposing?”

Amarantha ignored my question. “Do you hate me, Feyre?”

I forced myself to not break eye contact, to keep my hands still. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb. I know you don’t like me, Feyre. I can see it burning in your eyes, you know. If you want to get anywhere, you really should get better at concealing it. But luckily for you, hate has never deterred me.”

Do not let surprise show, keep your face a mask –

I finally found words. “I don’t hate you, My Queen. I hate the murders of my people that you’ve committed. I admire your ambition.”

She tilted her head. “Those deaths were necessary, Feyre. Certainly, acceptable losses in the grand scheme of things.”

“Perhaps.” I allowed, clamping down on my rage. Many of those nobles had been wicked, many of them I could barely name. And yet, I still felt such unmatched anger at their deaths. Perhaps even deeper than Rhys had. Maybe it was because of my youth – I hadn’t had time to grow a shield between myself and the world.

“Your dislike is hardly enough to discourage me, dearest. You’re far too much of an asset.”

“Please, explain to me what it is you want.” I insisted.

“What I want?” Her breathing grew quick, fingers so tight around the glass goblet I thought it might shatter. “I want to see Tamlin fall. I want to make sure all of Prythian recognizes me as their true Queen. I want to watch the dawn of a new age.” She locked eyes with me. “And you are going to be the one to help me do it.”

My breath hitched a bit, but I looked down at my wine instead, swirling the dark purple around in the glass. “Why should I?”

Amarantha set her wine glass down on the table, the motion making a loud clunk. Cauldron, I was playing a dangerous game.

“Do I need to spell it out? We share so many common goals, Feyre. Don’t pretend you don’t want the High Lords brought to their knees. I saw the way you looked at the likes of Tamlin and Beron. You’d rather die than scrape before them, wouldn’t you?” Her voice was so soft, so persuasive, that I wondered if she had spelled it. “You claim you have no desire to be seen as weak. Prove it to me. The High Lords are already pinned beneath my thumb. The next step is to make it known to everyone else who their ruler is. At the end of these forty-nine years, when Tamlin’s spirit has been broken, I will keep you at my side when everyone else falls and grovels.”

I sat in silence for a moment, pretending to contemplate when I already knew what my answer had to be.

She laughed. “Don’t pretend you have to consider it, Feyre. Would you prefer me to threaten your life and force you to obey?”

I was going to die beneath this mountain. I hated this feeling. After I had left Tamlin, I had worked so hard, for so long, to ensure that I was not a pawn. I told myself I would never be one again. And yet, here I was. To succumb to it might kill me one day.

For a moment, I debated trying to bargain for more. For Rhys’s protection – for my court’s protection. But Rhys could certainly take care of himself, and it would be a risk anyway. With all of his dinners and conversations with her, he certainly had made bargains of his own. The court would also be safe for now – Velaris was hidden, and if she murdered everyone else Under the Mountain there would be none left to worship her.

“We have an agreement,” I said softly, raising my wine glass to hers in a toast. She did the same, a faint smile playing on her lips. I brought the glass to my lips and drank deeply for the first time since sitting down. At least there wasn’t a curse attached this time.

“There’s no point in us wasting time over chit-chat, then. I’ll tell you what first needs to be done.”

“Word has gotten out to the common faeries about this little exchange of power, and some of them are planning some foolish uprising or another. Offenders will need to be imprisoned. I’ve arranged for extra space in the tunnels and extra caverns to be made into cells.”

There were already at least a hundred cells carved out in the deepest chambers of the mountain, left over from the War four and a half centuries ago.

“How many prisoners are you planning on having…My Queen?” I tacked on the honorific at the end.

She shrugged. “There are entire villages that need to be dealt with. You’ll see. I want you at the forefront with some of mine. I’ll be dividing the courts between you and several of my lieutenants. By the end of the week, I want you up in the courts dealing with the masses appropriately.”

Horror squirmed in my stomach as I realized what she was planning. Imprisoning the royals, the key players in her twisted little game, that made sense. But she truly was planning a full-scale takeover.

I couldn’t leave my Court defenseless as I had planned. “The honor is mine, my Queen. But surely you don’t plan on extending your forces all the way north?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Well, for one thing, the war bands of Illyria are hardly a threat right now. They’re indeed a fearsome power, but only if united by Rhysand. Otherwise, they’ll never unite under one front, they prefer to clash with one another. If you leave them be, they’ll probably take out some of their own weak members. As for the cities…well, you’ve visited Hewn City. They’ll take a liking to your reign anyway.”

She wrinkled her nose at me. “You speak so ineloquently. But Rhysand did say the same thing, albeit with a much finer tongue.” She mused

“Then, you know I speak the truth. You must expect that I have loyalty to my birth court.” I pointed out as breezily as possible, ignoring the insult borne of my human upbringing.

"And what of the towns and villages that have no nobles or war bands to fight amongst themselves?"

"The towns are remote and defenseless. Any rebellion could be quelled when the need arose. Why extend your troops so far North and raze what isn't even a threat?"

Amarantha considered it. “I’ll allow it, for now. As a favor to Rhysand. But I will be sending a squadron of soldiers to be permanently stationed there.”

I clenched the side of the chair to avoid slumping over in relief.

“Then, your will is mine.” I dipped my head.

Tag List:

@fireheart-of-your-dreams @rowaelinforeverworld @lord-douglas-the-third @whilma-warfstache @AGNEZ312

Comment or send an ask if you want to be tagged! As always, thank you for reading.

#acotar #acomaf #feysand #feysand fic #a court of thorns and roses #rhysand #feyre #acowar #under the mountain #acotar au #amarantha #beneath the dark #btd #mine #kate's writing #kat's writing

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rpmemestores · 4 years

Text

100 Random Muse Questions

Under a read more for length!

What is/would be your muse’s favorite salad dressing?

Should killing for a reason still be punishable as murder? What about if places use death as punishment for murder? Is that murder?

What would your muse consider a good reason to kill another person?

Is death truly an end, or merely a new beginning?

In a conversation, what is more important to your muse: What you say, how much you say, or how you say it?

Does your muse liken social interaction to a game of strategy, to think on every move with, or does your muse speak freely with little concern? If it depends on who they are speaking with, how does it differ between people?

What's your muse's opinion on hunting?

What's your muse's opinion on cannibalism?

What's your muse's opinion on worship? Does it ever help anyone in their daily life? What's your muse's opinion on those who don't believe in any faith or gods?

Are mortals destined for a greater plane of existence than the mortal realm we know?

How does your muse feel about marriage, and the general expectation that one should and would get kids?

Does your muse ever wish they were born in a different time period or in a different place?

What kinds of artistic skills does your muse have? In what situations do they make use of them, and what significance do they have to your muse?

How many different types of love does your muse believe in?

What is your muse’s definition of love, and how much value do they believe it has?

What is the value of art according to your muse? Is everything art, or does it have restrictions? What is their personal definition of art?

What makes something a person? When can something justly be without personal rights, according to your muse?

Can something ever be more than a person?

If someone only does good for fear of divine retribution, can they really be considered good?

Do people who only act for fear of divine retribution have any right to judge people who do bad for fear of retribution by a superior?

What is your muse's definition of sound? Does this result in a definite answer to the question of whether a falling tree with no one around to hear it makes a sound?

What would your muse consider a fate worse than death?

Your muse has been offered the chance to have three people of their choosing killed without consequence. Who would it be? Would they still agree to it if it had as consequence that a random person they knew would die as well?

Is fear the mark of a coward, or the only thing that makes courage possible?

How does your muse know the world exists beyond their own perception? Or do they not believe that at all?

What is the most ridiculous cultural phenomenon, according to your muse?

Someone could resurrect a single person in your muse's life? Who would your muse choose to bring back, and why? What about if they had to sacrifice another as cost? Who would they sacrifice? What if the sacrifice had to be someone they love?

What is the personal creation myth your muse has for the world they live in?

What is the highest virtue, and what is the greatest crime/sin, in the eyes of your muse?

Is ignorance truly bliss, or just another way one can bring suffering to an individual?

If there was a choice between living joyfully at the cost of complete and lasting ignorance or ultimate knowledge at the cost of being miserable for the rest of their days, what would your muse pick?

What’s the highest price your muse would be willing to pay for the sake of knowledge?

What is the highest price your muse is willing to pay for happiness?

What is more valuable? Inherent talent or earned skill? Is there any personal value to be had in something you were naturally good at?

Is god an entity or just a title?

If you help someone who doesn't wish for it, is it truly helping them and were you right to do so?

What's your muse's opinion on food waste?

Is your muse a picky eater? Why?

What is the strangest thing your muse has ever eaten, as far as they're concerned?

If your muse was given the chance to change one of their most deplorable traits, would they? What do they personally believe to be this trait?

Does your muse believe it is helpful to live by a personal motto or have a mantra you recite to yourself each day? What does your muse do to stay motivated?

Does your muse think it is worse to try and fail, or to give up without having tried at all?

Is creativity a form of insanity? Does true creativity take a measure of insanity, or is creativity its own thing altogether?

Does your muse feel it is better to be creative or to always stick to a formula?

Someone has had a miserable life, and wishes to rid themselves of their memories. Does your muse consider this an act of cowardice? Would they do the same, if they could? Would your muse consider someone who has lost all memories to be the same person as before or a new person in the same skin?

To your muse, is loss of memory a form of death?

What are the different faces/personas your character has with different people? Do they consider one of these to be their true self, or all of them? Or is their true self a basis to build their other selves on? What is “the self” according to your muse?

Does your muse believe there is a meaning to life? What is it, according to them? Do other animals’ lives possess such meaning? Why, or why not?

If a person died and a perfect copy was created of them, with perfectly copied body and mind, including memories, would your muse still consider them the same person? How about if the original had never died?

Does fate and destiny exist, according to your muse? If so, does free will exist? If free will does exist, how would it work with people who are capable of seeing the future? If free will does not exist, is it right to punish people for the crimes they commit?

What is the measure of a good life?

Does your muse value freedom over safety? Does your muse believe in the value of personal freedom at all?

Is it better to know when and how you will die or to die by surprise?

Does a question without a concrete answer have any uses or is one only to think on questions when able to come up with a concrete answer? Do philosophical discussions have any value to your muse? Is knowledge only of value when it can be put to practical use?

What is the difference between knowledge and wisdom, according to your muse?

Is it better to know a little about everything or everything about a little?

What does your muse believe is the most important fact you can know about another person?

In the event of a crime or other wrongdoing, does your muse believe it is most just to judge based on intention, action, or outcome?

Does your muse see any value in negative emotions such as anger, sadness, or envy?

Does love at first sight exist or does one then only love the image they've created of a person in their mind?

If a stupid action led to the death of the one who did it, did they deserve to die? When does one deserve to die? How would your muse feel being the one whose stupid action led to someone else's death?

According to your muse, are random thoughts what show your true self or the way you respond to them?

If someone was horribly wronged to the point of them becoming so consumed with anger that they started wronging everyone else, how would your muse feel about this person and the situation?

Is unconditional love possible or is everything conditional?

How much value does your muse think others should put on societal norms? Do they hold other people to different standards than they hold themselves to? Why?

Is your muse a cat or a dog person? Or a bug or a reptile person? What things does your muse think can never be pets?

Does your muse believe slavery or indentured servitude is better than life on the street? What is their general opinion on slavery?

Is your muse one to let emotions get in the way of logical reasoning and fair judgement? Or do they consider this an integral part of reasoning? Can there be judgement without emotion? Does moral reasoning always require emotion?

Is holding on to tradition a weakness to be gotten rid of or is it something that strengthens a society(either by binding them together or progressing it or making it more durable)?

Does your muse have anyone they consider to be a parental figure? What is a parent? Is the title of parent something bestowed on someone by mere right of granting genetic data/essence to the creation of another, or is it something one earns through caring for a child? What has shaped your muse's perception on this matter?

Are interpersonal relationships required to be a functional individual, or does your muse believe one can live fully on their own without ever having any social contact at all?

How would your muse change their body if given the chance? If your muse already can change their body in any way possible, in what way have they changed their body in the past?

What's your muse's opinion on bragging or showboating? Is your muse prone to this behavior? Are there double standards your muse has regarding this?

Your muse runs into a child who is alone and scared. Upon closer inspection, your muse finds them in possession of stolen property. What do they do?

How good is your muse at making quick decisions? Do they doubt their choices often?

What would your muse think of all the technology available to people in our world? Would they want to know how to use it? If your muse is from a world with similar technology, how would they fare in a world with none of them?

What is your muse's favorite color, and what is their explanation as to why it is their favorite? If they have multiple,why is that? Do they find it odd how people restrict most to choosing only one?

How would your muse fare in a situation where they must share the attention of someone they're close with(For instance: a friend, parent, master, or idol),with someone else? Does your muse not do well with divided attention? What if the roles were reversed and now your muse was the one who had to divide their attention?

How does your muse feel about people with multiple partners? Is this different depending on the gender, gender expression, or race of the person in question?

