#peer review is a parry

[worrywrite]

You've heard of post peer review.

Now get ready for it's evil twin. Riposte.

[forthelostones]

𝚙𝚝.𝚘𝚗𝚎 ; 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 ─── ⋆

⟡⋆˙୨ᥫ᭡. 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚞 - 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎!𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚡 𝚏𝚎𝚖!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 ᥫ᭡.୧⋆˙⟡

synopsis: abby was a woman whose presence was becoming deeply irresistible to you. in your final year of nursing school, you toil with the idea of pursuing her — ruin what you have or enjoy what’s in front of you?

warnings. 18+ (mdni); sub!abby (eventually), mini slowburn, suggestive language, jealousy, nora & mel ft, smoking/drinking, mentions of parental death, nickname: dummy, and modern au - pre-established relation.

an: hi everyone, waaaa thanks for all the follows! i appreciate you all sooo soo much. this is something i just thought of idk, maybe a series who knows! i am thinking abt putting this on ao3 too!

(no y/n)

wc: 2.4k

The noise you dreaded hearing the most pulled at your heart, jolting you wide awake at 4:45 a.m. You roll over to the screaming phone and detonate your alarm for clinical. Not even one minute later you get a message from your neighbor, Abby, who is also your classmate. 

Anderson: Rise and shine Dummy. 

In the final year of your nursing program, every day became harder. You feel your body morph back into the cavernous mark you left in the mattress, so warm, you could just… You let your heart settle before you toss your feet off the edge of your mattress, tuck your feet into your slippers, and head to the bathroom. You couldn’t risk the temptation of laying back in bed. On clinical days you were the most nervous but it felt real, like what you had been working towards was actually obtainable. These days were also the longest, so mentally preparing for that was a large part of your success. 

You slip your legs into your light blue scrubs and grab your backpack that was heavy with supplies. Flickering all the lights off and then slipping into your shoes you open the door to find Abby in the corridor at 5:20, ready to head out. You pull your hand over your hair in an attempt to parry any imperfections you might’ve missed in the mirror. She had her keys laced in between her fingers, peering down at her watch. Her scrubs were pressed and well-fitted, hugging her thighs comfortably and falling just above her ankle. Her arms bulged out of the cap-sleeved top complimented with a slick back bun, and her badge attached at the hip, perfectly placed. Meanwhile, you were struggling to find clean scrubs this morning, do your hair, and search for your badge floating in the mess called your backpack. 

“Ready?” She muttered. 

You just nodded your head with your eyes fluttering, fighting off any lingering sleep. 

Ever since freshman year, you have been deeply inspired by Abby. She always aced her tests and made it her mission to become a real nursing student. Which sometimes meant taking on more than she could chew. In one of your entry levels, sophomore term, you became her patient — or dummy — for the year. Your professor explained the patient's situation and you sat limply, very anxious. 

“Anderson, go ‘head.” Your professor spat. 

“Hello, I’m Nurse Anderson, I’m here to take some vitals.” 

You just nodded your head as her large hands reached for her stethoscope, heading towards your back. 

“Come on you need to be a better dummy than that.” Your professor said. 

Her comment made Abby break character and laugh, since then, you’ve been her Dummy. 

You settled into the passenger seat, letting the familiar scent of pine infiltrate your senses. On clinical days Abby insisted on driving you both to the sites. Abby was meticulous about everything and you noticed that early on. Her car was in pristine condition, even though it wasn’t very new. There was no trash or any misplaced items, it was faultless, and it baffled you how she kept up with life and school. 

“Wanna review notes?” She suggested. 

“No, I didn’t get any sleep last night I was studying for Pharma. Didn’t finish the midterm study guide we made until 1 a.m.” 

“Shit. Today’s gonna be rough for you.” She said, pushing the button to start the car and turning the heat on, which made you sleepier. The sun wasn’t even peaking out yet, and you cuddled up to the window listening to Abby mutter off terminology that turned into nothingness as you fell into a sleepy abyss. 

“Dummy. Hey, we’re here.” She said tapping your thigh. 

You had really fallen asleep and were embarrassed at how deeply and easily it happened. The sun was dull in the sky and you shuddered at the cool air as you opened the door. 

The NICU was peaceful. A few of your classmates were cooing over the babies with the instructor, while Abby was observing and taking notes while they were talking. 

“Sorry, another question —" she’d probed, with her iPad in hand. Watching her scribble small annotations and pictures distracted you. Her brows would dip into each other, mentally absorbing every small detail, you just stared at her until she caught you. 

“You’re staring again.” She’s said many-a-times. 

“Anderson, can you send me your notes after?” Mel asked as we packed up our book bags to head out of the hospital. Of course, Abby obliged, even though she and Mel were coveted enemies, she would photo-copy them and email her notes anyway. 

“I don’t know why you even entertain her.” You whispered. 

“I feel bad, she’s struggling, least I can do is help her out.” She shrugged. 

Back at your apartment building Abby invited you to her to drink a little, and you couldn’t say no. Due to the fact that you lived next to each other and that Abby was introverted, you were one of her few friends. But then again you didn’t know much about her outside of being classmates. You changed into sweats and then walked into Abby wearing a tank top and grey shorts. The white, ribbed fabric clung perfectly to her chest, exposing the outlines of her upper body, hugging the cusps of her breasts. Which made you lock your eyes sweetly onto her without fault. She had set out two glasses and brought a bottle of wine to the coffee table in front of the TV. 

Her apartment was cozy, the temperature was perfect, it always smelled nice, and the warm lighting was inviting. You sigh as you join her on the couch, it felt good to sit down, not to mention on something other than your shitty couch. She grinned as she handed you the glass. 

“Now what’s this?” You smirk. 

“Just Prosecco, to start.” 

You both keep eye contact as you take the first sips. Her lips perched onto the edge of the glass and while she was staring into your eyes, they drifted slightly downwards to the pinky pillows on her face. She raised her eyebrows and peered into her glass with a nod of approval. 

“I think today went well, I wouldn’t mind —"  

“No school talk.” You interject.

“Oh, so now you wanna be like friends?” She smirked. 

“I mean…” You trail.

She shrugged as she took another sip. “It’s not. I’m pretty boring.” 

“Come on, talk to me.” 

She was pressed into the opposite corner of the couch, but you felt inclined to lean in more and inch closer to her body. She tucked her leg under herself, so you really saw the stretch of her willpower. Her quads leading up to her thighs were sucking you in like a lazy river guiding you to her estuary. 

“Well, I hit a new number at the gym.” 

“Is that why you’re wearing this little number tonight?” 

Her face turns pink as she turns her head away in guilt. You watched her break into a nervous laugh pressing her lips together tightly. 

“What’s the point if I can’t gloat?” 

You both share a silence for a moment before she composes herself as she feels the heat of your eyes on her. Your vision trailed from her thighs back to her warm eyes. Her fingers turn white while she pinches the stem of the glass. 

“You make it hard to look away, so I don’t blame you.” 

“See, I told you I’m boring.” She said ignoring your comment. 

“I guess I’m curious to see what goes on in that brain of yours. How can you be so put together and still be sane while everyone else is drowning? I admire you so much but I think you’re fucking crazy.” 

She reaches up to her scalp to remove the ponytail holder that held back her blonde locks. Her hair falls just above her chest in a long bob, perfectly cut, not a wrinkle from the hair band anywhere.

“My dad was a surgeon so I guess I became familiar with his lifestyle while growing up. He was crazier than me, super detailed, borderline obsessive,” She glanced toward the ground. “He’s the reason I’m here.” 

“Is he still working or did he retire.” 

She dipped her head down and sipped the last dribbles of her wine, “He passed away a while ago. Just before I came to university.” 

“Abs, sorry.” 

You didn’t have the right words, no one ever did with that type of thing. 

“Ah, it’s fine. So, I just bought this new mezcal, I’ll be right back.” 

She ran to the kitchen and brought shot glasses. 

“So you want me tipsy or what?”

“Just enjoy this with me?” 

Her request was soft and inviting, how could you even think of saying no. She poured more alcohol into the small glasses, “Come here.” she demanded. 

Her command made the pit of your stomach wobble. She took her right arm and looped it with yours, pulling you into her. You didn’t realize it but your heart was beating faster than its resting rate. Her skin was so warm and her hair smelled like honey, her bicep was curling against yours and suddenly you realized your lack of muscle. She lifted the glass to her lips and you followed, not breaking eye contact, her arm tightened, pulling you upwards slightly. She took the shot like a fucking champ. You pull away gasping. 

“So smooth.” She teased. 

“Sure.” You gagged. 

She tucked a strand behind her ear and licked her lips, looking at you fight a fire. She gets a notification on her watch and instantly breaks the tension. You see her eyes light up and a smile creeps up as she reaches for her phone and begins pecking at the screen. You didn’t understand but you felt slightly jealous of whoever was interrupting your night.

“Who’s thattt.” You say in a sing-song voice. 

“What? No one, it’s just a friend.” 

“The fact that you told me it was a friend tells me…” 

“Fine. It’s Nora, remember from freshman bio?” 

“The TA? What? How didn’t I know any of this?” 

“No, because it’s nothing. She’s in grad school, we rekindled recently — I don’t know it was random.” 

“Abby, you are literally blushing.” 

It was true, her skin had turned to the likes of a strawberry. She looked up to you and shoved you in a playful way, slightly embarrassed. You shove her back and she tosses her phone and retaliates. In one swift moment in between the laughter, she pinned you down on the couch cushions. You look up at her, hair flowing into your face, her straddling your legs, and an unwavering smile. Her phone dings with another message which she ignores and it makes you stifle your breathing. 

“You should get that.” You whisper. “And why is that?” She tilts her head playfully. 

She stumped you, no smart rebuttal this time. Another notification slides through and she finally releases you from her grasp. She runs her hand through her hair and reads the messages slightly biting her lip. 

“Well what did she say, come on.” You say leaning over to which she pulls away. 

“No! I, okay. You. Okay. Okay okay.” 

She looked and sounded like a teenager nervous about a pending text. 

“So, context, I told her I was unwinding you know after clinical… So, she said ‘ah, the best. how do you unwind’ right? So I just said, drinking a little, letting my body settle in, you know comfy — being comfy. She said ‘maybe I can help?” Like okay, that means… what I think right. Anyway, I said, how can you help? She said ‘tell me what you have on and I can assess the situation.’” 

You sat taken aback at her brute honesty. 

“So.”

“She’s flirting, isn’t she?” Her eyes sunk at this discovery. 

“Indeed she is.” 

You felt a sense of betrayal, fucking Nora, you thought. 

“Help, what do I say. You know better than me.” She admitted. 

“I am so honored you want my help. Say it again.” You scooch closer. 

She refused. “You know what never-mind.” 

“Abbbbyyy, say it.” 

A minute passes before she finally gives in. “You know better than me.” 

Suddenly you became an expert for Anderson. 

“Let me see your phone.” 

She was hesitant but finally handed it over. You type a possible reply with her looking over your shoulder. 

“What? I’m not wearing a lacey thong.” 

A bit of you wished she was.

“Abby, it doesn’t have to be true.” 

“Yes okay. Red thong. Send it. No-no, just say nothing. I mean that’s more realistic right, oh add that I just got out the shower.” 

She replied instantly. 

Naked, just for me?  

“Why would she say it like that?” Her face turned sour. 

Not for you, just me and my eyes only, you reply. 

“Okay, I like that.” 

When can I see you? 

Abby took her phone back and turned it off while you two shared loud laughs. 

“Fuck, I am not good at this flirting stuff.” She groaned. 

“So, I finally found what you’re not good at, huh?”

She flicked her eyes up at you and away, she was hiding something, a secret. 

“Abigail…” you trail. 

��What.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. 

“Have you ever been with someone before?” 

Deep down you knew the answer. Her ability to not get wrapped up in bullshit led to her hyper-focus on life and not the fun parts. 

“I mean, describe with.” She said going back to the fridge. 

“Had sex with, made out with, also just dated.” 

She brought back two bottles of cider, her lips already pressed to one. You grab yours by the neck patiently awaiting her answer. She just sips her cider.

“Abby,” you say theatrically. “What is it, no one has tickled your fancy or maybe you’re too much of a workaholic to prioritize your needs.” 

Her mouth fell open slightly. “The second one. I’ve gotten there but something always felt off.” 

Hearing Abby talk about sex made you giggle, she couldn’t even mutter the word. Your mind swarmed with all the stuff you could teach her, the positions you could put her in, and the way you would make her feel. 

“Hmmhm.”

“Wait, what the fuck does that mean.” 

“What?” 

“Hmmhm.” She mocks.

“It’s nothing, right now it means I should go, we have Pharma remember. This has been fun,” you stand. “Good night Anderson.” 

You reach out to nip her chin with your cold hand and in that moment when peered at you through those thick lashes you could melt.

“Good night, Dummy.” She smiled goofily.

[anothersmilingcrittersau]

HI! I have a rq question What are your house designs for the Curious Critters? Like, what kinda aspects do you want on their house/in their rooms?

hrmmmm--

I imagine Star would have a little hobbit house with an observatory on the side. I imagine she'd get a pretty clear view of the stars since they all live in a tundra.

Holly Hibearnation would have a cave with a leaf covering for the front door and a sign up front that says 'Holly's Home' (kinda reminiscent of Winnie the pooh but she doesn't live in a tree algnlka) inside she'd have a nest of blankets and pillows in a swaddled ball so whenever she gets back and is especially exhausted; she can flop right onto it and get comfy!

Manny doesn't have a house. homeless. but he does have a tent. (again, think Snufkin) inside the tent is sewing supplies and makeshift plushies he's made! he isn't going to show the others as he, again, is a bully and would rather die than be seen as someone soft.

Kittenergy would have a little slanted cat-house. one with a scratching post for a roof. Inside they'd have a ton of toys laying around inside and one mint-condition toy because that's the one Pup gave them.

speaking of Pup, they'd have a similar house to Dogday's but it'd be more small, kinda like a little forest cottage. One story tall exactly. They'd have a typewriter in there as they sometimes experiment with writing stories about adventures! they don't get very far though, they struggle with the first sentence a lot... Kit loves their work though! They peer review :]

Prissy and Goldi often live together (courtesy of Parry. he likes playing matchmaker) and they would have a little fort-looking house. by fort i mean those cartoony looking sand castle buckets type fort. not actually made of sand- I can't think of the right word for it tho. inside they'd have it perfectly split down the middle of Prissy's side and Goldi's side. though eventually they let the sides merge together to make a cozy little home.

Parry would have a slightly run-down looking house. on the inside tho? it's like a tardis, the inside is wayyyy bigger than what the outside would make you believe. inside is filled with party-favors, possibly illegal items like bombs... you name it? he has it. and he has utilized it.

[laiqualaurelote]

For the AU prompt game: Phrack as cryptozoologists maybe? 👀

“Absolutely not,” says Jack. “I will not countenance it.”

“Well, then how do you explain the sightings!” cries Miss Fisher. “The livestock disappearing? Whole animals dragged into the water?”

“It could be a lot of things,” Jack argues, “but nothing conclusively proves it was a twenty-metre long serpent lurking in the river for over half a century.”

“Oh, I know what you lot call conclusive evidence,” huffs Miss Fisher. “If I haven’t sliced it up, pickled it in a specimen jar and stuffed it in that poky attic your department calls a museum, it’s inconclusive.”

“It’s inconclusive,” parries Jack, “because the creature doesn’t exist, and therefore there is no reason for you to disrupt our field study of actual, non-alleged fauna.”

Jack’s research assistant makes a face at Miss Fisher’s research assistant, who is studiously taking water samples. If Jack had the budget he would hire Dorothy Williams away from Miss Fisher, but Jack does not have the budget, unlike Miss Fisher, who clearly has pots of money to throw away on her pseudoscientific shenanigans, the knowledge of which pains Jack deeply every time he has to write a grant proposal.

Miss Fisher peers at him. “You’re not hung up about the peer review thing, are you?” 

“Of course not.”

“Because there were legitimate issues with your methodology, and I really felt like I had to point them out.”

“No, I’m – ” Jack sighs and grits out. “It was. Sound. Criticism.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Why thank you, Dr Robinson.”

“Don’t mention it, Miss Fisher. I mean, really, don’t.”

The rest of the department calls Miss Fisher Miss Fisher as an affront; it’s to rub in the fact that despite her considerable force of personality, no institution of repute has seen fit to award her a doctorate. Professor Sanderson, department chair, calls her “that woman”, as in, “for God’s sake have that woman escorted off campus grounds” after Miss Fisher took to delivering improvisational lectures in the quad about the predatory evolution of the Mongolian death worm, which to the faculty’s dismay proved extremely popular among the student population. Jack sometimes wonders what it is like to believe in something the way Miss Fisher does. To have the conviction to fling oneself into the unknown on the faintest promise of discovery.

“You should call me Phryne,” says Miss Fisher.

Jack opens his mouth for a rebuttal he hasn’t thought through yet, but is saved from having to produce one by the shock of her finger laid suddenly on his lips.

“Do you hear that?” she whispers.

There is a rippling in the water, accompanied by a kind of spreading susurrus. If Jack squints, he can just about make out a dark shape, moving in its depths towards the bank. If pressed to estimate its length, he would place it at around twenty metres.

“Dot,” breathes Miss Fisher, “are you getting all this?”

“Yes, miss.” Dot is already filming. Hugh glances at her, then scrambles to do the same.

The serpent breaks the surface. It rears up above the river, magnificent and ancient and crusted green, beneath which its skin runs mottled. It bares a mouthful of teeth, each as long as an icepick, and hisses at their party on the bank.

