#lumberman

[worache]

[blingblong55]

Little red riding hood- König NSFW

Based on a request:

Can I ask for a werewolf König with red riding hood reader and maybe age gap if you’re comfortable with it? And knotting and breeding kink if that’s also allowed Red is a witch in this if that’s okay since it’s October ☺️.Red is in her 20’s while I think König if I’m reading it right, he’s like late 30’s? I could be wrong.Red follows the tale of the story, but what if in this one, Red and König knew each other? Like he was her guardian angel for her growing up, and they were like friends of being outcasts; König being the Big Bad Wolf and Red for her red hood and for being a witch, all because she lives out more in nature then in a village but is their only known healer so they tolerate her. They always say that wherever Red went, the Wolf followed as to make sure Red was never harmed, lurking in the woods. But then, a mysterious woodsman/huntsman appears in town; and he helps around. Goes into the woods to chop trees and hunt; but it is secretly König posing as a man as to avoid suspicion but to also get close to Red 👀 _____ F!Reader, smut, MDNI, 18+, monster au, werewolf!könig, age gap, witch au, witch!reader, unprotected!sex, friends to lovers, P-in-V, breeding _____

A/N: It won't be as extensive as I wanted but I hope you enjoy and im sorry for posting this a day late

A small home in the woods, where a young witch lived, and a neighbour far away that became her friend. You and he became friends when he first introduced himself. Ever since, he has become your protector, friend and guidance. But with time, that sense of protecting you just because you were his friend changed. Infatuation for some. Love, respect and honesty for him. He wasn't normal, that was known and you weren't very much liked, that is a fact. But why don't you get the townspeople to pester you? You heal, and anyone in town sick comes to your small home for healing. No pharmacy in town, just the same old hospital and you. Yes it's true, while no one likes you, they respect you and your abilities to heal others.

It has taken time to get used to this newfound fame, but with König around to help and protect, life is great. And now as you made your way to the dark forest for another special herb for a healing session in the morning, you pulled the hood of your cloak on your head. The red material disguises you in the woods. This is perfect for the man who follows you like a shadow, a new stalker you swore was out to harm you. The dark magic protects you from it when it knows you don't know it. As it doesn't protect you from this mysterious creature, you begin to fasten your pace. König not with you this time scares you. "For the souls, help me," you whisper as you begin to sprint. A tree that you recognise in sight. "König," you remember and turn a sharp right, running towards the only haven besides your home.

Your wicker basket in hand, the plants and book moving with this quickened pace. You knock on his door, it takes time but when he opens it, he is in his human form. "König, there…there was a man- or thing…and-" you try to explain. His large form moves you inside, he smiles, knowing he has his precious thing with him now. "You're safe now, liebe," he whispers as he holds you in his arms. Your basket is now on the ground of his cabin, the cosy walls surrounding you both from the cold breeze and fog of the autumn season. The moon was almost full as it was the 30th of October, almost his time of turning. He pulls away and cups your face in his large hands, he chuckles to himself at this beautiful view. "Now, why don't you and I sit down and talk, ja?" And as time passes, he walks you home. Hallow Eve in the coming minutes, you with a journey to your grandma. He kisses your forehead and disappears in the night.

By morning, as you take your baked goods to the one lady who kept you sane, you see a lumberman, axe in hand as he walks through the woods. You stop in your tracks, as far as you are concerned, no one in town took trees down from your property. König at his home as you stared at his man. Figure more rougher than any man you've seen. Hallows hour is approaching soon, and your grandmother needs your protection at that time. You continued walking and then the man turned to you, scarecrow mask on, you know this wasn't normal. Everyone in town knew not to mess with you, for the man with the howls was behind when his precious girl came to town. With a hand on the dagger the old witch crafted, you never give this mysterious man your back as you walk past and before you make it to the sacred gardens, he chases you with the power most men can't possess.

König, you think of. He was not near, nowhere as near as this man posing as a noble lumberman. You can't drop the basket in fear that your potions and book will be stolen and used against yourself and the greater good of others. Three claw marks in a tree of where König left his mark. A haven, his home much closer as possible. The early morning fog made the ground nearly visible. "König!" you scream in hopes of having his ability to hear it all and listen to you. You run and run, the red cloak dancing with the wind like a willow tree.

Once you make it to him, you knock and knock, calling for him in desperation. It was the oldest trick in the book for dark, smart and in need-of-love wolves. To court and how to make it fast. "For heavens my Liebling, what's the matter?" he asks with a soft tone, breathing trying to slow down. "It happened again, but this…this time the man chased me with-…i..an axe and- well." He shakes his head, inside spirit smiling like the devil. "I'm here to protect you, my liebe," he kisses your forehead and acts as if he is determined to kill the man. The hoax is well done as he has you vulnerable and scared, all for him to use against you and kiss you and make you his finally. Your arms holding him close, he chuckles knowing that the woman he loves finds comfort in him. He kisses your forehead over and over, and guides you to his bedroom to, 'let you rest' but it's all part of his plan to make you, his.

They say to claim, is to leave a mark, and König intended to do just that. His scent on your red cloak, your dress and the basket you carried with care. His gaze softens, but his touch is rough as he lays you in bed. "Now, why don't I show you how good I can take care of you?" One nod from him and another from you has him removing the unnecessary clothes. There was something different in the atmosphere, he felt it and you know you can feel it too. "König, I-" you say but his finger flies to your lips. "Let me show you I care," his voice was still so soft but as time kept getting closer, that soft voice would turn to howls and hoarse words. He kisses you, you kiss him back, which he smiles to as he knows you feel the same way…finally. No longer does he have to lure you into his home, he can have you come here, willingly. The lumberman character is lost in the woods as he gets lost in you.

His hands are on your waist as with his thumb he lifts your dress, and you squirm. "It's okay, I won't hurt you, I want to please you," he tells you. You know it's not an empty word he ushers but honesty. Your body soon to be his, your love and devotion, written in time as his. His bulge, with a wet shadow as his pre-cum leaks from just this contact. You un-do his trousers, he looks down and then at you, "You want it that bad, don't you?" A devil smirk on him again. "I need it," you tell him. He pushes you deeper in the bed as his kisses become rough, trailing to your jaw and neck, he growls and time ticks. It's a countdown. Poets and other simple writers, all authoring about a woman in a red cloak, afraid of the big bad wolf, to have it debunked by you and him. Covered in lust and deep in love. His cock is ready to pump you full of his seed. He needs to breed your pretty pussy that drips the taste of heaven. Your hands fly to his back, he lets out a groan.

"That's it, baby, mark me," his hands fly to your cunt, fingers it and licks his fingers after. "Just like I predicted, heaven from you," he kisses you once more, this time so you can taste glory. His cock, in a desperate need to fuck itself into you, slowly lets his tip in. You moan, he was big, thick and already so red and swollen for you. Seconds pass and now, as his werewolf self comes to play with his prey, his heavy cock spreads you open. You whimper and cry. "That's right darling, keep making those pretty noises for me," he kisses you, and you moan into it. His large hands on you, claiming every last bit of you as his. His thrusts are like this form of himself, animalistic and wild. Your body and his, in unity, as he claims that cunt of yours. Your clit, rubbed by his large hands, your eyes rolling back. Thrusts so good it turns you into a blabbering mess. His dark laugh melts you, he loves this view of you.