Does your muse believe there are restrictions on what clothes can be worn by what people? What kind of restrictions are these?

Does your muse believe that positivity can have a negative effect on someone?

A lot of people in fandoms connect strongly to characters within works they are fans of. What about your muse? How strongly does your muse feel connected to characters in the media they consume?

Does your character feel empathy for fictional characters in the media they consume or do they view it all rather impartially and aren't moved at all?

When in a confrontation, does your muse go on the attack, the defense, try to calm the situation, or just back away? Why is this?

How does your muse cope with being upset, angry, or scared? Do they reach out to people for support or generally keep it to themselves? How do they react when someone reaches out to them for emotional support?

How would a service animal have changed your muse's life or change it now? Do they know anyone with a service animal? If they have a service animal, how has this animal affected their life?

Does your muse believe the government they live in has the best interest of its people in mind? How would they change the current laws set in place?

How does your muse perceive the passage of time?

Does your muse ever worry whether their good/kind deeds were truly them seeking good/to be kind or just them seeking attention? What's their opinion on kindness in general? If your muse is an asshole, just a right bad bastard, has your muse ever consciously done any kind deeds?

When is lying bad? When is it good? When is it cruel, and is it ever kind?

What is your muse's opinion on birthdays?

How does your muse usually get around? Would they change their main mode of transportation if they could?

What is a benign physical sensation that your muse just can't stand for no explainable reason?

In an argument, is your muse prone to acting like they are far more knowledgeable than they actually are?

Are there any specific physical features your muse finds attractive(aesthetically or otherwise)? Which are those?

What physical features does your muse find repulsive?

Are there personality traits your muse finds attractive? Which are those?

What personality traits does your muse find repulsive?

How does your muse apologize? What does your muse consider a proper apology? Is this dependent on the person and what they are apologizing for or is it a one-size-fits-all deal?

Does your muse apologize a lot? Why or why not?

#rp meme #rp memes #sfw rp meme #ask meme #question meme #headcanon meme

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novantinuum · 5 years

Text

Ballroom Etiquette

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 2.8K~

Summary: As much as it pains him to admit it amidst all the boring protocol, Pearl is absolutely right. There’s no room for imperfection at a Homeworld Ball.

In which Steven is publicly introduced to the Gems of Homeworld as Pink Diamond, and he experiences the first true stage fright of his life.

(Canon compliant, a missing scene set during ‘Together Alone.’)

You can find the AO3 link in the reblogs! (I have to omit it from the original post these days to ensure this will show up in the tags.) If you enjoyed this, I’d greatly appreciate your support over there as well.

Ballroom Etiquette “Do we have to say all this?” he questions, nose scrunching as he squints at the string of dialogue displayed on the view screen that Pearl’s been so gracious to translate out of written Gem for him.

His guardian wets her finger, and begins the meticulous and daunting task of coaxing his flyaway curls to stand still. For once in his life he doesn’t protest.

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid we have no choice,” she mutters, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear as he continues to commit the mini speech to memory.

“But it’s all so stiff!”

“It kinda feels like we’re in one of the Regency Era dramas my mom watches,” Connie comments, peeking over his shoulder to read the screen, and shrugs. “I always thought they were pretty boring, really.” She’s wearing different clothes now, namely that skirt and blouse she showed up to Kevin’s party in, and her dark hair is tied back. She looks lovely, he thinks, feeling his cheeks grow warm.

“Well, boring or not, it’s very important that we uphold every Homeworld custom to the letter tonight,” Pearl says, and crosses her arms. “And that includes all the stiff dialogue.”

He visibly deflates, his shoulders hunching inwards. “Awww man, can’t we like... adapt it a little or somethin’?”

Any and all remaining color drains out of the pale Gem’s face at his suggestion.

“Not with White Diamond in attendance, goodness no,” she says in a fervent whisper, eyes blown wide. She rapidly scans their surroundings, as if paranoid someone unwanted is listening in to their rebellious conversations. “You have to understand, she won’t settle for anything less than complete perfection!”

“Doesn’t feel like perfection,” Steven mumbles, glaring daggers at the view screen in hand.

“Yes, and I’m sorry for that. I know none of this is ideal, but like you said— we need to talk to White. And I think this may be the thing that finally coerces her out of her head.”

“Hey, it’s just for tonight, right?” Connie says with a reassuring smile. Gently, she rests her hand on his arm. “We’ll be fine!”

He breathes deep, letting her solid presence ground him. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do this.”

“Excellent!” Pearl nods. “I’ll let Blue and Yellow’s pearls know we’re about to begin.”

She spins on her heels and leaves the ballroom’s connecting chamber with such refined, habitual grace that it sends a physical pang through his heart just to witness it. Sure, of course she’s worth far more as an individual than the endless servitude of the place from whence she came, but watching her interact with other Gems here on Homeworld carries a weight far greater than any burden he can imagine. The ease at which she slots back into old routine bit-by-bit— seemingly without thinking, from an outsider’s perspective— it stings.

Inhaling evenly, he eyes the thick curtain they’re set to enter the ballroom through in but a few minutes. Beyond, the Gems of the courts await the return of their beloved diamond. At least, who they believe to be their beloved diamond. Steven genuinely doesn’t know how these Homeworld Gems will react to him. He doesn’t exactly look like the Pink they remember, after all. Nevertheless, their excitement is palpable, hundreds of low chittering voices echoing through the crystal studded rafters despite the usual decorum of such a ball. Frowning, he nervously shuffles his feet underneath him as he tries and fails not to think about the near future. The white pom poms floating at the tips of his shoes follow his motion perfectly. The outfit the Pebbles made him may fit like a second skin, but the longer he wears it the more it feels wrong... in the ‘disrespecting the deceased’ sort of way.

He’s honestly never considered himself the type to get all nervous about crowds until this very moment. Sweat beads at his brow as his mind swims at the thought of their incoming entrance. His fidgeting hands grow clammy. Compared to the number in attendance tonight, his past Beach-a-Palooza performances are but a mere pit stop. The thing is, at least home in Beach City he has the reassurance that everyone personally knows him. At least then he knows he has nothing to prove.

Here? His every word— heck, his every waking breath— commands the sole line drawn between life and eternal corruption. Fall flat in front of this crowd, and he can kiss saving the bubbled Gems goodbye.

As much as it pains him to admit it amidst all the boring protocol, Pearl is absolutely right. There’s no room for imperfection at a Homeworld Ball.

Music begins to chime from inside the ballroom as Pearl, Steven, and Connie dutifully line up behind the opaque curtain, a number of Gems he hasn’t gotten the chance to officially meet yet still skittering around them in a logistics motivated frenzy. The melody is played on no kind of instrument he audibly recognizes— a thought that briefly excites him in its learning potential before he realizes no, no, there’s no time to waste daydreaming about enriching yourself with other forms of Homeworld culture. Regardless, the overall cadence of the piece brings back faint memories of the traveling circus Dad brought him to in Ocean Town once, on his sixth birthday. Which is a rather apt comparison, since that’s exactly what all of this feels like. One gigantic three-ring circus.

“By the way, the Diamonds told me to tell you that they want you to present your aura when you enter,” Pearl whispers, straightening her sash.

His brow creases, newfound worry rising to replace the fear he left behind.

“My what?”

“Aura. Theoretically, all diamonds have one, and they think it’d be helpful in convincing the courts that you really have Pink’s gem. Mind you, I’m just the messenger.”

“But I don’t know how to do that,” he blurts out in a mild panic, glancing from her to his gloved hands. “I barely know what I’m doing at this ball in the first place!”

“I’m sure as long as you try your best, everything will work out fine,” Connie says. “They have to understand by now that you don’t have any of your mom’s memories about this sorta stuff.”

“I’m afraid you overestimate their objectivity,” Pearl mutters, peeking through the curtain briefly before turning back to face the two of them. “But otherwise, yes.” With a reassuring smile, she kneels so they’re at eye level and calms his nervous hands in her own. “Listen… We’re all so proud of you for even attempting this, Steven. Just do the best you can following their customs. You’ll get through it, I promise.”

His heart grows a little lighter as she gives his hands a light squeeze, further reinforcing the sense of groundedness that hangs in such a delicate balance right now.

“All of us will,” his best friend adds, nodding towards the ivory Gem. “Together.”

“Together,” he echoes, and immediately pulls the two of them into a tight embrace. Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes as he focuses his mind on the comforting weight of their arms wrapped around him. “Thanks, you guys.”

“Ahem!” a familiar voice interrupts.

He looks up, their hug loosening, only to see Yellow Diamond’s Pearl looming over him. There’s almost something smug about the way she regards them all, eyes narrowed and pointed nose held aloft. He wonders if Yellow sent her personally. Notably, when her gaze briefly flickers towards Pearl, her mouth curves into a haughty sneer.

“Pink Diamond,” she says to him with a snappy Homeworld salute. “Whenever you are ready to begin, just let your pearl know. Goodness knows we can get ever so distracted. Perhaps the Diamonds should finally have us all replaced.”

Pearl freezes, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Even Connie covers her mouth in shock at her bluntness.

“No, no, I was just— talking to her, it was all me,” Steven explains, gesturing wide. “She did nothing wrong, a-and…” His eyes snap open wide upon realizing the self-depreciation evident in her comment. Perhaps the Diamonds should finally have us all replaced. And she said it with such nonchalance. Once more, his heart aches for the mistreatment of the Gems on Homeworld. “And neither did you!”

“If you say so, My Diamond. In any case, my Diamond will see you inside the ballroom shortly.”

With this final remark, Yellow Pearl turns on her heels and promptly removes herself from their presence. He watches her stalk off with a pensive frown, a sudden wave of melancholy flowing like ice through his veins. It’s a stark reminder of the truth he doesn’t quite want to admit after his previous starry-eyed optimism: that even if he can mend the bonds between the Crystal Gems and the Diamonds, even if he can heal all the corrupted Gems, there’s still a lot of inequality and unfair treatment on Homeworld they have to sort out. He has a lot of work cut out for him no matter what, that’s for sure.

“Well, guess we can’t stall this any longer,” Connie says. “You ready?”

Despite his currently conflicted emotions, he manages a grin. “As I’ll ever be. Pearl, you’ll be okay, right?”

“Hah, me?” she scoffs, gesturing at herself with a sly smile so befitting of the confident, fearless rebel he’s always known her as. “I participated in hundreds of balls during my time here with Pink. What’s one more?”

Squaring her shoulders back, she passes between the curtains and enters the ballroom. Immediately, their audience falls silent in anticipation.

“I still don’t know how to do the aura thing,” Steven frantically whispers to Connie, cupping his mouth with his hand. “I think it’s what I did in the battle on the beach, when I was stuck in that weird psychic ghost zone, but I’m not sure!”

“Well, what were you thinking during it?”

“Uh… mostly, I was tired of people fighting about it, so… I guess I just really wanted them to finally know the truth?”

“Then maybe you should try focusing on that,” she suggests, smoothing out the wrinkles on her skirt. “You’ll do great out there, I know you will!”

“If I may have everyone’s attention,” he hears Pearl declare from beyond the curtain, and promptly snaps to attention, preparing himself to enter. The almost robotic cadence of her voice as she’s forced back into her former role in yet another fashion is disturbingly jarring. “Presenting, safe on Homeworld for the first time in over five millennia, the kind and charismatic elegance that is Pink Diamond!”

He breathes deep one last time, in and out, and with Connie at his side (not even the stringent customs of the diamonds could scare him into presenting their relationship as anything but that of equals) he slips past the thick curtains. The music cuts off.

Immediately, his heart beating double time, his senses are assaulted by indiscriminate flashes of light and color. These further coalesce into recognizable shapes, into rows of Homeworld Gems of all courts and cuts, Gems as far as the eye could see. His hands jitter at his side. The amount of people watching, it’s- it’s unfathomable, and uncomfortable, and they’re all staring directly at him. Curiously, expectantly. But wait, what are they—?

He finally spots Pearl, his guardian standing stiff in fifth position at the foot of Pink Diamond’s throne, all the way across the vast reaches of the ballroom. A subtle smile curving across her face, the Gem nods at him, and it’s exactly the encouragement he needs.

“They want you to present your aura when you enter,” the Pearl of the past reminds him. “They think it’d be helpful in convincing the courts that you really have Pink’s gem.”

“I still don’t know how to do the aura thing,” he admits to Connie, hands growing clammy.

“Well, what were you thinking during it?”

“I guess I just really wanted them…”

“...to know the truth,” he whispers in completion, steeling his nerves. Even if this doesn’t work the way he intends, he at least has to try. Everything that happens tonight, he thinks, anchoring his mind and soul on all the bubbled Gems waiting for him back at home. This is for you guys.

His eyes flutter shut, and— aligning his thoughts on the same themes of radical light, hope, and love that permeated his sense of self when confronting the Diamonds— he extends his arms. Simultaneously, a strangely familiar rush of energy radiates outwards from his gem. Next to him, he hears Connie let out an awed gasp. Steven opens his eyes.