“Oh, it’s beautiful.” Miss Fisher’s eyes are brimming with wonder. “Oh, you absolute darling.”

“Does it,” ventures Jack, “does it, by any chance, eat humans?”

“You didn’t even want to admit it existed a minute ago,” Miss Fisher shoots back. “How should I know what it eats? Oh, Jack, isn’t it marvellous?”

“Splendid,” agrees Jack, as the creature begins frilling in a mildly alarming fashion. “Given the dearth of literature on the subject, however, we should probably run.”

“We are going to write the best paper,” shouts Miss Fisher as she sprints up the slope. 

“This,” Jack shouts back, dragging Hugh behind a ridge as the serpent hits the bank with wet force, “is the worst possible way to ask someone to co-author!”

“Are you saying yes to me, Jack Robinson!” She seems, despite the circumstances, to be wildy enjoying herself.

“I wouldn’t want to set a precedent,” says Jack, though he knows, to his chagrin, that he already has.

(For the AU prompt game. I had to Google cryptozoologists. Apologies to any actual zoologists, or for that matter anyone in science academia.)

[kipandkandicore]

article discussion: exploring the experiences of young people with multiplicity

hello! so we’re starting a new thing where we transcribe parts of and discuss at length the studies that are out there on nontraumagenic plurality! we’re doing this because so many folks claim there’s no real research on nontraumagenic plurality out there, and tend to claim the links are fishy or broken whenever we try to share sources. so, we’re posting discussion of the articles on tumblr to show that this is real research that is being published in accredited, peer reviewed journals.

this may be the only one we do, or this might become a common thing, depending on how much energy we have and stuff and how useful people find this. the actual article discussion will be below a cut to keep this post from getting too long!

today’s article is “exploring the experiences of young people with multiplicity,” written by zarah eve and sarah parry and published in the journal youth and policy. 

you can access the whole article here! please let us know if you have trouble accessing this article and we can help you with some troubleshooting.

about the authors: 

zarah eve is a phd researcher currently completing research at the manchester metropolitan university. her articles have appeared in sage research methods and the journal of adolescent trauma.

sarah parry is a clinical psychologist also completing research at the manchester metropolitan university. she is the author of many books and articles, published in health & social care in the community, clinical child psychology & psychiatry, sage research methods, journal of trauma and dissociation, and more!

about the journal:

from their website: “Youth & Policy offers a space for the critical analysis of issues and policies relating to young people.” this journal is entirely free, open access, and accessible online. the aim of the journal is to highlight contemporary issues that surround youth today, along with encouraging further research into those topics.

tl:dr: this article examines and criticizes the current framework for researching plurality, which fails to listen to plural voices and center plurals in research and discussion. eve and parry dive into multiplicity from a standpoint of uplifting and listening to actual plural people, and outline their study which is projected to last from 2021-2024. they suggest that the current system for understanding plurality doesn’t work, not all multiplicity is based in trauma, the concept ‘nothing about us, without us’ should be better utilized and explored, bring up the limitations of current language in plural research, and detail the next steps for their study.

and without further ado, onto the article!

the article is an initial consultation and proposition for a 3 year research study that is running from 2021-2024. as we’ve said in the past, research into nontraumagenic plurality is still quite new, so seeing budding research in its early stages is promising, and to be expected. it is divided into 6 sections:

introduction

the current system doesn’t work

not all multiplicity is based in trauma

‘nothing about us without us’

language

next steps

introduction

the article begins with a discussion of multiplicity in a contemporary context, touching on the plural experience and noting particularly the lack of research in this field. they reference past studies of plurality, and discuss how they aim to build on and potentially shift the current framework.

(alt text:) “this means many therapeutic approaches have focused upon facilitating trauma histories to become coherent narratives (e.g. herman, 1992; lifton, 1988), which can be a helpful approach for many as part of phased psychological support (e.g. isstd, 2011). however, some people have a different experience of identity construction (see stocks, 2007), experiencing themselves as multiple – having more than one self in the mind and body. ribáry et al. (2017) suggests the experience of multiplicity is best understood on a continuum between ‘identity disturbance’ and ‘dissociative identity disorder (DID)’ (p. 938). ribáry and colleagues found most people who operated as ‘systems’ of selves functioned fairly well in day-to-day life, although recognised much more research is needed.”

as we’ve said in the past, just because research in a particular area is new or there isn’t much of it, does not mean that that particular area has no merit and shouldn’t be studied. it’s awesome that these authors recognize this and are calling for more research on plurality! we also appreciate that they mentioned the continuum between identity disturbance and dissociative identity disorder. hopefully soon plurality will be more seen as a spectrum (like autism!) than a black or white clinical diagnosis!

they introduce the consultation (which was conducted online in february of 2021), and expressed the consultations findings:

(alt text:) “the key messages from the consultation were that the current system does not work for the multiplicity community and in particular:

there is a lack of understanding regarding multiplicity, particularly for young people who don’t associate their experience of multiplicity with a trauma history,

people in the community want to be involved in research and practice decisions; and

the language currently used is not appropriate and is seen as a barrier to support.”

the current system doesn’t work

this section details how the current framework of did/osdd does not work for many systems and plurals who do not fit into those diagnoses/experiences. it discusses how many multiples feel unseen/unheard by doctors and professionals in the field, and how viewing all plurality as did/osdd does more harm to the community than good.

(alt text:) “as a result of the current lack of understanding and support available for people who have experiences of multiplicity, many people within the community shared their fear of being stigmatised if they were to disclose their experiences. allowing the experience of multiplicity to become normalised could facilitate help-seeking and self-acceptance due to a reduction in internalised stigmatisation. often, people are scared of things that they do not understand. a reduction in stigma would allow people in the multiplicity community to feel accepted. disseminating the findings of future research to the wider population as well as through policy and practice will be important to alter public perception and provide a more nuanced understanding of multiplicity.”

clearly stigmatization is a serious issue. while plurality as a whole is stigmatized by the masses/majority, it is unfortunate but necessary to note that this stigmatization extends within the multiplicity community, as nontraumagenic systems are often stigmatized and ostracized by their peers within the community.

not all multiplicity is based in trauma

yes, it’s true, finally some real research that actually acknowledged that not all multiplicity is based in trauma! this is excellent news for nontraumagenic systems and the plural community as a whole.

however, the article points out that these nontraumagenic systems are often left out of the conversation and unable to access resources that might benefit them.

(alt text:) “people mentioned that while they may lack what is seen as traditional suffering, having experiences of multiplicity still impacts their psychosocial functioning and their day to day living, but this is overlooked currently. a greater level of understanding and resources were mentioned as being needed within both research and practice. having easy to understand resources concerning multiplicity would allow both professionals and support networks to have a clearer understanding of the experiences.”

more research into multiplicity that is plural focused as opposed to medical/diagnoses focused will lead to more autonomy for systems in this field of research and better results that more accurately reflect the reality of plurality as a nontraumagenic experience. the article mentions that incorporating better research that includes nontraumagenic narratives will lead to more systems of all sorts being willing to open up about their experiences. it also brings up the importance of finding a balance between traumagenic and nontraumagenic support so all systems can access the individual care they need.

‘nothing about us without us’

this section discusses the importance of plural voices in plural research! this is crucial in any study involving people - those who are affected need to be involved in the actual research in order to yield the most accurate results. this goes for any study - be it on disability, poverty, race, plurality, or anything! it is unfortunate that so often plurals are left out of the conversation and research process, but this article recognizes this problem and seeks to remedy it in the future.

the authors discuss the current issues with both traumagenic and nontraumagenic plurals being misunderstood in medical and academic contexts. centering plural voices in plural research would be an excellent way to remedy this problem. the authors write:

(alt text:) “simple steps that can be used to ensure all voices are heard include allowing every headmate within the body the space to share their own experiences. traditionally within research there is one survey to complete, or one opportunity to attend an interview, which disregards the wide range of experiences people within the body can experience. not every headmate may wish to take part but having the option to choose is an important step towards allowing a true understanding of their experiences to emerge within research and practice. without having the ability to share all experiences, research remains ableist and exclusionary to the community it hopes to centre and support.”

truly, expanding the scope and methods of plural research to make it more accessible to whole systems, regardless of origin, would yield better and more useful research results. discussion of flexibility and consent when dealing with multiple headmates in a system will hopefully lead to a future where more ethical and accurate research can be completed!

language

this next section discusses the language surrounding plurals and plural research, its issues and limitations, and how we can surpass these limitations in the future.

(alt text:) “the medicalised language used to describe multiplicity was said to be a barrier to accessing support and information for many people. while traditional language such as ‘parts’ or ‘alters’ may be beneficial or appropriate choices within specific groups such as adult peer-support services, young people who responded to the consultation found them to be non-inclusive and ingrained within medical assumptions which do not reflect their experiences. they also discussed feeling a stigma attached to this language, echoed within the media, which is harmful to people with experiences of multiplicity.”

it is apparent that there are many issues regarding language both in medical and non medical plural spaces. addressing these concerns will pave the way for better research in the future that will more accurately reflect the experiences of all plural folk!

we also wanted to share this:

(alt text:) “respondents shared various positive terms which they prefer, including ‘system’, ‘headmate’, ‘system members’, and ‘plurals’. utilising preferred language, as is true with other areas of mental health research and practice, allows the individual to feel supported, included and visible.”

we thought it was interesting to point out the use of “system” here in an academic, research based, plural context, outside of a medical setting or medical research. this disproves the point that system is a medical specific term - as it’s revealed (at least through this study) that “system” is a term used by both traumagenic and nontraumagenic plurals! while “alter” and “parts” may share medical connotations, the term “system,” it seems, has evolved beyond that in plural spaces.

next steps

(alt text:) “over the next three years, we will be undertaking iterative research with young people who identify as multiple to develop a conceptual model of multiplicity built with experts by experience. this short consultation process has demonstrated that many young people who identify as multiple do not currently feel as though they have suitable access to relevant support and resources.”

this last section is pretty self explanatory - remember that this is the initial consultation and the full study is ongoing! we are very excited to see the results of the full study, and if we’re still on tumblr at that time (spring 2024) we will definitely discuss the study’s results in full! even as a preliminary consultation this article has revealed much about the plural experience. we learned a lot, and we hope you did too!

so that wraps it up for the article “exploring the experiences of young people with multiplicity!” we will by all means keep y’all updated on the works of eve and parry as this study develops.

did y’all enjoy this/find this article discussion useful? please let us know, and feel free to continue this discussion/open up the conversation!

if you’d like to suggest an article for us to discuss about plurality/nontraumagenic systems, by all means, go ahead! we love to read academic articles, and putting this together was a lot of fun for us.

thank you so much for reading! have a great day!

[editoress]

27. I’M FINE. I PROM… passing out | vertigo | collapse Maia (The Goblin Emperor)

Reading a book that isn’t this one is always a matter of utmost willpower.  Maia deserves the world.  So of course I’m being mean to him in a whump prompt.

*

Maia enjoyed the luxury of taking dinner in the relative privacy of his rooms.  State affairs were all too frequent, and while Maia did not resent them (or tried not to), they required a constant presence of mind, and he was always so very conscious of how he was eating.  He was not alone in his rooms, either, but the presence of Csevet, Cala, and Beshelar were more comfortable.  It helped that the dinner was a delicious citrus-roasted duck.

He was enjoying the fourth bite and nodding along to Csevet’s rapid-fire review of engagements when the door burst open with such force that Beshelar leapt nearly into action, with Cala just behind him.  Csevet shot to his feet.  He didn’t have time to ask the question.  The servant who had stumbled inside stopped abruptly with his hands on his knees, bowing so low and hurried that he nearly toppled over.  “The poison tester,” he gasped out.  “Serenity.  He’s collapsed.”

Everyone turned to Maia in horror.  Worst of all, he had just swallowed most of a mouthful of duck and had no notion of whether to spit the rest out.  Cala moved first, taking two long strides to Maia’s side and bending over him.  “Serenity,” he said, holding a napkin over Maia’s mouth so that there was no more question of what to do.  Once Maia had complied, he continued, “How do you feel?”

Maia was alarmed and embarrassed and flushing from both, and he disliked sitting at the dinner table while everyone loomed anxiously over him.  He pushed himself to his feet.  “We…” he began, and a strange flush came over him, like the prickling of panic.  “We are well.  Thank you.”

Csevet and Beshelar were talking over each other.  Cala raised his voice to be heard above them both.  “Serenity, you should be examined regardless.  We should hurry.”

It was very loud, and Maia was growing hot and lightheaded.  “Bring the poison tester.  The doctors can treat him.  Oh—I don’t know his name,” he added, which was not normally a thought that would have escaped aloud.  It must have struck them all oddly, because Csevet and Beshelar had fallen silent to look at him strangely.  Maia couldn’t seem to think, so, stupidly, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“Serenity—”  Csevet was moving forward.

“We,” Maia realized aloud.  He had slipped into informal speech without realizing.  “We’re—we are well.”  He thought he managed to mumble, “We promise,” before the blackness took him, but he couldn’t be sure.

*

Maia woke next in his own bed—another luxury.  The clock ticked steadily, and voices drifted from the next room.  The window let in bright, blurred light.  He felt a little sluggish and tremendously hungry.

“Serenity.”  Beshelar stood rigidly nearby.  His shoulders were taut and his expression was unreadable, but his voice was low despite its gruffness.

Maia peered at him.  Hopefully, he offered, “Good morning.”

Beshelar did not smile, but his usual hard edges softened in exasperation.  “Good afternoon, Serenity.  How do you feel?”  His eyes narrowed at once, ready to parry and counter any instances of ‘we are well.’

“We feel,” Maia said anyway, “better.  Tentatively.”  He sat up slowly, and Beshelar strained forward, as if someone were physically holding him back from supporting Maia around the shoulders.  More hopefully still, Maia decided, “At any rate, we are not—dizzy.”

Cala appeared, and then Csevet; and their obvious relief upon seeing Maia sitting upright was so great that he did not resist being examined a second time.  It embarrassed him all over again: Cala’s beaming; Beshelar’s refusal to move more than three steps away; Csevet’s focused attention and flickering, reassured smiles; and of course the doctors’ prodding and questioning.

The doctors, at least, left when their duty was done and he was pronounced hale.  The rest were not so easily dissuaded from their fretting.  Maia learned that the poison tester had survived and that his own schedule had been expertly rearranged.  He was briefed for the latter, dressed, and allowed, at last, some breakfast, and all the time the three of them crowded him and scrutinized him for any sign of illness.

Desperately, Maia told them, “We are well.  Really.”

He was treated to a variety of dubious looks.  He was forced to point out, “Even the doctors said so.”

“Of course, Serenity,” Csevet said professionally.  Cala and Beshelar, too, agreed deferentially, and none of them changed their expression or bearing in the slightest.  Maia remained thoroughly fussed over not only for the rest of that day, but for many days afterward.

[coldkryptonitecupcake]

“Abomination”, Ch. 6

   Eris pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. “What do you mean, he ‘left’? He can’t have just... wait, what? Narvuk, a Knight, portaled? No, he never mentioned it. Do you know where? Titan. I see. Do what you must, Guardian. We cannot afford to lose him so soon.” She switched the comlink off and sat down with a sigh. Too much was happening already, and now this. She had reviewed the feed of Narvuk’s match at least a dozen times, but it still didn’t make sense. 

   Narvuk’s comment about the song troubled her. The others may have dismissed it as nonsense, but she had strong suspicions that something - or rather, someONE - was attempting to reach out. But who? Narvuk served Crota, thus he was tied to Oryx before his death. Savathun was clever enough, but such a close servant of her nephew was unlikely. Xivu Arath, perhaps? No, that was not her way. She was a warrior, a conqueror, not a schemer like her sister. Eris’ gaze turned to the Scarlet Keep, its tower visible even as far away as she was. “What secrets do your walls conceal? What horrors conspire to destroy us all?"

The comlink crackled back to life, this time with Zavala on the other end. “Eris? Eris, come in. There’s been a development with Narvuk. He’s disappeared to Titan, and I fear he has already betrayed us.”

“He has not done anything of the sort, Zavala! You are too quick to condemn him. He needs time to come to grips with his new reality, that is all.”

“He is a Guardian. What complications are there in that?”

“Narvuk has become a contradiction to the only philosophy, if it could be called such a thing, that he has ever known. He will be struggling with that for some time. Regardless, there are already two Guardians on their way to help him.”

“Very well. Zavala out.”

Eris sighed once more before returning to her work.

I peer through my faceted spyglass again, and now he is there. He is intriguing, yes, but he no longer belongs in this place. He is [sharp], but he is but a broadsword, obvious and easily parried. I am a dagger, and I will find the gap in his armor.

[hookedonapirate]

The Princess and Her Sultan

Summary: Crown princess Emma of Misthaven is second in line to the throne, her brother Leopold ll being the first, but her parents see her with a future as a great ruler. King Rumpelstiltskin of neighboring land, strikes a deal with King David, promising to uphold the peace between the kingdoms if Emma marries Prince Baelfire. With the promise of his daughter becoming future queen of the Dark Kingdom, David accepts reluctantly.

Before her wedding day, the princess is kidnapped and taken overseas. She is sold as a slave to a palace where Crown Prince Killian of Neverland ascends his father’s throne and is sworn in as Sultan. Meanwhile, Killian’s mother pressures him to sire a prince and presents him with gifts for his birthday, one of them including a blonde princess from Misthaven. Dazzled by Emma’s charm, intelligence and beauty, he summons her to his bedchambers every night and eventually finds himself casting aside his harem and centuries of tradition.  