Your orgasm building up, your pussy wrapping around him like a perfect glove. He groans and grunts. It was art for what sex can be. To have your cunt, spread and filled with his fat cock, it was art. Your hands, marking his back, he lets out a growl, his beast cannines on view. "Don't. Fucking. Stop." He adores how he claims you and you do him. His hands fly to your neck as he chokes you and as his moans and grunts fill the gap between you and him. And just as you were already riding your high, you feel him, his cock grow within you, creating a nest inside of you. The art of sex and knotting your mate, a plan he knew all too well. Your eyes leak with tears, tears he helped create as he proves to you, that love is not emotional at times but physical. His cum, leaking from your cunt that was already filled to the brim. "You like it when I breed you like that?" This is a not-so-innocent question that will be asked throughout this relationship. "You like it, I know my little whore does," eh kisses you, and thrusts slowly as he plans on keeping his cock in you for some more time.

A/N: I apologise if this wasn't good or how it was requested...sorry

Tags:

@bigtimesalt8196 @alxexhearts @kit-kats06 @greatstormcat @crimson404deer @liyanahelena @sleepydang @arithestrawberry @l0calfatherfiiigure @sigrid666 @killshotcodxxx @potatoknight @scarletevening @elowynnlane @brazen-haze @rinsworld @briefartnaturewolf @rnangoes @ess-perspective-blog @jihyowl

[ltwilliammowett]

Sea Shanty Books

For all those who are looking for books on the subject of sea shanties.

The Early Naval Ballads of England, by J.O. Halliwell, 1841 Naval Songs, by S.B. Luce, 1883 The Music of the Waters, by Laura A. Smith, 1888 Songs of Sea and Sail, by Thomas Fleming Day, 1898 Old Sea Chanties, by J. Bradford and A. Fagge, 1904 Sailors' Songs or Chanties, by Ferries Tozer and F.J. Davis, 1906 Sea Songs and Shanties, by Captain W.B. Whall, 1910 Shanties and Forebitters, by Mrs. Clifford Beckett, 1914 Songs of Sea Labour, by Frank T. Bullen and W.F. Arnold, 1915 King's Book of Chanties, by Stanton H. King, 1918 Capstan Chanteys, by Cecil K. Sharp, 1919 Pullings Chanteys, by Cecil K. Sharp, 1919 Deep Sea Chanties, by Owen Trevine, 1921 The Shanty Book, Part 1, R.R. Terry, 1921 Sea Songs and Ballads, by C. Fox Smith, 1923 Roll and Go: Songs of American Sailormen, by Joanna C. Colcord, 1924 Sea Chanties, by Geoffrey Toye, 1924 Songs of the Sea and Sailors Chanteys, by Robert Frothingham, 1924 Ballads and Songs of the Shanty- Boy, by Franz L. Rickaby, 1926 The Shanty Book Part II, R.R. Terry, 1926 The Seven Seas Shanty Book, by John Sampson, 1927 A Book of Shanties, by C. Fox Smith, 1927 Salt Sea Ballads, by R.R. Terry, 1931 American Sea Songs and Chanteys, by Frank Shay, 1948 Shantymen and Shantyboys: Songs of the Sailor and the Lumberman, by W.M. Doerflinger, 1951 The Shell Book of Shanties, 1952 Sea Songs of Sailing, Whaling and Fishing, by Burl Ives, 1956 Shanties from the Seven Seas: Shipboard Work- Songs from the Great Days of Sail, Stan Hugill, 1961 Sailo's Songs and Shanties, by Michael Hur, 1965 Shanties and Sailors's Songs, by Stan Hugill, 1969

[minzart]

What is the origin of leshycat pls i don’t understand

My version or in general?

Bc in general Leshycat was born in the fandom back in January 2023 when massive monster's posted their animated short of Leshy's kitchen nightmare

Where Leshy being the assigned cook of the cult that day burned the food, wich made a follower scream at him and made him feel bad, however another follower who was there, a yellow cat, who gave him a camélia bc he felt bad for him and left

The catch was that Leshy's bandage became a heart when he looked at the camelia and then he immediately ate it like the gremilin he is.

And since then it's history, two characters interact in a cute way in a official short animation and there we have it Leshycat is born :D

The yellow cat now is basically a place holder for an oc since we don't have any more information about them besides "felt bad for leshy being yealed at" and "is a yellow cat", so the yellow cat can be anything the people want, a girl, a boy, nonbinary, a farmer, a warrior, a lumberman, a miner, the possibilities are endless with this blank page the yellow cat doesn't even have a name,nor a past, that's why diferent artists name their yellow cat diferent.

I think it also kicked so much bc it was the first time we saw one of the bishops in follower form(don't quote me on that I might be wrong) and having a chill interaction with another follower, he didn't even got angry at the follower who yealed at him.

[roscoe-conkling]

Depression-era photojournalist Dorothea Lange took this photograph of Thomas Cave, an unemployed lumberman, in the bean fields of Oregon in 1939.

[nenboxen]

I feel like posting this, yeah. Jolly Tom and Lumberman.

I love these guys. They are sooo cute together!!! I also have headcanons for their designs >.<

Happy New Year to everyone ^_^

[natalieironside]

Even though I never really wanted to be a lumberman I do now regret not joining the American Wood Protection Association when I had the chance because that would've been a very funny, Grandpa Simpson esque thing to be a member of

[onlycosmere]

Dragonsteel: Chapter One

The lumberman’s son was born into a world of magic. Perhaps others would not have thought so, but to a young boy full of curiosity and wonder, the forest was a place of enchantment.

Jerick saw magic in the growth of the great pines, seeds barely as large as a pebble eventually becoming monoliths, with trunks so wide that when he hugged them, pressing his check against the rough bark and stretching his arms to their fullest, his fingertips still didn’t touch at the back.

He heard magic in the wind, which blew whispers through the branches, dropping cones and needles to the ground like a rattling waterfall.

He tasted magic in the fruits of the wilderness, berries both sour and sweet, musty pine scents that tickled the back of his nose.

He felt magic in the forest’s life. A group in which the lumberman’s son included himself. Like the branch rat, the wolf, the rabbit, and the deer, Jerick was a creature of the woods.

His first steps had been taken on a floor of pine needles. His home, a simple hut constructed from those same trees that surrounded it. The lumberman’s son knew other, less fortunate children who lived in a village a short distance down the river, a place where the mountainside tapered and the trees fell away into a broad plain. Here, people lived cramped together, their houses huddled like frightened rodents or birds too young to leave the nest. Other lumbermen lived in this village, taking carts or boats each day to the lumbering camps.

Jerick could not understand these men. They worked with the forest, yet it did not intoxicate them like it should. He did not know how they could leave the beautiful woods each day, instead choosing to live in a place so crowded and suffocating.