He… he actually did it! The entire ballroom is bathed in pink, the air nearly shimmering as the Gems in attendance audibly react to the reality of this revelation. Eyes widen in dumbfounded shock all throughout the crowd. Some begin excitedly chittering to their neighbors, while others fall silent in the wake of their slowly receding disbelief. In the front row, a stocky maroon Gem struggles to contain her tears. He can’t help but breathe a soft laugh of relief, knowing this success brings him one step closer to convincing White to help. The throne, however, lies so many steps further.

He and Connie cruise across the ballroom floor as fast as they can gracefully manage, desperate to get out of the spotlight. The fact that everyone’s focus is squared directly on him honestly leaves his skin crawling. In literally any other scenario he’d probably revel in being the center of attention, but here, presented in the guise of his mother, all of this feels wrong. It feels fabricated, insincere. Yes, he may have the same gem, but that doesn’t make them the same person. He’s not Her.

It’s the truth no one on Homeworld seems to understand.

Finally, they climb the steps to the pink throne. As rehearsed, Connie falls in place beside Pearl, demurely crossing her feet. At the foot of the throne, he turns to look back at the diverse crowd. Seeing who they believe to be their diamond standing whole before them once more, they fall silent. Sweat beads on his brow as his mouth bobs open. Words... Oh gosh, what are the words? His short speech?? His breath quickens as the silence drags on far too long. This is bad, this is so, so bad. He’s so sure he had it memorized a moment ago, but now he can barely remember a single syllable of it! His limbs go rigid, frozen in place under the weight of Homeworld’s judgement.

(He can even sense Connie’s eyes pinned on him, and he’s not sure what to feel about that.)

“Greeting,” Pearl whispers from the corner of her mouth.

“Uh... h-hello, loyal subjects!” he stammers, painfully aware how off-script he is, “I—“

A warm hand slips into his, a perfect fit. Connie. She gives his fingers a gentle squeeze. He inhales through his nose, wholly focusing himself on the solidness of the ground beneath his feet. Like a river breaking through a dam, the words surge forth.

“My courts,” he recites in as posh and refined a tone he can manage, “I appreciate having you all in attendance tonight, to celebrate the grand occasion of my return. That’s why, uh… As such, if White Diamond is in approval, this ball will mark the start of Era Three.”

Pearl gives a deep curtsey, gesturing wide at the assembled crowd. “Gems previously belonging to Pink’s court may now present themselves,” she says impassively, and then returns to fifth position.

“Thank you, Pearl!”

Her arms and hands automatically shoot into the traditional salute over her chest. “You’re very welcome, My Diamond.”

And with those very words, the spell over the crowd dissipates. The music resumes. A line of Pink court Gems begins to assemble at the front of the ballroom, preparing themselves for presentation. Nearly buzzing with excess adrenaline, he jumps up to reach the throne’s seat.

“You did wonderful, Steven,” Pearl says from below.

“Thanks for the help,” he grins, kicking his feet to slow his descent. His feet touch down with barely a hair on his head ruffled. “Geeze, am I glad that’s over,” he sighs, and plops down to sit in the massive pink throne with his legs criss-crossed. “I’ve never dealt with stage fright like that in my whole life!”

“Now you probably understand what I felt like at my middle school dance a few years ago,” Connie laughs.

“Heh, yeah! I—” he runs his fingers through the short curls at the nape of his neck— “I just hope it was enough to make a good impression.”

“I’m sure you did,” she says. “Anyways, there’s no use fussing about it now. What happens, happens. And hey, who knows? Pearl said there’d be dancing, right? Maybe the rest of this ball will be kinda fun!”

#su #steven universe #connie maheswaran #pearl #su fanfic #yellow pearl #my writing stuff

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septemberpoems · 6 years

Text

Pact of the Shipper

You made a deal with a powerful entity way beyond your understanding. Blue eyes stare at you unblinking as you sign up for a life of servitude that could grant you immense power, but also mutually assured destruction. He gives you a Tumblr, the words Welcome to My Twisted Mind in purple letters on a black cover, the first page oddly listing all your interests and every page of the DSM-V remotely applicable to you.

His true name is David Karp, but you call him Daddy.

This is the Pact of the Shipper.

Cantrips:

Infestation Someone said something less-than-positive about your otp in the tag. They have anon asks enabled. Target has to make a con save or take 1d6 poison damage from your anon hate and, if it fails, is stunned for one round as they go on a short hiatus.

“Do you love the color of the sky?” (Lightning Lure) You throw out the aforementioned post at a creature you can see, forcing it to make a strength save to scroll through the entire thing. If it fails it’s forced to scroll all the way up again to click the old reblog, taking 1d8 psychic damage.

Create Dumpsterfire You conjure a dumpsterfire that fills a 5ft cube. Creatures must also make saving throws if they move into its space or end their turn there. The dumpsterfire will spread if the environment is susceptible.

Mutuals (Friends) Choose a creature you can see that isn’t hostile toward you. You gain advantage on charisma checks toward it for the duration. When the spell ends, the creature looks through your tumblr and discovers problematic discourse from two years ago, possibly attacking or getting other payback.

Spells

1st lvl Cause fear Target must succeed wis saving throw or become frightened of you. The target can repeat the saving throw at each end of its turn. The spell has no effect on deactivated accounts or pornbots.

Comprehend Keysmash You can understand any written language while the spell lasts. While you cannot discern the words of a spoken language, you understand the general gist of it and can respond in kind.

What colour is this dress? (Armor of Agathys) Blue and black? White and gold? Who knows. You gain 5 temporary hitpoints for the duration. If a creature hits you with a melee attack while you have them, it takes 5 cold or fire damage depending on what color you think it is.

2nd lvl Gpoy (Mirror image) Three posts appear, all of them of situations you’ve tagged with #Gpoy at some point. Each time a creature attacks you, roll a d20 to see if they hit the posts instead.

Mapcrunch (Misty Step) You teleport to the middle of a badly rendered forest. You have no sense of direction and have to rely on street signs to find your own way to the airport.

Suggestion You further a rumor you have no factual basis for to a creature of your choice that you can see and that can hear and understand you. You’re limited to 140 characters. Target makes a wisdom save. On failure, it spreads the rumor and goes on a rant.

3rd lvl All Hail the Glow Cloud (Gaseous Form) You turn a willing creature you touch and all it’s carrying into a mist for up to an hour.

The Ballpit (Hunger of Hadar) A 20-foot-radius void appears. All creatures in it get an extra hour in the ballpit. The void’s area is difficult terrain. Any creature that starts its turn in it takes 2d6 psychic damage. Any creature that ends its turn there must pass a dexterity save or take 2d6 poison damage from that one guy who peed in it.

Summon Lesser Demon You summon demons from the abyss. Roll to determine what appears: Clippy, Tumbeasts or a full copy of the script of Bee Movie in fanmail format.

4th lvl None of You Are Free of Sin (Banishment) Blocked, blocked, blocked. A creature you see must make a charisma save or be banished to another plane of existence.

I am Forcibly Removed From the Premises (Dimension Door) You instantaneously teleport yourself to any spot in range.

Summon Greater Demon You summon a demon of your choosing from the abyss. Boneghazi, Loss.jpg, and that daddy kink-cumsicle post are level-appropriate examples.

5th lvl Spooky Scary Skeletons (Dance Macabre) Up to five small or medium corpses you can see become undead, drafted to fight in the Skeleton War under your command for an hour.

Hold Monster When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it. Choose a creature you can see. It must pass a charisma save or be paralyzed. You tenderly hold the creature in your arms. At the end of its turn it can make another save, ending the embrace on a success. Or maintaining it, if the feelings are mutual.

London Calling (Infernal Calling) You summon Sherlock Holmes from the BBC adaptation. He appears in an unoccupied space that you can see, unfriendly toward you and your terribly dull companions. On your turn you can use a free action to attempt to issue a verbal command, your charisma check versus his insight. You have advantage if you know the actor’s real name as opposed to the Tumblrised versions.

Enervation You’re just that annoying. Choose a creature you see to make a dexterity save. On success it takes 2d8 psychic damage. On failure, the target takes 4d8 damage from bashing its own head against the wall to make your talking stop. Whenever the spell deals damage you regain hit points equal to half of the amount of damage taken.

6th lvl True Seeing You’re so far down the meta spiral you solved the Reichenbach Fall before it even aired. For the duration of the spell you have truesight, notice all hidden references implying Destiel and/or Johnlock and you can see into the writer’s room, all with a range of 120 ft.

Don’t Blink! One creature of your choosing has to make a constitution save. On a failed save it is restrained. After three saves, the spell fades. After three fails, the creature turns to stone.

Devil’s Trap (Circle of Death) You recreate Sam and Dean’s devil trap with black pearl powder. Each creature in a 60 ft radius sphere must make a constitution saving throw, taking 8d6 necrotic damage on a failed save, or half as much on a success. Should’ve used the salt.

7th lvl AU (Plane Shift) You and up to eight willing mutuals who link hands in a circle around an open Ao3 page are transported to its alternate universe. You can use this spell to banish an unwilling creature within melee range to an AU of your choosing.

The Police Box (Forcecage) It’s smaller on the inside! An immobile, invisible, cube-shaped prison composed of magical force springs into existence around an area you choose within range.

Feels (Power Word Pain) Cas saying dying, John watching Sherlock fall, Bad Wolf Bay… You speak a quote that causes waves of intense pain to assail one creature you can see within range. If the target has 100 hit points or fewer, it is subject to crippling pain. Otherwise the spell has no effect on it.

8th lvl I Can’t Even (Feeblemind) A creature you can see takes 4d6 psychic damage and makes an intelligence save. On failure its intelligence and charisma become 1. It can’t spell, unlock its phone, understand language or communicate legibly by any means. However, it can identify other shippers, and follow and protect them. It can repeat the save once an hour, ending the spell on a success. Repeat exposure to the source of I Can’t Even will require additional saving throws.

Dominate Monster You knew exactly what you were looking for when you clicked that tag on Ao3. A creature you see must pass a wisdom save or be charmed. If you’re fighting the monster it rolls an automatic success because this isn’t 50 Shades and safe, sane and consensual is a must. If the spell succeeds, until the end of your next turn, the creature takes only the actions you decide and nothing you don’t allow it to unless it uses the agreed upon safeword. Using an 8th lvl spell slot the duration is 1 hour, using a 9th lvl spell slot extends it to up to 8 hours.

Mishapocalypse (Maddening Darkness) He is everywhere. Nobody can escape Him. Misha fills a 60-foot-radius sphere, spreading around themes, into posts and inboxes. Missing E, Xkit or similar addons can’t penetrate the onslaught of pictures of Misha. If a creature stays on their dash, it makes a wisdom save. On a failed save, its theme and icon also becomes Misha. On a success, only its icon becomes Misha.

9th lvl Canon Otp (Psychic Scream) Up to ten shippers of opposing otps of your choice must make an intelligence save. On a fail, a target takes 14d6 psychic damage and is stunned. On a success, it takes half damage and isn’t stunned. If a target is killed by this spell, its head explodes.

I Was There For Yahoo Groups (Foresight) An old fandom veteran, nothing fazes you anymore. Fandom wars, sites falling into the sea, it’s all old news. For 8 hours you can’t be surprised and have advantage on attack rolls, ability checks and saves. In addition, other shippers have disadvantage on attack rolls against you.

Reaching lvl 20 you become a SuperWhoLock. An ancient creature everyone has heard of, seen traces of, but nobody has ever claimed to be one out loud. It is a branding as much as it is a title, striking the average population with both nausea and fear.

#homebrew #dnd #shitposting #superwholock #so I did a thing #mine

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asifzschool · 5 years

Text

The Minority Rights Monopoly of a Hindutva Nation

The game From seventy years, it has been the favorite game of Hindutva. The greatest monopoly in this world - that is called minority rights.

There is a traffic stop here. The signal is red. Unless you are a minority, you will never know how does it feel. You can not put yourself in the shoes of a minority, if you are a majority. For me, being a minority is an everyday thing. I struggle with my religious identity all the time. I face questions, I reply them, and I get into arguments. In this world of Islamophobia, my faith is put on trial every day. I know perfectly well that nobody wants to become a minority. If I were a Hindu, I would be grateful for it. I wish I were a Hindu! I wish I were a Christian! A Buddhist, a Taoist - anything at all but a Muslim! If I were something else, I would be free. I wouldn't have this ordeal. I wouldn't have to go through things I now fight with for being a Muslim. And I know the ways around that word, minority. There are too many ways to use this word, to abuse it and exploit it. It is a legit word. In all context and circumstances, a minority is a minority. It means that there is a group of people who do not posses the same privileges as their majority counterpart. And the world is always against them. In our subcontinent that exists down the Himalayas, we have been majorities and minorities from hundreds of years. From the last seventy years, it has become a game. Instead of cards, dice, deeds, game cash and tokens, we have people here. Real people. Mostly, we play it through riots.

We don't purchase properties. We plunder them. We confiscate properties left behind by our enemies. During riots, we forcibly take them away. We take over controls. We take things that did not belong to us, had it not been for a religious bloodshed.