A/N: I wanted to clear something up because I think people may have misinterpreted what I wrote, which is my fault because of what POV it was in and the order of the scenes, but I promise there is a reason to my madness. So, what I'm talking about it is, a reviewer had said my notes about Killian taking sterile concubines didn't match what I wrote in the last chapter. That may be true, but what was said about it in the chapter was not coming from me as the narrator, it came from James in Emma's POV. Just because Kira thinks Killian would ask the concubines to become sterile doesn't mean he would, it was just one of her fears because normally she brings him what he wants, and now she wants him to sire a prince, and she doesn't want anything to get in the way of her plans. There is a scene in the next chapter where this is clarified, but because I think I had upset a few over this issue and probably lost some readers because of it, I felt it needed to be said. Honestly, I didn't think really think about it when I wrote it, and anyone who reads my other stories knows that I always have a tendency to write Killian as over the top perfect because that's how I view him, so I never intend to write him as a character who puts a bad taste in anyone's mouth. 

Hopefully, this puts people who were concerned about it at ease, but if anyone has questions about this or anything else regarding this fic, please don't hesitate to leave a comment or shoot me a pm. I had originally wanted to write the women to be naturally sterile, but that was something rare back then, but I realize that sometimes sticking to writing what is realistic is not always the best route to take. 

Thank you @gingerchangeling for your wonderful suggestions and ideas for this story, and also @ilovemesomekillianjones for gifting me with your wonderful editing skills at. I also want to give a shout out to @onceuponaprincessworld for being my sounding board, constant cheerleader and good friend, thank you, darling! This story wouldn’t be the same without these lovely ladies!

And all of you have been so supportive and awesome, thank you all for following along and for your feedback!

Rated: Explicit

AO3 l FF.N I Prologue l Ch 1 l Ch 2 l Ch 3 l Ch 4

Chapter 5

When Emma rushes back to the women’s quarters before she has to be present at dinner with the other concubines, she’s completely and utterly smitten for the Sultan. She’s never felt like this, her skin is flushed, her heart doing a pitter-patter in her chest and her head is spinning. She may have to change her strategy a bit because she knows she won't have to fake any affection she shows the Sultan. The intensity of their kiss is something she couldn't fake if she had truly tried. A passionate, toe-curling kiss was something she’d only heard about from her mother and the maids at the castle. It was something Emma had only dreamt about. And the fact that the Sultan is genuinely kind and sweet and the most handsome man she's ever seen, is a complete game changer. He is all the things Baelfire is not. She'd expected the Sultan to treat her as his property, she could've only imagined that if he'd seen a naked concubine outside of the women's quarters, he'd have raped her and had her beaten, but instead he had asked permission to kiss her and promised to only have her in his bedchambers when the time was right. Emma is still perplexed by this. Obviously, she has formed a very false and narrow-minded opinion about him before ever meeting him.

She has to banish the smile from her lips when she slips into her oda to change out of her damp clothes. She's relieved to find it empty, but to her surprise, Elsa emerges from the curtain before Emma can fetch a dry outfit.

“Where have you been, Emma?” Elsa asks curiously, scanning her clothes and hair before meeting Emma’s gaze.

“Oh, I was just in the bathing area,” Emma replies nonchalantly as she retrieves some dry clothes from her cupboard which is located behind the bottom half of the wall paneling next to her bed where her personal belongings are stored. “I was afraid I'd be late for dinner, so I left in a hurry without even bothering to dry off.” When she turns to face her roommate again, she fears the silver blonde is on to her, judging by her narrowed eyes and questioning half-smirk.

Elsa crosses her arms over her chest, casually making her way towards Emma. “So, what's it like to bathe outside the harem?”

Emma gapes at her friend in surprise. She thought she'd been careful enough to not be seen whenever she'd snuck off. “How do you know I left the harem?”

Elsa gives a soft, casual shrug. “I just assumed since I saw you leaving one day. I followed you to a room and you disappeared into it, so I crept up to the door and saw you at a chess table.”

Emma’s heart flutters in panic “You saw that?”

Elsa nods. “I thought it was odd because there was no one else in the room with you. Were you playing against yourself?”

Emma shakes her head, her eyes laced with apology for not telling Elsa of her escapades. “No, I’ve been playing against the Sultan,” she murmurs, placing the fresh clothes on the bed. She sits next to the neatly folded fabrics, sighing as she looks up at Elsa in shame. “I have been playing chess since I was young so when I saw the chessboard for the first time, it tempted me. Only then did I find out it was the Sultan’s chess game, for it is in his study.” Emma looks down, fingering the material of the dress she will be changing into. “You will not tell anyone, will you?”

Elsa shakes her head. “Of course not. You’re my friend and I do not wish for you to get into trouble,” she assures Emma and lays a hand on her arm. Emma peers up at her, offering a gracious smile.

“Thank you, Elsa.”

“Of course.” A wide grin blossoms over Elsa’s lips, her eyes lighting up with intrigue. “Have you met the Sultan since you’ve been going into his study? Have you ever caught him in there, or has he ever caught you?”

Emma blushes and smiles, shaking her head. “No, he is never around when I enter the room.”

Elsa quirks a brow, a mixture of curiosity and confusion etched in her features. “If you’ve never met him, then why were you smiling when you returned?”

Emma was hoping her friend would not inquire about that, but Emma doesn’t see any reason not to tell her, about the pool anyway. “You promise you won’t say anything?”

“I promise I won’t.”

“I was smiling because I felt freer than I had in months,” Emma claims, which isn’t a complete lie. “I was in one of the gardens when I found a pool. I bathed by myself for the first time since we were brought here.”

Elsa’s mouth opens in a gasp as she plops on the bed, sitting next to Emma. “So that's why your clothes are damp?! Oh, how lucky you are!” Elsa chants enthusiastically. “Where is this pool? Perhaps I will go, too.”

“But you might get in trouble,” Emma laughs.

“So will you!” Elsa exclaims, playfully swatting her shoulder.

“Okay, maybe I will show you one day.”

Elsa claps her hands in excitement. “Thank you, Emma, I look forward to it.”

They’re so immersed in conversation they do not realize someone is listening on the other side of the curtain. The eavesdropper casts a shadow over the red fabric, which goes unnoticed by the gediklis because they are facing away from the curtain. The shadow disappears once they change the topic of conversation and get ready for dinner.

~*~

The early autumn sun is strong, and the fresh breeze does nothing to cool him down or help with the sweat forming at his hairline. The unabating sounds of metal clanging against metal resonate throughout the courtyard, the sunlight’s reflection bouncing off the blades as the two men attack and parry, swinging and blocking, jabbing and thwarting each other’s movements. They move with expert precision, each ducking and twisting when necessary to avoid the path of the other blade.

Killian remembers when he’d held his first sword in his hands, even though he was too young to truly learn much—he was not yet five years old, and he was clumsy back then, for his fingers were small, his muscles weak and the sword heavy. But Killian was the grandson of a Sultan and if Sultans knew anything, it was determination, strength—both physically and emotionally—and how to wield a sword. Killian not only wanted to learn how to use it, but he also needed to learn it.

It meant that for his weakness as a young lad, he had quickly learned what to do with a sword. He quickly learned what it meant to become strong and fight like a Sultan. And yet, at the moment, he feels very weak, though not physically weak; his mind is constantly drifting off to visions of green eyes and golden hair. Emma’s vibrant smile, her beautiful breasts, her alluring scent and the taste of her lips drown him, weakening every part of him.

James swings his sword so quickly, Killian doesn't have enough time to block him, and instead, the Sultan’s sword is knocked out of his hand. Soaring through the air, it lands in the grass as Killian leaps back to avoid the end of James’ blade, falling to the ground with a groan.

James stands over him, holding the point of the blade at Killian’s neck as the Sultan raises his hands in surrender. “You were great with a sword when you were a child.”

Killian frowns at him. “Your words cut like a sword.”

James offers a grin as he removes the blade from the Sultan’s neck and extends his hand, helping Killian off the ground. “You’re still pretty great at it.”

Killian gives in to a laugh. “You’re not so bad yourself. No other man would be able to send me to my back. This moment makes me glad I am not your enemy.”

“I am glad as well,” his concierge chuckles. “Normally, I would not be so lucky to send you on your back. That is what your concubines are for, Your Majesty, is it not?” he teases as they sheath their swords and find a shady spot underneath a fig tree. They relax in the grass where Pages bring them olives, cheese and sherberts. Every day, he and James either engage in sword practice at the palace or travel to the Meydan with their arrows and spears for target practice.

“Indeed you're right,” Killian chuckles, anxious for one concubine, in particular, to have him on his back as she rides him into oblivion.

James drains his silver goblet and selects an olive, chewing it slowly and childishly spitting out the pit into the chalice. “Your Majesty, tell me what troubles you.”

Killian glances at James, catching a knowing smirk on his face. A rosy blush spreads over the Sultan’s cheeks as he scratches behind his ear, a smile threatening his lips. “What gave me away?”

There’s mirth dancing in James’ eyes as he regards the Sultan with a quirked brow. “The better question is what hasn’t given you away .”

Killian takes a sip from his chalice, deciding what he shall divulge to his concierge. The most James knows at this point is that Killian has been playing anonymous chess with one of his concubines, and there is really no reason not to tell him, except he isn't fond of anyone knowing how much Emma has affected him over such a short period of time.

“Since when are you hesitant?” he asks playfully, mocking Killian’s words during a conversation they had a while back.

Killian chuckles and shakes his head. “I am not hesitant… it’s just…”

James playfully cocks a brow and waits for him to speak, but Killian is still uncertain as to how he can precisely explain in words the thoughts endlessly roving his mind. He’s not really sure what to say, which is unheard of for him. He is never at a loss for words like this. He speaks with such confidence and passion at the council meetings in front of his army officers. Killian had told them not too long ago he would one day rule the seven seas, and yet here he is, hesitant to speak of his feelings for a woman to his closest friend. “My apologies, you are so confident today,” James jokes with a soft chuckle.

Killian sighs in defeat as the soft breeze washes over him. “I met the woman I’ve been playing chess with.” The words leave his lips much more weakly than he had intended, and he looks down, picking up an olive and studying it carefully to avoid eye contact with James.

“So she is indeed a woman?”

Killian lifts his gaze and pops the olive in his mouth, carefully removing the pit and discarding it on the silver tray. “She is. Her name is Emma.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of her from Ruby. She is the one who challenged your partisan policy.”

Killian’s eyes dart to his concierge, although he shouldn’t be surprised. Of course, a woman who dares enter his study would also be daring enough to speak against his policies. “She is the same person?”

“Yes, she is one of the lush gifts your mother will present to you on your birthday.”

“Ah, I see,” Killian nods, trying to remain impassive when in reality, he already knows of his gifts and is beyond excited to have the honor of being graced with his blonde concubine’s presence at his birthday fete.

Nemo had informed him of the virgin gifts the Valide Sultan had requested from him and the great lengths the Chief Eunuch had gone to procure them. He had ensured Killian they were not sterile. Other than that small bit of information, Nemo hadn’t said much about them, only that they were four new gediklis in training, and Killian would not meet them until his birthday. At first, the Sultan had not been very welcoming to the idea of taking concubines who were capable of bearing children, to his bed; he would’ve rather gone to his bed alone to save himself from another possible heartache. He also hadn’t shown favor to the idea of his mother making decisions for him and putting more pressure on him to sire an heir, but that was before he’d met Emma and had come to the conclusion that he wants to start a family.

“Does it disappoint you knowing she is challenging your policies?” James asks, pulling Killian from his revery.

“Not in the least.” A smirk threatens Killian’s lips; if possible, he is even more intrigued by his swan.

James studies him with curiosity. “Do tell how you met her in person, Your Majesty.”

Killian blushes profusely, a bashful smile spreading across his lips as he casts a timid glance at James. “You cannot tell anyone else of this.”

His concierge shakes his head. “Of course I won’t, Your Majesty.”

Killian’s breath quivers as he exhales slowly. “I met her yesterday, she was outside the harem, swimming in the pool.”

A mixture of shock and fascination washes over his face. “Is that so? She does like to test the limits of the palace, does she not?”

“Aye, she does.”

“And what happened when you found her in the pool? How did you know it was your mystery opponent?”

Killian smirks. “I had the privilege of joining her and we spoke briefly before she gave her identity away. She mentioned the gardens, so I told her gardening was my favorite pastime, and she let it slip that she thought chess was my favorite pastime instead.”

James opens his mouth, his eyes dancing with bemusement. “And how did you respond?”

“She feared I would punish her, and perhaps I should have, but James, how could I punish someone who challenges me at a very compelling game of chess? She is currently winning, so I took a break from the game to consider my next move carefully.”

“She is very brave, I'll give her that.”

“She is,” Killian nods in agreement, a small smile tugging the corner of his lips, “and I must admit, her bravery is very attractive. Where did she come from?”

“She’s from Misthaven.”

“Misthaven?” Killian asks, a slow smile curving his lips. “From your homeland?”

James gives a nod. “Yes, and she's a princess, Your Majesty, or so I was told. I was taken from Misthaven long before she was born.”

“A princess?” he parrots, arching a brow. It seems his swan continues to surprise him.

“Yes.” James sends a questioning glance, scrutinizing the Sultan carefully. “So tell me, Your Majesty, how do you feel about the princess?”

Killian’s smile widens, taking over his entire face. “She is beautiful and charming and smart.”

“That I’ve gathered, but how do you feel about her?” James asks again.

“You would really like to know?”

James gives a nod, a smile gracing his lips. “Do tell, Your Majesty.”

Killian has to sift through his thoughts a moment before he can possibly begin to supply an answer. He’s not even entirely sure how he feels about the blonde temptress, or at least he’s not sure how to describe his feelings in words. He lets his mind drift off to the previous afternoon when he’d seen her naked in the pool, and how it felt to be in the presence of his mysterious opponent upon discovering this lovely woman was the same person. He also thinks about his moment of clarity in the pool when she’d left.

“Well…” Killian pauses when his voice cracks, and he runs a hand through his hair, clearing his throat, hoping he can compose himself as he speaks of his feelings for her. “When I saw her, she was naked and her body was exquisite.” A smile pulls at his lips as he stares off into space with visions of her stunning figure on his mind. “My heart was racing, and I felt as if I was drowning. Even though I was above water, I could not breathe. Now I can’t stop thinking about the lovely curves of her body, but I know I must wait to have her until my birthday, out of respect for my mother.” Killian looks over at James and sees him shifting uncomfortably. The Sultan frowns in confusion. “Tell me, my head concierge, why does this topic discomfort you so? Are you not the one who inquired about it?”

James blushes, offing a small smile. “Apologies, Your Majesty, but since she was brought here to the palace as not only a gift for you, but a possible future Kadin, I have no doubt she is exquisite, so I wish to hear more of how you feel about her, rather than her physical beauty.”

Killian nods in understanding, and suddenly the blush floods his cheeks once again.

“There you are blushing again,” James taunts him. “Tell me why she makes you blush.”

The Sultan chuckles. James is right; Killian seems to blush every time he thinks about how he feels about her. He takes a deep breath before answering. “We shared a kiss,” he admits, suddenly becoming shy again. “It was…” He blows out a breath, his mind frazzled from simply thinking about it. “It was life-changing,” is the only way Killian can honestly describe it. “And since then, I have felt… I've felt like for the first time since Milah, I can find love again. I can finally begin to think of starting a family.” He tears up at the idea and looks over at James, afraid of his concierge’s reaction, although he shouldn't be. He knows James only wants him to be happy.

A slow grin creeps across James’ lips. “You can, Your Grace, and you are on your way there. This woman is already affecting you, I could tell before you spoke a word of her.”

Killian raises a brow, surprised. “You could?”

“Well yes,” he chuckles. “I have known you for many years, and never have you allowed me to win at sword practice. Nor have you ever been at a loss for words, so yes I could sense a change.”

“Apologies, my friend.”

Both men push themselves up, ready to head inside the palace.

“Please, do not apologize, I am glad you are finally opening your heart up to the possibilities that await you.”

“Thank you, James.” Killian smiles appreciatively and draws his concierge into a hug. He is grateful for James and the brotherhood they have formed. He is thankful he still has someone to lean on after losing his blood brother and father, and he hopes that one day, the Sultan after him will also have a brother to lean on, whether he is blood or not.

He pats his concierge on the back, and James’ features are creased with confusion as they break the hug. “I would like to say you’re welcome, but I’m not so sure what you are thanking me for, Your Majesty.”

“For making me see clearly again. I have done everything in my power to avoid getting close to a woman again, but you have reminded me why it is important to start a family... and not because I do not yet have an heir, but because I want my children to become as close as you and I are, as close as Liam and I were. I want them to lean on one another, not start rivalries for the throne.” He looks at James and smiles. “You have always been there for me, and I want my children to be there for one another, too.”

“And I will always be there for you,” James promises sincerely, raising his hand to gently squeeze the Sultan’s shoulder. “You will be an amazing father, so I have no doubt you will teach them the importance of family.”

“Thank you, James.”

They walk casually inside the palace, discussing another hunting trip to occupy Killian so he can think of his swan without being tempted to seek her out before his birthday. But before they go their separate ways to prepare for the trip, James turns to look at Killian once more.

“Tell me one more thing, Your Majesty.”

Killian looks over at him, lifting a brow. “What is it you wish to know?”

“How will you continue the chess match?”

A mischievous smile crosses Killian's lips. That is a question he can easily answer, for he knows precisely how to continue it.

