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esta-elavaris · 10 months

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Dieu Et Mon Droit [4,106 words]

A more recent original short horror story! This one is from 2021 - the premise being "what if a zombie apocalypse happened in the Tudor period??"

“Dieu Et Mon Droit” = “God and My Right”, adopted as the royal motto of England by Henry V. The zombie apocalypse thing should be a hint that I’m not making any great claims of historical accuracy. Damnit Jim, I’m a writer, not a historian. Enjoy, don’t examine it too seriously.

1533

The year was 1533, and King Henry VIII had just crowned his former mistress as Queen of England. It was no small scandal and, had the times been normal, the people would have been abuzz with outrage and fury. But as it was, they were more concerned with the dead that now roamed the earth.

In the very beginning, before they’d had a chance to take a real measure of the stories that drifted from the areas fast falling to this new horror, they’d treated it like any other plague that was wont to befall them. Even if there were none still living who remembered the last outbreak of the black death, the sweating sickness was still fresh in the minds of most, and they readied themselves for another wave of something similar. They took their tonics, they prayed, and they gave a wide berth to anybody who showed even the slightest signs of illness. It would pass.

But it did not pass, and the tales became more widespread, and easier to believe. So they did what any godly person living would do in times of chaos - tried to find order in it - reason. Cause. And then the coronation seemed all the more relevant. To some, at least - the taverns packed with no shortage of voices seeking to weigh in and make sense of the senseless.

“Joseph’s boy works in the palace kitchens - there’s talk there. He said the last word from Rome blamed the Boleyn woman for this. It’s God showing his displeasure.”

“And then Rome fell. So how did they displease God?”

“I’m just sayin’ what I’ve heard, is all.”

“And I’m just sayin’ what you’ve heard is twaddle.”

“The King will leave the city soon, mark my words. He’ll go to some fortress, somewhere less populated,” a third added.

“Who’s to say he hasn’t already? Cloaked and hooded - disguised, so nobody might know he has forsaken us, as he has the north.”

“He’d’ve taken the Boleyn woman with him. She’s still there, the future King is still in her belly, so King Henry will be, too. Staying perfectly visible, so as not to raise a panic. They know full well that if they leave, the city will succumb to panic faster than they do to this sickness...and then outrage towards him, when it passes.”

“Should it pass.”

“...Should it pass.”

“He’s King by divine right. Who gives half a shit about outrage when they have God on their side? He’ll run, and he’ll say it’s his duty to run. That God told him to. Just like he told him to forsake poor Queen Katherine.”

“The King will not risk the roads, fool. Not even with all of his men. The Duke of Norfolk was overcome on them only this week past. Now he’s out there somewhere, dining on peasants.”

“Some things never change, eh?”

The laughter this comment garnered was sparse, and too troubled to be genuine.

“Any of their lot further north than Cambridge has been told not to bother. More likely to fall on the roads than reach the safety of the palace. If the inflicted don’t get ‘em, the bandits will. Won’t be long before they’re driven from the roads entirely, they’ll be doing what they can to stock up before then. Those who do reach the gates are checked top to tail before they’re let near anybody other than a guard.”

“I bet that’s a real hardship when the ladies of the court come calling.”

The chuckles this garnered were a bit more lively. Until another voice cut through them to speak.

“They killed one. Last week. Some jumped up, paranoid guard. Saw a scrape the lady took falling from her horse - decided it was best not to risk it.”

“...Did they punish him?”

“No. ‘Course not. They say the King commended him for his vigilance.”

Any cheer that they’d managed to muster in the face of what they knew was well on the way, soon fizzled out. The laughter died.

“There’ll be more hoping to be commended in the same way. Get into the King’s good books for when it really comes down to it. It won’t get any better.”

“They’ve closed all of the roads leading in from the north. Maybe it’ll be contained,” the one who said this was younger, barely a boy of twelve.

Few had the heart to disabuse him of his hope. Except for the old man in the corner.

“They can close all the roads they like, they won’t be able to stop everybody. Not once this really takes root. Make no mistake, it’ll creep down from the north, and then it’ll hit London...and once it does, we’re in trouble.”

1534

Hampton Court Palace was not built to be a structure that could withstand a siege. The only truly useful feature was the moat, and even that failed to extend beyond the frontmost section of the palace. There were too many doors, too many windows, too many weak spots. It had been a minor concern before things started to turn southward, but it became a real problem once the death turned in that direction, too. They could board up the exterior windows and gates, place guards at every weak spot, but they could not turn a palace meant for fun and folly into a fortress built for long-term survival. Not truly.

The peace of mind once offered by the fact that even the most raving of lunatics would be put off by the punishments in store for those threatening the safety of the king held no comfort now. These days, anybody seeking to enter the palace was faced with a choice - the tenuous chance of refuge, tempered only by the chance of being caught, weighed against the near certainty of being eaten alive if they remained outside of the walls. The nobles cooped up inside could feign horror and disgust towards those who decided they liked the odds of that particular gamble, and that outrage was the source of many a conversation to be sure, but in the safe confines of their own minds, even they knew the truth. The desperation tinged logic that would spur the desire to test any potential weaknesses of the palace’s exterior. To anybody on the outside, it was easy to imagine the inside was a paradise.

What paradise consisted of had become a fairly short list, anyway. Food, safety, seeing the sun rise another day. And so new measures were brought in. Countless times each day, one of the King’s men would announce loudly, for all to hear, that sneaking into the palace - being in the palace without permission - was now treason. Helping somebody sneak into the palace was now treason. Being aware that somebody had snuck in and failing to report it, was now treason. And treason meant being hanged, drawn, and quartered. However thin their resources were now stretched, they would always find the ones required to dole out such punishment. After all, rope and a sharp blade were hardly in short supply. Not in the way that food, safety, and the guarantee of seeing the sun rise another day were.