This is the reality of Indian subcontinent. The game is our destiny. All of us, Hindus and Muslims. Our ancestors played it. They rolled the dice. They kept playing, until the last day of their existence. They've left the court afterwards. It was for us to take over. And now we're playing it. This is our history. Made of countless tales of religious wars, creating and separating countries. That is how India, Pakistan and Bangladesh were created, each with their own religious agenda. Far from it all, I live here in Malaysia, a country where nobody is playing games with religion. Here, people spend away their whole lifespan peacefully. Without trouble. Malay Muslims, the local Tamil Indians and the Malay Chinese. The last time a riot broke out was in 1969. In the Indian subcontinent, it is a completely different story. Rolling the dice Bangladesh is the youngest of nations down the Himalayas. This is where I am from. The official agenda of creating this country was secularism, which turned into pro-India servitude soon enough. While India is your neighbor, trust me, you can not afford to be a secular. If secularism means watching mosques destroyed and keeping your 'Muslim' mouth shut, then you can. You can simply shut up. That's absolutely fine, with both slaves and masters. The relationship between Hindus and Muslims in this territory has always been that of either slaves or masters. Masters were rich, slaves were poor. This is the reason behind the creation of Pakistan, to free Muslims from Hindutva's slavery. That is how the poor, low class Muslims became a Middle class. Bangladesh broke away from it in early 70s. It was East Pakistan. The only Pakistan that remains now was the West Wing of it. Since the beginning, India was rolling the dice. To roll the dice is to create an issue. Mostly, a religious disturbance. India has always been the mightiest in population, in economy and in every other aspects. So, the other countries nearby were expected to pay tax to it. To their master, India. The history is long, and endless. Babri Mosque, in 1992, shaped much of what it is now.

People witnessed multiple narratives from both sides. Muslims had their mosque destroyed, crushed to the ground, while Hindus were reading a book called 'Lajja', authored by a woman called Taslima Nasreen. Muslims called the book a 'BJP propaganda'.

It was the biggest demolition of something so big of its kind, in the recent history, before 9/11. When Twin Towers were destroyed, 9/11 replaced the Babri day in calendar in the magnitude of events. Back then, Hindutva rolled the dice. It created the saga. Riots broke out everywhere. In Pakistan, India and Bangladesh. In 2019, Hindutva rolled the dice once again. Again a woman, this time. Because in the age of colonialism, which likes to camouflage itself as liberty, female is the right gender. Things become soft core when it is a woman. Besides, New York Times can always decorate its headlines with words like 'Meet the Woman.'

So we had a Priya Saha. She went straight to Donald Trump. Could it have been a Muslim woman, in the stead of her place? Who would it be? Malala Yousufzai? She's a Nobel laureate, and she's a Muslim. She could have gone to Donald Trump and expressed her distress. But it would risk her image. Already she is mocked at in her own country, Pakistan. Then who? A Gujarat riot victim? Somebody from Assam? The Indian state where they were hunting down the Muslim poets right before it happened? There were some poets among them who were women. They did not get a US visa. Priya Saha got it. I still remember the day before it happened. People in Facebook were posting about this 'Miya poetry', which were elegies of the Assamese Muslim minority. They were written in the local dialect. A dialect that is not considered entirely 'polite' or 'standard', when it comes to the traditional literature.

The next day, Priya Saha's video went viral. It was a short clip. Roughly, a few seconds. It contained a footage of 'the Hindu Lady and Donald Trump', almost a Disney story of an unknown woman holding hands of a US President.

For what I know, I've never heard of Priya Saha before. I did not know who she was. The first time I learnt about her was 18 July 2019, after her video popped up in Facebook. When the clip was out, everybody in Bangladesh forgot about everything else. For the next thirty days, Facebook was all about Priya Saha. She alleged, 37 million Hindus are 'missing' from Bangladesh. That is a genocide. Probably the largest in the world. We have our war jokes there, about 3 million people who had supposedly perished in the war against Pakistan. Now the Bangladeshi people, the Muslims - were looking for these 'missing' 37 millions. In Bangladesh, it became a new joke. Because we always count in 'millions'. She said, Bangladesh still has 18 million Hindus. Some of them were out proving her number. Among the 37 millions, probably 30 million Hindus were never born, who could have been born otherwise, had Muslims been kind to them. In the Muslim majority nation, it took the joke even further. Not being born started to seem like a thing that's funnier. If we count from 1947, that is a true number - although. That was the year of India and Pakistan's creation. Had the demographics flowed on the way it did before, we might have had 30 million unborn Hindus who would grow into adults by now, plus 7 millions more who were displaced and exiled.

Priya Saha referenced a professor, who has a Muslim name, Abul Barkat. He disowned her statement.

Once again, Muslims were the violent majority. Their reaction was something Westerns would call 'outrageous'.

Thanks to BJP, that it exists. There are, somehow, balance in things. The Bangladeshi Muslims know about their existence. We did not want to deliver BJP their next propaganda, after Nasreen's 'Lajja'. That is how the riot did not happen. We were expecting a riot. We were scared of it. But the fear of a BJP propaganda making gains and profits was much more greater than that - to the Muslim majority. That fear, stopped the riots. Not a single Hindu died. Not a single Hindu was killed. There were no mass rapes of Hindus. No Hindu girls were stripped nude in broad daylight. BJP wanted all of it to happen. They did not, unlike before. From time to time, such things did happen in Bangladesh. And they gave BJP a solid ground for their arguments. This time, there was no bloodshed. No massacre. At the end of the day, it made the Muslim majority feel more confident. This was the first time they ran down a Hindu woman for a complain like this. In the recent Awami regime, that too was unheard of.

Some of them felt more radicalized. The Hindus were silent. The Muslims accused them of 'having more privileges’ under the Awami regime. As they said, Hindus were getting more jobs, government was hiring them in more top posts and etc. Hindus did not reply to it. They did not want to make the noise louder. They wanted it to die down, as minorities do. In US, Priya Saha did not make news, simply. Nobody in Trump's country heard of her from the US media. The New York Times was busy with Ilhan Omar's minority politics. Not that it did not know about Saha, it decided to skip it. Regardless of the turmoil in the South Asian country that their President has caused.

BJP did not shy away from it, though. They protested against the Bangladeshi Muslims in front of the country's consulate in West Bengal. BJP did not deny that it rolled the dice, either. They admitted it quite frankly, that they sponsored Priya Saha.

They rolled the dice. The game started. The show was on.

Priya Saha went on saying, 'I've learnt all this from Sheikh Hasina, my Prime Minister. She inspired me to say this. Now I feel endangered. My life is threatened.'

The Game After Nothing can be right and wrong at the same time. Either it is right, or it is wrong. BJP kills Muslims for eating beef. Either it is right, or it is wrong.

Muslims threatened Priya Saha and called out their desire to turn her into a whore. Either it is right, or it is wrong. 37 Millions might have been a fat fetched number. But some Hindus were displaced, raped and burnt. Either it is right or it is wrong. So, who is the guilty party here? Who's guilty? BJP, or Muslims? What if they both are criminals? The fact is, nothing is that simple. Nobody is guilty as a community, just as nobody is innocent as a community, either. At least in our part of the world, where these things happen. BJP rose to power after killing thousands of Muslims. If they killed millions, that would have been crazier. They openly threaten their Muslim minority in India with it. They say they will kill millions.

Either that is right, or that is severely wrong. It can't be both at the same time. There was no jury board here. Nobody awarded BJP a 'Freedom of Speech prize', or punished the Muslims - for the Priya Saha episode of Bangladeshi history. The same Awami regime who came to power through BJP's machinery were quick to declare their indifference. Although the PM said that Priya must be given a chance to defend herself. So, the issue was not solved. Priya Saha complained. What after that? Should Muslims change their behaviors towards Hindus? Should BJP change its behavior, towards every other minority around India? People did not have answers to these questions. Everybody knows neither India nor Bangladesh is Malaysia. Here, people use the word 'race' instead. They take courses about interracial relations. Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists live side by side, in the Malaysian society. Most of them don't practice secularism. They practice their own religion. The country's constitution keeps Islam as its state religion - that doesn't stop the Malaysian youngsters from pursuing diverse lifestyles that are completely westernized. Some Malaysian girls choose to wear Hijab, others pick Bikinis. In India, that is impossible. It is sort of impossible in Bangladesh as well, unless you are very rich. You at least have to be from the middle class, with your social securities guaranteed. For us who are from either Bangladesh, India or Pakistan, we don't see our countries going somewhere remotely near to that in the next hundred years. We are a war-torn populace. In Malaysia, we pretend like we don't mind each other. That we are absolutely fine with each other's nationality and presence. Here in Malaysia, Indian and Pakistanis are friends. Even couples. Back home, we are enemies. The deadliest enemies of each other. So, those of us who escaped but still are suffering from irrational homesickness, we look back to our countries. We check Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. We see what is happening. Thus, we live two different realities at the same time. The Malaysian reality and the reality of our homes. After a month, Priya Saha was still hot in newspapers. Here were the Muslims, still blasting her without mercy. However, there were no riots. Only the ISKCON was closing down. That's the only blow the Hindu community has taken.

BJP couldn't make much profit out of it. There wasn't enough materials to write a new novel. Probably, a sequel of 'Lajja.' So, Hindus were unharmed. For the first time perhaps. It is not natural. While Muslims did not harm them, they still kept bashing. Through their words. It was a great insult, for sure. Having no rise of terrorism in the country was an insult, too. BJP was literally insulted, with no terror whatsoever. No temples were exploded with bombs. In Bangladesh, people do tolerate each other. It is not communal harmony, it is tolerance. The very basic of it. Nobody is fanatic enough to drop a bomb in a temple. It is not middle east. But that is of no use to BJP. BJP wants more novels. More Taslima Nasreens. More Hindutva bestsellers. Frankly speaking, once upon a time, this woman's words were dangerous enough to set off a riot in the country. She still keeps setting riots, but in India. If a minority person complains about the sufferings of a minority, can you simply call it Hindutva? Can you silence it? Can you turn down the volume? The question is, should you? Even if it sets off riots? Priya Saha is from the Minority community. Her words were setting off riots. Almost. That is the fact. Had she did not went to Trump, Bangladesh wouldn't be in an almost riot situation. She chose Trump for it. People started questioning, since when did Trump become the jury?

The fact is, the riot was not provoked by Muslim hardliners this time. But here was BJP, deprived of its chocolate. Its unborn bestseller. Like a naughty boy in the street who can't have his ice cream, after the ice cream trolley has went away without stopping.

Now the naughty boy wanted to destroy the world. Because the whole world was criminal enough for having ice-creams. He was deprived of it. He missed. Soon enough, in the following month of August, it was the article 370 of Indian constitution that was tampered with, instead of born and unborn 37 millions. It cracked like a firework in whole Bangladesh, right after Priya Saha. Muslims and Hindus were at it again. That article, in that fucking constitution, gave Kashmir a statehood. Before BJP tampered it, the Indian Kashmir was still a state. The Pakistani Kashmir was Azaad, free.

How easy it is to play with people's lives! Lives of millions! All it takes is a fucking constitution. A Muslim MP in India ripped it apart before walking out of the parliament that day.

37 millions was a joke. 12.5 million people of Kashmir, of which 68% are Muslims, was not even a good tragedy. These millions of Kashmiri Muslims were already 'have been born'. Nobody offered a figure for how many million weren't born there. After BJP passed a bill that changed Article 370, the newly revised constitution was shoved down people's throats. They happened to be Muslims, from Kashmir. It was 5 August 2019, the day India dismissed the article. Exactly 18 days after they cracked Priya Saha.

Right now, Kashmiri Muslims were fleeing for their lives. The Indian Kashmir was no more a state. Now Hindus could purchase lands there, an option they did not have before.

The state/territory was put under a lockdown.

Nobody could get in or out. The internet was cut off. The Kashmiri newspapers stopped. Phones were disconnected. All communications ceased.

Twenty days later, as I'm writing this in the evening of 25th August, the Kashmiri newspapers are still not back online. One of my Kashmiri friend in Malaysia, did receive a phone call from his family in Kashmir the day before yesterday, for the first time after lockdown. Rest of it, nobody knows. In today's world, nobody knows what is happening in a state/territory that is placed under a lockdown. New York Times has been there. They came out with horrific pictures. But the world is too tired for horrors in Kashmir.

But a few videos were somehow uploaded online. They show people running to-and-fro, in the hospitals. Apparently too many has been injured in Kashmir. People are assuming they are Muslims, leaving a few Indian soldiers aside. Yeah, some Jawans of the Indian military also suffered major and minor injuries, when the locals threw rocks at them. Imran Khan, the Pakistani PM, compared it to 'Nazi ideology', this ghettoization of Kashmiri Muslims. He still refrains from sending his troops for a war, although. But BJP is calling for a war. War is what it wants. War is what Kashmiris want, too. Because Kashmiri Muslims want Azaadi, freedom. Kashmir has its own history. In 1947, the states and kingdoms of British India were asked to join either India or Pakistan. The Hindu Rajah of Kashmir, decided to join India. Without giving a damn to the Muslim majority in Kashmir. Eventually, Kashmir was divided into two. Azaad Kashmir, that is in Pakistan, and the Occupied Kashmir in India, as most Kashmiri Muslims from both sides and Pakistan calls it. The Maqbooza Kashmir, in Urdu.