~*~

After Emma’s schooling for the day, she heads to the Sultan’s study with butterflies fluttering around her stomach. It’s been three weeks since she had seen the Sultan at the pool, but she hadn’t been able to find an opportune time to leave the harem without anyone seeing her, and she is hoping—hoping might be an understatement—no, she is beyond anxious to see whether the Sultan has finally responded to her previous move or not. She had been too enamored by him and not brave enough, if she’s being honest, to ask why he has not made his next move yet.

Emma steps into the room and approaches the chessboard. Her eyes widen as she scans the board. She is amazed beyond belief, her mouth falling agape, and she has to blink a few times to make sure she is seeing the board correctly. He has left his king wide open for her. Normally she'd think it’s a trap, but once Emma makes this move, the Sultan will be done for, since she can easily sweep in and checkmate his king, claiming her victory. He has let her win. But why? For what purpose? Could he be trying to send her an abstruse message? But what message? Perhaps he is trying to tell her he surrenders to her? And by that, he is also telling her he is surrendering his heart? Or perhaps he is testing her to see if she is willing to surrender herself to him by not taking his king, and then he will sweep in and take her king after she leaves his white one be.

Emma is confused as to how to proceed. She thinks about it for a long while, her lips pursing together as she ponders what to do. If Emma surrenders to him, he will have the upper hand and all of her efforts will have been wasted, but if she wins, she will prove to him she has power over him, and perhaps he will be turned off by her insolence, and he will seek out another concubine? Shall she take that risk? After all, she doesn't wish to be intimidated by him nor feared by him. As James had said, if Killian does not see what value she possesses then he is foolish.

Emma is not vain by any means, but she is well aware of the effect she’s had on men in the past. They had desired her and would’ve gladly taken Baelfire’s place to be married to her. She even thought, at one point, Graham was one of those men. He was a friend or at least pretended to be, but she’d often wondered whether his feelings for her were purely platonic or something more. Emma’s features grow solemn. Thinking about the man who’d betrayed her makes her shiver.

The last time she’s trusted a man, he had let her down. She has put much faith in her uncle and sees her father in him, yet she still doesn't know if he is truly trustworthy or not, though she really wants to believe he is. Emma is not one to back down from a challenge though. Her uncle is challenging her to steal the Sultan’s heart and the Sultan is challenging her to steal his king and simultaneously his own heart. Or so she hopes.

After several moments of internal debate, Emma finally makes a decision. She reaches for her black queen, and as she starts to move the piece, the door flies open, causing Emma to whirl her head around.

Standing at the doorway are Nemo and two guards. Emma releases the game piece, her eyes widening as she stands up. How did they know she was in here? “My apologies for leaving the Harem, I’m afraid I have gotten lost.”

“I’m sorry Emma, but we have been ordered to bring you to the Valide Sultan.”

She nods cooperatively, swallowing thickly. She’d expected this would happen eventually; it's the risk she’s been taking by leaving the harem and entering the Sultan’s study. “Of course.” She quickly moves to the corridor, and with a guard on each side and the chief eunuch following behind her, she wonders how the Valide Sultan knew she was not in the harem. She thought Elsa was the only one who knew. Perhaps someone had noticed she was missing and went searching for her. Emma's thoughts are put on pause for the time being as they reach the harem courtyard where Kira appears to be very angry.

“My Sultana, I am very sorry,” Emma apologizes sincerely, bowing her head. “I wandered off too far and lost my way.”

The woman moves swiftly and lifts Emma’s chin to look her in the eye. “That is enough lies. You have intentionally disobeyed the rules bestowed upon you. Leaving the harem, walking down the golden road without my son’s summons and entering his study?” Kira scoffs, her features twisting in disgust as she releases Emma's chin. “You may be beautiful, but beauty fades over time. And Nemo tells me you have a razor-sharp mind and have excelled in your studies, but intelligence will not warm the Sultan’s bed. We don’t need clever, we need well-behaved, and you are certainly not.”

“But I am well-behaved, Your Majesty, I am just not accustomed to the cloistered life of the palace. I will try harder, I promise.”

“I don’t care for your excuses!” she shouts, her sharp tone startling Emma. “You have no doubt been drummed with the expectations of the palace and are clearly aware of what is forbidden, where you can go and where you cannot! You want to venture off wherever you please, perhaps you will enjoy venturing off to the dungeon.” She looks at the guards and tilts her head towards Emma. “Get rid of her.”

Panic is rippling through her as the guards grab her arms. If Emma's in the dungeon, how is she supposed to dance for the Sultan on his birthday, which is in two days? If she's not there for the ceremony, he will undoubtedly choose someone else to take to his bed, someone who could potentially give him a prince, and her plans will be ruined. Emma's eyes widen in panic as she looks around, seeing Mother Superior and other servants and eunuchs who, judging by their puzzled expressions, clearly do not agree. There is a woman standing beside the Sultana, whom, as her elegant clothing suggests, Emma presumes is the sister of the Sultan she’s heard about, but the young woman appears to be impassive to the whole situation.

“But Your Majesty, she is a gift for the Sultan’s birthday, as you have asked me to procure.” Nemo reminds her in a stern tone, and although he is questioning her orders and has a very strong position as Chief Eunuch, Emma can sense he is afraid of Kira. A smile almost graces Emma’s lips as she looks at him, thankful he is speaking up for her. She prays this will convince Kira, for the Chief Eunuch is correct—the entire reason for Emma being here is so she can be presented on the Sultan’s birthday with hopes of giving him a prince.

“I asked you to bring me the best concubines you could find and you have done a fine job with the others, but unfortunately you have selected this woman poorly. Find an odalisque to take her place.”

Nemo’s fear floats to the surface as he looks at Emma, for he knows she will be impossible to replace. “But my Sultana—”

“Do not argue with me!” Kira snaps angrily. “Take her down to the dungeon and lock her up, or your manhood will not be the only thing you are missing!”

Nemo looks like he has just swallowed his tongue as he nods his compliance. “Yes, my Sultana.” He turns to the guards, gesturing for them to move. “You heard our Sultana, take the girl to the dungeon.”

Emma squirms against them as they pull her out of the courtyard.

“No, you can’t do this to me!” she screams. “Pleeeease! Let me go!”

The Valide Sultan pays her no mind and dismisses the staff from the courtyard. Following behind her mother, Regina has the hint of a smirk on her face, for she is the one who had overheard Emma’s conversation with another concubine about leaving the harem, and waited to witness her leaving with her own two eyes before informing her mother. If this little slave girl thinks she can come and go from the harem and do as she pleases, she is sadly mistaken.

~*~

The day has finally come. It's his birthday, and he's not sure he's been this excited in all his existence. Not only of the possibilities of a future with the swan girl from his harem but also the conclusion of the chess game they've been engaging in. He is anxious to see how she's responded. He had made the move weeks ago before fleeing from the palace for another hunting trip with James. He had been too afraid he’d be tempted to seek her out after their encounter at the pool. Furthermore, he doesn't wish to take another woman to his bed in order to cool the lust he feels for Emma.

As a young Neverland prince, he had been taught the ways of women and had grown to be a healthy and virile man, as Sultans normally are, but unlike his father, Killian has sustained some self-control and discipline when it comes to physical intimacy. Thank the Gods he has, because, after the pool incident with Emma, his patience to take her to his bed is wearing thin. And he had arrived at the stark conclusion that no other concubine will be enough to quell the ache he feels for the blonde houri, so why bother trying when he knows all attempts will prove to be futile? He’d made a promise to himself that not only will Emma be the first maiden he will take to his bed as Sultan, but she will be his first wife, and he doesn’t plan on breaking that promise.

Killian steps into his study and strides over to the chess board, scanning it over. His heart sinks when he sees all of the black pieces are still intact, apart for one piece that is slightly off-kilter. He wonders what had happened. Did she hear someone coming and pause the game to hide? Has she been unable to return from the harem since then? Or did she simply decide not to continue the game with him?

He moves to the door, hauling it open, but pauses before he leaves, turning towards the chess table once more, his eyes studying the piece that had been slightly moved. He’d left his king open, simultaneously laying his heart on the line for her, and returned, hoping she would have responded, hoping she would have laid her heart on the line for him as well. What holds her back from doing so?

Killian steps out of the room and heads down the corridor to his private bath to wash off the smell of sweat, horses and forest from his skin as he ponders the question eating at him. Perhaps it’s the first scenario, and she's been too busy preparing for the ceremony that requires his presence in the Imperial Hall tonight, to return to the game. His mother has, undoubtedly, imposed a mountain of pressure on Emma, the other maidens as well as the servants of the palace to make the event seamless. And perhaps Emma has been too overwhelmed with the expectations of the ceremony and the events that may proceed. Though he is hardly present in the harem, he knows very well of the responsibility drummed into every concubine who enters the harem, to please the Sultan. For someone who’s never been intimate with another, let alone a Sultan, the prospect of the first time can be very frightening to think about. He imagines Emma’s mind is too frazzled with all of these things to worry about a silly chess game.

Yes, he's sure, or at least hopes those are the reasons why his lovely swan has not returned to finish the move.

Tagging: @courtorderedcake@teamhook @onceuponaprincessworld @nikkiemms @followbatb @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @snowbellewells @artistic-writer @ultraluckycatnd @kmomof4 @darkcolinodonorgasm @lovepurplepumpkins @kiwistreetswan @therooksshiningknight @deathbycaptainswan @tiganasummertree @superchocovian @emeraldwitches

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

dumb thing abt almalexias childhood. dont rebl0g 

It never snowed in Mournhold, but winter had come just the same; the sun grew pale and the air was chill and crisp. Such it was that Almalexia dressed in Nordic wool that day, and attended sword practice wearing scratchy trousers and a long wool tunic, both borrowed from her mother. The clothes would be warm enough for any Nord– indeed, the Nords mulled about shirtless and complained about the heat even in the coldest months– but for an elf of thirteen it was hardly adequate to keep out the chill, and she arrived at the barracks shivering. The Shouts needed only take one look at her before they pounced on her, and within ten minutes she’d been outfitted with a musty fur half-cloak and ugly steel boots that reached up to her knees.

Even the hardest Nord hearts found it difficult to be cruel to Almalexia. Chimer didn’t readily reproduce, and the occupation had done little to inspire hope in their kind, so elfish children were rare; in Mournhold Palace Almalexia was without peers her age, Nord or Chimer, so she sought companionship in the barracks, and played among her guards. Many of them fancied themselves mentors or elder siblings to the wayward girl, and took it upon themselves to teach her swordplay and the arts of war. Such was their routine: in between patrols, training, and quashing would-be rebellions and civil disobediences, the Nords would use their breaks to teach their adopted student how to wield a sword or play cards. Almalexia herself was a quick learner (if not annoyingly proud and sensitive, at times, but so were all royal children), and liable to spill the most interesting high-court gossip between sessions, so few were able to complain about the burden of her presence. The impromptu arrangement was largely considered a good one.

The Shout who volunteered to play teacher that day was Heigl, Almalexia’s favorite guard, a woman about seven years her senior, who’d joined the force at sixteen and thus known Almalexia since the princess was eight. Another Shout, an older lad named Hjaland whose affinity for magic made him more comfortable among the denizens of Morrowind than his own Skyrimisk kin, tagged along in their training, no doubt drawn by the prospect of seeing whatever elven magic Almalexia had returned from Ald Sotha with. The three of them set up in the training yard behind the barracks, sheltered from the wind by the high purple walls of Mournhold, and with Almalexia standing firm before a mannequin with her legs spread and an ebony sword in both hands, the lesson began.

For the first while they reviewed different techniques, with Heigl correcting and praising Almalexia in turn, each criticism gentle and sandwiched between compliments: “Your stance is just perfect, but let’s be mindful of your arms, eh?” Hjaland was less familiar to the girl and lacked tact, and his criticism (“An elf like you is a bit slight for a move like that, try holding the sword lower”) was met with irritation and defensiveness. Almalexia, to her credit, did a great job of reigning back her sharp temper, and attempted to take each correction in stride– within half an hour she’d indeed learned to hold her arms lower and her sword closer, even when idle, something she was usually slack on.

But nothing good lasts, and eventually Almalexia seemed to stop listening to any guidance at all, and her arms, normally too far away from her body, slumped and drew instead too close, causing her stance to go amiss.

“No!” scolded Hjaland, tapping her elbow with the tip of his own wooden training-sword. “Now your arms are too far down. Lift ‘em up, little elf!”

But Heigl, ever-observant, stopped and lowered her sword. “Hey, Lexie,” she said softly, “Is something the matter?”

“I’m just–” Almalexia had raised her arms when Hjaland tapped them, but now her elbows fell back to her side, “I’m just cold. It’s cold out here.” And the Nords saw that the girl was indeed shivering.

The Nords exchanged a glance; Heigl walked over to Almalexia, and stroked back her long hair, which the girl wore loose and falling about her shoulders. “Well, let’s go inside, then, little one. It’ll be much warmer in the hall, where the hearth is burning.”

So the three returned to the barracks; what it had been before the Nords came Almalexia didn’t know, for it was an unusual long rectangular building, with several long low benches and tables lined up around the western side, while the eastern side (the side that opened up onto the training-yard) remained bare, leaving adequate space for a muster. There was no real hearth, as Chimeri buildings rarely had them, but a fire-pit stood at each end, and beds of smouldering coals kept the interior pleasant and toasty. Though it was noon, the feeble winter sun had been hardly able to puncture a haze of ash drifting in from the North. The trio breathed sighs of relief as they crossed the threshold into the warm hall.

Just as they were setting up in the middle area, the western door swung open, and in marched a large and formidable figure. Almalexia, who’d been struggling to help move a dummy larger than she, failed to notice the intrusion, until her companions fell to their knees with a chorus: “Thuri!”

“Stand, men, stand!” boomed a familiar voice, preternaturally loud, causing the stones to quiver. “I’m looking for little Almalexia. Hath you seen her?”

Almalexia fumbled with the dummy, then dropped it entirely. Then, leaving the dummy, she stepped to the side, unthinkingly holding her sword in battle-stance before her. “I’m here, Jarl!”

The Jarl of Mournhold was a giant of a man– the son of one of Ysgramor’s companions, it was said, with Atmoran blood coursing strong in his veins. If he weren’t so intimidating one might consider him jolly. When he beheld Almalexia he burst into laughter, booming laughter that caused the support pillars to wriggle in their places.

“Why!” he exclaimed, “It’s you, little elf! But look at you, all dressed up like a Nord, and a Nord lad at that! Why, for a moment I mistook you for my boy, just as he was when he were getting ready to leave. Look at you! We’ll make a Nord of you yet, I say.”  

Almalexia, embarrassed, lowered her sword and bowed deeply.

“Not quite a Nord yet, my Jarl” said Hjaland, standing from his own bow. “The weather outside was too cool for her, even with Balring’s old cloak, we had to come in to finish our training.”

“But she’s doing wonderfully,” interjected Heigl, “And she’s only a girl, even a Nord her age would be chilled, yet she didn’t complain once.”

“Is this true?” asked the Jarl, turning to Almalexia– when she peeked up she saw that he bore a grin.

“Yes,” Almalexia  said, straightening up to her full height, “I don’t mind the cold so much, it just made it difficult to hold my sword out.”

“But she held it out!” said Heigl.

“So I see!” said the Jarl, his voice full and warm, like he was about to laugh again. “And have my Shouts been teaching you well?”

“Yes, thuri!” Almalexia said. “I’ve learned lots about swords, and swordcraft, and fighting. Everyone says I’m good,” she added, standing a little taller, “When I was at Ald Sotha, none my age could best me, magic used or no.”

The Jarl nodded, considering this. “Well,” he said, “In this case, I believe we have a score to settle, you and I.”

“My Jarl?”

“When you were a wee girl, you challenged me for my throne, and I said, aye, you may.” A few other Shouts had gathered around, watching the scene curiously– the Jarl’s voice was loud and it was difficult not to pay attention to him. The Jarl continued his story, beaming, “Yet before I so much as drew my sword you, relentless, used your Voice! Aye, you shrieked at me, little devil, and I was so surprised that I fell backwards! As if that were a real thu’um! And so it was that little Almalexia won the Throne of Mournhold, and became the Demon of the East.”

The surrounding Shouts laughed– most had heard this anecdote before.

Almalexia blushed deeply. “My Jarl, I–”

“Nay! I am not the Jarl, for you stole my Throne, little one. But now,” and the Jarl drew his sword from the hilt at his side, “I would like to challenge you back. Jarl Almalexia, I challenge you for the Throne of Mournhold!”

Now the Shouts were laughing, for the Jarl had fallen to one knee, and his expression was gravely serious. Almalexia, her face as red as her hair, turned to look at Heigl for guidance; Heigl, biting back a grin, nodded enthusiastically.

“I…” Almalexia, flustered, turned back to the Jarl. “I agree?”

“Excellent!” The Jarl, like a giant erupting from the earth, sprung back to his feet and raised his sword to battle-stance. “Let us begin!”

By now they’d earned the attention of most of the barracks, and poor Almalexia was so embarrassed she barely remembered how to hold her weapon. Deep down a part of her knew the Jarl would never harm her, and indeed, the Jarl began the 'duel’ with a slow and gentle sweep towards her side, which long training allowed her to parry by instinct. This was followed by a few equally gentle swipes, each of which Almalexia knocked aside without effort, and with each block the Shouts cheered, and the girl regained her confidence. Encouraged, she lashed out with a few strikes of her own, and the Jarl easily blocked each one, but let them come close to landing, to raise her spirits.

The sparring continued, and Almalexia’s confidence grew, and she forgot her embarrassment at being watched, and set about trying to hit the Jarl in earnest. He managed to block every blow she struck, of course, and threw a few at her to keep her on her toes, but the challenge seemed to inspire her, and she set into him with growing enthusiasm. Her assault was inspired enough that he was forced to take a few steps back, and this only encouraged her. When he knocked her sword to the right, shoving aside her thrust, she darted to the side and turned, moving for the opening he’d left--

“ZAN HAAL VIIK.”