Jerick had friends in the village. They didn’t see things the same way he did. When he showed <Cenn> and the others a tree older and stronger than the rest, they would shake their heads, not understanding its strength. When he found a large fish swimming in the river’s sheltered shallows, its bulbous, unblinking eyes regarding him with an unasked question, the other boys would only try to catch it. When Jerick wondered how the clouds could move in the air when there seemed to be no wind, the others would ask him why he cared.

So, though trips to the village were exciting, Jerick was always glad to return home. Home to his mother, who would be finishing the day’s washing. Home to his forest on the mountainside, where he could listen to the pines rustling, <fallow owls> calling, and twigs crackling, as opposed to the silence caused by men yelling to one another.

He loved to accompany his father into the woods. The lumberman was so tall and broad-chested, he seemed almost to be one of the trees. Rin’s arms were thick and rough with hair, his tough axe-calloused fingers like ancient roots, his beard like a thick gathering of pine needles that poked and scratched Jerick’s skin when they hugged. His father had deep, understanding brown eyes and wide lips that were usually parted in a contented smile.

As far as Jerick could tell, his father was the only person alive who understood the forest better than Jerick himself. Rin could tell the strength and quality of a tree’s wood simply by rubbing his fingers across the bark. He could see birds nesting high in branches that Jerick had assumed were only shadows. And he could always find sweetberry bushes to sate a growing boy’s appetite.

More importantly, the forest seemed to accept his father. Jerick soon came to understand that this was because his father respected the woods. “Look at the trees around you, my son.”

(By the way, I’m not gonna do the dialect. I had dialect in Dragonsteel. People from the rural areas don’t say the word “the,” they just say “ta.” So, “Look at ta trees” is what they would say. But I’m not gonna do the dialect.)

… his father would instruct as they walked together. “Man can be born, grown, and die in the time it takes one of them to get so high. They’ve seen the likes of us come and go.” That would be all he said for a while. Rin didn’t speak much, not like the other lumbermen, who always seemed to have something to say and not enough people to say it to.

Rin was a King’s Man and cut lumber for the king’s shipping. Like the other lumbermen, Rin used a shiny bronze axe to do his work. The most important possession he owned; bronze was rare. The only other piece of metal Jerick’s family owned was his mother’s bronze cooking knife. Jerick had heard men in the villages speaking of a new, stronger metal that had been discovered recently in the south, something called mountainsteel. They said its name came because it was the same color as mythical Dragonsteel. But to Jerick, it was all the same. He had never seen either one; bronze was good enough for lumbermen.

As soon as he was able, Jerick followed his father to the lumbering camp. After a few weeks, the burly men welcomed his presence, and he was allowed free rein of the camp, where he watched, thinking of questions to ask his father as they travelled home. He wanted to know what made the men’s arms so big. Why the trees fell the way they did. And what the lumbermen did with all the branches they cut off the trunks. He wanted to know why the King needed so much wood. And how long it took to float all the way down the <Trerod> river to the palace.

Some of the questions, his father could answer; others, he could not. Some things, Jerick simply noticed and asked no questions. Most of these had to do with his father. For instance, after felling a tree, his father would dig two holes and drop pine seed into each one. The others did not. Every day when the work was done, his father would start a small fire of green pine needles sprinkled with pungent witherdust and let it burn among the trees slated for the next day’s lumbering. The smoke would trigger a reaction in the pine larks and <cheps>, and they would fly or scamper away, taking their young with them. The other lumbermen would scoff at his father’s precautions. But Jerick watched with pride. Actions like these, and dozens like them, were where the lumberman’s son learned the most important lesson his father ever taught him: all life was precious.

Such was Jerick’s life up until his eleventh year. He wandered the forest, helped his mother with cleaning and baking, ran chores in the lumbering camp. To him, there could be little else to life; he was content, and he wanted nothing else.

His father, however, had other plans.

 (I consciously did a bit more of a storyteller’s style for this. You can see; that first section’s basically omniscient. This was always kind of meant to be a story that Hoid was kind of telling after the fact. You can kind of see hints of that in some of these sections. Other sections go more into the third limited. But you can imagine that sequence that I just read you all being said by Hoid to people who want to know about what happened and how everything came to be.)

…

“Jerick, son, go fetch your mother some water.”

“Yes, Father.” It was dark outside, and his mother had little need of fresh water, but Jerick complied quickly. His father made few demands; when he did, the lumberman’s son did not question. He did, however, run quickly, so he could return to listen outside the door.

“The boy notices things, <Martle>,” his father was saying. “He’s quick of mind. The other day, <Javick> and Henry hadn’t been watching the angle properly as they cut. That tree would’ve fallen the wrong way and could have killed a man. Jerick saw the error in an instant. He pointed it out to them. A boy barely two hands old speaking lumberin’ to a pair of men who’d been cuttin’ trees their entire lives. He has more questions than I can answer; though sometimes he answers them on his own.”

“And what would you be havin’ us do about it?” his mother asked. Jerick could imagine the slight frown on her face as she asked the question, her broad frame seated on the floor beside Rin. His mother was practical in all respects, evaluating everything on its ability to be used. When Jerick asked her a question, the answer always came in the form of another question, usually asking him what he would do with the answer if he had it.

“There’s that new school in the village,” his father explained. “They say the king himself ordered it built.”

“I’ve heard of it,” his mother said hesitantly. His mother disapproved of anything that broke with tradition.

“I’d take the boy to it once a week. He’d be able to learn.”

“What could he learn that would do him any good to lumberin’?” his mother asked.

“Probably nothin’ at all,” his father admitted.

“’Tis an unnatural thing, Rin. It won’t last long; the people won’t put up with it. Schools are for nobbles and kings.” (I used “nobbles” instead of “nobles.” We had a nice little vowel shift in this.) “Not for lumbermen.”

“I know, <Martle>. There was silence for a moment.

“Well, then,” his mother said, “as long as you understand that, I doubt there’s any harm in it. Just be sure not to let the boy get a wrong thinkin’ about it. Learning could spoil him.”

“I doubt anything could be spoilin’ Jerick,” his father replied.

And so, the lumberman’s son went to school.

…

The scholar was the most fabulous creature Jerick had ever seen. (No, that’s not Hoid.) His robes were made of cloth, not furs or skins, and they were a red as deep as the colors of the setting sun. More amazing, his hair was a pale yellow, like the mane of a light-colored horse, rather than deep black like everyone else. His beard was not bushy and wide like that of Jerick’s father, but it was straight and stiff, about a handspan long, and only came out of his chin. It was pulled tight and wrapped with thin strings, making it ribbed, like a bale of hay. The beard almost resembled a slice of bread, with the short end glued to the bottom of the man’s face, and made his chin seem like it was a foot long. His head was covered with a tight cowl that stretched across his forehead and hung loosely against the back of his neck. And his eyes were dissatisfied as he stepped from the chariot, a wonder in itself, and regarded the village.

Jaw moved slightly, and his face pulled tight, as if he had suddenly tasted an extremely rotten, bitter fruit. Around his neck, Jerick could make out a gleaming castemark; the mark of a man’s rank in life. It was made of gold, rather than the plain wood of those like the lumbermen.