The same BJP that kills Muslims for eating beef has unleashed its terror in the Maqbooza Kashmir.

It is still allowing the foreign press there. New York Times, BBC and all. But from the Kashmiri people, not a word has been heard from last twenty days. Trump is here again. After Priya Saha, he's now saying he will 'mediate' between Pakistan and India. His 'mediation’ will bring peace, he said. But the Kashmiris want Azaadi, which is impossible to achieve without breaking peace. Azaadi means either Maqbooza Kashmir joins Pakistan or it breaks away from India, like Bangladesh did - from West Pakistan. Either way, Azaadi will make India lose some geography completely, forever. A 'peace process' will return the Occupied Kashmir its lost statehood, at most. That's not what Kashmiris want. They've suffered enough when it was a state. They are suffering when it is no longer a state, too. They wanna break free. Absolutely free. Free from India.

That is not Priya Saha's concern, for sure. But when the lockdown started, BJP asked Hindus to 'go marry the Kashmiri girls (and convert them to Hinduism)'.

There aren't 37 million Muslims there. There are millions of them, though. 68% of the 12.5 million, how much is that? Almost 8.5 million. A lot of these 8.5 million Muslims are now in police custody. Being a Muslim is a crime under the laws and codes preferred by BJP. Many of them are in hospitals, injured. As reports are coming, those hospitals are being raided by Indian military. Kashmiri women have been raped since history. From years. There is a mass rape epidemic in Kashmir. The raped girls are all Muslims, all the rapists are Hindus. There has been countless mass killings. Each with a different name. Kunan Poshpora, Sopore, Kupwara, Varmul.

BJP has a plan for it all. It asked Hindus to purchase lands there so that it can replace the Kashmiri Muslim majority with a new Hindu majority, within a few upcoming generations. The majority Muslims will lose their majority status, eventually. In the demography. It looks like the 'missing' 37 million of Priya Saha have flocked there in Kashmir, straight from Bangladesh. They will avenge Bangladesh with Kashmir, turning the majority Muslims into a minority. After Priya Saha, not a single Hindu girl was raped in Bangladesh. They have been raped before. During the war with Pakistan, they were raped and killed. After the war, they were raped during the riots. This time, there wasn't. Not a single one. The Kashmiri girls are being raped. Right now. The Kashmiri boys are being killed. After Priya Saha. Right at this moment. The Monopoly

What makes a minority? Is it just numbers? Numbers are stupid, come on!

Minorities come in all shapes and colors and sizes. They are tall and short, fair and white as well as pitch-black skins. In Africa, certain human species were wiped out because they were dwarfs. They did not have the normal height as other people. Now they are wiping out Muslims. The definition is not just numbers. It may vary here and there, but all the minorities in the world have a common feature. They are discriminated against, and they suffer bigotry. If I am not hired for a top post in a company because of my religion, it makes me a minority - despite the demographics telling otherwise. If a company hires a Hindu man to appoint him as their CEO just because he is a Hindu, it makes him a majority. Because he is sharing the same privileges with the majority religion and gaining unfair advantages for his religion. If a country's police department never arrests criminals from Hindu religion just because he's a Hindu - it does make them the ruling majority. Because a Muslim criminal wasn't to be spared for the same crime. Only the majority knows how to get away with religion. Minority does not have that chance. So, demographics often lie. The majority-minority binary doesn't stop at religion, either. It goes as far as people's sexuality, their lifestyles and professions as well. Bangladesh have a Hindu minority. So did Kashmir. Kashmir's Hindu Pandit minority had to evacuate the valley, when tensions ran high.

Kashmir's Muslim majority is now being butchered by Indian Hindus - who are not from Kashmir. These butchers are no Pandits, either. In no definition of the world, the butchered people are a ruling class. The ruling class are never persecuted. The ruling class are not shot dead. That never happened in the human history. Both the Kashmiri Muslims and the Kashmiri Pandits are minorities - in their own ways. Next the demography will change. Kashmiri Muslims will become a minority in numbers as well. If they are still the majority, they are asking for their majority rights perhaps. That is the kind of stuff happening in Kashmir. The situation in Bangladesh is not that different. Except that we saw Hindu houses getting burnt as recent as three years ago. People burnt their houses and started looting them. I don't remember Muslims hailing the looters, but they say those were political goons. But that made me realize that yes, it still can happen. Three years ago, BJP had its chocolate, too. It did not stop in Bangladesh. The Indian Hindu fanatics celebrated that riot in Nasirnagar. It gave them exactly what they wanted, excuses to kill Muslims.

The Bangladeshi cops setting fire on a Santal tribal village

It stirred up emotions to get BJP exactly what it wanted as well, more Hindu votes. Priya Saha alleged that her house was burnt down. Not in Nasirnagar, it was somewhere else. Bangladeshi media said, she's torched her own house herself. Never mind Bangladeshi media, they suck. However, a thousand homes were burnt down in India because they belonged to Muslims. The Muslim shops, looted. Cash boxes, vandalized. There were Bilkis Bano, Jakia Jafri. There was Israt Jahan, a Muslim girl killed in a false encounter.

Did Bilkis Bano ever fantasize to reach Donald Trump? Did Jakia Jafri want Donald Trump to listen to her story? Did Israt? Would the White House let them enter? It is the same thing. They too are minority. That day, Donald Trump was there to listen to all the stories from minority people around the world, in his oval office.

There were some Rohingya Muslims, too. But Jakia Jafri wasn't there. Bilkis Bano wasn't there. Israt was dead long time ago. No Kashmiri was there, either. Besides, Donald Trump shares a very good friendship with Narendra Modi. Why was the Indian minority 'missing' in his oval office that day? Some people asked, some didn't. Because everybody knows it is the same thing, but it is not the same thing. Being a minority is not the same thing for Priya Saha and Bilkis Bano. The later is a Muslim, the former, Hindu. It is not the same thing, in our subcontinent. Priya Saha can meet Donald Trump if she wants. The Muslim minorities can not. Israel and US will listen to her if they feel like it. They rarely listen to Muslims. Donald Trump declared a 'Muslim ban', a few years ago - if I need to remind you. Trump is 'mediating'. That is not stopping Hindus. That is not stopping Narenda Modi from butchering Kashmiris. So, what's the conclusion? Both the Hindu minority and Muslim minority are in hellfire. The majorities are roasting them both. But when it is the Hindu minority, their stories make best sellers. When it is Muslims, France Germany Italy Nicaragua Israel and a few dozen of other countries are not interested. So a man asked in Facebook, a Muslim man from Bangladesh. He said, 'thousands of Kashmiri girls are killed and raped everyday. They aren't winning a Nobel prize for it. Malala did.'

Kashmiri girls are not Malala. They are not fighting the 'war on terror'. So, when they will pen their stories, it won't sell. Mostly, the Bangladeshis, Pakistanis and Indians will read it.

The Hindu minorities get that extra favor. Muslim minorities don’t. Hindutva always excuses its crimes with their Hindu minority. Muslims make no excuses, officially.

Is this really about minority, at all? Or is it about Hinduism? The Hindutva brigade expanding its territory?

To this day, Indians are the sole owner of this monopoly. Because they placed their minorities in Muslim lands. They alone play this minority rights monopoly. They even make money with it. They make a thriving business out of their sufferings. The Indian subcontinent's Muslims did not join them. Their Bilkis Banos were not sexy enough for Donald Trump. We have a minority, too. We have only God to complain. When the God finally listens.

Asif Tamoso 25 August 2019

(Photographs: Collected)

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#Muslim #Hindu #Minority #Majority #India #Pakistan #Bangladesh #Kashmir #Priya Saha #Donald Trump #Sheikh Hasina #Taslima Nasreen #Ilhan Omar #Article 370 #Indian Military #Police #Indian Army #Azaadi

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theculturedmarxist · 5 years

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Measure of a Man: A Lesson in Logic with Star Trek

I love Star Trek. For all its goofy latex-head aliens and silly episodes, sometimes it really manages to knock it out of the park. One of my absolute favorite episodes is “The Measure of a Man” from the second season. From the synopsis at Memory Alpha:

Picard must prove Data is legally a sentient being with rights and freedoms under Federation law when transfer orders demand Data's reassignment for study and disassembly.

Data is an android, a machine made in the shape of a human male, essentially a synthetic person. While he appears humanoid, he has no organic parts or processes, nor emotions of any kind. It is based on this artificial nature that Bruce Maddox, Starfleet Cyberneticist, asserts that Data is Starfleet’s property, a piece of equipment like a phaser or teleporter, and is therefore subject to a Starfleet order to be disassembled and studied, despite the very real danger that such a procedure could result in his irreparable harm, killing him. At first, Data resolves to simply resign his commission as second in command of the USS Enterprise, but Maddox asserts that he hasn’t even got the right to do that. As a robot, a machine, he has no right to decide his fate. A hearing is called through which Data’s rights as an individual or servitude as a machine will be determined. What follows is a truly elegant application of logic used to devastating rhetorical effect, culminating in this scene:

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Picard: Commander, it is your contention that Lt Cmdr Data is not a sentient being, and therefore not entitled to all the rights reserved for all life forms within this Federation?

Maddox: Data is not sentient, no.

P: Commander, enlighten us, what is required for sentience?

M: Intelligence. Self-awareness. Consciousness.

Much of the process of logic has to do with definition, with discerning the specific from the general, and determining in concrete terms what differentiates one thing from another. What Picard is doing is establishing the parameters of Maddox’s conclusion (that Data is not sentient) in order to deconstruct it. The conclusion is the result of a logical argument, which is itself a series of premises meant to lead to or support the conclusion, in this case that Data is not sentient by virtue of not possessing the qualities of sentience: intelligence, self-awareness, and consciousness. These premises are mutually agreed upon, otherwise both sides are arguing about different things.

P: Prove to the court that I am sentient.

M: *scoffs* This is absurd. We all know you’re sentient.

P: So I am sentient, but Commander Data is not? (M: That’s right.) Uh-hn. Why? Why am I sentient?

Maddox’s assertion is that Picard, being an organic being, possesses sentience, while Data, an inorganic being, does not, or that Picard=A and Data=B. Picard is asking, why is A=A and B=B? What quality makes it so that A!=B? It can’t be sex, since sentience isn’t based on being male or female (or whatever, given the makeup of the Federation). Nor is it gender, since Picard and Data ostensibly share the same. Nor is it necessarily their “natural” or biological qualities, or lack thereof. Picard has an artificial heart, and Geordi has artificial eyes in the form of his visor. If this itself were the case, then a fully biological individual would be “more sentient” than someone with artificial components, to a greater or lesser degree. Since none of these are the case, it must be something other than the physical which imparts sentience.

M: Well, you are self-aware.

P: Ah, that’s the second of your criteria. Let’s deal with the first, intelligence. Is Cmdr Data intelligent?

M: Yes. It has the ability to understand and learn and... cope, with new situations.

P: Like this hearing?

M: Yes.

P: What about ‘self-awareness?’ What does that mean? Why, why am I ‘self-aware?’

M: Because you’re conscious of your existence and actions. You are aware of yourself and your own ego.

P: Commander Data, what are you doing now?

Data: I am taking part in a legal hearing to determine my rights and status. Am I a person, or property?

P: And what’s at stake?

D: My right to choose. Perhaps my very life.

P: “My rights.” “My status.” “My right to choose.” “My life.” Well, seems reasonably self-aware to me. Commander...

M: ...

P: I’m waiting.

What is critical here is that Picard is deconstructing Maddox’s own argument against him. Data, by Maddox’s own criteria, possesses intelligence, self-awareness, and all that’s left now is consciousness. If the premises are all true, that intelligence, self-awareness, and consciousness are the qualities required for sentience, and if Data does indeed possess them, then Data is sentient.

M: This is... exceedingly difficult.

P: Do you like Cmdr Data?

M: I... I don’t know it... well enough to like or... dislike it.

P: But you admire him.

M: Oh yes. It’s an extraordinary piece of–

P: –Of engineering and programming, yes, you have said that. Commander, you have devoted your life to the study of cybernetics in general.

M: Yes.

P: And Commander Data in particular.

M: Yes.

P: And now you propose to dismantle him.

M: So that I can learn from it and construct more.

P: How many more?

M: As many as are needed. Hundreds, thousands if necessary... There is no limit.

Why this sudden change of stance when Picard appears ready to deliver the killing stroke? In part because of what it means for an argument to be logically valid: an argument is logically valid if and only if the conclusion must be true if the premises are all also assumed to be true. If Data indeed does possess the qualities required for sentience, then the hearing is over. Data wins. Go team Data.