And Almalexia stood, dumb, as her sword flew from her hand of its own accord and clattered across the floor.

“I see they haven’t covered that yet.” the Jarl was saying, amused. “A good fight, little elf–”

“That’s not fair!” Almalexia blurted out. She rushed over, diving at the ground to reclaim her sword, but once she’d picked it up Heigl grabbed her tightly by the arm. “That’s not fair,” she repeated, “You used your thu'um!”

“Eh, don’t be mad, little Lex!” The Jarl raised his hands apologetically. “Aye, I should’ve guessed you never encountered that trick.”

“It’s not fair!”

“Nay, but the gods en’t fair to your kind, are they?”

Almalexia’s face was burning again, and she wrenched her arm away from Heigl. But the Jarl stepped forwards then, and gently took her by the shoulder, and he was so large and so frightening that she felt the indignant fury drain out of her at once.

“Look,” said the Jarl gently, and he clasped his hands around her wrists, and brought them forwards. “Which is your dominant hand? The right?”

“Y– yes, Jarl.”

“Well. You’ll want to hold your right hand near the base, where this flair on the hilt is, and hold tightly with your thumb and finger in a circle.” He positioned her fingers such. “Can you hold that?”

“Hjaland said I should–”

“Hjaland hasn’t fought a Tongue, I’d wager. Hold it like that.”

The Jarl released her, and Almalexia stepped back, raising her sword into fighting-stance, but keeping the grip he’d shown her. “Now,” said the Jarl, “The very moment you see my mouth move, I want you to jerk back on the sword. Now, it’s going to feel strange, and you’ll feel like you’re jerking too hard, but I want you to ignore that, and just jerk. Can you do that?”

“I think so-- I mean, yes, Jarl.”

“Good, clever girl!” The Jarl rose to his full height, and placed both hands on his hips, the sword hanging loosely from his off-hand. “Now, ready?”

He inhaled, but Almalexia reacted too soon, pulling her sword all the way back past her hips. When she realized her mistake she exhaled through her teeth.

“Aye, it’s alright,” said the Jarl reassuringly, “Try again. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Good. Now…”

A long moment’s silence, as the Jarl took a deep breath, and Almalexia stood still, sword raised–

“ZAN HAAL VIIK!”

The shout shook her, but Almalexia jerked back her sword, and the weapon removed rooted in her hand.

Immediately Heigl let out a resounding 'WHOOP’ of delight, clapping her hands, and the rest of the Shouts– who had been watching the lesson with curiosity– followed her lead and cheered. Even the Jarl clapped, and shook Almalexia by the shoulder. “Excellent! See? You resisted my thu'um, easy as a Tongue!”

Almalexia, embarrassed anew by the celebration, raised her off-hand to her face. “I’m not– I only did what you said!”

“Well, you did it well, mal fahliil! I tell you, we’ll make a Nord of you yet!” The Jarl leaned forwards and kissed her forehead, causing her to recoil, thoroughly flustered. Then he rose to his full height and planted his hands on his hips, turning to the Shouts.

“And you lot! Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol? Can’t you see you’re embarrassing the little lass? Be off with ye!”

At the Lord’s chastising, the Shouts turned and hastily returned to their business. A stern glance from the Jarl informed even Heigl and Hjaland that they weren’t exempt from this command– Hjaland withdrew immediately, but Heigl took the time to hug Almalexia, whispering a praise in her ear before following her comrade off the scene.

Almalexia still held her sword, her face burning, and when her Shout protectors had gone she pressed her palm over her eyes. “Oh, Gods, that was–”

“Glorious!” the Jarl interrupted her. “I thought– ah, but you’re shy!”

Almalexia mutely shook her head, but when the Jarl touched her shoulder, she fell forwards and buried her face in his arm.

“I’m not being kind,” said the Jarl, patting her on the back with his free arm. “There, there. But don’t think I’m humouring you. I’ve been naught but earnest! You’re turning into a good little warrior, Almalexia. How old are you now, girl?”

“Thirteen, or near it.”

“Thirteen! Well, you ought to be going off to Throat-Of-The-World soon, if you were born right. It’s a shame,” he squeezed her shoulder, “Your appearance is the only thing elf about you. I never heard of an elf taking so well to sword-craft, dragon-tongue, or the thu'um, not like you have. We would make a Tongue of you. Alas!”

“Ah. Thank you, Jarl.”

“Aye. But if the wolf sat about saying 'If only!’, he’d starve to death for lack of time to hunt. Come,” and he released her, pushing her away, so that she stood blushing and dazed, clutching her sword by her side, “Your mother’s looking for you, something about your Uncle.”

“Indoril Nam? Is that why you came down?”

“Aye, that one. Well? Do you want to go to your Uncle? If you don’t want to, I’ll simply tell him you’re busy. I’d like to show you more, we don’t spend half the time together we ought to.”

Almalexia froze for a long moment, and chewed on her lip, and looked away from the Jarl.

“… Could you?” she began, timidly, “Tell him I’m busy? If you wouldn’t mind showing me more dragon-shouts? Just so I know how to counter them, see–”

The Jarl’s smile was so radiant that one wouldn’t need to look to see it. “Very well, little one! I’ll let Amun-Shae know that Jarl Almalexia is busy with her poor servant Chimarvir. You wait here, mal fahliil, daar pruzah?”

“Geh, thuri. I’ll wait.”

And such it was that the Jarl, formidable and strong, ensured that Almalexia could spend the day learning from a Tongue how best to counter the thu'um; something that would prove more useful than her irate relatives could dream at the time.

[scifigeneration]

We're climate researchers and our work was turned into fake news

by Michael Grubb

rawpixel.com / shutterstock

Science is slow. It rests on painstaking research with accumulating evidence. This makes for an inherently uneasy relationship with the modern media age, especially once issues are politicised. The interaction between politics and media can be toxic for science, and climate change is a prominent example.

Take the recent “deep freeze” along the US east coast. To scientists, it was one more piece of a larger jigsaw of climate change disrupting weather systems and circulation patterns. This includes dramatic changes seen in Arctic sea ice and the knock-on effect on temperatures elsewhere in northern latitudes – both warming and relative cooling. To President Donald Trump the cold snap was a chance to mock climate change, and some skeptics suddenly talked about an impending ice age.

Fiction. Breitbart

Colleagues and I experienced similar frustrations in late 2017, after we published a paper in the scientific journal Nature Geoscience, in which we concluded that there was more headroom than many had assumed before we breach the goals of the Paris Agreement. We found ourselves not only on the front page of the main British newspapers, but globally, as far-right website Breitbart ran with a story that a small band of buccaneering scientists had finally admitted that the models were all wrong – a fiction rapidly picked up by the more rabid elements in the media.

The essence of good science is to continually update, challenge, improve and refine, using as much evidence as possible. Single events rarely make for good science. And if every painstaking evaluation, updating work from years ago, may be portrayed as demolishing everything that went before – particularly at the whim of non-scientific agendas – then we have a major dilemma. The edifice of science is built with small bricks and this research was no exception.

We emphatically did not show that climate change was “less bad” or “happening slower” than previously thought. Our work built on the many previous scientific studies that had looked at the risks of unchecked emissions and the prospects for limiting warming to 2℃ above pre-industrial levels. The Paris Agreement went further, aiming to “pursue efforts” towards a more ambitious goal of just 1.5℃. Given we’re already at around 1℃ of warming, that’s a relatively short-term goal. Greater ambition therefore requires greater precision.

Ten more years of this? Or 20? kamilpetran / shutterstock

Our study took a microscope to that question. Where previous estimates were drawn from a range of mostly long-run models that looked at century-long changes, we instead focused on a precise definition and current starting point, and other factors which matter far less in the long term, but a lot if the goal is much closer.

Some of the earlier estimates seemed to imply a “headroom to 1.5℃” of less than a decade of current emissions – clearly unachievable given the long timespans and huge inertia. We estimated about 20 years – equivalent to global CO₂ emissions falling steadily from now until hitting zero in around 40 years – and made it plain that it still looks, to put it mildly, a formidable ambition. Other studies have since come to similar conclusions.

A (non-)story of revolution

The more detailed reporting by those correspondents who attended the scientific briefing was accurate enough (even if some of their headlines and lead-ins weren’t), but that was soon lost in the misrepresentations that followed. Doubtless we could have done more to explain how our conclusions arose from what were actually quite minor scientific developments. Some instead turned it into a story of revolution in climate science. Scientists are also human, and these sceptic reactions reinforced a natural initial inclination among other researchers to defend their previous numbers. Some took to Twitter to do so, but themselves seemed to confuse the media headlines with our actual conclusions.

Some challenges could yet be proved right. There could, for example, be more pent-up warming currently being masked by other pollutants or already lurking in the oceans. When the goal is close, other heat-trapping emissions (like methane) also matter a lot more. Our study – like earlier work – had its share of caveats and uncertainties.

There may be even more heat lurking in the oceans. Maksimilian/shutterstock

Unfortunately, while good science embraces uncertainty, politics abhors it and the media seems confounded by it. That in turn pressures researchers to simplify their message, and treat existing estimates – often, from a range – like a position to be defended. It is a risky trap for scientists, however eminent and well-intentioned, to wield overnight reactions to parry months of painstaking peer review and refinement that lie behind analyses published in leading journals.

Science against spin

So how should science respond? The climate policy implications are easy: nothing significant has changed. We have but one planet, and both the physical and economic processes that are driving climate change have enormous inertia. If a big ocean liner were steaming into dense fog in polar seas, only a fool would maintain full speed on the basis that the technicians were still discussing the distance to the first big iceberg.

One underlying challenge is indeed around the communication of uncertainty. This is a well-worn track, but it bears repeating. The job of science is not just to narrow uncertainties, but to educate about the risks that flow logically from it. Like a medical prognosis from smoking, the fact that things might turn out better or worse than the average is not a good reason to keep puffing. You won’t know until it is too late whether the damage has been slight, or terminal.

But science also needs to embrace and embed another obvious feature of medical practice: a doctor would never look at just your temperature to diagnose your condition. So part of the problem stems from using a single indicator for complex processes. Too much debate treats temperature (and especially the most recent global average) as the sole indicator, whereas many other factors are at play including sea levels, ocean acidity, ice sheets, ecosystem trends, and many more.

These other trends need to be reported in context, just as economics news reports not only GDP but debt, employment, inflation, productivity and a host of other indicators. And scientists themselves need to improve the art of communication in a world where research can be spun, within hours, into a story of past failure, rather than the reality of continuous improvement.

Michael Grubb is a Professor of Energy and Climate Change st UCL

This article was originally published on The Conversation.

[pocket-anon]

The Long Way Home (4/10)

On to Chapter 4! I'm so pleased that so many of you seem to be enjoying this story, and I deeply appreciate the time you've taken to reblog it, leave comments, and tell your friends about it! This really isn't half the fun without you. Hugs.

As always, thanks to my beta, @captainstudmuffin, and to @lifeinahole27, @clockadile, and @ladyciaramiggles for their additional feedback.  Additional thanks to my wonderful CSBB artists, @waiting-for-autumn and @giraffes-ride-swordfishes for providing some gorgeous artwork to accompany this fic!  Links to their illustrations of certain scenes (*) will be in the text - go show them some love!

Find it on AO3.  Nautical term glossary here.

Missed a chapter?  Get caught up here.

Summary:  After an unnaturally long life fraught with personal tragedy, Killian Jones has become known throughout the realms as the infamous Captain Hook, an opportunistic ne’er-do-well and one of the most formidable pirates to ride the waves.  When he crosses paths with a mysterious young woman with no memory of who she is or how she arrived there, he recognizes the chance to claim a monetary reward that will constitute his biggest score yet.  But a journey across the world to get her home leads to a series of adventures that reveal that her value lies in far more than gold and jewels.  A Captain Swan Anastasia AU - sort of.  (Captain Swan Enchanted Forest AU.  Romance, Adventure, & Eventual Smut.  Rated E.)

Warning: Brief but graphic depictions of violence, peripheral character death, and smut.

Steel whispers as Emma pulls a cutlass from a rack of swords in the Jolly’s armory and draws it from the scabbard to examine it with a narrowed eye aimed down the edge of the blade.

Hook watches her with amusement, leaned against one wall with his arms and legs crossed.  She’s wearing her hair up for the first time today, woven with a few thick braids and pulled back into a ponytail that’s already been touched by humidity and the morning breeze, and there’s something very wild and pretty about it.  “I assure you they’re all good swords, Swan,” he promises.  “I select them myself.”  

“Who says I’m not more discerning than you?” she quips, the corner of her lips pulling upward until one of her dimples appears.  She meets his incredulous grin with a chuckle.  “Kidding.”

He laughs richly.  Glorious creature.  

She moves on to a different, slightly more slender sword and looks it over before rotating it with a few turns of her wrist, the blade arcing gracefully through the air.  Emma hums with satisfaction, admiring the clean lines of the wire-wrapped grip.  “I like this one.”  

Hook nods.  “Very well.”

The blade hisses back into its sheath, and she flashes him an appreciative smile as he hands over a spare sword belt.  Standing back, he watches her thread the belt through the scabbard’s leather suspension and loop it around her waist.  Emma experiments with the best angle at which to let the sword hang for a minute before electing to just cinch the buckle snug to her middle.  The belt is overlong, but it only takes her a moment to formulate a solution, tying the remaining length off so that it hangs neatly downward and then pulling her hands back so she can survey her work.  “Does that look right?”

He hums the affirmative as she practices yanking the cutlass from the scabbard, the easy rhythm with which she slides the blade out and back home again making it seem as if she were old hand at this.  “It suits you, lass.”  He scratches behind his ear.  “As does your hair,” he adds shyly.

Emma blushes. “Thanks.”  She fingers a golden lock over the back of her ear.  “It, uh, it beats pushing it out of my eyes every other minute.”

He rumbles his agreement. “Indeed.”

Her eyes glint, and she grins, turning her attention back to her new sword.  A thoughtful look crosses her face, and she chews on her lip.

Hook eyes her knowingly. “What is it, Swan?”

Her gaze turns hopeful. “Do you have a spare a knife or a dagger?  Something small for my boot?”

His face brightens, and he cackles with approval.  “Now you’re thinking like a pirate.”  He pulls open a locker and retrieves a bound leather bundle, which he unties and lays open across the nearest bench to reveal a dozen smaller blades in various styles.  He gestures.  “Lady’s choice.”

Emma comes to his side and studies the collection.  She selects the slightest of them, a simple blade with an unadorned grip and no guard, and pulls it from the sheath, testing the weight and giving it a simple flip. “Thanks,” she says, slipping the blade back into the sheath and bending down to tuck it into her boot.

“You’re very welcome.” Hook grins with admiration.  He proceeds to bind up the remaining daggers and put them away.  “And now that you’re armed, we must be sure that you can wield that cutlass properly,” he says, pointing to her scabbard.  “It’s no longsword.  Come.”

He leads her above, throwing his crewmen cool looks of warning to behave as they make their way starboard, the shadow from the main-mast providing them some shelter from the late morning sun.  He takes the time to review the basics, making adjustments to her grip and stance and running her through a few principal cuts to let her familiarize herself with the weight of her new blade and its greater maneuverability compared to what she seems used to.

Emma proves herself to be an apt pupil despite having to take her lessons under the observation of seasoned pirates.  Her bearing is indeed noble as she forces her eyes away from them and focuses on her weapon and his words, and her face is so set with concentration he’s left with little doubt that he can turn her into a good swordsman.  

By midday, he’s completed his introduction, and he squints in the overhead sun.  “Feel up to a quick spar before lunch, Swan?”

Indecision flashes briefly over her face as she glances at her cutlass and then at men scattered around them, most of whom are doing a poor job of pretending they aren’t watching, but, true to form, the decision not to back down takes hold and she straightens and tosses her head, planting her free hand on her hip defiantly..  “If you want.”

Hook smiles and positions himself across from her.  “Aye. Let’s see what you’ve learned, shall we?”  They stare at each other for a moment, swords at the ready, and though they both know she’s no match for him, her eyes shine with a determination to try to best him that sends a thrill through his chest nonetheless.  He licks his lips with anticipation.  “Begin.”

Work around the ship halts as the clash of steel grants the crew unspoken permission to give up their ruse and gather round.  There are the expected cheers for the Captain, but he also hears a few calls of encouragement for the Lady Swan, and he hums as he parries Emma’s eighth strike. “Seems you have some admirers, love.”

Her beautifully flushed cheeks turn even rosier.  “Yeah,” she pants, grunting as their blades slice against each other again and they both spring back.

“Can’t say I blame them,” he adds with a devilish grin.  The tip of his sword traces a few lazy circles in the air, his steps mirroring hers as they circle.  “You are a far sight prettier than I.”

This earns him a little chuckle, and she feints high and slashes low, forcing him to jump back a few inches.

A ripple of excited cheers and jeers erupt from the men, and Hook crows. “Excellent!”  

He begins a light offensive, jabbing mainly toward her sides to give her a chance to practice deflecting, and when she appears to have gotten the hang of that, he follows up with a quick spin ending in a more aggressive slash.  She reverts to a two-handed grip to block it and proceeds to keep both hands on the hilt as she tries to return the assault.  

Hook tuts.  “Drop your other hand, Swan.  It’s not a longsword.”

She colors a little and complies.  A minute later, however, she falls back to her old ways.

“The hand, Swan,” he says patiently.