“Bow, lad,” his father ordered. Jerick complied, joining the rest of the village in bowing for the strange man.

“Why do we bow, Father?” he mumbled as he lowered his head.

“Because the man’s of nobble blood, boy,” Rin explained.

(I’m not gonna do all the accents, but he says “formers” instead of “farmers.” Sound change. The whole idea is that the nobility accent is shifting away from the way that the accents of the lowborn are, which is kind of this fun thing that happens in linguistics. And this is one of the things that causes vowel shifts, where you’ll often see different vowels getting replaced over time. I find that sort of thing very fun. I’m probably not going to read that to you. But you can see it when you read the book.)

“Lumbermen and farmers must bow before anyone higher than them, whether it be a merchant, a noble, or even crafters.”

The idea seemed wrong to Jerick, but he said no more. People were beginning to raise their heads, and, for the moment, he was more interested in viewing the odd, brightly-clothed scholar than he was in asking about the nature of the caste system.

“Classes will begin at noon,” the man declared in a high-pitched voice. The words sounded odd, as if the man couldn’t form them properly. They were sharp and separated; not smooth and comfortable, like what Jerick was accustomed to hearing.

“What’s wrong with his speakin’?” Jerick asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.

“That’s how nobbles are speakin’, boy,” his father explained. “They’re not the same as lumbermen. They think differently. They have learning. You’ll get used to it. Now go play ‘til noon; since we’ve come to town, might as well see about gettin’ my axe sharpened.”

Jerick nodded, his eyes seeking out <Cenn> and <Yon>, two of the boys that he usually played with. However, as his father walked off toward the smith’s, Jerick turned away from the boys. He was still more interested in the scholar than anything else.

The man was speaking softly to <Millen>, head of his father’s lumbering camp. <Millen> was a short man with graying hair. His head bowed practically to waist level, and he was bobbing subseqiously. Jerick had never seen such behavior from the foreman before. Eventually, <Millen> gestured for the scholar to follow him. The man nodded to his several companions: two packmen and younger woman that Jerick hadn’t noticed before. She must have also been a noble, for her hair was light and luxuriously long, not cropped short at the shoulders or pulled up in a bun. The scholar reached up his hand to help the woman from the bronze chariot. She looked distastefully at the ground, though Jerick couldn’t understand what she found wrong with it. It was, after all, just ordinary mud.

<Millen> led the four to a house at the center of the village. Jerick had noticed the building earlier; it had been a storehouse, but that had been emptied and its walls washed unnaturally clean by the efforts of a dozen workmen. He’d wondered what it would be used for. Not the school; a building on the other side of town had been prepared for that. It couldn’t possibly be a place for the scholar to live; it was far too large for that. What would one man, even four, do with so much space? It was so silly an idea that Jerick only gave it a passing thought.

As the five people disappeared into the building, Jerick made a decision. He ignored the calls of the other boys, waving for them to go on without him, and wandered over to the structure, looking as if he were interested in the pile of stones beside the front path. His interest soon changed to a small beetle, a large leaf, and several other objects that progressively brought him closer to the building, until he was standing just beneath the window, admiring a snail as it climbed up the whitewashed wooden wall.

Though his eyes followed the snail, his ears stretched to catch more of the noble’s strange words. He jumped in surprise as the door opened and <Millen> and the two packmen left. Determined not to run away, Jerick focused his eyes on the snail and tried to look engrossed. The men paid Jerick no heed, and he congratulated himself on his strong nerves, then thanked the snail for remaining so calm, as well. The small creature continued to slide along, completely oblivious to Jerick or its own part in the subterfuge.

Calming himself with a few breaths, Jerick concentrated again. His efforts were rewarded, and soon he could make out the whiny, snappish voice of the scholar speaking within. “I spend an entire year training in <Trexados>, the grandest center for learning on the continent, and my reward? Forced exile to an insignificant mud pit on the far side of the kingdom.” His strangely accented words sounded less authoritative than they had before. It almost resembled the voices of the younger boys who pled to be allowed to play with Jerick’s friends.

“Calm yourself, brother,” a second, feminine voice soothed.

“I cannot and I will not calm myself, <Willan>,” the scholar snapped. “You cannot feel what an outrageous appointment it is. Tomorrow, that chariot will carry you back to <Emory>, leaving me to be forgotten. He must hate me.”

“Perhaps he simply wants someone to teach the people here.”

The scholar snorted loudly. “Teach lumbermen and farmers? <Willan>, be rational. What purpose could that serve?”

“I do not know,” the woman confessed. “It seems ridiculous. But he did appear sincere when he gave you the instructions.”

“It must be a move by House <Strathan> to discredit us,” the scholar declared as if he hadn’t heard his sister’s comment.

“Discredit us?” The woman’s voice was now amused. “Brother, no matter how much your trip to <Trexados> inflated your pride, you can’t possibly have deluded yourself into thinking you’re important enough for house politics. You’re the fourth son of a second son. Be glad the family didn’t decide to send you off to the Eternal War and be rid of you.” (That’s where the Shattered Plains are in this book.)

There was no reply to that comment, but Jerick could feel the dissatisfaction seething through the wall.

“So, what will you teach them?” the woman eventually asked.

“As little as possible. The philosophy of the Three Realms of existence is far beyond them. Perhaps I’ll teach them some tricks of mathematics or history, things that might actually be practical in a place like this.”

“Reading?”

“By the Lords, no!” the scholar replied. “You know what damage that could do?”

“The king implied that’s why he was sending you,” the woman noted. “How will you get around it?”

“Reading requires materials, <Willan>,” the scholar said with a self-satisfied tone. “Look around this town. I doubt you will find a single scroll of text.”

Jerick waited patiently for the conversation to continue, but either the two had decided not to speak further, or they had moved to another part of the building. Sighing, Jerick realized how little of the conversation he’d understood. None of it made sense to him.

One thing was clear; the scholar had spoken to the king himself. And that made him an important man, indeed. Jerick had heard stories of the king and knew from them that only important people ever spoke to the man directly.

Reaching up, he allowed the snail to slide onto his hand, then rose from a squat to walk away from the building. He placed the snail on a shrub he often saw them eating, then wandered off in the direction the other boys had gone.

[slugdragoon]

Devlog #7 - Shephard and Lumberman enemies + new Necromancer animation, summons flee, and new status effects!

Alright, I'm really excited about this one, it's a big one!