The rub is that Picard can’t prove that Data is sentient, not any more than Maddox can prove that Picard is. Even if Picard could, he realizes that the effects of this legal hearing will resound throughout the Federation until long after all those present, even Data, have ceased to exist. The court’s conclusion can’t just be applicable to Data in his peculiar, specific circumstances, but that this entire legal question revolves on the question of whether or not sentience or the lack thereof entitles someone to full personhood within the Federation, with all the rights and legal protections thereof.

P: *sigh* A single Data is, forgive me Commander, a curiosity, a wonder even, but thousands of Datas? Isn’t that becoming a race? And won’t we be judged by how we treat that race? Now tell me, Commander, what is Data?

M: I don’t understand.

P: What is he?

M: A machine!

P: Is he–are you sure? (Yes!) You see, he’s already met two of your three criteria for sentience, but what if he meets the third, consciousness, in even the smallest degree? What is he then? I don’t know, do you?

By the end, Picard has neatly reframed the argument: the hearing isn’t about determining whether or not Data is sentient per se, because such a thing is impossible to determine in itself. What is happening is determining whether or not the Federation has a right to decide for others whether or not their existence, such as it is, is to be used to qualify if they entitled to slavery or liberty, property or personhood. Picard demonstrates here that it doesn’t matter: Data is alive, and being alive is entitled to all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities as any other being or race within the Federation. In the end, the court agrees.

Phillipa: We’ve all been dancing around the basic issue: does Data have a soul? I don’t know that he has. I don’t know that I have. But I’ve got to give him the freedom to explore that question himself. It is the ruling of this court that Lieutenant Commander Data has the freedom to choose.

#logic #star trek #data #picard

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0l1v3juice · 5 years

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Departure

Never in my wildest dreams could I have known that I would be granted the opportunity to meet such kind and unique people. I can still remember everything from start to finish, like it just happened yesterday. Even the moments in which I felt consumed by fear, the memory does not fade. I do not think I will ever forget this experience. Then again, I also really do not want to. Who would want to lose any of the memories they have relating to their most cherished relationships, even the ones that hurt or are scary? In the beginning, though, things were neither painful nor scary; things were bleak.

I remember hinting to my friends that we should not leave the village, but of course we would anyway. Whether or not we stayed or left, war would continue to consume our lives and destroy our livelihood. We were far too outnumbered to stand up to either the Alliance or the Horde, so we played an insignificant force in the war as a supplier of food resources. There were a few people here and there who would abandon the village to join the ranks of our oppressors, but the lot of us simply resisted that temptation. We were nothing if not resilient. Our spirits would not be broken by the onslaught of foreign nations declaring war over our own soil. There had been rumors circulating that neighboring villages had driven off all the soldiers from either side that dared to fight on their land, and we used this as our fuel to keep fighting. Eventually, however, one day, we grew weary of the senseless bloodshed.

“There must be a better way to deal with this than to merely ride it out,” I pleaded to my fellow villager.

“When we have the forces to drive them back, we will know. Until then, we must survive. You know in your heart that there is no other way, Hunjun,” she sighed to me.

As much as I did not want to keep hearing it, I knew that she was right. But I was growing more concerned as the days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. Our numbers were dwindling. Some of us who openly opposed the commandeering of land which was already inhabited and cared for ended up paying the price for speaking out - either by harsh physical labor or other means of subordination. Many of us did not survive the transition into forced servitude. We are a gentle race, but we are also determined and persistent. It was difficult to watch so many of us fall to their torture. We simply would not sit idly by in the face of injustice and cruelty. There was nothing just about the war being fought between the two factions, and so we fought back.

To fight back was our downfall, as ill-prepared as we were. Our quiet, peaceful village was not as prepared for battle as it should have been. As our numbers grew smaller and more of our resources were stolen by soldiers, our lives diminished before us, and we lost hope of redemption for our village. Soon it was just Maysam, Toolani, Songxue, Shen, Mao Cung, and me.

“I don’t know how much longer we can live like this,” cried Toolani.

“We are not living, we are surviving. If you want to live, first you have to survive,” Shen counseled her.

“But it has been this way for so long. Could you so easily chide our brothers and sisters out there slaving away for our enemies?” Mao Cung rebuked.

“Mao is right; if surviving and holding out were the answer, there would not be so many of us dead or enslaved!” lamented Songxue.

As the days drew nearer to our eventual decision to escape the prison of our last safe house, discussions like this were not uncommon. Shen was always level-headed, but did not understand that we were dealing with entirely foreign forces. Toolani's parents had been a part of the resistance which was stamped out by the soldiers, and it took more and more of a mental toll on her every day. The prospect of our kin being enslaved on our own land enraged Mao Cung beyond belief, especially as the last remaining member of the family who led the village. Songxue knew not what to do besides mourn our losses. Maysam and I typically remained silent during these discussions, since they usually led to nowhere. But not that day. Maysam interrupted the bickering with one thoughtful question:

“What reason do any of us have to oppose the idea of leaving our forsaken village?”

There was a moment of silence, and Songxue responded first.

“Would we not be abandoning our kin and leaving them to a life of servitude until death?” she remarked.

“Songxue, while it is admirable that you wish to free our brethren, what ability do any of us here have to do so? What makes you feel certain that we would not end up as they have? Should we not carry on a legacy for this village and make our escape before everyone is lost?” Maysam admonished. Songxue lowered her head and nodded in sorrowful understanding.

Mao Cung stewed in his thoughts for a moment before voicing a bothersome detail about Maysam's proposal.

“It's a pretty cowardly thing to do. I know staying here would likely result in our ultimate demise, but in facing our ends with pride, we die with honor. You should like to dishonor the name of our village by cowardly retreating in its dying moments?” he criticized.

Maysam was taken aback by his assertion. She meditated on his sentiments for a few moments before he continued.

“We are not living, we are surviving. We must survive until the very end in order to bestow honor upon our village's name and our own names. What would our ancestors think of us, running away and leaving what they have given us to become ruins? Though our defeat is certain, we still must face it with bravery and pride for our loved ones, do you not agree? Certainly you understand what that means,” Mao Cung finished.

“There is a difference, a fine line between bravery and foolishness, Mao Cung. What good would it do us or our ancestors to wait patiently in our seats for the kiss of death? Brave heroes face certain death when it means a greater good is accomplished. Fools await their demise in the name of the so-called ‘honor’ that comes waiting. There is no honor in senseless bloodshed. There is no honor in this war. I am certain that our ancestors would want us to rebuild their legacy where fertile soil awaits. We cannot change the fates of those we loved and lost, but we can continue living for them. Does that not sound like what you would want, Mao?” Maysam spoke. Mao Cung reflected for a moment before agreeing with the sentiments Maysam expressed. Truly, she was making a groundbreaking decision.

With Maysam's speeches granting reassurance to Toolani and Shen that escape was the right thing to do, it seemed as though we were all in agreement with the idea. Then, I spoke on one important detail.

“Where shall we go?”

Songxue and Mao Cung's eyes fixated on me in confusion, while Shen, Toolani, and Maysam shared a look of insightful despondency. They knew what I meant, and they did not have an answer. No one could have.

“Where shall we escape to? A neighboring village already consumed by the war? What about the dense forests that we can trek through to reach the beaches? Will there not be soldiers arriving on those beaches? What would we do then?”

As I barraged them with question after question, the atmosphere quickly withdrew from hopeful to despairing. It was unintentional, but I refused to welcome hope into my heart again only to have it ripped away. They had all forgotten how prevalent the presence was of those pests we were hiding from. Soldiers were on every beach, constantly arriving with new and improved plans to burn our villages and take our resources. How would we expect to get past them? Daunting as the task seemed, Shen remembered to never lose that hope that I had already lost.

“We are all willing to do whatever it takes to carry on our legacy, so there must be a way,” he proclaimed.

A moment of silence passed before Toolani spoke.

“I may have an idea, but you won't like it,” she told us.

I can still remember the feeling that overcame me when she sighed those words. In my heart, I felt grief - grief that was so strong, I almost thought I had already lost her. I am certain we all knew what she was going to say before she shared her plan with us. Toolani was a very skilled mage, of course her idea would include the use of her talents, likely against the invaders. However, something told me that she would likely not make it with us in our journey onward. It seemed that Toolani was the only one willing to accept the fact that we would not all make it. Before she could continue with the details, Maysam sprung into the conversation.

“No! I will not allow you to put yourself on the line and ultimately die at the hands of these savages! Do you want to end up as the rest of our brothers and sisters have?” Maysam implored Toolani not to go through with it. But Toolani's mind was already made up.

“No, sister, I don’t. And I wish to shield the rest of you from meeting that same fate as well. But I know - I know full well that they will not stop coming. If we are to escape, it must be now. We don't have the luxury of time. We don't have the promise of good fortune. So, I must do everything in my power to protect you all and keep the memory of our beloved village alive. It is my duty. Please, May, let me lead you all to victory,” Toolani calmly spoke.

We all sat in a moment of silence in respect to the bereavement we knew we would be experiencing soon enough. Following shortly after, Toolani shared with us her plan. It was bold and daring, just her style. She had carefully concocted the idea so we would have a means of escape and a length of time to expect for travel away from our home. Toolani really did think of everything.

Though her plan was executed perfectly, it still hurt to say goodbye.

#olive writes things #world of warcraft #my ocs #Hunjun Sweetbreeze #Maysam Wildsong #idk #the others are just kind of made up and not fleshed out really lmaooo #maybe i'll do a part 2?

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bearogenes · 5 years

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A special message from the universe addressed to.. you.

I have a message for you. Yes you. Who else would I be talking to right now? Since I have your attention, take a few minutes to listen to this old fool because there is something important I want you to see.

I want you to look down, all the way down past your knees. See those things at the very end, those are your feet. Think about them for a moment.

You may not like how they look but how they look isn't important. It’s what they do that matters. They are adjustable for a reason. They can stand together and bring you to your full height by rising, they can spread wide to keep you from being knocked over. They press themselves into the surface of the world like the roots of a tree but let the rest of you move like a reed in the wind. They are so much more than just the thing that carries you from point to point, they are an anchor and a voice. They can strike the ground and thunder or touch gently leaving no sound in their passing. They are your stride, your stance and your endurance. You can feel exhausted from the stress and trials of life, but when you need to be or do more they rise to the occasion.

They are attached to some of the most powerful parts of your body; your legs.

Your capacity to lift amazing weight comes from them. They are an extension of your roots, allowing you to compress and spring into action or remain still while the storm rages around you. Working together with your feet they can remain stalwart against a rising tide or a crashing wave. They lift you from rest and propel you into action. They can galvanize your foot into a weapon, or soften your stride into a spiral as you dance. They are amazingly powerful.

These rise and bind to your hips, and further still to your back. Each piece can move independently with its own strength but become a monument to your power when they work together. They all connect and lock to the one before it from your feet to your shoulders and beyond.

From your back and joined to your shoulders is your neck. It gives you breadth of vision, focus of attention and holds both firmly and with softness the way we see the world. Such a powerful set of tools that lead to this point from bottom to top and there is yet more because they spread out into branches; your hands.

Hands that greet, dismiss, hold or release. They are expressions of not only your inner world, but also your deepest reserves of strength. Legs and feet can keep you from moving, but your hands and arms are extension of your desire to hold, defend or raise someone up. They can pull you higher if you reach, or balance things with gentle care.

At the crown of this magnificent collection of tools is your head, upon which rests your face. The most powerful tool you possess. You can bring what is within to the outside world. It strikes out forming expression, opens to give form to the formlessness of thought, perceives and interprets the world around you. It can release tremendous power, both to harm and to heal. It can radiate light or darken into deepening shadows. It can be a welcome or a warning. Just past it lies the heart of the system, the piece that gathers and hoards, shares and imparts and runs the whole show.

Pulling in the out, pushing out the in. Holding all your secrets or revealing your truth. It is the point at which everything your other parts do becomes coordinated, the great Conductor orchestrating the symphony of motion, bringing into expression all that lies beyond the curtain. And yet,on this journey from your roots in the earth to reaching towards the world, there is still more to understand than this. Their symphony is only an echo, a fading chorus compared to the greatest part, which remains invisible to the naked eye but luminous to the heart. They are but indicators pointing toward the greatest of their secrets. They are but pieces, that when assembled create something truly amazing:

They are you.

You are more than parts, no matter how extraordinary they are. You are the driving force that rises, that lifts the mountains in your world, brings close your loves and keeps at bay that which would harm them. You are a Titan of old, a force that strikes the ground like thunder or rises like a cloud. It is you, you are the sum of the system that leaves the equation with an unresolved remainder, that undeniable piece that not only unifies the parts but makes them work in servitude to a greater cause.

Your body may be formed by the motes of stars that fell, but they chose to come together, called by some greater purpose, the combined power of gravity, evolution and destiny, to gather and form the vehicle for that great spirit that is You. The sword that deflects the blow, the shield that cast the reflection to Medusa, the bandage that binds the wound so it may heal, all these things you are and so much more.