Emma corrects herself again, looking chagrined as she whips her blade around for another strike.  She grunts when he blocks her blow, the steel clanging hard.  “Sorry.”

They exchange a few more attacks before he finally deigns to end it, pressing her sword off to the side and twisting his blade around to force her to lose her grip.  Emma yelps indignantly as her cutlass clatters to the deck, but the men cheer, and she shakes her head and gives him a conciliatory grin.  “One of these days, you’re going to show me how to do that.”

Hook chuckles, sheathing his sword and reaching down retrieve hers.  “I suppose I could be persuaded.”  He offers the hilt up to her in gentlemanly fashion, a smirk playing on his lips.  “Very good, love.  Excellent progress today.  But keep your other hand in check,” he teases, arching a brow and gesturing toward her left arm, “or I may have to tie it behind your back.”

“Hmm.”  Emma narrows her eyes at him knowingly.  “No doubt something you would enjoy,” she comments, her face still glowing as she accepts her weapon and puts it away.

He laughs and gives her a wink as his men disperse.  “No doubt.” He motions for her to lead the way toward his quarters.  “Lunch?”

 *             *             *

 As apprehensive as Swan was about it, having the rest of the crew witness her sword fighting lesson with their Captain seems to go a long way toward earning their respect, and she notices that the men become more open to letting her observe them at their duties, even engaging her and indulging her questions as she learns more about the ship with each passing day.

She’s standing at the base of the main-mast and peering skyward one morning when Thomas swings down from the rigging to land beside her.  

“Help you, milady?”

Swan bites her lip, studying the complicated network of ropes that extend in various directions overhead.  “What’s it like up there?”

He laughs.  “Depends on how you feel about heights, I s’pose. Made my heart race the first hundred times I went up there and still does when the weather’s foul.”  He rubs the back of his neck.  “But the view from the top on a clear day?  Aye, it’s hard to beat.”

Her eyes trail along the thick lines of the shroud which arches above them.  “Can I go up?”

“Oh.”  Thomas blinks, surprised.  “Well, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I don’t know if that’s wise. Cap’n says our top priority is to keep you safe,” he replies apologetically.

She rolls her eyes, remembering the royal reward money, and cranes her head up again wistfully. “Well, what if I just go up there?” she asks, pointing to the main yard.  “I don’t have to climb to the very top.  I just want to see what it’s like.”  She glances sideways at him with a hopeful expression.  “Please?”

The poor lad looks conflicted.  “I…”  His eyes dart helplessly to Roberts, who approaches from the bow.  “Sir? The Lady would like to climb the mast.”

The older pirate’s step slows, lines of disapproval and confusion creasing his face.  “What on earth for?” he demands.  “…Ma’am.”

“Just getting to know the ship, Mr. Roberts,” Swan explains.  “The Captain’s encouraged me to learn a little about sailing while I’m here, and this can’t be any riskier than sparring with him,” she reasons, glancing back up at the yard.

Roberts makes a dubious sound low in his throat.  “All due respect, milady, but the Captain’s an expert swordsman who knows how to spar without hurting you.”

“And you’re an expert sailor,” she counters sweetly.  “I’m sure you can find a safe way for me to climb the rigging.  Every member of this crew had a first time, didn’t they?”

He huffs, running a hand down his face.  “The rigging’s no place for a Lady.”

She chuckles dryly. “Yes, well, I’m already on a pirate ship, sir.  I'm pretty sure we’re past the point of arguing where I do and don’t belong.”  She fixes him with one last long look of entreaty, and her chest swells with triumph as she watches the last of the man’s resolve finally bleed away.  

His shoulders slump with a heavy sigh.  “Fine,” he grits.  “But you’ll wear a tether or else the Captain’ll have my head.”

Swan beams.  “Thank you, Mr. Roberts.”

Roberts grumbles. “Get up there and get a line around the yard for ‘er,” he growls at Thomas.  “Be quick about it.”

Thomas gulps and scrambles away.

 *             *             *

 Hook emerges on deck for his morning inspection, squinting into the easterly sun and breathing the temperate air.

“’Morning, sir.”  Smee greets him with a nervous half-bow of his head.

His first mate’s tone is an immediate red flag, and Hook aims a questioning glance over his shoulder.  “What’s the problem, Smee?”

“Um, no problem, Captain.”

He raises an eyebrow before looking around for signs of Emma.  “Where’s the Lady this morning?” he asks.  “Still below?”

“Uh...  n-no.”

Hook turns his head curiously to see Smee wearing an anxious expression and pointing.  His eyes travel upward, growing round when he glimpses the telltale green skirts and blonde ponytail whipping on the wind high above them. “Bloody hell,” he breathes.  His forehead furrows, and he bellows indignantly. “Swan?!”

Perched atop the main yard and hugging the mast with one arm while she looks aft, Emma’s face comes into view as she leans forward a bit and flashes him a breathless smile.  “Hi!” she calls back.

He backs up a few paces in order to see her better, mouth agape.  “What the devil are you doing up there?”

She laughs, her face shining.  “Flying.”

“Fly—”  He clamps his mouth shut and charges forward, veritably leaping down the ladder to the middle deck.  His frustrated glare lands on Roberts and a contrite-looking Thomas, who stand watching her at the foot of the port shroud.  “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Apologies, Captain.” Roberts holds his palms up to mollify him.  “She said you wanted ‘er to learn something of sailing and fairly begged to be allowed up, so we tied a tether to ‘er and I let Thomas show ‘er a bit about managing the sails.  We’re just letting ‘er enjoy the view a while longer ‘fore she comes back down.”  

Hook blinks at him and Thomas dumbly, the quartermaster’s words taking the sting out of his displeasure, and the anger fades from his expression as he glances upward again.

“For what it’s worth, she seems right at home up in the rigging,” Roberts notes with a rare gleam in his eye.  “Never would’ve guessed it, but the girl can climb.”

“I’ll fetch her down, Cap’n,” Thomas offers hastily.

Hook huffs and waves the younger crewman off.  “No, lad. I’ll do it.  Back to your duties.”  He reaches for the shroud and swings himself up easily as Thomas looks relieved and scuttles away.

“Will you be needing anything then?” Roberts asks, risking the barest of knowing grins.

Hook shakes his head. “Never thought you’d be the first to fall for her charms, Old Man,” he chides, narrowing his eyes.

Roberts snorts. “Fairly sure I wasn’t,” he shoots back, his expression turning droll.  He clears his throat with a shrug.  “She’ll do well enough.  She’s got guts, I’ll give ‘er that.”

Hook concedes with a hum, trying to ignore the little surge of pride in his chest as he begins his ascent.

Emma is looking down at him with amusement when he draws near.  “Coming to check on me?” she teases.

“Coming to make sure you don’t break your pretty neck,” he retorts, affecting a scowl.  He pulls himself up onto the yard beside her, taking half a second to ensure a steady footing and a good grip on one of the lines.

She smiles, seeing through his feigned gruffness.  “I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble.  In their defense, your men did insist on taking good care of me.”  She pulls one hand away from the mast to pluck at the improvised rope harness that girds her torso.

He huffs.  “As well they should.”  He relishes the way the morning sun plays upon her face, even as he forces his features to remain stern.  “You are not to come up here without supervision.  Understand?”

She nods agreeably. “It was trickier getting up here in a petticoat than I thought it would be,” she admits, wrinkling her nose.  “And not just because I have to worry about being exposed by every stiff breeze.”  Her cheeks turn crimson, and she smoothes the fabric down over her backside self-consciously.

Hook forgets his pretense and breaks out in a deep laugh, quite certain his men below would be more than happy to see a gale blow her skirt aloft.  “Aye.  Lovely as you might be in that dress, it may not be the most practical choice for climbing about.”  He juts his lower lip out thoughtfully.  “We’ll make port in about a week to shore up supplies.  Perhaps you could find something else to wear that would be better suited,” he muses.

Emma chuckles.  “No, it’s alright.  I’ll make do.  I don’t have any money anyway.”

“Consider it a gift then.”

She blinks over at him with big eyes before her expression softens and she shakes her head.  “You don’t have to do that.”

“Aye,” he concurs cheerfully, “but there’s no bringing out the sailor in you without the proper clothes, Swan.”

She looks conflicted for a moment, but at last she gives a grateful nod.  “It would be nice not to have to wear a corset,” she supposes, grimacing and arching her back slightly.

The motion causes Hook’s pulse to quicken as he eyes her gorgeous curves in profile.  He swallows and plasters on a cheeky grin.  “Then again, perhaps I should rescind the offer.”

She rolls her eyes and straightens, her cheeks flushing again, but he doesn’t miss the tiny, smug smile that hints at the corner of her mouth.  

He chuckles.  “Very well, darling.  As you like.”

“Hmph.”  Emma gives him a reproving side-eye before turning her gaze back out over the southern horizon.  They stand there enjoying the view for a few long minutes, surrounded by the sound of the wind buffeting the sails and the soft groans of the ship.  From somewhere below, the distant voices of some crewmen singing a shanty also rises to meet their ears.

“So what do you think of it?” he asks, watching a loose tendril of her hair curl backward over her brow.

She inhales the salty air contentedly.  “It’s amazing,” she murmurs.  “I’m starting to understand the appeal of a life at sea.”

Hook smiles, eyeing the endless blue expanse.  “Aye. The ocean’s an unpredictable mistress sometimes, but there’s nothing like standing on the deck of your own ship and knowing that she can take you almost anywhere.  Where else can you see so much of the world without ever leaving home?”  He taps his hook against the mast.

“How long have you lived on the water?”

“Nearly all my life,” he replies.  “Since I was a lad.  I was ten when my brother and I boarded our first ship.”

“Ten?”  Her mouth falls open.  “And you never returned to live on land?”

He looks away. “No.”  He hesitates when she waits for him to continue.  “We… we were traveling with our father.  He disappeared one night,” he explains quietly, steeling himself against his emotions and choosing the words carefully.  “Left us in the service of the ship’s captain.”

Emma squints, looking horrified.  “He left you,” she repeats.

A cheerless smile ghosts over his lips.  “Aye. Turns out he was a thief fleeing capture.  He went off the ship in a dinghy shortly after putting me to bed, I’m told.  We never saw him again.”

He doesn’t have to see her face to feel the quiet sadness that settles over her.  “And your mother?” she murmurs, clearly braced for another unpleasant revelation.

Hook dares to meet her gaze again, his expression becoming more drawn.  “Died the year before.  She’d been sick a long time.  One day she fainted.  Liam and I waited and waited for her to wake up.  She never did.”  He glances briefly at Emma’s now heartbroken face before redirecting his eyes to the tail end of their wake, staring numbly as it’s swallowed by the passing waves.  

“You’ve lost so many people,” she observes softly.

“It was a hundred and fifty years ago, Swan.”

“Does that make it easier?”

He sucks in a breath, deciding whether to acknowledge what she seems to know already, and bows his head. “No.”  He chuffs.  “Wounds that are made when we’re young tend to linger.”  Hook lifts his chin again and glowers out toward the waves.

Emma angles her head. “How have you lived so long, exactly?”

He hums, grateful for the change of topic, and his shoulders relax a hair.  “I spent a very long time in Neverland,” he says simply.  “The magic of the island makes it impossible to age there.”

Her brow wrinkles. “You went back to Neverland?  Even after what happened with your brother?”

He nods.

“Why?”  

He feels her eyes on him as he contemplates the most benign way he can describe the wrath and overwhelming desire for vengeance that fueled his decision to return to that accursed place.  “I needed information,” he answers, trying to sound nonchalant.

She arcs an eyebrow. “You spent over a hundred years looking for information?”

Hook shifts restlessly. “I spent over a hundred years in the reluctant employ of Peter Pan, who rules the island.  He was, shall we say, disinclined to let us leave.”

Emma frowns prettily as she considers this, a dozen questions writing themselves on her face.  “What kind of information were you looking for?”

He’s quiet for a beat. “The way to kill the demon who took my hand.”  His eyes dart away, and he swallows tightly, unsure why, for the first time, he feels less than comfortable telling someone about his quest to destroy the Dark One. For decades it’s been integral to his identity, as much a part of him as his hook, but now… now something about revealing himself to her as a man hell-bent on revenge makes him feel less than proud of who he is.

Silence falls between them, and he wonders whether he’s lowered her estimation of him.  Not that it should matter, he reminds himself hastily, sneaking a glance at the unreadable expression on her face as she, too, stares wordlessly out over the ocean.

At last she clears her throat.  “So, did you get the information you needed?”  Her head rotates back toward him.

Hook nods soberly, a knot forming in his stomach at the bitter memory of learning about the Dark One’s dagger – the only weapon capable of killing its malevolent owner – from Milah’s son, Baelfire, during their ill-fated encounter in Neverland.

“Have you had the chance to act on it?” she asks softly.

His gaze remains fixed on the water.  “Not yet.”

Emma bobs her head slowly and licks her lips.  “And what will you do after it’s done?”

A wrinkle appears between his eyes.  “I don’t know,” he admits.

She opens her mouth but falters, as if debating whether to say something.  “Maybe…” she starts, “if you find yourself back in the north… you could come say hello to a friend.”

He blinks, his heart leaping in his chest as she glances back at him with a solemn smile.  Friend. “Aye,” he agrees, flushing with pleasure and enjoying the hint of color that rises in her cheeks as he grins back at her.  “I’d like that.”

 *             *             *

 “Come on, Swan.  Let’s get a look.” Hook’s voice is slightly dampened by the curtain covering the doorway of the clothier’s dressing room.

A week has passed since Emma’s first climb up to the yard, and the, true to his word, Hook has put finding a more suitable set of clothes for her on the agenda for their two-night stop in this, the largest port in the Southern Isles.  And thus she finds herself in the back of this shop, half-naked, with him but a stone’s throw away.

Swan huffs as she appreciates the lightweight cotton shirt in her hands, the fabric covered in matching white embroidery that gives it a lacy, feminine quality.  “As many years as you’ve been alive,” she admonishes, slipping it on and beginning to do up the buttons leading up to the V-shaped neckline, “you’d think you’d have learned how to wait by now.”

Her ears catch his chuckle. “You need a hand, love?”

She smirks to herself. “Is that a joke?”

“No, I’m quite serious,” he calls back airily.  “I’m rather good with fastenings.”

It’s her turn to laugh. “I’m sure you are.”  Swan finishes buttoning the shirt and sweeps her ponytail free of the collar before examining her reflection in the clothier’s mirror. She smoothes the hem of the shirt down over her hips, turning this way and that to survey her appearance.  Her eyes fall to the dark blue leather trousers the clothier had chosen for her.  She may have had to suffer the mild indignity of being eyeballed and prodded and measured by the excitable wisp of a man while Hook looked on with a beguiled grin, but the result was definitely worth it, she thinks with a quirk of her lips. The trousers fit like a second skin, and while they’ll take a little getting used to, she has to admit that she loves the look of them as much as she loves the idea of no longer having her movement hindered by the voluminous fabric of a skirt.

Satisfied with her appearance, she reaches for the most indulgent piece of the ensemble – the thick cobalt jerkin with a high collar that the clothier had enthusiastically offered to go with the trousers.  She’d expressed reservations about the cost, but Hook had simply rolled his eyes and stepped forward, transferring the jerkin from the other man’s hands to hers and nudging her toward the dressing room.

“Believe me, you’ll be glad for something like this when we travel farther north,” he’d said.  “Go.”

Now that she wraps herself in the snug, buttery soft leather and links up the tiny, leaf-shaped clasps that run down one side, she can’t help but let her smile grow.  It’s perfect.

Swan tries to mute her pleased expression when she pulls aside the curtain and steps back out into the shop, her old clothes and shoes sandwiched between her hands and the soles of her new knee-high boots thumping quietly across the stone floor.  

Hook turns away from inspecting a dark red waistcoat and his jaw slackens at the sight of her, an appreciative sound sneaking past his parted lips.  “Now that’s much better,” he rumbles, his wide eyes sweeping up and down.

“You like it?” she asks coyly, giving the clothier a grateful smile when he beckons for her to hand him her old things in exchange for a pair of elbow-length leather gloves.

Hook’s face brightens with a slightly awed smile.  “You look stunning, Swan.”

Warmth creeps across her cheeks, and she allows herself to preen a little, experimentally wiggling her fingers as she finishes tugging the first glove on.  “And here I thought you’d miss the corset.”

“Well, that does have its own charms,” he chuckles, scratching behind his ear, “but I’d say this is a better fit for a woman who wields a sword and climbs the rigging.” He ducks his head a little. “Besides, you’d be lovely in anything.” His words leave her heart fluttering, and his grin widens.  He pulls out a purse heavy with coin and turns to the clothier.  “She’ll have all of it.”

They leave the shop behind a short while later, the paper-wrapped parcel containing Swan’s old clothes swinging on its twine from the Captain’s hook.  The sun shines, and the call of voices and the squawking of caged chickens greet them as they wander up the small side street and emerge back onto the port’s main thoroughfare.

“So now what?” she asks.

He hums.  “Normally I’d begin negotiating for new supplies,” he replies.  “But if you’d prefer I show you the town, I can leave the task to Roberts.  It’s usually a quartermaster’s job, anyway.”

“So why do you do it?” Swan looks up at him, puzzled.

Hook’s eyes twinkle. “Because I find merchants to be much more honest when they’re faced with this,” he says, lifting his hook, parcel and all.  He smiles mischievously, and she laughs.  “Most just want to make a decent profit, but there are always a few swindlers who need a little… inspiration.”

Swan nods, remembering the way her skin had crawled when a vintner had once tried to sell Maggie a case of wine for twice what it was worth.  A thought occurs, and she tilts her head.  “Could I come along?”