The biggest part of my week was finishing three animations for enemy types in the game. These are the third, fourth, and fifth animations I've even done (first two being the Snake and Sheep summons), and I feel myself getting better each time.

the Necromancer - I've had an idle blocked out for this guy in solid colours for a while, he's been in my other devlogs, but finally buckled down and did the shading and colouring. I'm thinking to give him a Skeleton or Zombie summon, which may be my next animation, as I have a matching status effect for them nearly worked out.

the Shepherd - Next, and this is my most recent work - the Shepherd. This idea came from the Sheep summon, who I introduced as a summon which could put you to sleep. I needed status-inflicting summons, thus the Sheep. I thought a Shepherd with the ability to summon Sheep and a passive ability to keep your summons around longer (shepherding them around) that you can inherit onto any summoning class would be perfect. And I'm happy to say, both of those abilities are implemented, making the Shepherd my most complete enemy type to date!

the Lumberman - I did this animation before the Shepherd, and I may rework it later on, because musculature is f-ing hard man, but I had an idea for physical attacks to, in contrast to magic skills, be more used for a variety of tactical targeting scenarios, each with advantages and drawbacks that make sense for the implied weapon type. I thought up a Cleave (not implemented yet) ability that's meant to evoke a Guts-like (Berserk) warrior who cuts down many enemies at once, but applies a big penalty on the user when an armoured foe is caught up in it. It works for an axe, so I made an enemy whose "thing" is that they're an axe man, so started with a lumberjack. I started with a normal human skin tone, but my animation blocking was temporarily green, and I liked copper-y armour and weapons for him, so I tried making him look like oxidized copper as well. I though the idea for a metal man who chops down trees was pretty cool, and here we are!

New status effects - I also designed three new status effect icons for inflictions I have planed. I showed the Sleep and Poison ones last time, and a version of those effect is in the game (I added green to the Poison icon).

The new effects are Blindness, Charm, and Fear. Only Fear is partly implemented so far. The plan for Charm is probably typical. Have allies attack each other or heal the charmer. For Blindness, I like the idea of forcing a random target more than lowering accuracy (maybe a mix of a little lower accuracy, but also randomizing your target making it a risk to hit an enemy that could retaliate against you, I feel that could make some interesting encounters).

As for Fear, that is partly implemented. Fear causes your summoned minions to flee, and I'm toying with the idea of having it block or cancel some kinds of buffs (can't raise your Attack Power if your party member doesn't feel brave enough to attack, that sort of thing). I want to give the summoned minions a protective effect so that you need way do sift through them to land meaningful attacks.

Minions have to be able to flee, so I made it so that they can (complete with an animation). They also now flee at the end of battle, which the Shepherd's passive ability stops (it will eventually be a percentage chance to flee).

In addition, while character's with swords and arrows might go directly for the summoner, I added another new Smash ability (imagine warhammers, clubs, etc.) that hits both the enemy itself and causes some if it's minions to scatter, thinning the herd.

I have some other changes to assets and the code, but that was already a lot! This really felt like one where, at least a small number of more complete ideas fit together really well!

[heystephen]

got too deep into ancestry and now im crying over my ancestor named oscar who shares a birthday with me exactly 100 years apart and quit his job as a lumberman to become a forest ranger allegedly one of the first forest rangers in the state

[moneeb0930]

Did Harriet Tubman ever see her sisters again?

Edward Brodess sold three of Tubman's sisters, whom she never saw again.

Tubman escaped slavery and rescued approximately 70 enslaved people, including members of her family and friends. Harriet Tubman's family includes her birth family; her two husbands, John Tubman and Nelson Davis; and her adopted daughter Gertie Davis.

Tubman's parents—Benjamin "Ben" Ross and Harriett “Rit" Greene Ross—were enslaved people who were owned by two different families. Their lives came together when Mary Pattison Brodess, Rit's owner, married Anthony Thompson. Ben Ross, owned by Thompson, met and married Rit Greene. They lived together until about 1823 or 1824, when Rit and their children went to the Brodess farm. Ben was a timber estimator and foreman and Rit was a domestic servant. After Ben was freed, he bought his wife's freedom. Ben was a conductor on the Underground Railroad and slaveholders were becoming suspicious of his role in escapes in the area. Tubman, having freed other family members, rescued her parents. After a short period in St. Catharines in Ontario, Canada, Tubman and her parents settled in the Auburn, New York area.

Tubman married a free man, John Tubman in 1844. In 1849, Tubman fled the area, believing that she was going to be sold. She returned to the area to bring John Tubman north with her, but he had already married another woman. Tubman operated a boarding house out of her home in Auburn and Nelson Davis boarded with her for three years before they were married in 1869. Davis fought during the American Civil War. They adopted a girl, Gertie, and operated several businesses out of their farm. They raised pigs and chickens, operating a farm selling eggs and butter.

She made 13 trips to Maryland to bring back her brothers and parents, other family members, friends and others. She did not know of the whereabout of her sisters, except Rachel who was separated from her children and died before the family could be reunited.

Born Araminta "Minty" Ross, her parents were Benjamin "Ben" and Harriet "Rit" Greene Ross. They were "respected as clever, honest, and religious people with a strong sense of family loyalty".

Ross family sites in Maryland. Ben lived at Peters Neck, and for awhile Rit and 5 children lived there as well. Rit and her children lived at Brodess Farm beginning about 1824. Ben later lived at Poplar Neck, and Rit joined him there after he purchased her freedom around 1854.

Around 1785 or 1787, Benjamin Ross was born in Dorchester County, Maryland, the property of wealthy landowner Anthony Thompson,who married Mary Pattison in 1803. She was the slaveholder of Rit Greene. Ben and Rit were married in 1808, through an informal marital ceremony, which was their only option to commit to one another.

Ben was a lumberman who supervised slaves who brought down poplar, oak, and cypress trees. He then transported them to Baltimore, where they were used to build ships. In the late 1830s and early 1840s, Ben and Tubman both worked on digging canals for Lewis and John T. Stewart, who were shipbuilders.

Anthony Thompson died in 1836. In the early 1840s, Ben was emancipated and received 10 acres of land following Anthony Thompson's death, as stipulated in his will.Thompson's son, Dr. Anthony C. Thompson, a "timber magnate" and a physician, inherited the estate. He also owned Poplar Neck, an area in southern Caroline County, where Thompson sent free laborers and enslaved people. Poplar Neck is approximately 35 miles from Peters Neck, where Tubman was born. Ben once said that Dr. Thompson was "a rough man towards his slaves, and declared, that he had not given him a dollar since the death of his father". He ultimately sold his 10 acres to Dr. Thompson.

He continued to work as a foreman and lumber estimator by hiring himself out within the Eastern Shore for $5 (equivalent to $164 in 2023) a day. He saved his earnings to buy his wife's freedom.

He was a conductor on the Underground Railroad,which included hiding people on his property in Caroline County. The increase in successful escapes drew the attention of local law enforcement in 1857.He was seen as a "primary agitator", such as with the escape of the Dover Eight, which led to Ben and Rit's trip north to avoid retribution. They initially moved to St. Catharines, Ontario in Canada, but the climate was too cold for the 70-year-old couple and they then moved to Fleming outside of Auburn, New York.

Rit was born about 1785 or 1787 in Dorchester County, Maryland. Rit and her mother Modesty were owned by Atthow Pattison, and they lived on his 265-acre farm near Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge east of the convergence of the Blackwater and Little Blackwater Rivers. Tubman believed that Modesty had arrived in the colonies on a ship from Africa. Her grandmother may have come from the area now known as Ghana on West Africa's Gold Coast. People of that area are of the Ashanti ethnic group. In 1791, Modesty does not appear in Pattison's will.