You are the notes in an amazing symphonic life; full of arpeggio and crescendo, cadenza and concerto, calando and fortissimo. The grand interface between time and space and multiple realities at once; where learning and understanding conjoin with intuition and dreams, the intersection of paradox and paradise.

Atlas, Athena, Njord, Skadi, Brahma, Krishna. So many names for similar beings, but there is only one that matters.

You.

You are the greatest thing to rise in this world. You are the living embodiment of worlds that were beyond dreaming to your ancestors.You wield power beyond measure. You are the universe exploring itself. You are the one true wonder of the world, all the rest are echoes or were made by creatures like you. They are reflections of the Sun, but you are the light at its heart.

Let that sink in for a few deep breaths and take a few minutes before considering the next part. When you are ready, read on.

If you are reading this, you are alive and that has meaning and implications for the world.

Consider the match and the falling star.

Strike a match and in the minutiae of moments there is a swirl of air which bursts into flame. That is you. Floating in the darkness between worlds, that piece of the heavens that could pass unnoticed but instead touches the surface of our world and becomes a star so bright all eyes turn toward it. That is you.

You come into this world, not silently, but in a roar of life and hope and dreams. You rise and begin your journey, illuminating the world so you can see all its beauty and its flaws. You touch others lives and are not diminished but amplified by sharing your aurora with theirs. Some lights you travel with for a long time, some for the whole time you are here, and some for the whole time they are here. Others will come and go, passing like stars over the horizon.

Consider where you are at this very moment.

I am sitting here coalescing the sum of my learning in this world that I may share it with you, and if it resonates with you, it then amplifies your light. To that end I scatter them high to guide your path, and bury them below your feet, as treasures for you to find for yourself.

You are sitting there, with all the skepticism and patience required to observe my thoughts. You reach beyond your fingertips through the air to pluck them from the sky and pull them from the Earth.

We are two lights forming a bridge that defies distance and erases time. You and I, we shapers and dreamers, weavers and makers, joined together for a single purpose in this time and place.

Each moment we are lighting this world, we are engaged in an intimate dialogue with the universe, ourselves and the ‘others’ in this world. We identify the rules of the world and then render them moot with the growing knowledge and power that we share. We are amazing things, each of us a singularly spectacular event in time, and we stride this world like giants in the playground. Each unique, with nothing truly like us before or after us, with our own gifts to share. We are material things that are driven by the invisible and ephemeral; thoughts, emotions, sensations and dreams. We, each and every one of us, is a precious experience in this world. We exist for a flash in the scope of things, but echo until the end of time, the percussive note that continues beyond our measure for the length of the song. Now for the hard part.

Keep all this in your mind and read on.

Look down now. What do you see?

Do you see thin strips of leather holding bone in place, shapes you don’t care for or feel have failed you somehow, or do you begin to see yourself the way I see you; as the explosion of light and sound and the walking form of the whole of history that pushes the past into the now and carries it into the future? Do you begin to see that incredible tapestry that describes your journey but cannot contain the You that I see? Can you feel the world moving beneath your feet, but held still by your will? Can you then feel the sky spiraling past you like a breeze but slowed down by your desire to see it? Will you see yourself at last, as the most beatific expression of time and space and dreams?

Take this moment, the one we have shared just now that passed faster than you realized but felt longer than you imagined it would when you began, it is my gift to you in thanks for sharing the wonder of your being with me.

Carry on being marvelously splendid creatures hmm? I’d hate to see ‘return to sender’ on a gift as wonderful as who you truly are.

- Bearogenes

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thisislakewood · 5 years

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→ IN CHARACTER INFORMATION

Character Name: Logan Legend

Characters Age: 39

Faceclaim Choice: Chris Evans

Gender and Pronouns: Male, He/him.

Birthplace: Lakewood, Texas.

Birthday: May 20th, 1979.

Occupation: Bar owner of Bullseye.

Family: The Bodyguard for the Reyes Family.

→ BIOGRAPHY

Triggers: spousal death, child death, parental death.

Legends were never created. They were born, bred from fire and metal and raised to be above mere humans. They were destined to a higher power, a greater recognition than what a mere human life. They were gods among men. Legends were meant to be idolized, and if you think back to the ones that had crossed us—it made all the sense. Mythical mentions of Hercules and Achilles were some that would bring brawn over brain. Albert Einstein and Marie Curie, vice versa. They were meant to leave a mark, meant to make you remember them. It was meant to make you think back and go ‘oh. THEM. Let’s talk about them.’ These were the legends that everyone talked about. But no one ever cracked a discussion about Logan Legend, for he was the exact opposite of the definition. Born upon the cusp of a rising power, in the newly dubbed Lakewood, Texas, sat a small family in middle of the boons. Men of soldiers and valiantly, women of honor and pride. This is where the newly dubbed Logan Jordan (something he curses his mother for giving him a ridiculous middle name) Legend was born, on the eve of a crisp summer’s night. The family was ideally set off with their two boys, both proud, popular and confident.. Logan was a good natured child, bit of a trouble maker in school, and an all-around class clown. He thrived off the spotlight, lived for the ideals that everyone’s eyes could—and at some points, in his opinion, should—be on him. His parents fed into the idealism as well, keeping their boy prepped and primed for life, providing the home envied by others, and the all-American dream of a good natured family. Hell, he was sure some kids were jealous of him. And if not—he’d make it so.

Now, while in this state, there wasn’t much in the way of what could and could not be done. He grew into a staggering six-foot-four man, proud and in his prime. Instead of going off to college as his parents may’ve wanted—but at the time of his mother’s illness, could not afford—Logan made the decision of a lifetime. Move to Boston, join the US Army, make a name for yourself, and go home—only home was far too out of reach for a man like himself. This was a game plan he could’ve stuck too, one that would’ve helped him in the long run. The war of worlds wasn’t something he was interested in, but it provided the sustainability to give back when he pleased, and that was ideal to Logan. For that, a man fresh into his twenties, he went off. Initially, it’d been fairly easy. Something that surprised him, how quickly he’d come to learn the ins and outs of it all. It’d taken him three years, but he’d finally found himself in the midst of something greater than himself. With the skills of a sniper, Logan found himself within the Green Berets. Wading and wandering, it created a gentleman out of him, one with respect. He took his earnings and returned them to the man and woman who gave their lives for him. But the money did not last long. Sickness was easy, and unavoidable and after his mother’s swift passing, his father sunk into a depressive state, too weak to fight the flu-like symptoms on a cold night, too small to appreciate the will to live. Logan couldn’t dump the responsibilities of them onto his little brother, who by far, was the opposite of himself. For that, he’d pack. When he’d sold his family’s land, belongings, and any namesakes packed into a small box to bring back to the army base in the Northern end of Texas, he knew—Lakewood would be empty. It was home, but it was a distant memory. It’d become a place to recollect, but never linger.

By the time he’d finally lived out his youth, his carefree nature, Logan knew he would need to settle down. He would need to find a woman who could support, live on the Legend—though the namesake never came with the definition, as he’d been used too, and move on in life. He should’ve had a wife by now, but his focus had been his job, the Army in which he served, and nothing would change that, regardless. For that, he met Jane. Bright eyed, paled woman, blonde hair. The fiercest blue eyes he’d ever seen. She was docile, sweet, timid. He enjoyed that, more so an alpha male than he would’ve liked to admit he was, and somehow, she sunk into a second nature. Perhaps that’s why he settled for her. No questions, no ruffling of feathers. Her parents old and sickly, but she was young, and a nurse to boot, at the base in which he was stationed. In his time, that’s what mattered, to grow a line of family. Given his nature, given his sense of pride, it made sense, regardless of her own emotions that she give into his proposal. It was a forging of lines, and it didn’t seem either were too keen on. Logan wanted excitement in a partner, someone with life. Someone to put him in his place when he’d become nothing more than a jackass at times. Someone vocal. Not someone scared of him, simply for all the work he’d put in as a soldier,. On a sweet summered June day, Logan married Jane, with family and friends all around.

Not that any of it helped. Now, nor then. Logan’s life, while painted well beyond the woes of a man who might’ve been stricken down by his country’s battle—was still reflected within the pools of Lakewood. Charlotte. She was this enigma, this motion of light that seemed to draw him in like a poor man’s moth, circling and entranced. He was envious of her lovers, and enthralled when she looked upon him. This was the image of the woman for he saw within his mind. This was the image of the woman to bear his name, take his hand—the ring he should’ve put on her finger. This was where his woes with Jane stemmed. His nature to recollect in a dream-like state had him calling out for her name, and while he hadn’t seen her since his youth—since he left her to join the army—it was still there. It was there like the drift of a spring’s wind as it tumbled though long grass. It was where his memory settled, and where he found himself drawn to her. Of course, no amount of therapy could console his wife within the first few months of their marriage, forced to sit on a couch and recant the tale of a girl so far gone from his reach, he had been grasping for air. That’s all it was, extending his hand into the dark, and expecting one, but there was another. Had he settled for Jane? Surely. Should he try? Well, that was the conclusion they’d both come too.

Their marriage was lively, for what it was in public. In their home, once Jane moved in with him, was almost dismal. It was tedious. Same routine. Kiss on the cheek when he woke, and the same when he returned from work. Into their marriage, did Logan find it hard to lay with his wife. In a drunken stupor, sure. There was almost never an issue there, should he not have fallen asleep beforehand on her and she left him there in a pile of his own piss. But to consummate—to make the marriage real, in the eyes of religion, constituted a child. After two years of becoming one with another, it happened. Jane was pregnant. Her pregnancy, however celebrated, and brought them closer to create another, came with complications. Having already suffered through her second trimester with painful contractions, bed rest before she was into her third—the pregnancy stopped looking positive. It was not a positive thing, for his wife could barely care for herself, never mind the child. When it came time to give birth, Logan knew—something was wrong. His gut screamed nothing could end well for him, for his child and his wife. This was not meant to happen as it was. If there was fate, this was it extending its power. Logan watched his life desecrated, going from being a solider and husband, to a sympathized widower. Jane did not survive the birth, nor did his son. Burying them was sentimental, and even though they struggled, he chose to put them with his parents, a sign of loyalty, allegiance. He carried Jane’s wedding ring with him on a necklace bound with his own. Never sentimental, never emotional. He’d learned growing that it was best to swallow them—be a man, his father would encourage. Men never showed true emotions in his family, and Logan never revealed his personal life with Jane to anyone. Not even if they saw the rings to this day hanging loosely around his neck. That was his burden, guilt, to bear until the end of his time.

When he returned to base with the woes of the truth shattered inside of his mind, Logan found himself at an odds. As though the world didn’t want to work for him. As though it couldn’t. Almost nineteen years since he joined the forces, rising through the ranks. A celebrated marksman, fifteen years of servitude and he found himself discharged. Off to be replaced by a younger, able-bodied person to perform half as well as he ever would. He’d seen the woes of man on the battlefield. He ranked higher than some would in their dreams for having such sharp aim. He could do it—he did it all. And when he found himself without the one thing he held onto—he was lost. Returning to Lakewood was the only thing Logan had left for him. Abundance of money, of glory from a battlefield now just out of his reach for the rest of his days, the once bright and sprightly man became jaded. Liquor became a good friend, and his mind seemed to only go back to the one thing that worked: aim. Firing the end of a gun off at a target made out of wood calmed the quell in a heart that didn’t have any bounds. The further he sunk into his depressive, maniac state—the more Logan found himself into the troubles of shadows long gone. When he’d been born within the mayhem of Lakewood, his own father a former Bodyguard for the Stone Cartel (another secret that alluded the elder Legend child)—the army was the only thing escaping him from himself, and a life on the edge. But hadn’t that been what he wanted? Service had provided him the thrill, but when it was gone, all he had left was the daring soul of a man confined.

When his father opened Bullseye almost forty-or-so years ago, it was the only thing he knew he might still be good at—something he could possibly succeed if not be it the murder and fatigue that followed him. Attesting it to the only thing he had left that he could call his own, his signature style for weaponry, prestige skill—and love of bikes, caught the eye of the Reyes Cartel. An elite crime family within the walls of his own home, shifting and bending the rules to their own. It was what he enjoyed the most. His bike had become something of a staple, one of the first thing to come back to life in his return. When the months spurn into dedication in years, Logan found himself knee deep within the Cartel business. The way it defined his outlook. He grew from the boy proud to bear arms, to the man, jaded, who knew it all. There was the inkling of a man underneath of what he used to be, subdued with the man he had become in his departure from the front lines. Logan had spent time on the outside once more—before heading right back in. Five years since being discharged, and he earned his moment, his place within the Reyes family. Now, as the Bodyguard within the Reyes Cartel, he uses his tactic of command and skill to keep those beneath him in line, all while upholding the values of a club who had, without ever knowing it, given him purpose once more.