The fact that they’d managed to go this long without any major incidents, and (miraculously) no infections did nothing to bolster the King’s mood as it did for the people of his court.

“The King grows restless, and the Queen despairs for it. Had she given birth to a son, things may have been different, but as it is…” Lady Alice paused as somebody passed just too closely, and only continued once they were out of earshot “She fears there may be some who align themselves with Rome’s way of thinking. That God sent this to show his disapproval for her. The lack of an heir is just driving the point home.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Edith shook her head “Princess Elizabeth is strong, and healthy, and boisterous, and, and-”

“And a girl.”

“A girl who is proof that she can have healthy children. A boy will follow. One who will inspire our King to look to the future, to lead us out of this mess.”

Lady Alice watched her friend for a good few moments. Lady Edith was older than her by a decade at least - shouldn’t that have meant that she’d be less idealistic? Able to discern hope from folly when it came across her path? If her years alone didn’t do so, surely the fact that her husband had not made it to the palace, and had not been heard of since, would have. Or maybe that was why she clung to hope. To reason, to order. She was a good, Christian woman with not so much as a smudge against her name. Such a thing was rare in this court. It stood to reason that she thought she was due a good turn because of that. But reason had no place anywhere in these times.

Alice sighed and twisted her hands in her dirty skirts. Most women only had two dresses now - one for the cold, one for the warm. The days of the latest fashions and changing for banquets, or indeed, banquets at all. Not only because of the situation with the food, but because of the noise. It drew the dead. It could not be risked. So did light, or any signs of life it seemed. Most discarded dresses had been put to use as window coverings at night, leaving the palace more suited to housing ghosts than people.

“One of the Queen’s ladies traded her jewels for an apple yesterday,” she missed the day when gossip was a bit less grim.

“The Queen’s jewels?” Lady Edith frowned.

They said the Queen’s quarters were like a tomb, nowadays. Silent and solemn.

“No, of course not, she’d be thrown from the palace. Her own jewels - including a necklace that had been in her family since the days of King Henry II.”

“Fool.”

“They’re worth nothing now.”

“Not her, whoever she traded with. What are they going to do, eat the diamonds?”

“Maybe they’ll trade them, when the King leads us out of this mess,” she said the words drily, and they were the most she dared say, lest anybody overhear them and name it slander.

Lady Edith’s lips set into a thin line.

“Since we’re no longer permitted into the gardens, they’ve turned them into crop fields,” because farming was so much quieter than walking “Things will be better after the first harvest. We’ll be back to two meals every day. Perhaps even three, some of the time.”

Leaning against the wall behind her, Alice bit down on the inside of her cheek. How many meals was the King skipping? It was a dangerous thing to think, and a perilous thing to voice, so she would not. She already knew the answer, anyway. And she knew the reasoning behind it that would be presented if anybody posed the question and kept their head long enough to hear the answer. The King was the one they must look to for hope. To lead them out of this. For that, he needed his strength. And if Queen Anne was to produce a little Prince, she would need to stay healthy too. There was logic behind it, logic she might even understand on the good days. Good days just happened to be in short supply.

However they tried to entertain or distract themselves, however much they prayed, however much strength they poured into keeping their spirits up, it was always a trial. The days were growing hotter, and with noise being the risk that it was, the windows remained shut. Soon, with all of the bodies around them, every room became a stuffy, humid sort of hell that seemed to have the sole aim of driving them mad. It was like one long never-ending confinement, with no babe to look forward to at the end of it - the make it all worth it. There was a sick sort of humour to be found in the fact that in the winter they’d huddled around the fires and pined for these days.

Taking a deep, steeling breath in (and finding only air that felt like it had already been used many times over), Lady Alice struggled against the urge to start driving her head into the wall. If only because then the gossip would cease to be about the controversial diamond trade, and about her waning sanity. Then they would petition for her to be the next one fed to the dead clamouring at the gates.

One of the King’s guards thudded his staff dully against the floor, and spoke in a loud voice that even he seemed to be weary of.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the court, you are reminded that unauthorised entry into the palace gates is now high treason. Aiding another in treason, or indeed turning a blind eye to treason, is now punishable…”

The urge to drive her head into the stone behind her became all the more tempting.

1535

The Queen’s chambers were silent, save only for the crackle of the fire and the soft padding of her slippers as she paced back and forth over and over. Her ladies had long since stopped observing this habit of hers, for fear of getting dizzy. Round and round her chambers she would pace, occasionally muttering to herself, sometimes going so far as to scoff or sigh angrily in response to said mutterings, as if they hadn’t come from her own lips. Even the guard in the corner, ever-present given the state of the world outside, looked like he’d rather be anywhere but, and this posting was an easy one. It was better than defending the weak spots against the dead and the desperate.

In the beginning, her efforts to keep everybody distracted had been valiant - although some might say deluded. It was the duty of the Queen, she’d explained loftily many a time to such people while rubbing her rounded belly, to keep the people distracted in trying times - the King looked after the people as a collective, and the Queen cared for their spirits. There had been parlour games, singing and dancing, recreations of dramatic scenes from the newest plays, anything to keep their minds off of the many loved ones too far away from London to reach refuge in time. If little changed inside the walls, they could all pretend that nothing had changed outside of them, either. But such a charade could only continue for so long. By the time the Princess Elizabeth was christened in the palace’s chapel, the games were already a thing of the past. Now they were barely even a memory.

At the time they’d felt painful, even as they’d taken part in them. The very thing they were supposed to be forgetting at the very forefront of their minds as they made their silly costumes and danced their ridiculous dances. But the only thing worse than distraction, it seemed, was no distraction. And worse even still than the lack of any distraction, was the muttering.