In January 1797, Pattison died and left Rit to his granddaughter Mary Pattison, who was the wife of Joseph Brodess. There was a stipulation in Pattison's will that she and her children should be freed when they reached forty five years of age. In 1803, Mary Pattison Brodess married Anthony Thompson, who had an enslaved man named Benjamin Ross. She died in 1809 and her son Edward inherited her estate.

Initially, her enslaved parents and siblings lived in Ben Ross's cabin on the Anthony Thompson farm at Peters Neck in Dorchester County, Maryland, in what is now the Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge. Around 1823 or early 1824, after the death of Mary Pattison Brodess Thompson, Edward had Rit and her five children moved ten miles away to the Brodess farm in Bucktown, where she worked as a domestic servant. Edward sold her daughter Linah. He attempted to sell her son Moses to a slave trader from Georgia, but Rit traded off hiding him in the woods and her cabin until the trader gave up and left.

Edward Brodess decided not to honor the stipulation in Pattison's will that would have freed Rit and her children at the age of 45. Edward died in 1849. Eliza Ann Brodess inherited her husband Edward's estate. Edward, and then his wife, Eliza Ann, hired Rit out and kept the money that Tubman earned. Gorney Pattison, great-grandson of Atthow, filed a lawsuit against Brodess for the monies that she earned, since she and her husband had not honored Atthow Pattison's wishes. Pattison lost the case.

Ben purchased his wife's freedom from Eliza Ann Brodess for $20 (equivalent to $654 in 2023) in 1854 or 1855, and the bill of sale was recorded on June 11, 1855, at the Dorchester County Court. Rit was not manumitted because a law of Maryland did not permit for enslaved people over age 45 to be set free. She then lived at Ben's cabin in Caroline County.

Freedom in New York

Fearing that she was going to be sold away from Maryland, Tubman ran away in 1849. She followed the "north star" and was aided by white and black people to make her way north. Her parents were among the people that she brought north and out of slavery. They escaped with Tubman in 1857.

I had crossed the line of which I had so long been dreaming. I was free; but there was no one to welcome me to the land of freedom, I was a stranger in a strange land, and my home after all was down in the old cabin quarter with the old folks, and my brothers and sisters. But to this solemn resolution I came: I was free and they should be free also. I would make a home for them in the North, and the Lord helping me, I would bring democracy all here.

— Harriet Tubman

Tubman arrived in Caroline County, Maryland with a horse and a makeshift wagon to pick up her parents, as well as the belongings they most treasured on their trip north. They traveled at night to a train that took them to Wilmington, Delaware, where they waited for Harriet at the home of Thomas Garrett. After a stop in Philadelphia to meet William Still, they headed north on a train to St. Catharines in Ontario, Canada, where Tubman had her headquarters and waited for fugitive slaves.

Tubman made a meager income chopping and selling wood and working for farmers. Her parents spent a difficult winter, subject to illnesses from the cold. William H. Seward, the governor of New York, helped arrange for the purchase of land in Auburn, New York for Tubman and her parents. Her parents lived in Auburn the rest of their lives. When Tubman was away on Underground Railroad trips or during the American Civil War, friends looked after her parents. Ben died about 1871 in Auburn, New York. Rit died in October 1880, nearly 100 years of age.

Ben and Rit had nine children together. Dorchester County records provide the names of Harriet's four sisters: Linah (b. 1808), Mariah Ritty (b. 1811), Soph (b. 1813), and Rachel—and four brothers: Robert (b. 1816), Ben (b. 1824), Henry, and Moses. Harriet also considered two of her nieces as sisters: Harriet and Kessiah Jolley.

Edward Brodess sold three of Tubman's sisters, whom she never saw again. A trader later wanted to buy her youngest brother, Moses, but Rit was able to resist being separated from her son.

A conductor on the Underground Railroad, Tubman made 13 return trips over 10 years to lead about 70 + people north, including her parents, siblings, and friends to freedom. Her first trip was in December 1850 when her niece Kessiah and her two children were to be sold. At the auction, Kessiah was sold to her husband John Bowley, a free black man. Before the children could be sold, the family left with Tubman for Philadelphia. Tubman led three of her brothers and other people away from Peters Neck on Christmas, 1854. Doing so, she took the risk of becoming enslaved again or lynched if she was caught; escaping slavery was even more risky after the passage of the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850. As a result, Tubman extended travel routes into Canada, where slavery was prohibited.

Three of Tubman's brothers worked at a plantation near a free black named Jacob Jackson. In 1854, Tubman had a letter sent to Jackson to coordinate the escape of the young men. She would look for them at her parents' home at Poplar Neck in Caroline County. The end of the letter states "tell my brothers to be always watching unto prayer and when the good ship of Zion comes along, to be ready to step on board." She was particularly concerned that her brothers would be sold to the Deep South.

For ten years, during multiple attempts, Tubman tried to rescue her sister Rachel, and her children, Angerine and Ben. During those attempts, Rachel had been separated from her children and she would not leave without them. In late 1860, Tubman found that Rachel had died and she was unable to rescue her niece and nephew.

Her brother John, his wife Millie, and their son Moses lived next to Tubman in Auburn. A number of nieces and nephews lived in Auburn, New York.

[stesierra]

Find the vibes tag! I was tagged by @rachaellawrites

My vibe is Do you ever shut up?

I'll tag @macabremoons and @sleepyowlwrites. Your vibe is Tied to the train tracks.

I'm pulling from Triangle Park. Because why not?

It took him hours to fell the tree. He meant for it to land in a neighboring clear space, but he was not a true lumberman. It toppled at an angle and bounced off a red maple on the way down.

The maple squealed as though it had been mortally wounded.

Adam stalked towards it. He was sweaty and hot, and his arm and back were sore. He was not in the mood for whiners. He said, "You lost a branch. A handful of branches. I cut that tree entirely in two, and I don't hear it complaining."

The tree fell silent. But not soon enough.

Adam brandished the axe. "Shall I do you, too?"

And the bark in front of him began to ripple as if in reply. Adam jerked back, raising his weapon defensively.

The tree sang, suddenly. The kind of songs that filled old-growth forests. The kind of songs that old trees sing. And the bark of its trunk swelled into a dainty, feminine face framed by pointed ears. A slim nose sat above rosebud lips and a small, sharp chin. And the face, far too familiar, opened almond eyes and smiled up at him from the tree. Curly hair grew, spilling down onto the bark, until he was looking at Queen Millicent in all her monochrome glory.

Adam lowered the axe. It couldn't do anything here but offend.

"Adam," the tree said. Millicent said. And it was her, in spirit if not body. Faerie queens never bothered with anything as mundane as cell phones.

"My lady," Adam said, for he lost nothing by being polite. "May I ask why you have honored me with this visit?"

Millicent's smile broadened. "You came to see me last week, or so my guards tell me. Why wouldn't I check in to see how you are? It's been so long."

"Perhaps I was there to see Madeline," Adam said.

"No," Millicent said. "You were there to see me. And you brought me a present, I hear. I was terribly disappointed not to receive it."

"I brought you nothing."

Millicent laughed, a charming sound that still made his heart stop after all these years. "You brought a child queen to the edges of my court. You were going to bring her to me."

"Your welcoming committee changed my mind."