→ PERSONALITY SUMMARY

+ Witty, Sarcastic, Loyal - Flirtatious, Guarded, Impulsive

#chris evans #cartel rpg #murder rpg #town rp #oc rpg #taken #reyes cartel

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postitnowke · 6 years

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Part one

It had been a long time since Shere Khan could say he was happy. The feeling was always so transient, short lived and weakly fluttering in his chest like a penny candle moments before a topper brutally snuffed it out, a may fly flittering about before a flyswatter smashed it flat. It was often said that money couldn't buy happiness, this was true from a certain point of view. However it could also be said that money could provide the wealthy with the means to make their lives easier, which in turn made it more likely a person would find happiness. But for that to be of use you had to admit to yourself and others that you did, in fact, have a problem in need of correction. This was were he found himself lacking. He'd spent years perfecting his ah, "poker face" as the phrase went, when he'd been naught but a cub. It hadn't been easy, practicing expressions in reflective objects and learning to mimic the appropriate tone of voice for a given situation. As a young one he hadn't liked being forced to be someone he wasn't for the sake of another person, his interactions with his mother had been the only exeption. With anyone but her he felt it better that they either accept or reject him for who he was and not the airs he put on, lest he found himself surrounded by people who only liked him for an act he played and not his actual character. He felt such behavior cheapened the relations he had with the few servants willing to accept him as he was. And, with his employers? Well. he had no desire to play pretend just so the English would gloat over his bowed head as they spoke ill of both him and his culture. He'd hated living under the questionable mercies of the English, those men and women who saw him and those he worked with as filthy violent little children incapable of making decisions for themselves that would steal the good silverware the moment their backs were turned. He knew he could become violently angry at times, but he was neither thief nor poorly groomed and he was more than capable at making decisions for himself. So he'd been offended by the way they painted everyone with the same brush, never realizing that many behaviors they held against them was also present in their own culture. But he'd had to bite the bullet and capitulate to his mother's demands to act according to their expectations, lest he find himself on the streets or pressganged into working on a sugar plantation. Too many were lured aboard a ship with the promise of both freedom and riches after a brief period of indentured servitude. They were then taken to far away places he'd only seen on the glass globe of the earth situated his master's study. More often than not the people who leg were never to be seen again. The only evidence that they had gone somewhere and hadn't simply disappeared would be a single hand print on a crumpled old contract. So rare was a successful return, that after boarding a ship, their families would treat the departure as a funeral. Frustrated, he'd had to admit defeat, and had chosen to act as necessity had demanded of him. Being true to yourself was for the wealthy and privledged elites. He'd been born Dalit, a class so low it hadn't even been on the caste system. So low were he and those like him that the bigoted minority had thought his very presence to be polluting. He'd met a few such people but he had served an English family for most of his childhood. They had pitied him in their way, finding odd jobs he could do for more money and lending him a walking stick to help him complete those tasks with greater ease. This had made him angry but if he was honest to himself he'd take pity over disgust any day. While the English understood and followed the rules of social classes, the behavior expected of their elites was often diametrically opposed to those of his society. This had made for odd misunderstandings as two very different cultures clashed over the strangest of things. But one benefit he'd had growing up was that he had been treated as Shudra, which was the lowest of the castes (but still preferable to Dalit). This was due mainly to his mother who had been hired to work as the tunny-ketch, the cook's help. Usually this position went to the cook's wife, but the man, recently widowed, had no intention of remarriage. So the duty of cooking meals for the servants while the cook served the family went to her. Sometimes, when their employers were having a party or when the family demanded a recipe using pig products(the man's religion forbid i) she would assist him beyond the menial tasks(such as grinding plants into flour), but these circumstances were more rare than most might think. The plague had made people less willing to visit other homes and the family only ordered recipes with pig meat about twice per week. Lungri was tasked with working performing menial tasks for his mother(his favorite had been turning milk to butter). Special attention was given to teaching him proper etiquette as servants were expected to comport themselves in a manner that did not embarrass the family that hired them. His mother had taken her lessons to heart and never allowed him to forget how very fortunate they were to have been hired by an English family. The woman had bought into the views of the small but loud minority of people that openly rejected people with disabilities, believing they had done something in a past life that had warranted the pains they dealt with in their current one. It hurt that his own mother had anything in common with those people who believed people like him should have certain rights restricted and the right to inherit forbidden all together, but she had birthed him and kept him, so at least he had that. Sometimes he uncharitably wondered if she kept him around just to have free labor but the suspicion was not one that he had ever wanted to be proven correct. So he tried to ignore how much more affectionate she became when it was payday. Or hpw, whenever he was particularly tired and in need of a break, she would often survey him with a critical eye. Inevitably she'd comment on how good their fortunes were, as she suspected they would never have found employment in an Indian family, and how it was only right and just to pour everything they were into serving their employers. She'd genuinely believed prospective employers might not have even allowed them through the door after seeing his limp paw. Lungri, more than familiar with his mother's constant passive aggressiveness had always been submissive when speaking with her. When interacting with her putting on act was necessary. She had taken a full measure of his personality and had found him wanting. If he wanted peaceful relations with the woman he'd needed tp continue to exert himself past tolerance just to hear the smallest of backhand compliments. He'd worked hard to act only in ways that she approved but as he began working more frequently with his employers, particularly the memsahib, the lady of the house, he'd found himself trying to keep up with their requirements as well. Perhaps the caster oil she would force down the throats of servants that displeased her(as recommended from one of her favorite ladies advice columns) had been the proper punishment to encourage him to learn the rules of proper social decorum. He certainly hadn't been fond of violently vomiting up what little food he got to eat. But he'd learned to act as expected of him and he'd learned fast. Perhaps it had been more successful than he'd intended. When a man spent nearly all his life acting, emotional honesty was hard to come by. Happiness had long since become a fleeting thing. And neither age nor success had made its brief appearances any stronger. Instead as he had gradually made a home for himself at the top of the economic hierarchy, he'd felt steadily less for anything else that occupied his spaces. He had once dreamed impossible dreams of becoming wealthy despite the obstacles that had been thrown in his way. Now, instead of dreams his successes had become an expectation. When you believed you knew success was coming to you, being proven right meant a good deal less than it once did. Usually a successful business takeover would be enough to improve his mood, but the only feeling one of his most recent acquisitions had given him was a wretched tiredness of spirit and a dull numbness of soul. He'd succeeded in attaining riches beyond anything his younger self would have thought possible, and now he had little to prove to anyone anymore. Now he was no longer the underdog fighting for his place in a world that hadn't given him one, he had forced the elites to accept his existence through hard work and perseverance. But in truth he hadn't felt the thrill of conquering a challenge as he'd once done in a long time. Looking for something to take the edge off the feeling he'd taken the elevator down to his storage room to take stock of his alcohol. It was an a active cellar, temperature and humidity maintained by an advanced climate controlled system. Like any natural food product, alcohol was perishable and could spoil if it wasn't carefully maintained. He'd walked past a few bottles of Madeira, over 200 years old, a favorite of Thomas Jefferson, and produced from the same vintage that had been used to toast the American Declaration of independence, and had instead taken out a bottle of Rose de Gambrinus, a Belgian fruit beer. With age the taste of the raspberries faded, so it was agreed upon by many to be better appreciated in it's youth. He'd then hobbled over to the cabinet to retrieve a glass, inspecting each one before settling on a champagne flute. While it was most commonly used for sparkling wines, flutes were also used for fruit beers so he'd violated no rule of etiquette using it. He took a moment to appreciate the smooth feel of the tall tapered conical shape in his hands. The inward curve wasn't just aesthetically pleasing, it also served a purpose

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benditoviaje-blog · 6 years

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*~The Blessed Journey~*

22 May, 2018

My name is Nina, and I am about to travel to Spain! *I’m attending the Venga, Vale, Vamos program through my university to improve my Spanish, gain cultural awareness and better educate myself on European history. Equally important however, I hope to unearth the long-forgotten, adventurous part of myself and grow as a human.*

I’m going to dive into that all soon, but let me introduce myself and explain why this is so important to me first. I am a mama of three super-cute kids. Lila (pronounced lee-lah), Micah and Rose. Before I was pregnant with Lila, my first, I spent a year hitchhiking around the country. It was the most freeing experience of my life to live out of a backpack, meet new people every day, and see places I had never seen before. At a certain point, I settled in a small mountain town where I got pregnant with my little Lila. I realized when Lila was around 18 months, I needed to go back to school to contribute to the world in a more meaningful way, so I’ve been doing online courses for about five years now. Over that time, I gave birth to Micah and then to Rose. All of my schooling has been online up to this point. I’m a year away from graduating with my bachelors and then will continue for a masters, so I can do counseling someday. We’re all multi-faceted people though filled with angles, so another angle of my life is deeply saturated in ceremony of the Native American Church (NAC), as well as other Lakota ceremonies. There is a lot of cultural cross-over between the Natives of the US and the Natives of Mexico during these ceremonies. Many actually believe the NAC has its roots in the Huichol people who reside in the mountains of west-central Mexico. For many years, I’ve been dependent on others to translate communications between myself and Huichol relatives, who speak Spanish. It’s a deep yearning for me to someday visit a Huichol community to participate in their indigenous ceremonies. Online courses through the university are limited for Spanish though, so I’m doing this study abroad, so I can accelerate my learning of the language. It’s pretty much helping me to accomplish one of my life purposes. But, as my high school art teacher always told me, “Life is about the journey, not the destination.” So, stepping back from my life purpose, I do have goals for myself during this blessed journey through Spain as well.

Like I stated earlier, I hope during this time abroad I can improve my Spanish, gain cultural awareness and understand more about European history. I will be the first to say, I know very little Spanish. Like it so often is while learning another language, I can understand pretty well what people are saying when they talk to me but speaking back is a whole nother creature- like a large baby-creature with a slow, sloppy tongue. I’m lacking confidence and take too long to weave together words from my limited vocab to create sentences which actually say what I’m thinking (mostly for lack of practice). To help me, I am going to challenge myself to strike up conversations with locals every day. I’m hoping being forced to speak the language daily, studying it in the university and living deep in the culture will help me to improve my proficiency. Speaking of culture! I hope to really just learn a lot about the Spanish culture while I’m there. I want to understand the essence of Spain and maybe even chameleon into the culture myself. What I really want to do while I’m there is explore the local spirituality. I think there is so much culture found in how we pray, so I hope to find some cool nooks of ceremony there. I also want to learn more about the history of the land. Europe has never been an appealing place to me, due to the dark histories I know of, like the Inquisition, conquests and wars. I’m hoping to learn more about the beautiful history of the land—of community achievement, tradition, humanity and art. I plan on asking my host family about these aspects. I also am going to be visiting museums and I want to explore poetry and visual art while there.

Okay, so the other angle of what I hope to achieve... I feel like I have forgotten important pieces of myself and that I’ve stagnated as a human. When I used to hitchhike, once upon a time, I had such a faith and resilience which I wore like a golden robe. I felt protected and safe and guided by a higher power who was always on my side. Now… Well, I’m sleep deprived, emotionally strung out and sometimes question the greater plan of my life. Having kids is demanding— No, that’s not right— Having one kid is demanding. Having two kids is exhausting. Having three kids is like a one-way ticket into Crazyville. Especially when I’m a full-time student. My daily life is a very structured routine of servitude. Don’t get me wrong, having children, you experience the greatest, deepest, purest love you have ever felt in your entire life. They bring you laughter and sweetness, they teach you so much, and help you to remember your inner-child. Being a parent gives your life a purpose far more righteous and honorable than most—sculpting the promise of the future. However, with all that bliss, comes the other angle, which I would call border-line despair. It’s like, you make waffles and strawberries and pure maple syrup for your kids, and it’s their favorite breakfast, but somedays they just hate everything so they throw it on the floor and scream in your face and then cry because now their waffle is on the floor. And you have to be the adult. Every day is a challenge to keep yourself under control, to teach your children about life in this world, to provide for them, guide them and to do all of it with love. It’s hard. So, while I’m focusing on all that and focusing on getting through school, I push aside a lot of parts of myself which bring me personal fulfillment—such as creating art, exploring new places, meeting new people, taking care of my body and tuning-in to that feeling of being cared for by that higher power. I want to remember the thrilling, adventurous part of myself which makes me, Me. So while I’m in Spain, I plan on drawing something every day, going for runs several times a week, and just exploring! I’m going to do things which make me feel uncomfortable (which really this whole trip does to a certain extent) so I can grow as a human. I also want to make gratitude lists several times a week, to help me to remember how blessed the journey of life is. I read somewhere how it takes something like 21 days to make a new habit. What better time to make new habits than while I’m in Spain? And those habits will translate to an overall betterment of my everyday life when I return.

Whew… That is a lot, but this whole trip is going to be a lot! I have a bubbling feeling of nervousness in my chest and belly right now. I have a philosophy though: it is more important to face my fears and at least try things than to let my life pass me by and live with regret of never even having given myself the chance to live in my fullness. I suppose I fear cutting myself short far more than anything else in life.

In less than a week, I’ll be saying goodbye to these beloved mountains, and boarding a plane to Spain! Let the blessed journey begin…

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