The Lady Alice was the newest of the Queen’s ladies, replacing Lady Joan who had come down with a fever a week prior, and had not been seen since. Nobody asked what had become of her, but nobody needed to. The lack of any bite marks rarely served as a good defense anymore. Whatever measures were taken - banishment or blade - the end result was the same, anyway. Best not to dwell on it. All they could do was move on, and resolutely hide any symptoms of even the mildest of maladies. Even the Queen, when morning sickness struck, was prone to bouts of “casually” announcing to anybody that would hear that it was perfectly natural, in her condition, and that it was nothing sinister. But she was the one person in the room who needn’t make such assurances...so long as she remained with child, and therefore invaluable.

“The failure of the crops...the death of Katherine’s bastard...they blame me, always me - only me,” the Queen shook her head, spinning on her heel and beginning her pacing anew in the opposite direction “How could any woman be expected to produce a prince under such conditions? Such vitriolic rumour? How?”

Nobody in the room dared meet her eye, lest they be pressed upon to supply an answer. Unfair as it may have been, the resentment was growing. Not just from the skeleton court that remained towards the Queen, but from everybody towards anybody. High pressure and close quarters did not breed love and contentment. Nor did lack of food. That particular problem was one all but the King and Queen had to contend with.

The King’s rations never changed, as he needed his strength to lead the people as God intended, and the Queen’s did not lessen either, for she needed her own strength for the babe in her belly. But with each one she lost, that argument grew weaker and weaker. Soon there were plenty who wondered why everybody must suffer hunger pangs for the sake of so many children that never saw the light of day. Nobody voiced it, but everybody thought it. And the Queen knew it. So when she did eat, she ate in private, so that others mightn’t see her portions and be tempted to compare them to their own. But it was becoming more and more common for her appetite to forsake her entirely, and for whatever she was given to go to her ladies. As fate would have it, she was then resented for that, too - for being unable to eat for the sake of the future heir.

Of course, had her previous pregnancies not ended in such tragedy, she would’ve then been blamed for the extra mouths to feed. There was no winning these days. For anybody. It took a prolonged moment of silence for those in the room to notice that the Queen had fallen silent, looking carefully around the room with a scrutinous gaze.

“Where’s Jane?”

If their gazes had all been fixed resolutely to their own laps before, now they were all but nailed there.

“Where is Jane Seymour?” The Queen demanded again.

They all knew the answer just as much as they knew Queen Anne knew it, too. And then they realised that perhaps there was one victor to be found in all of this, after all.

1536

The gardens, turned crop fields, turned barren dirt patches, now held a structure for the first time in over a year. A scaffold. The scaffold was a tiny one, raised little more than two feet from the on which it was built. The world had fallen far, but not far enough for Queens to be executed in the dirt. Before nightfall, it would be dismantled again, the wood too valuable for the fires they would no doubt need come winter. If they were lucky, or perhaps unlucky, enough to see winter. Of course, they’d need to wait until the blood that soaked it ran dry.

For now, the servants that remained were more concerned with the orders of the King - both in terms of seeing out those orders, and suppressing their horror at them. There wasn’t a soul still living in the palace who wasn’t keenly aware of the guard’s progress through the halls, the large ornate wooden box held as far away from his person as possible in outstretched hands. Judging by the reactions he garnered, he wasn’t the only one who was acutely aware of what the box held. Any and every soul he passed on his way to the King’s private chambers did a double take, gasped, and threw themselves back against the walls in an effort to get as far away from the guard’s cargo as possible, most crossing themselves and murmuring prayers as they did so.

The guard did his best to ignore it. What he held required his utmost attention, lest he drop it and see what a real horrified reaction consisted of. His journey was a balancing act - moving carefully enough that he wouldn’t drop his cargo, but not so slowly as to allow blood to start seeping out of the box. His superiors had assured him such a thing would not happen, but he didn’t want to risk it all the same. One of the King’s men stood outside the door waiting for him, and made an admirable effort not to even look at what he held as he rounded the corner. Instead he simply opened the door and led the way inside.

No silence fell over the King’s rooms the way it had over the hallways as he’d walked through them, but that was mainly because they were already silent before the door had even opened. The guard was almost surprised to see the King was not alone, so quiet were the rooms. The Lady Jane Seymour, soon to be Queen Jane, sat by one side, pale and drawn, and the Duke of Suffolk sat at the other, more grim even than the king himself nowadays.

“It’s done?”

“The executioner was not practised, your majesty, but it was done quickly and without incident,” any man able to swing an axe or sword had been moved to their defenses long ago “The Queen-”

The King’s eyes flashed. Lady Jane’s eyes flitted to the box, and then quickly back to her lap.

“That is, er, Lady Anne - died well.”

“I hear there was some commotion in the rooms she was being held in this morning,” the King ignored the previous statement.

“One of her ladies, Lady Alice...she’d been bitten. We can’t say when, but sometime before she was taken to Lady Anne to keep her company in her final hours. Reports are now emerging of her habit of sneaking out to get fresh air. She disguised her symptoms as nerves and grief. We didn’t know until the guards arrived to take Lady Anne to the block, and found her fending off the, er...former Lady Alice.”

“But she survived?”

“Until we executed her, your Majesty.”

“And the Lady Alice?”

“Dealt with.”

“Find all those who knew of these secret walks, and interrogate them on why they saw fit to say nothing until now.”

After giving the order, the King approached the guard holding the box. At his gesture, a space was cleared at the large table in the centre of the room, and the box was laid atop it. Once he was unburdened of it, the guard took several steps back as though fearful of being asked to hold it once again. Nobody in the room paid him any mind.