Millicent gazed at him, her lips parted slightly, and said, "It's not too late, Adam. You can still turn over the child. I promise you, I would be... grateful." And her face was full of promises of reward.

"You'd kill her," Adam accused.

Millicent's eyes widened. "I would never! Adam, what do you think of me? Has being alone for only a few years made you forget me?"

It had made him see her clearly, out of range of her unearthly charm and attraction. "What, then, would you do with her if I were to hand her over?"

"Raise her as my own, of course."

"Hah."

"I would, Adam. I've never had a child. Not really. The human ones -- why, they're adorable, but they age as fast as mortal mutts. They're barely worth keeping."

"You don't know how fast Rabbit will age," Adam said. He didn't even know.

Millicent's smile was slow and charming, but something predatory gleamed in her eyes. How had Adam not seen that forty years ago? Two hundred and ten years ago? "Rabbit. Is that what you call her? How sweet. A little innocent woodland creature. Does she live up to the name?"

"Whether she does or not, I'm not throwing her to the wolves."

Millicent cast him a wounded look. "I'm not a wolf, Adam. I'm your queen. The one you chose."

He wanted to say, 'you threw me away,' and 'I'm choosing again.' But he said, "Dream up your own daughter. I know you are capable of it."

"But then she wouldn't be a queen. Why, if I sank enough of myself into a faerie to make her a queen, it would literally destroy me."

"And that would be a tragedy," Adam said, and he couldn't even tell if he meant it sarcastically or not.

Millicent smiled. "A great and terrible one. And so you're going to give me the girl."

"I am not."

"Think about it, Adam. And when you've made up your mind, bring her to me." The face melted back into the bark, and in only an instant, Adam was alone.

Tag list for everything

@anonymousfoz

@moremysteriesthantragedies

@elizababie

@sm-writes-chaos

@bellascarousel

@palebdot

@macabremoons

@the-dragon-chronicler

@teacupsandstarlight

@vorskra

@wrenofthewords

@amostdelectablescribbler

@savvy-minnow

@mysticstarlightduck

@phantommill

@gracewritesbooks

@aziz-reads

@owlsandwich

@symbioticsimplicity

@squarebracket-trick

@fishythewriter

@koala2all

Just chapters and snippets

@da-na-hae

[searchingforserendipity25]

The Straying | Little Red Riding Hood

Candy Hearts Exchange entry for @traveleorzea!

“Do not give your name to strangers,” Grandmother told you. “Do not wander from the Road, child.”

You didn’t, you didn’t, you didn’t. He was the one who heard you singing, and came in from the dark to chase you.

There was a time when you were not a friend of the dark places, and shied away from the groves where the high trees clustered together most thickly. Then, you had not lingered under the oldest trees, and sang all the louder to pretend not to hear when a fledgling cushat landed rustled the quiet and made it - not dangerous, but alive, or at least alive to the possibility of fear. 

And before that, you did not notice the differences in the voice of the wild. The Road was steepled with golden shadows cast by golden light, and nothing stilled or hurried you. At the end of the Road was your grandmother's home, and the journey was however long it took your walking songs to warm your throat and rise in clouds of steam around your mouth.

That was before. 

You do not keep to the Road now. The birds go still and silent as dead bone when you pass; but if you are very careful, and focus on your woodcraft, they will not notice you at all.

That is better. You can stand in the shadows, listening to the nightingales, watching the wild beasts as one among them. Waiting - 

No one will frighten the birds on your watch. All the creatures curled warmly in their dens, the mushrooms blooming their strange and startling lives in the damp rot, the few human lives scattered and struggling their way in the valleys and dens and hollows where turf walls and peat smoke rises: they are safe. You, girl with the oxblood cape, keep them safe. 

Sometimes, at twilight, your wondrous and treacherous feet betray even you, and your mind takes flight with the scattering of the nightingales. But usually, you notice it before you come to the moss mound where your grandmother once lived, where the forest grew as a barrow around your childhood.

“Do not give your name to strangers,” Grandmother told you. “Do not wander from the Road, child.”

You didn’t, you didn’t, you didn’t. He was the one who heard you singing, and came in from the dark to chase you.

—

You love him. 

Something like love, in any case. Too intimate for anything else. Your family was poor and cold most nights, except for a few dizzying midnights in the summertime; your father was a lumberman and your mother was a lumberwomen, and they taught you to use the ax quick and sure before the hens knew enough to be afraid. Fear was cruel to cause, worse than death; it got into the taste of the stew, and the stew was always meant to last. 

No one taught you to hate, and you were never so keen on schooling to teach yourself now. So it must be love. There is nothing for it. 

You will be swift and sure, when the time comes. Not cruel. He does not know the difference between kindness and cruelty well enough to appreciate how much it costs you to give it. 

—

He said, “Mistress, you sing like the river; you make the silence run and run and leap away from you.”

He said, “Good lady, gentle lady, will you point me to the nearest hearth, so I may be warm in the evening and not cold at night?”

He said, “Where do you go, singer in the Woods, with you satchels and your hampers, heavy in your burdens as a mule, noble in your bearing as a master?” 

These days, you do not speak a great deal with each other. But you meet more often. 

—

It never crossed your mind to fear him. The worn fur of his oversleeves, the golden surprise that was his eyes, the scars crossing his fingers under the sheen of his rings, silver and worked copper and the dull gleam even you could tell was gold, solid and very old.

Nothing that was unholy and unrighteous could walk the Road, whose stones were planted like seeds by kings and queens of Ages long past. 

The cobblestones were worn, rounded. The dandelions grow thick in the cracks, sometimes tall grass thick enough to weave with; but the animals cross it without fear, and lost sheep are sure to find their way to eat and be found, bemused, under the shadow of some oak or aspen or stone pine, grown gnarled in the corner of a crossing. 

These things you had known all your life. You did not fear him: he came in the guise of a man, and men never do evil on the Road. 

—

You hunt him now. You, the daughter of the forest: your parents dead, your grandmother a burrow where hares with long ears and opaque eyes go to breed. You love him. Your mother’s axe is no longer heavy on your back where you carry it; you have grown the muscles you used to envy as a child, and the slow, steadiness of your hands gathering nuts and finding wild carrots and wild onions and tubers and nests full of rich, yolky eggs is the wisdom your father was known for, by the few who knew him. 

But you learning singing from Grandmother, and your singing died with her. Where you go, silence follows; and he after the silence.

—

Once a fortnight you met him on your way to your Grandmother’s house, and once a fortnight he asked you a question. 

That is not much, you used to think, because he dressed like a nobleman fallen to disaster, and the nuance of his voice was strange, curious, rich. Rich-sounding.You thought you were travelers going on opposite directions for the afternoon; you thought he had nowhere to go.

You were sorry for him. In those days, kindness came easily to you, with no hesitation in it. You were braver then than you ever will be again.

“A question for a question,” you said, the third time. Kindness with no excuse is only pity, and you had known even then he was not something that would allow itself to be pitied. It was the golden accent, and then way be tilted his nose, smelling, flaring, imperious.

And you were curious. That is one thing about you that has never changed.