He arches a brow and gives her an amused sideways glance.  “Desperate to stay close to me, love?”

Her eyes roll skyward. “Or I could go explore the town on my own.”

“No, no.”  He grins and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, handing it over so she can see the purchase list written on it in his neat, flowing hand.  “You’re quite welcome.  Just remember that not even I can make talk of salt pork and pickled vegetables very interesting.”

She chuckles at his hubris while she peruses the sheet.  “I’ll take my chances.”

The butcher that comes recommended to them has a very large shop and an excellent selection, but it becomes clear to Emma as she pretends to admire some hanging ham shanks and listens to him haggle with Hook over ten crates of cured meats that the burly, fast-talking man doesn’t have any qualms about charging whatever he wants, even after the Captain drops the pleasantries and pointedly sets his hook on the counter between them with a dull thunk.

Hook makes a dissatisfied noise in his chest as he eyes the new figure the butcher scribbles on a scrap of paper in lead pencil.  “Thirty-two silver.  That’s your best price?” he asks, his voice heavy with skepticism.

The man shrugs. “Afraid so, Captain.”

It’s hardly the truth. The telltale crawl of her skin makes Swan lick her lips.  She rapidly considers her options for convincing the man to be more cooperative, briefly wishing she were still wearing something that left a little more cleavage on display.  “Please?” she purrs, stepping forward to stand at Hook’s elbow and perching her fingertips on the counter.  “You can afford to do a little better.”  She looks the butcher straight in the eye.  “I know you can.”

He blinks.  “I… I really would love to, miss.  But that has me barely breaking even as it is.”

Lie.  She folds her lips in a tight smile.  “That’s a shame.  We can only spare twenty-six.  Guess we’ll have to look elsewhere.”  She slips her hands around the crook of Hook’s arm and gently pulls him toward the door.  “Sorry to waste your time.”

“You’re not going to find a better price than that!” he protests.

Lie.  Swan arcs an eyebrow over her shoulder at him.  “I don’t know.  I think we might.”

“Silly girl.  Captain, please.”  The butcher waves a doughy hand at Swan with frustration.  “You and I understand business.  Talk some sense into her.”

Much to her delight, Hook embraces her charade, canting his head to one side and allowing his eyes to flash murderously.  “I’m sorry, did you just insult my Lady’s intelligence?” he snaps, whirling so fast she loses her grip on him.  His hand finds the hilt of his cutlass.  “You must have misspoken.  Surely a smart man like you knows how unwise that would be.”  He makes a show of stubbornly refusing to move even as Emma lays a hand on his shoulder and urges him to stand down.

The butcher glances at the sword and the blood drains from his face.  He swallows hard.  “Of… of course, Captain.  My mistake, ma’am.”

Swan accepts his apologetic bow with a gracious nod, biting her tongue and doing her best to keep a straight face.

“Come, love,” Hook growls, giving the man another prize-winning glare before wrapping his hook arm around her back and reaching for the door knob.  “If he won’t do twenty-six, he won’t do twenty-six.”

“I could do twenty-nine!”

They pause, shooting him identical dry expressions before daring to look at one another, and she can’t be sure whether the thrill she’s feeling right now comes from having the man right where they want him or from the way Hook’s eyes laugh and his arm tightens around her as they silently agree to continue out the door.  

“Fine, then!  Twenty-six, twenty-six…” the butcher grouses.  He slaps a new slip of parchment on the counter. “Bleeding highway robbery,” he mutters, dashing off a purchase agreement.

Hook gives Swan the barest of winks and wanders back over to the counter, a little extra swagger in his step.  “Take it from someone who knows, mate,” he says, snatching up the slip of paper between outstretched fingers.  “If this were actual highway robbery, you’d be a lot worse for wear.”

  *             *             *

 “How did you know he’d do it?”  Hook admires the purchase agreement one more time before tucking it into the breast pocket of his coat.

Emma allows herself a self-satisfied smile as they walk down the road together.  “I just have a good feel for these things, I guess.”

“Perhaps I should make you the quartermaster.”  He throws her a grin before checking their surroundings and nodding in the direction of the grocer.

Emma follows gamely. “And where would that leave Mr. Roberts?”

Hook snorts.  “Knowing him, he’s got a secret fortune somewhere. He could take an early retirement or hire on a crew and find his own ship to captain,” he muses.  “The Dread Pirate Roberts.  Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”  He savors Emma’s dimpled cheek and dancing eyes and invites her to go first as they wander beneath the shade of the grocer’s enormous tent.  “Now, love, care to work your magic again?”

By day’s end, he and Emma manage to secure agreements for enough victuals and supplies to sustain the Jolly the rest of the voyage to Misthaven if need be.  Hook mentally tallies the sums while they sit in a local tavern awaiting the arrival of their evening meal.  He shakes his head in amazement.  “Don’t look now, Swan, but I think we make quite the team,” he informs her jovially. “This is the least it’s cost us to outfit the ship in years.”

“What is?”

They look up to see Roberts, a fresh flagon in his hand, halted on his way to rejoin some of the men at another table a few feet away.

Hook gathers the little sheaf of purchase agreements and hands them over, looking smug.

The quartermaster sets his drink down and shuffles through the papers, his bushy eyebrows leaping upward. “I’ll be,” he drawls with a toothy grin. “Those’re some pretty numbers.”

“Turns out the Lady knows how to drive a hard bargain,” Hook explains, gesturing toward Emma with his own ale and beaming.  “You should see her do it.”  He catches her eye and smiles.  “It’s a thing of beauty.”

Emma blushes hard, and Hook chuckles as Roberts hands the papers back.  

“It’s very impressive, ma’am.  You’ll have to tell us your secret.”

She lifts her cup up to her demure smile.  “It’s nothing, Mr. Roberts,” she replies, taking a sip.  “The Captain bought some things for me today, and I was just returning the favor.”

Roberts raises his flagon to her.  “Well, my hat’s off to you.  And…” The normally-gruff man eyes her new clothes and hesitates a moment, as if the words are awkward on his tongue. “You… you look very nice.”

Hook swivels his head toward his crewman in surprise, and Emma rewards Roberts with a brilliant smile before the quartermaster wanders off with his cheeks as ruddy as a schoolboy’s.

 *             *             *

 Foamy waves lap gently at the stretch of white sand that runs north of the docks, the entire landscape saturated in shades of indigo and dark blue beneath the light of an enormous full moon.  The dull roar of the ocean mixes in their ears with the intermittent rush of the evening wind that whispers along the coast, and the warm air smells faintly of brine.  Swan surveys the scene with a happy sigh as she and Hook elect to make a detour on their way back to the ship.  Behind them, the town is dotted with the glimmering light of a hundred lanterns, and the sounds of late-night merriments grow fainter as they hike several hundred yards off the path to the beach.  The ground softens beneath their feet, and Swan stops for a moment to bend over.  

Hook turns to watch as she pulls off her new boots and hitches the legs of her trousers halfway up her calves. “What are you doing?”  Even in the relative dark, the white of his amused grin is evident.

“Enjoying the sand,” she says simply, snatching up her boots and straightening.  “You said the shores up north are rocky.  Who knows when I’ll be someplace like this again?”  She shrugs and flashes him a little smile as she resumes their course, relishing the way her bare feet sink ankle-deep in the cool, dry grains.

They stroll up to the water’s edge, their parallel lines of footprints growing more distinct in the damp terrain, and she sighs happily as the perfectly tepid sea washes over her feet with every lazy surge.  Swan cranes her head upward to admire the stars which twinkle in the inky void beyond the moon’s halo.  “Does the night sky look the same in all the realms?” she wonders aloud.  She glances over to see Hook smile and nod.

“Aye.  The constellations move with location and season, but yes, it’s the same stars in every place I’ve encountered.  It’s what allows me to navigate no matter where I go.” His gaze sweeps the heavens, and he slows, turning about-face and pointing.  “See those four bright ones there?  The Southern Cross?”  He traces the perpendicular lines in the air with his finger.

Swan steps closer, squinting to try and see what he sees.  “There?”  Her voice is uncertain as she shifts her boots to her left hand and points with her right.

Hook steps around to her right side and hunches down a bit, all but lowering his chin onto her shoulder to try to approximate her line of sight.  He reaches for her outstretched hand, and her heart begins to beat erratically at the sensation of his breath on her cheek and the warmth of his palm around her wrist as he adjusts her angle.  “There.” He slowly moves her arm in a similar crisscross pattern, pausing briefly on each individual point of light.  “One, two, three, four,” he counts quietly in her ear.  “See it?”

Her lashes flutter, and she manages to nod despite the sudden fullness in her throat and the gooseflesh that seems to have erupted across her back and arms.

“Now follow the long axis,” he coaxes, drawing her hand toward the horizon at a slight angle, “about four-and-a-half lengths down.  That’s south.”  He seems to catch himself and pulls away, clearing his throat.  “Um, see?  It’s simple.” He scratches behind his ear.

Her breath feels stilted, as though none of the air around them can find its way to her lungs.  “Yeah,” she croaks, tucking a stray curl back away from her face and forcing a nervous little laugh.  “I’ll have to remember that.”

Hook diverts his gaze almost shyly and looks toward the ocean as he turns to resume their walk. Something a few paces ahead catches his eye, and he strides forward to investigate, reaching down to pluck an object from ground.  “Ah! Look at this,” he calls.

Swan trots to his side, watching curiously as he straightens, cradling a flat, round disc in his palm. “What is that?”

“A sand dollar.”  His thumb swipes across the surface a few times to clear the thin layer of wet sand that clings to it, allowing her to see the pretty, flower-like imprint in the center and the odd pattern of slits that surround it.  He motions for her to take it.  “Some people think they’re good luck.”

She chuffs and accepts, admiring the hard, milky white artifact in the moonlight as she gently brushes the last of the beach off it.  “Guess I can use all the luck I can get,” she says with a rueful smile.

He chuckles.  “Somehow I get the feeling you make your own luck, Swan.”

“Right.  Because waking up on the wrong side of the world with no memories was so lucky,” she shoots back wryly, tucking the sand dollar into her jerkin.

“Well, if you hadn’t, you might never have met me,” he points out, shrugging amiably. “I’d call that a stroke of luck, wouldn’t you?”  He offers her his arm and an impish grin.

She can’t help but laugh, and she acknowledges his point with a bob of her head, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow and trying to ignore the pleasant quiver of her stomach as they turn to keep wandering.  “I guess so.”

Thanks for reading!  Ready for the next chapter?  Click here!

[thomcoldman-blog]

Review: Iconoclasts

Iconoclasts, like the subject of a Junji Ito-esque horror, feels like it was made for me, in especially devilish and unsettling ways. It combines a lot of the elements of the classics I adore into one big ambitious, clever, gorgeous mess of a game; the item-meets-environment puzzle-solving of The Legend of Zelda, the looping, layered level designs of Metroid, the smooth traversal you'd expect from games like Mega Man X. It's a game with its eyes to the giants of the action-platformer genre, most nakedly influenced by Metal Slug and Monster World IV, but the truth is I can see so much of a million other games I love in Iconoclasts, it's almost like developer Joakim “konjak” Sandberg has been peering inside my head for ideas of where to take the game next. But you needn't have me tell you that – on the surface, from its Metroid-esque map screen, the enormous SNK-style bullet sprays and the SEGA green hills and blue skies, Iconoclasts indeed looks like a pretender to the throne, another indie retro game tribute-cum-rehash to the heyday of This Sort Of Game. Fortunately, despite first impressions, Iconoclasts has its own tune to sing.

Breaking from tradition should be paramount for any game named after “iconoclasm”, the practice of essentially rebelling against the status-quo. Iconoclasts goes one further, and becomes more of a rumination on the costs and challenges of tearing down the old and the daunting task of facing what may replace it. The story takes this theme and runs with it, depicting a world overseen by a fascistic militia known as the One Concern. This force believe everyone need have their place in the world (naturally, not a place of their own choosing), and will rain down “Penance” upon the homes of anyone who steps out of line. Despite their ranks consisting mostly of visor-clad grunts in grey, they never quite feel like a generic group of baddies, as their grip of terror comes with a religious undertone, spooking the citizens into paranoia of violent reprisal at the hands of the divine being the One Concern follow. As Robin, the daughter of a deceased mechanic now illegally fixing all manner of problems in the settlements, you attract no small amount of disdain from the citizens, who'd much rather you packed in the unlawful assistance and settled down. Naturally, this doesn't quite happen, and Robin soon finds herself becoming a one-woman resistance against the Concern, aided by a handful of similarly aggrieved allies along the way.

Iconoclasts' storytelling feels distinct and notable for a number of reasons, but first and foremost it's surprising the lengths that Konjak has gone to to develop a layered narrative in a genre where traditionally no-one bothers. The game is still driven largely by its tight platforming and satisfying puzzle-based progression, so with those successfully built you could forgive the plot for being fairly obvious girl-defeats-big-dragon fare. But here, Iconoclasts' feels eager to be seen as newer, fresher and more relevant. The characters aren't happy-go-lucky, but often filled with grief, terror and rage, and it all acts as a compelling motivator beyond filling out the map screen or crafting another upgrade. Having large boss battles with their impressive levels of animation and challenge accompanied by a sense that the characters have been through a great amount to reach the confrontation makes Iconoclasts feel more mature than its inspirations, even as you're throwing down with a giant cat or caterpillar.

The writing is sharp and sweet, not lingering on any point for too long so you're back into the action in due time, whilst never feeling perfunctory enough to make you want to hit Skip anyway. It feels tight; a feeling that permeates through most of the game. It never goes overboard with the number of characters you meet or are expected to remember, and uses them sensibly. The leading villains of the One Concern are the highlight, appearing throughout the entire game more-or-less as recurring showdowns, a constant thorn in Robin's side (and vice versa), and a font of expression for the game's themes of idealogical decadence and implosion. Much as the One Concern bleed the planet dry of its most essential materials, Iconoclasts bleeds its characters dry for drama and intrigue, giving each character exactly enough screentime to make a strong, lasting impression.

“Making the most of what you have” is a running theme in this game, reflected not just in its use of character but also location and mechanics. Robin is equipped with a stun gun and a wrench, and for a lot of the game, that's more or less it. She eventually gets a bomb launcher, and a third weapon type I won't spoil, but that's her lot. Iconoclasts isn't interested in giving you a huge arsenal, because you don't need it. Instead, the weapons serve primarily as solutions for the game's puzzles, and in combination with a couple of wrench upgrades giving Robin electrical properties, Konjak gets a LOT of mileage out of these tools. Robin's wrench lets her tighten bolts to activate level elements, as well as swing off mid-air bolts to reach higher ground or clear chasms. This movement feels exquisite, with your momentum coming off the bolt never in question, and it combines with a auto-targeting 4-way directional aim on the stun gun for quick, speedy combat scenarios. Puzzles often involve shooting the bombs through tight gaps to create an opening, using electricity to activate switches, moving level elements around via tightening bolts – how to interact with the pieces of a room is rarely in question, but the number of combinations of bomb-powered platforms, mid-air bolts, electrical switches, tight platforming and certain enemies feels limitless thanks to Konjak's incredibly inventive level design.

When you're not using the few tools at your disposal to blast through puzzles, there are plenty of enemies to take down instead. Standard cannon-fodder is found in a lot of rooms, but the game offers a tricky parry move and a mid-air stomp for defeating a variety of enemies that can't all be K.O.'d with a volley of stun-gun blasts. Keeping on brand, it never goes overboard with the number of enemy types, but Iconoclasts is smart enough to make sure each of the 7-or-so areas of the game has their own distinct fauna, such as skull bats in the dank flooded caves or bizarre bipedal cacti in the desert, each with some killer animation tooled for high readability and expressiveness. The bosses are by far the peak of the game's gorgeous sprite-art; screen-filling titans lumbering toward you with equally screen-filling attacks, and lithe assassins striking fast and hard as they leap between the sides of the screen. One highlight is an enormous caterpillar train operating in a circular forest area, chasing you down as you use your wrench to zip along magnetic rails; another, a flaming-hot femme fatale who rains hot death from the sky as you attempt to knock her into electrified railings. Each boss tests your reactions and pattern-reading skills in diverse ways, often offering allies to further differentiate encounters with their own special means of assistance. They're all instantly memorable, from the initial giant mech showdown to a frankly ridiculous ultimate confrontation that might leave you equally perplexed and enthralled.

Iconoclasts mixes up its combat and movement with its “tweak” mechanic, giving the player three perks to use in their journey. These can include defensive measures, speeding up weapon cooldowns and even making new moves available, like a handy dodge roll. Unfortunately, taking damage causes these abilities to become disabled, only becoming active once more by grabbing “ivory” dropped by enemies or from smashed or fixed objects. Iconoclasts' difficulty level isn't punishingly hard, but it's challenging enough where you'll take your fair share of scrapes, and losing useful skills such as speed boosts or attack boosts due to mistakes can be irritating. This mixed together with the fact tweaks must first be crafted using secret collectibles – and can only be crafted once their blueprints have been obtained – makes the tweak system feel more frustrating and underutilised than it could have been. Acquiring tweaks has enough barriers to entry that removing the ivory requirement wouldn't be overly generous – as it is, it never feels enough of a boon to making secret hunting anything more than its own reward.