The King stood before the box, fingertips pausing at the latch. The Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon, stood and moved to join him, morbid curiosity written plain across the furrow in his brow. Such curiosity, though, was nowhere to be found in the Lady Jane, who pressed her lips together and looked towards one of the covered windows as though it still afforded some sort of view. Her knuckles were white where her hands were clasped tightly together in her lap, a bible wedged between them.

Hesitation leaving him, or perhaps just keenly aware that he’d been caught hesitating to begin with, the King unlatched the box and lifted its lid in one swift motion, an unbothered, haughty frown forcing its way onto his features. The mask fell for but a moment once the box was opened, his face paling and his eyes widening for a moment. For all of the gore and the horror that most had seen over the last three years, the King had probably seen the least. While none who attended the beheading even flinched at the stroke of the sword, it was still a big ask to expect the King to look upon the severed head of his former wife with not even a flinch.

Brandon, whose insistant presence at the defences was legendary among the men, sighed tiredly at the sight, and then gave a slight nod as though in approval that the matter was done. Unlike the King, his face did not pale. Jane closed her eyes and muttered a prayer.

“She was fair,” Brandon commented, when nobody else in the room spoke.

The King, who was shaken from his shock at the words, took another step forward and traced a few fingertips across the face of the former Queen as though checking it for dust.

“Jane is fairer,” the King replied.

And then the head opened its eyes, and sank its teeth into his hand.

#esta's OG!fiction

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keanuquotes · 1 year

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AUG 10, 2023

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THE COMPLEX

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MARQUIS THEATER

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FOX THEATRE

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BELLY UP ASPEN

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THE GUILD THEATRE

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FREMONT THEATER

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VENTURA MUSIC HALL

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BELLY UP TAVERN

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THE OBSERVATORY

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ZEPP NAMBA

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KT ZEPP

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SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE POWER LINES AND PALM TREES

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TROUBADOUR

WEST HOLLYWOOD, CA

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GREAT AMERICAN MUSIC HALL

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CREST THEATRE

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THALIA HALL

CHICAGO, IL

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THE MAJESTIC THEATRE

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LEE'S PALACE

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I JUST LISTENED TO AN INTERVIEW AND ROB SAID THAT BRET AND KEANU WROTE THE LYRICS. KEANU DID NOT ALLOW ANY CREDIT FOR THE LYRICS IN THE PAST. THIS IS BIG FOR THE FANS.

#keanu reeves #dogstarband #tours

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aryburn-trains · 2 years

Photo

In this Norfolk & Western publicity photo the westbound dayliner "Powhatan Arrow" (Norfolk - Cincinnati) skirts the south bank of the New River outside of Christiansburg, Virginia during the 1950's. Pictured is the tavern-lounge-observation while other accommodations included coaches (reserved), a diner, and coach-dormitory for the crew. On the head-end is almost certainly a streamlined J (4-8-4). Not visible is the Virginian's electrified main line across the river.

#powhatan arrow #n&w #norfolk & western #1950s #norfolk #cincinnati #trains #passenger train #history #christiansburg #virginia #observation car

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dixiedrudge · 5 months

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The Waco Tornado - Today In Southern History

11 May 1953 Houston Chronicle Photo On this date in 1953… An estimated F-5 tornado killed more than 110 people in Waco, Texas and caused $39 million damage. Other Years: 1862 – Confederate troops scuttled the ironclad C.S.S. Virginia off Norfolk, Virginia to prevent its capture by Federal forces. 1864 – Confederate General J.E.B. Stuart was mortally wounded at the Battle of Yellow Tavern,…

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#Know Southern History #May #Today in Southern History

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cd1984 · 9 months

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Norfolk pubs

Pub 102 - Crown Inn (Sheringham)

This pub doesn't look all that special but I had a very nice beer and something to eat.

Pub 103 - Village Inn (West Runton)

This place was buzzing for a lunchtime and my beer was very good.

Pub 104 - Red Lion (Cromer)

I'd been looking forward to this pub and unfortunately it wasn't quite as good as I'd hoped, mainly because it was quite busy. The beer was good though.

Pub 105 - Hop Inn (North Walsham)

This micropub was fairly busy and had a nice atmosphere and good beer; recommended.

Pub 106 - Fat Cat and Canary (Norwich)

This is great, a superb pub with good beer and a lovely atmosphere.

Pub 107 - Fat Cat (Norwich)

What a pub! Amazing beer and a lovely atmosphere. I love this place!

Pub 108 - Alexandra Tavern (Norwich)

A very nice pub near the Cat Cafe in Norwich with a good dark beer on draft.

Pub 109 - Brewery Tap (Norwich)

Another great Norwich pub with a superb beer selection.

Pub 110 - Artichoke (Norwich)

Yet another good Norwich pub with great beer and a good atmosphere. Would be a world beater anywhere else but just another Norwich pub.

Pub 111 - Coach and Horses (Norwich)

I ate here and had a pint of their own brew stout it was great.

Pub 112 - Jubilee (Norwich)

I just managed to sneak this in before getting the train home. An excellent pub, as they all had been.

#norfolk #norwich #pubs #gbg

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nathanmprince-blog · 1 year

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Virginia Beach II

After Jamestowne we head to the hotel, a Hilton, right on the beach. Everything is right and we head to CP Shuckers on Pacific for Happy Hour. Everyone is worn out but excited. I’m an “oysters and beer” kind of guy and Shuckers is the perfect raw bar on a Monday night. Perfect.

We take our time walking back, appreciating the surroundings, appreciating each other. The Atlantic at dusk from the Boardwalk is amazing. The sun is going down on the other side of town. Horses are being corralled on the beach. Fighter jets are returning to base.