Three times, sitting on the twisted roots that breached the stone path and ran from one end of the Road to the other. The first time, on different roots, under different shadows; the second, running for a place to rest when the sky opened with sudden rainfall.

It was the third time, and yours booted feet touched his, briefly; his eyes did not move from your face.

He smiled.

“Where are you coming from?”

“The Road, friend! Where were all come from.”  

You laughed, not very amused yourself. “ Where do you go, good sir?”

“Who gave you that ring?” 

He stilled. He was not, you knew then, a man who liked to be surprised. 

“I did,” he said. “A gift for myself. Life is cruel enough without us being unkind to ourselves, friend."

Of course you realized that he must have stolen it. By then you knew him very well. You liked him: the idea of his quick fingers fondling a jewel-box, the shadow of his palms like paws around the hinges of a treasure hoard. 

—

You were enchanted by the golden gleam in his eyes, around his fingers, in the limning of his curls when the light set. The fur sewn on his sleeves was soft as a living pelt. You stroked it once - daring - the last time he took you hand and bent over it with old-fashioned courtesy.

The last time. And then, after the last time you saw him as a man -

You think about his hands, now. As often as you used to. How still they were. How sure.

The fur, made a darker red by the blood, covers the skin as a growing thing. Part of a thing: a beast, a man, a wolf that turned to you, his face shifting from animal to Grandmother to wanderer. Your friend, one among many theater masks.

And beneath the illusion, the forest. Old, old, older than old, than the Road, than the kings, the queens, the mastering human stone. He looked at you with his eyes so golden, and you thought of how soft the fur was, how sweetly your hands hand crushed it between your fingers, so gentle a flirtation.

“Red Robed Mistress,” said he. He sounded so surprised. 

The axe is your hand surprised you, as well. It was so much easier to carry than you recalled as a child.

—

You did not give him your name. 

“Red Robed Mistress,” he said, and bowed from the waist, more genteel than any creature wearing boots of leather so worn ought to be. “Sweet friend, how good to meet you.” 

Your grandmother taught you not to be too generous. Oh, how your mother used to complain about it! - her crusty manners, her precise stubbornness, her friendlessness, her love for remote places. But the lumbering season was long and harsh, and when you were very young you stayed with your Grandmother while your parents went Northwest to hack away at the ancient oaks, living in long cabins of cramped bunks to bring down enough wood for the hungry machines of the City’s factories. 

So it was your Grandmother who taught you how to gather dry tinder. To carry old thread spun out of old coarse flax to tie the bundles and balance them on your back, or your head. Where to find the clearest spring water sprouting between hidden stone, behind the curtain of lichens, and where to leave freshly-baked bread for the creatures that kept the water clear and running strong even when the summers lasted long into drought on the other side of the valley. 

Your Grandmother gave her name away to the forest, once. But that was a long time ago, and what Grandmother needed a name of her own, when there were children's children to be fed? You had not found the notion strange at all, or selfish, at the time; but then you were very young, and could not imagine wanting to be a Grandmother yourself, nor giving the forest anything bigger than the best loaf of bread - and even that seemed like too much of a sacrifice. 

—

The questioning has become a vice. In his absence, which is full of him, more than his presence, you take up the habit. Where are you going, Mistress? Axe-carrier, deep-dwelling stranger, where go you? 

You stray away from the Road. The forest welcomes you: its voice the voice of your life, untamed. He escaped you once, for of course the forest loves its fell beasts as well as its singing birds. But you have grown wise in ways your grandmother would approve and ways she would fear, and you give chase now, and you walk around the great roots with your long cloak a flare, a warning, a red promise shrouding you.

In the dark, something gold glistens.

[kimbrn-blog]

Went to Oscoda today. It is beautuful. Also went to Ausable River and the Lumbermans museum.

[charlesandmartine]

Sunday 25th June 2023

There can be no less finesse than that supplied by a cruise line on the last day of a trip. They have spent the last week grovelling to you to ensure a high satisfaction score and a big tip, then having achieved this, they want you gone and gone now. 8.00am and you are out of your stateroom, 8.30 you are off the boat with nothing but memories and a lost suitcase or two. We did our best to comply. We affixed the provided labels; green with a big number 2. This infallible system failed to deliver the cases to the area all other number 2s lined up. Well we laughed about it later of course but if we'd known how long it would take to sort the mess made by the luggage gorillas we could have had an extra hour in bed.

We dumped the cases in a left luggage depot next to the cruise ship terminal and climbed aboard the hop on hop off bus to give us the highs and lows of Vancouver. 2.6m population with just 50% with English as their native language, so highly multicultural. Apparently the 5th most expensive property prices anywhere in the world! We did a complete circuit of the fair city and then decided that in the time available we would make our way to Stanley Park and specifically to see the totem poles. Now as it turns out, Stanley Park was where the Race Across the World program started from. On the map the park does not look too large and so we couldn't understand why it took the two girls on the program so long to find their way out. In short we scoffed! Well we couldn't find the totem poles and we asked a bloke directing traffic and he didn't know either. (to be fair, it was his first day). Anyway Mr Google fixed it for us after we had partook in a latte. Well the poles were entirely average; the collection were bought in the 1920s by the Vancouver Parks Board with the idea of building a mock First Nation's Village. Well clearly that didn't happen and some of the older poles dating back to the 1880s started rotting so replicas were made; bits of the old ones went to museums and the rest were erected in Lumberman's Arch and finally moved to where they are today in 1962. So in other words they are like Trigger's broom, but they looked very fine. Each pole tells of a real or mythical event. They are not Idols neither are they in any way worshipped.

Well after all that excitement we had to hop on/off to get something to eat and a train to Day's Inn by Wyndham, AGAIN! If we visit this place anymore we will get a loyalty card, and that would be embarrassing.

Tomorrow we shall rise early, catch a fantastic breakfast provided by our hosts (unlikely to be fantastic) and collect a car to drive up the Rockies. First stop is Hope.

ps. The sun shone all day today and it was borderline hot!

[bella4rosy]

Interesting (if not domestic) occupations for your fantasy characters

Alternately titled: occupations that must exist, even in your fantasy world-- now write about it!

Apothecary

Apprentice (to an occupation)

Architect

Baker

Beekeeper

Book bindery 

Bountyhunting

Candlemaker

Carpenter

Cartographer

Distiller/brewer

Farrier

Fletcher

Gardener

Leatherworker

Logger/lumberman

Messenger

Midwife

Miller

Potter

Reaper

Sailor

Sailor/Pirate

Scribe

Seamstress/Tailor

Ship-maker

Smith

Sower

Stone mason

Surgeon

Translator of ancient texts

Weaver

Wool spinner

Note: Obviously a character can be one or many of these things. Certain occupations were left off the list on purpose (we all know about miners and innkeepers). These are just to inspire you to think about your world from the angle of day-to-day life, especially if you've been getting carried away in the big-ness of your world. These may not be relevant to your main character, especially if their story is magic-heavy, but these are the occupations that keep life turning for everyone else. After all, your characters can't be riding horses without a farrier's services, they can't drink mead in the tavern without the beekeeper collecting honey for it, and your characters might not have even been born without the help of a midwife.