That concern aside, Iconoclasts is an impeccable result of its 7-year development history. The story of Iconoclasts argues simply in favour of doing the right thing – not settling for quiet subjugation, not rioting against the status quo just because, but simply identifying something broken, and getting to work fixing it. In looking at the classics of video game yesteryear, Konjak clearly didn't see much broken, but what there was, the game makes a valiant effort at fixing. A tight compelling story, a rejection of empowerment-based progression in favour of a puzzle- and boss- design focus, impeccable movement with smart quality-of-life choices and a look bursting with colour, detail, blood, sweat, tears and love – in sticking to doing a few things really, really well in surprising new ways, Iconoclasts is the most successfully ambitious action-platformer I've played in years, and a game I've been wanting for a long long time.

Score: 5/5

[snakebusters]

Scientific Fraud! Newly discovered species of sea snake is not so new after all! Media release dated 1 April 2020 - Yes April Fool's day!

The widely publicized alleged discovery of a new species of sea snake in north-west Australia on 1 April 2020 has been exposed as a scientific fraud. In a supposedly peer reviewed paper, a group of so-called scientists alleged they had found a new species of sea snake in Western Australia and proceeded to formally name it Emydocephalus orarius, Nankivell et al. 2019. It can now be revealed that their alleged work is nothing more than a thinly veiled fraud in that their key findings had in fact been lifted from a 4 year old paper that had already discovered and named the very same species. In a brazen lifting and theft of the works and findings of Australian scientist Raymond Hoser, Nankivell and his gang of thieves rehashed a four year old paper of Hoser and prostituted it as peer reviewed scientific discovery in an online journal Zootaxa. Nankivell and the gang of thieves used the exact same specimens, morphology and findings of Raymond Hoser, including the same holotype specimen of their allegedly newly discovered species that Hoser had used four years prior. Yes, Raymond Hoser, better known as The Snake Man had identified and named the exact same sea snake species as separate to better known northern and eastern species in the same genus four years earlier. The name assigned was Emydocephalus teesi Hoser, 2016, named in honour of highly respected human rights lawyer, Alex Tees of Bondi in New South Wales, Australia. As this name has a four year date priority over the bootleg name, it is Emydocephalus teesi Hoser, 2016 that is the correct name and that which must be used. The 2020 paper by Nankivell et al. fraudulently markets the contents of their 2020 paper as their own original work and discovery. They have repeated this dishonest behaviour with numerous media releases and posts on social media (e.g. Facebook, twitter, etc), including a patently false series of claims alleging they had discovered the species when doing fieldwork, when in actual fact, Hoser had done the hard yards over preceding decades. Importantly, Snakeman Raymond Hoser had been onto it and published his findings many years prior. While authors overlooking or ignoring earlier important papers was common in years past, it is rare in the present time due to the fact that scientific papers are databased and widely accessible almost immediately after publication. Significantly Nankivell admits to having read the earlier Hoser paper, but cites a blog post by a friend of his (Wolfgang Wuster), cited as Kaiser et al. (2013) as a basis to ignore the rules of the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature and unlawfully over-write the Hoser name. In terms of a reviewer, it would be impossible to miss the obvious fact that the key evidence and findings in both the 2016 and 2020 papers are effectively identical. At the time Hoser’s 2016 paper was published he was widely accused by a gang of thieves known as the Wolfgang Wuster gang of “Taxonomic vandalism”, which is a nefarious practice of recklessly renaming species that have already been named. Hoser challenged this claim on the basis his newly discovered species of sea snake had significant morphological and molecular divergence and were reproductively isolated. Ironically, it is the actions of Wuster's closwe friend Nankivell and his et al. who in 2020 have actively engaged in taxonomic vandalism and scientific fraud. Zootaxa is the online journal that published the fraudulent Nankivell paper. It is a holotype PRINO paper and shows the hazards of the internet in terms of the ability of pseudoscientists to be able to rush bad science or non-science into print and without any serious forms of editiorial control or peer review. The only journal Zootaxa has developed a reputation as being a holotype PRINO, or peer reviewed in name only journal, because it frequently publishes fake science and bootlegs of the works of genuine scientists. Taxonomic vandalism as practiced by Nankivell and his listed co-authors, is not just fraudulent and unscientific, but it is also highly illegal as Australia has signed several international conventions forbidding it and binding all scientists to the rules of the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature which expressly forbids taxonomic vandalism. In any event, one thing is clear and undeniable. The allegedly newly discovered species of sea snake from Western Australia is not so new after all. It was formally discovered and named 4 long years ago. The most recent case of scientific fraud by Nankivell has been heavily promoted on social media by his good mate, Wolfgang Wuster, a serial law breaker and fraudster from Wales in the UK. Wuster has set out to destroy the International Commission of Zoological Nomenclature and regularly tells others to ignore the rules of the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature. He aggressively encourages friends and members of his cohort of thieves to plagiarize and steal works of others and market their discoveries as their own. Wuster's cohort have illegally renamed dozens of previously named species in a practice known as Taxonomic Vandalism, including works of 1800's greats like John Edward Gray and Leopold Joseph Franz Johann Fitzinger, throwing the science, taxonomy and nomenclature of reptiles and other animals into chaos, with enormously negative public health and wildlife conservation outcomes. Members of Wuster's cohort have recently been convicted of child sex offences, theft, shootings and other serious crimes. They also run hundreds of fake social media accounts and heavily attack sites like Wikipedia in order to peddle their warped agenda and mislead people into believing that they are a majority of reptile scientists, when in fact they are merely a side group of thieves and trouble makers. The two relevant papers are as follows: Hoser, Raymond T. 2016. A previously unrecognized species of sea snake (Squamata: Serpentes: Elapidae: Hydrophiinae). Australasian Journal of Herpetology 33:25-33. Full text available at: http://www.smuggled.com/Issue-33-25-33.pdf and James H. Nankivell, Claire Goiran, Mathew Hourston, Richard Shine, Arne R. Rasmussen, Vicki A. Thomson, Kate L. Sanders, 2020. A new species of turtle-headed sea Snake (Emydocephalus: Elapidae) endemic to Western Australia. Zootaxa (PRINO - Online), 107(3):517-523. Full text available at: https://www.mapress.com/j/zt/article/view/zootaxa.4758.1.6

In terms of the fake claims of a new species of sea snake allegedly discovered this April Fools Day!

From Nankivell et al. (2020) who stole the basis of their paper from Hoser, 2016. They wrote: "Hoser (2016) named Emydocephalus populations from coastal Western Australia and the Timor Sea as a new species; however we follow the recommendations of Kaiser et al. (2013) and consider names published outside of the peer-reviewed literature post 2000 to be unavailable." Problem one was that Hoser (2016) was in fact peer reviewed and Problem two is that the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature administered by the ICZN, which governs scientific names of species, does not mandate for peer review to make names available to use, which is a good thing as the majority of the millions of scientifically named organisms were not named via peer review - including quite ironically Nankivell et al. (2020)! (The online Journal Zootaxa is notoriously PRINO, meaning peer reviewed in name only). Nankivell et al. (2020) then wrote: "On the basis of nuclear DNA, mitochondrial DNA and morphological evidence we regard the coastal Western Australian E. annulatus as an evolutionarily distinctive new species with no available name." before renaming the species as an objective junior synonym (meaning this name is illegal and must not be used, with the correct senior name with date priority being used instead), "Emydocephalus orarius sp. nov. Fig. 5, 7A–B Holotype. WAM R165708. Adult male collected in Shark Bay (25°15`38”S, 113°08`19”E), WA on 10/02/2006 by G. Parry." And so there is absolutely no doubt as to from where he stole his alleged discovery .... From Hoser, 2016. "EMYDOCEPHALUS TEESI SP. NOV. Holotype: A preserved specimen number R165708, at the Western Australian Museum, Perth, Western Australia, obtained from Shark Bay, Western Australia, (shot dead) caught on 10 February 2006. The snout-vent length is 660 mm, tail length is 132 mm and weight is 245.0 grams. The Western Australian Museum is a government-owned facility that allows inspection of its holdings. Paratypes: Specimen number R47852 from the Western Australian Museum, Perth, Western Australia collected from Barrow Island, Western Australia, Lat. 115°40‘E Long. 20°8‘S in December 1975. Specimen number R28469 from the Western Australian Museum, Perth, Western Australia collected from Barrow Island, Western Australia, Lat. 115°25‘E Long. 20°45‘S on 9 September 1966. The Western Australian Museum is a government-owned facility that allows inspection of its holdings. Diagnosis: Emydocephalus teesi sp. nov. would previously have been identified as E. annulatus. However it is readily separated from that taxon by having 21-23 body bands in females, versus 24-25 in females of E. annulatus. In males there are 19-21 body bands versus 22-30 in E. annulatus. These same characteristics separate E. teesi sp. nov. from the otherwise similar E. chelonicephalus and E. szczerbaki. Complete melanism is known to be common in E. annulatus and E. chelonicephalus, but is effectively unknown in Emydocephalus teesi sp. nov. and E. szczerbaki. Melanistic E. teesi sp. nov. seen in Ashmore Reef, WA retain remnants of cross-bands on the lower flanks as whitish or lighter flecks on the rear of the relevant scales. Emydocephalus teesi sp. nov. commonly (but not always) has 3 postoculars, versus a standard 2 in E. annulatus, E. chelonicephalus, E. ijimae and E. szczerbaki (and some E. teesi sp. nov.). The three postocular condition in Emydocephalus teesi sp. nov. is caused by the usual larger lower postocular (seen in other Emydocephalus) instead being two smaller ones. ..." Full text of Hoser 2016 is available at http://www.smuggled.com/issue-33-pages-25-33.pdf

Further information at: (Australia) 0412-777211 snakeman (at) snakeman.com.au

[writingvampires]

Writing Amidst Doubt

Like any writer, I face doubt. Not often, as I choose to focus on my work and what I'm doing and contributing to literature (not much lol), but as of late, the doubt has crept in and is, for the moment at least, here to stay.

I am at a loss as to what to do, as what I usually do (just keep writing and pushing past it, looking at past reviews or talking to current readers), doesn't seem to be settling.

It doesn't help that I'm friends with other authors on FB who seem to be posting books every month, at their leisure, fashioning marketing toolkits out of thin air in order to coincide with these releases.

And here I am, a book a year or so it would seem, struggling to find a marketing tool that will help me reach more eyes, and in turn help me reach more would-be readers.

I know, I know, comparing is the start to one's downfall, but one cannot help but look and see what their peers are doing.

I suppose I should stop once again and just focus on myself? But where is the line between a bubble-like focus on ones doings and other's accomplishments? I know it wrong to separate myself from them as we're all in this together, but it's so easy to get caught up in the negatives.

I am overlooking how one woman who bought my first book from me in store came back last week and exclaimed how much she loved it (so much so I was dazed and confused as to what she was talking about), and I am overlooking how other readers are steadily making their way through the books, the plots, and the so-so editing (that's another blog post).

That said, it is good to focus on one's goals and check off when those goals are met.

As for me?

I saw the interior for The Goblet: Book 5 (sans map as are the few previous books in the series, unfortunately),

and it keeps in line with the rest of the books.

The book jacket, however, doesn't.

Here, see for yourself.

Do you think that looks better or worse than the first book jacket (which the subsequent book jackets followed if only not as pretty)?

I was told I got a different designer for Book 5 when I saw the full cover. And though I like it, I like continuity in plot, design...etc. even more. It just looks nicer and makes things seem even more complete no?

Ah well, I've one more book to write in this series (just hit Chapter 4; small miracles), and I hope the lack of continuity in the design of the series doesn't deter would-be readers.

It bothers my perfectionist mind.

But what can one do?

Continue writing, of course. Chucking on fearlessly, as always, in the midst of doubt, and yes, I suppose it is the right answer altogether: focusing on one's goals and one goals alone.

Happy writing and reading!

The Goblet: Book V is available for E-Book now, btw. The physical release is still slated for Nov 28th, 2017.

With Blood and Love,

S.C. Parris

[junker-town]

I think Terry McLaurin was one of the draft’s biggest steals

There’s so much to love about his potential, no matter how many receivers got more targets in Columbus.

Advanced stats say Ohio State product and Washington third-round pick Terry McLaurin is one of the best receivers in the 2019 NFL Draft.

He went 77th overall, but I think he’ll have much better than the draft’s 77th-best career.

Among FBS receivers in this class, McLaurin was first in 2018 in Marginal Efficiency, the advanced stat by SB Nation’s Bill Connelly that measures how successful a throw to a receiver is based on the down and distance. (For instance, a 10-yard completion on third-and-8 is more efficient than a 12-year completion on third-and-20.) He was seventh in the class in Marginal Explosiveness, which similarly measures how successful his successful targets are. Nobody fared better across both departments.

McLaurin, of course, put up those numbers catching balls from Dwayne Haskins, the quarterback Washington took 15th overall. More shortly on their collaboration.

Traditional numbers like McLaurin a lot, too.

He caught 71 percent of his targets, ninth-best in the class. He averaged 14.3 yards per target, No. 1 in the class. He caught 11 touchdowns, tied for sixth-most. It helped to play in an elite Ohio State offense quarterbacked by Dwayne Haskins, but there’s no statistical indicator that McLaurin’s anything other than a star.

While McLaurin drew positive reviews out of the Senior Bowl in January, he long lagged behind a bunch of his peers in draft hype. NFL.com’s scouting report says he has backup or special teams potential. It wasn’t until around March that he started to rise up boards.

NFL Combine testing likes him a lot, too.

Maybe that’ll go up some after McLaurin ran a 4.35-second 40-yard dash at the combine (fifth among receivers), repped 18 times on the bench (tied for 10th), and broad-jumped 125 inches (tied for ninth). At 6’, his measureables and athletic testing are closely aligned with some good players (like Pierre Garcon) and some bad (like Breshad Perriman). But he’s certainly one of the most athletic players in the class.

McLaurin, a former four-star recruit, didn’t turn into a star until his senior year at Ohio State. That’s when the Buckeyes started slinging the rock.

From 2015-17, he wasn’t a big part of the Ohio State passing game, and the passing game itself wasn’t a big part of the Ohio State offense. With QB J.T. Barrett, the Buckeyes’ identity was to spread teams out with occasional passes and then run through them. The Buckeyes’ top pass-catchers those years were future All-Pro Michael Thomas, running back Curtis Samuel, and then a committee of receivers that included McLaurin.

In 2017, McLaurin caught 29 of 44 targets for 436 yards (9.9 per target). He was Ohio State’s fourth-most targeted receiver, just one target behind the No. 3 guy.

In 2018, McLaurin was still the Buckeyes’ fourth-most-targeted receiver, only this time, there was a much bigger gap between the three top targets and him. He got 49 targets, about half of what top targets Parris Campbell and K.J. Hill got. But McLaurin’s yardage per target rose 40 percent, from 10 to 14. He was one of the most efficient wideouts in the country, though he wasn’t getting nearly as many chances as Campbell, Hill, and Johnnie Dixon.

McLaurin has to have been the best No. 4 receiver in college football history.

Did McLaurin benefit from having tons of talent around him? For sure. But there are lessons in his success for a smart NFL team.

It wasn’t just Haskins and a group of future pros at receiver. The Buckeyes also fully turned over their offense to coordinator (and now head coach) Ryan Day, a Chip Kelly alum who introduced a spread passing game Ohio State had literally never used before. One concept, in particular, came to define the Ohio State offense in McLaurin’s senior year.

“Coach Day definitely brought the Mesh series to our offense,” he told me at the NFL Combine. “That was different from years past.”

Mesh involves two receivers running drag routes across the field, going past each other in tight proximity. It looks something like this:

Ian Boyd

The object, like a pick in basketball, is to create a brief traffic jam for the defense and give at least one receiver separation. In 2018, McLaurin made hay running variations of Mesh.

The concept is great in the red zone, because it stresses defenses horizontally rather than vertically. Among others, McLaurin scored Ohio State’s first touchdown of the season on it:

At some point, Ohio State started running other things off Mesh, and McLaurin was really good on those, too. A common variation is the “whip” route, where the receivers who look like they’re about to cross instead pivot and head back toward their near sidelines.

Often, McLaurin would line up elsewhere, and when the threat of Mesh crossers held a safety in the middle of the field, he’d beat single coverage in another area ...

... or sitting down in a soft spot created by others’ mesh routes:

A good playbook and talent around him certainly boosted McLaurin’s senior year numbers. But NFL teams run similar stuff, and McLaurin’s not a slouch. He also helped the Buckeyes around him. People who watched Ohio State closely over his career regard him as an excellent blocker for a receiver, not afraid of doing the grunt work depth receivers do. He plays in the slot, and he plays outside. He can be useful all over the field.

That’s another thing: McLaurin clearly benefitted from OSU’s talent and scheme, but he proved he had plenty of skill himself.

His favorite play is not Mesh. It’s a simple post pattern against cover-4.

“The way we had one of our concepts, we’d have an over route, or something to occupy that safety,” McLaurin said, talking about his side of the field. “So I’m one-on-one with that corner nine times out of 10 on a cover-4. That’s what you want as a receiver.”

One example of that working perfectly, thanks to McLaurin acrobatics:

He can also run deep routes and fight through extreme contact to make catches:

McLaurin’s ability to beat single coverage might come from something he’s widely praised for: his work as a gunner in punt coverage.

“One thing the scouts said, how they could tell I beat press coverage really well, is off of gunner,” McLaurin said. “They watched my gunner film, and they noticed that I never got held up, so that was a pretty good indication of how I could beat press man.”

He made the highlight-reel gunner play of the year at Michigan State ...

... and downed another OSU punt at the MSU 1 later in the same game.

The worst case for McLaurin is that he’s a good special teamer who can make some plays as a No. 4 receiver and blocks well, like he did at Ohio State.

Another case is that he’s a good special teamer who can be one of the most efficient third or fourth receivers in the league. Either way, Washington should be incredibly happy.