Virginia Beach and Norfolk are essentially one. All branches of the military are present here, the military an essential part of life here.

On the way back to the hotel we spot a sign for Pharrell’s “Something on the Water.” This, along with Willie Nelson’s 90th birthday celebration at the Hollywood Bowl that same weekend, are the only two shows I would have liked to see so far this year. As it turns out, the event was canceled due to inclement weather. A gnarly tornado touched down in the area the day before we arrived. Oh, well.

We spend some time on the beach and on the hotel’s rooftop at the infinity pool. The pool is freezing but we take the polar plunge a few times for fun.

After cleaning up, the wife and I head to a nearby CVS for some supplies and hit the Duck Dive Tavern for a killer rum punch. The Duck Dive is a nice place with surfboards on the walls and surfers on the screen. We head back to the room, beat from having been up since 2 a. m. to catch a plane. We enjoy the ocean at night from our patio, so relaxing and refreshing from my normal humdrum daily grind.

Peace tonight on the Atlantic, the eastern seaboard. We are content.

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ghostcultmagazine · 2 years

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Ghost Cult caught up with our old pal Matt Harvey of Exhumed to discuss the new album from the band, "To The Dead" - out now from @RelapseRecords. In addition to catching up on his life and the band and Bay Area Death Metal, Matt treated us to a track-by-track breakdown of the new album. In addition he discussed the many contributions from members of the band, current and past who made an impact on the new album! Interview by Keefy (https://ift.tt/3WXt6Uk), and video editing by Omar Cordy of OJC Photography (https://www.instagram.com/ojcpics). Theme music by Salted Wounds (https://ift.tt/fsylQLB). Buy the album and merch here: https://ift.tt/2Oi4yCH https://ift.tt/RUoseCX Exhumed w/ Vitriol, Escuela Grind, Molder - remaining dates: 11/14/2022 HQ – Denver, CO 11/15/2022 Ernie November’s – Cheyenne, WY 11/16/2022 Reverb Lounge – Omaha, NE 11/17/2022 Lefty’s – Des Moines, IA 11/18/2022 Reggies – Chicago, IL 11/19/2022 Club Garibaldi – Milwaukee, WI 11/20/2022 Sanctuary – Detroit, MI 11/21/2022 Legends – Cincinnati, OH 11/22/2022 No Class – Cleveland, OH w/ Vitriol, Escuela Grind, Castrator: 11/23/2022 Cattivo – Pittsburgh, PA 11/25/2022 Sonia – Boston, MA 11/26/2022 Johnny Brendas – Philadelphia, PA 11/27/2022 The Meadows – Brooklyn, NY 11/29/2022 Metro Gallery – Baltimore, MD 11/30/2022 Norfolk Taphouse – Norfolk, VA 12/01/2022 New Brookland Tavern – Columbia, SC 12/02/2022 Bogg’s – Atlanta, GA 12/03/2022 Will’s Pub – Orlando, FL 12/04/2022 Brass Mug – Tampa, FL 12/06/2022 The Goat – New Orleans, LA 12/07/2022 White Oak – Houston, TX 12/08/2022 Come And Take It Live – Austin, TX 12/09/2022 Amplified – Dallas, TX 12/10/2022 Rock Box – San Antonio, TX 12/12/2022 The Launchpad – Albuquerque, NM 12/13/2022 Nile Underground – Mesa, AZ 12/14/2022 Brick By Brick – San Diego, CA 12/15/2022 Constellation – Santa Ana, CA 12/16/2022 First Street Billiards – Los Angeles, CA 12/17/2022 Eli’s Mile High – Oakland, CA Gear we use: (These are affiliate links and Ghost Cult makes a small profit from a sale) Set up A: Sony A7 III - https://amzn.to/3tQm422 Tamron 17-28 - https://amzn.to/3ePrlTd Tamron 28-75 - https://amzn.to/3fqCjgY Desview Mavo-P5 Monitor- https://amzn.to/33LlTub Manfrotto Befree Travel Tripod - https://amzn.to/3hxbL0e Set up B: Canon 80D - https://amzn.to/3ye8WqV Sigma MC-11 - https://amzn.to/3brZdU2 Sigma 18-35 - https://amzn.to/3tLlEd7 Tokina 11-16 - https://amzn.to/3bty9Uk Feelworld T7 Monitor - https://amzn.to/2Re9hta Audio: Sound Devices MixPre-3 - https://amzn.to/3tKkJd2 Gearlux XLR Mic Cable - 3 Pack - https://amzn.to/3w3zN6Y Deity D3 Microphone - https://ift.tt/09qdX4g Usb Mic - https://amzn.to/3w8JHEG Lighting: YONGNUO YN600L - https://amzn.to/2QkNrn5 YONGNUO YN300 Air - https://amzn.to/2QjN5gu Dfuse Softbox - https://amzn.to/3uQq4AN Aputure MC - https://amzn.to/3oirFgx NanLite PavoTube II 6C - http://bit.ly/NanLitePavoTubeII Lightstands - https://amzn.to/3uSBl3x 5 in 1 Reflector - https://amzn.to/33KHdjo And our iconic Rope Light https://amzn.to/3ycdmyz For the full list of Ghost Cult gear: http://bit.ly/OJCPicsKit This video contains a shoutout to Cancer Christ https://ift.tt/NnS1Pk9 Get your shoutout by visiting our pinned post on Twitter! https://twitter.com/GhostCultMag/status/1142861626590355456 #96bitterbeings #deronmiller #cky #campkillyourself #deathmetal #melodicdeathmetal #thrashmetal #osdm #interviews #ghostcultmag

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angelyrica · 2 years

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#norfolk #norfuck #virginia #MJ’s Tavern #Pride Month #pride 2022 #VA

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bearcubbelladonna · 4 months

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It's Monday--I host karaoke at MJs Tavern down in Norfolk VA, if you want to meet me in person

#bear #bear cub belladonna #cub #lgbt #lgbtq #gay bear #gay cub #gay #hairy

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kingofkingdom · 3 years

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The Lady of the House :: 1

Chapter One

Medieval!AU

“Letters are signs of things, symbols of words, whose power is so great that without a voice they speak to us the words of the absent” - Isidore of Saville

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader (AFAB, she/her pronouns)

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Violence, gore, peril, period-typical classism

Author’s Note: Reader in this series will be based in part on the lives of both Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk and Margaret Paston. This story is set in medieval England, but I have done my best to keep her physical features vague, and as the story progresses her background will hopefully help lend to self-insertion. This will be up on my AO3 in a bit - more historical notes will be left there. Enjoy!

Word Count: 2.6k

He comes in the night, on the back of a horse with flared nostrils and hooves that shake the earth.

Your small village is not one to receive frequent visitors, tucked away in the dense woods as it is. In the landscape's soft bosom, green and quiet, the hunter is a stranger who cannot go unnoticed. He rides through every few months, takes a room at the inn, and departs before the next morning's first birdsong. Voices hush as he enters the tavern and deposits his coin on the counter. The only villager to have spoken to him is the barkeep, a man with eyes almost as shrewd as the hunter's.

Even his name evokes chaos. Din. Like the roar of a crowd, the clamor of voices and bodies and metal that exists in the deep recesses of your memory. Swords clashing, men yelling, blood spilt on muddy cobblestones.

When the hunter rides through, the women whisper. Some say their cousins in York have seen him slice a man's head clean off his shoulders. Others say their fathers knew him as a boy, that there was a time when he was kind and fair. The men claim to have taken him in combat, to have scarred him, that the chain around their necks was torn from beneath the hunter's cotte.

The hunter passes through like smoke on the wind, seen but for a moment, the smell remaining long after he departs.

Tonight the evening is cool and bright. The sun seems as though it refuses to dip behind the trees, keeping the earth golden and mischievous much later than usual. It is for this reason that the townsfolk are taken by surprise at the appearance of the hunter when they are still working. Their heads turn as he passes, watching the hunter, seeing that he does not stop at the tavern.

Tonight, Din Djarin points his horse's nose down a different path. He rides towards the estate that sits a small distance from the town, across the river, through thick forest and open farmland.

The family in the manor across the river has lived there since it was built nearly two hundred years ago. Constructed in the Norman style of imposing gray stone, it's a cold, uninviting structure meant more to be the placeholder of a conqueror than a place where someone might live. An outer wall, fortified at the corners by circular towers, protects the inner sanctuary from attack. It’s relatively small, but it projects an air of nobility and royal favour all the same. Clearly, the family who live here are well-off and have been for some time.

As Din guides his steed towards the building, he sees that it is bustling with activity. Fires burn in the narrow, arched windows and sentries keep watch outside the gates. Smoke rises from within and distantly, so faint he might have missed it if he weren't who he is, Din can hear the sound of an instrument being played.

It is clear that much business is conducted here. The hunter would be surprised if that weren't the case, given the flurry of activity present at all Norman strongholds across the island. A young boy rides past him as he approaches, carrying a leather satchel that likely holds letters to someone in the vast country beyond.

Upon his arrival, Din tells the guards his business and dismounts from his horse. He leads her through the front gate and into the inner courtyard where the main house is situated. The mare, called Crest, is one of his most beloved possessions, so he cannot help but watch as a stable boy takes her reins and walks her over to a hitching post. She begins to graze.

Inside, the castle is distinctly colder than the air outside. The walls are adorned with thick, delicately woven tapestries, and the ceiling is painted in bright reds and golds. A young woman approaches and beckons Din to follow, eyes downcast and hair hidden beneath a white veil that falls to the middle of her back. They pass through several doorways, up a winding set of stairs, and down a long, echoing hallway before the woman pauses at the very last door.

She knocks thrice, in quick succession. From inside, a voice calls out, inviting the two of them in.

Your back is turned to the handmaiden and your guest when they walk through the door and into the drawing room. Through the window beside your writing table you can see out onto the grounds below. Outside, two of the guards are engaged in conversation, smiling and laughing between themselves. Though a fire roars bright and hot just beside you, a cold feeling overcomes you and your hands clench where they're interlaced over your midsection.

"The hunter, Din Djarin, milady."

The door squeaks and slams shut again, closing you in with this famed, mysterious hunter. He's silent behind you and it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You let the silence continue for a moment, interrupted only by the sound of burning logs, before you turn to face him.

He stands there, hip cocked, a gloved hand on the pommel of his sword. His hair is mussed and his beard grows sparse on his jaw. He looks at you from under the ridge of his brow, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the firelight.

"How lucky am I, that the mysterious hunter would answer my call," you quip, meeting his dark gaze head-on. You don't fear him like the villagers do - this meeting can only go one way, which leaves no room for preconceived ideas of who this man is.

He raises a brow. "I mean you no insult, my Lady, but I was under the impression I was to meet with the Lord of the house tonight."

That makes you smile. Of course he would assume such a thing. "No, I am afraid it was I who summoned you, and with myself alone you will discuss the forthcoming matters."

His jaw works for a moment. "Your husband," he begins, speaking carefully, knowing the line he's treading close to, "does he know I am here, at your request?"

"Yes.” Whether he approves is another matter, but the hunter needn’t know that.

He considers this. "What are the matters you summoned me here to discuss, madam?"

You purse your lips, lifting your head, setting your posture out of habit. The light in the room has shifted; the sun is now below the horizon, so the space grows darker as only the firelight illuminates your faces.

“The Lord is currently away on business, tending to his late uncle’s affairs in the south. He is not due back for some time." You meet his gaze to underscore the seriousness of your next words. "There have been five attempts on my life since my husband departed. I have reason to suspect they were all orchestrated by the same group, though none of my knights have been able to track them down. I called you here to offer you substantial payment in return for their heads."

The hunter shifts his weight. He looks off to the side, staring beyond the parchment lying blank on your desk. You watch his face closely as he considers your words. Lines appear between and above his brows, and his lips turn down at the corners.

You can tell he's thinking about it, so you sweeten the pot, so to say.

“I can pay you one-third the reward up front for each man you pursue, and the rest once I have confirmation that they are dead.”

“I don’t work for hire, madam.”

You scoff. “Do you take me for a fool, Din Djarin?”

His eyes meet yours and something in them softens, ever so slightly. Outside, someone shouts, followed by raucous laughter.

“No, madam. I collect bounties placed on criminals by the crown, not by private individuals. No matter how pressing the issue may be."

The words make you bristle; they border on disrespect, suggesting that he is a man beholden to no one rather than a subject who regularly passes through your lands uninhibited. To act as though he is too good to collect your reward, despite not even knowing what it is. You tilt your head, clasping your hands behind your back.

Clearly this man knows not the implications of what he says. You should have expected as much from someone with his background, or lack thereof.

"I am the crown in every way that concerns someone of your standing, hunter. If you do not need the coin, then say as much. But do not let your frivolous self-imposed rules inflate your ego beyond your name."

That makes the hunter narrow his eyes. He takes a step forward, his broad shoulders looming over you, as though he intends to intimidate you into simply accepting what he just said. No, you think to yourself, not moving an inch, I am not a woman who can be bullied into obedience. You lift your chin so as to more easily look him in the eye.

"How quickly the lady of the house forgets her roots," he mutters.

The fire of anger within you roars to life, brighter and hotter than that which warms your faces. You feel your mouth curl down into an ugly sneer, eyes widening in shock. How dare he!

Just as you're opening your mouth to assure him of his imminent demise at the hands of one of your guards, a commotion can be heard approaching quickly in the hallway beyond the door. Footsteps, many pairs of them, all running, overlapped by the sounds of indiscernible shouting. You and the hunter forget for a moment your quarrel and each turn to look at the door.

"My Lady!"

The voice is that of your handmaiden. She sounds terrified, her words nearly screams as they echo through the stone walls of your castle. On instinct you step back, positioning the hunter between yourself and the door.

Another scream, this one cut too short. Men holler and then the door rattles violently. You catch a glimpse of the hunter drawing his sword before you're diving towards your desk, frantically searching for the item you know lies in one of its drawers.

You can hear as the wooden door swings and slams against the stone wall beside it. Your fingers find the handle of your dagger and you spin around just in time to catch sight of the hunter's sword slicing a man's stomach clean through. Another attacker launches himself at you. Meaty hands grab at your arms and shoulders, the seams of your dress tearing under blunt, bloody nails. The length of your dagger finds one of the gaps between his ribs and he slumps, his breathing gone ragged and shallow and weak.

As you yank your dagger out of the man's side you look up and see that the hunter has taken down two more men and is occupied with a third, their swords locked crosswise together. The attacker, who you belatedly recognize as one of the guards who was stationed outside the gate not an hour ago, shifts his stance and presses forward, his blade inching closer to the hunter's face.

Din Djarin grunts and, in a move you've never seen the likes of before, uses his sword to twist the other right out of the man's hands. He shifts his grip and, fast as a streak of lightning, brings the gleaming steel down on the attacker's delicate neck.

The silence that follows is interrupted only by your shared, labored breathing. The hunter stoops to wipe his bloodied sword on the fabric of the headless man's tunic, then stands and faces you.

You grit your teeth, standing up straight, dagger still firmly gripped in your hand.

"Thank you," you tell him. He nods once.

"Gather your things," he says, as though it's the most obvious statement in the world. He begins searching through the men's clothing, emptying their pockets of coin and small weapons.

You balk. "Excuse me?"

"Gather your things," he repeats, "we don't have much time. There could be more approaching as we speak, we must go."

"We? I am not going anywhere with you, you… you…"

The hunter looks up at you with tired eyes. "Then you will die."

It is so blunt, so honest, that your mouth snaps shut with the realization that he's right. You look around the room - a space that was once a haven for you to execute your duties as a noble woman is now littered with the bodies of traitors. This place can no longer guarantee your safety, not when the very men charged with protecting you were the ones to nearly kill you.

A strand of hair has come untucked from your wimple and veil. You feel it brushing your forehead, out of place and irksome. With a trembling hand, you reach up and tuck it away under the white linen that marks you a married woman.

"Very well."

There are only a few things you know you must bring: your Bible, a wooden box filled with coin, your mother's ring, and an extra set of garments. You decide at the last moment to pack your parchment, wax, stamp, and writing implements, just in case.

Din Djarin walks with long, determined strides, sure-footed without room for question. Keeping pace beside him, you avert your eyes when you pass the body of your handmaiden; she was one of few kindnesses you were allowed in this place, and to see her light snuffed out like that of a candle would surely test your resolve more than anything else you've been through today. You follow the hunter down the stairs and out into the main foyer, where the grand front doors stand wide open. As you step through them, you close them behind you. You'll have to write to someone - anyone, but most likely your husband's brother, who lives the nearest of any of the family - to ask that they look after the estate. That they clean up the mess you've left behind.

It sours your heart to think of the damage you're causing the family, running off in the night like this, but if you stay any longer you'll surely be killed. Especially if you're alone, without guards.

Shutting and locking the doors must do for now.

Outside, all is quiet. A horse grazes on the lawn; you assume this must be his, for you've never seen the buckskin mare before. You immediately make your way to the stables, where your beloved stallion should be waiting. The ink-black horse, called Voyager, has been in your care since he was a colt. His temper is volatile with everyone except you and it's a small comfort knowing your companion will come along.

You saddle the horse with as much haste as you can manage, securing your belongings inside the leather saddlebags. Then, though your skirts limit your mobility somewhat, you mount Voyager and guide him out of the stables.

Djarin is waiting near the outer gates. He sits upon his horse with a hand on his hip, watching you. Though his expression remains stony, something in his posture tells you he's surprised to see you so comfortable in the saddle.

"What?" you ask, though it comes out a bit more defensive than you intended. "Surely you didn't think I spent all my waking hours in that dreadful tower, did you?"

The hunter says nothing. There's a beat, a moment of silence drawn out too long, and then he takes the reins in one hand and turns towards the path that leads away from your home. You'll have to cut through the forest to avoid the village, even though night has fallen, to avoid any chance of anyone seeing the two of you leaving together.

As you follow your reluctant protector away from your home, away from the monument to the family you married into not long ago, you do not turn and look back.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din x reader #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #female reader #AFAB reader #medieval au #medieval #historical au

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lailoken · 3 years

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“Another class of being altogether is the Fairy. Seen as existing somewhere between the spiritual and the purely natural - of the Land- their lore is richest in Suffolk, where they take on corporeal and visible form most readily. They can be of any height but are most frequently seen as child- sized or smaller, dressed in sandy-coloured clothing and are very shy or wary of humans. There are some recorded instances of them in west Norfolk, most commonly coming from the Irish immigrants during the potato famines of the 19th century. They brought their indigenous fairy beliefs with them and it is from the Irish 'Fir' or Fer Sidhe' (man of the hills), that the colloquial term for fairy, 'Ferisher', is thought to come. Some considered them to be petty and spiteful beings, who would readily do humankind down, but others considered them to be helpful, especially with agricultural and household tasks, if they were treated kindly and fairly. During the lambing season, offerings of the first ewes' milk were poured out onto the ground for the fairies who, if denied this, might cause the later lambs to be stillborn. Fairies, the Norfolk housewife learned from her Irish neighbours, could, if annoyed, stop the butter from coming in the churn, or turn the meat in the brine tub sour. When bread dough was put in front of the fire to rise, it could fail to do so if the door was not left open for a fairy to come in and watch over it. The creature had to be rewarded, however, with food left out for it beside the dough. They may interest themselves in man's affairs, by doing him a good turn or, when taking offence at some small incident, leading him into mischief or even danger, or simply laughing at his misadventures.

There are a few accounts of fairy changelings. Fairy children of some growth are occasionally entrusted to human care for a time and then recalled, and humans are now and again kidnapped and carried off to fairyland, never to be seen again. There are also tales of human women being taken to fairyland as midwives and being richly rewarded and returned afterwards. However, if they ever speak out about their experiences, they are sure to be punished in certain ways. For example, a woman who had been taken to fairyland to act as midwife and returned safely, subsequently saw a fairy man when she was at market one day. She approached him and began to speak with him and he, being much taken aback by this, asked her out of which eye she could see him. She indicated the eye and he blew into it sharply. He at once disappeared and she never again saw any of the fair folk, having had the gift taken from her because of her garrulousness. The fairies are generally great enemies of slovenliness and, if the kitchen is tidied before going to bed and the sweepings not taken out, or if the broom is left standing on the floor without being placed standing on its handle, those well-skilled in fairy lore will tell you that the fairies will come and punish the slatternly house keeper. They are fond of singing, dancing in rings, moving hand in hand and playing music together, and are said to ride horses and colts about meadows and fields, much to the farmers' chagrin.

In Suffolk the fairy folk were known as Feriers, Frairies or Pharisees and were most commonly seen or known around the small town of Stowmarket. A few tales will serve to illustrate their nature as known in this county.

The feriers frequented several houses in Tavern St. in Stowmarket, but never appeared as long as anyone was about. People used to lie hidden to see them and some succeeded. Once in particular by a wood-stack up near the brick-yard, there appeared a large company of them singing, dancing and playing music together. They were very small people, quite little creatures and very merry. But as soon as they saw anybody they all vanished away. In the houses, after the feriers had fled, sparks of fire as bright as stars used to appear under the feet of the people who had disturbed them on going upstairs (this ties in with another name for the fairy folk, that of Peries or Perries, after which the Northern Lights are known in Suffolk – the Perry Dancers).

A Stowmarket woman woke up one night and found that her young baby, who should have been sleeping by her side, had disappeared. Fearing lest the fairies had stolen her, she jumped out of bed and there, at its foot, were some of the little sandy creatures undressing the infant and carefully placing the pins from its clothes head to head on the floor (to negate the magic of the iron that was supposed to keep them at bay). When they saw the mother, they fled laughing through a hole in the floorboards. For a long time after that, the child slept between its parents, pinned by its clothes to the pillows and sheets. Another woman in the town had her child stolen by the feriers, who left a sickly changeling in its place. But the woman looked after the fairy child as if it were her own child and every morning, on getting up, she found some money had been left in her pocket.”

—

‘The Good Folk and their Kin’

The Devil’s Plantation:

East Anglian Lore, Witchcraft & Folk Magic

by Nigel G. Pearson

#the Devil’s Plantation #Nigel G. Pearson #traditional withcraft #fairies #faerie folk #fair folk #faeries #faerie faith #Gloaming Folk #changelings #East Anglia #East Anglian lore

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