#perhaps the people of old from their village used to take on fox spirits back in the days of magic

[greeenchrysanthemums]

Is Pearl a avian-hybrid and is Gem an Elf in your GG rivals au?

They are both human as of now!

I had considered making Gem a deer hybrid at the beginning, but it just didn't fit. I am still considering making her and Etho fox hybrids (I would just go add parts in the older chapters to include Gem having fox features), but I am undecided.

What do you guys think? Should they be foxes?

Pearl will remain fully human though. It just fits her the most for the story I am attempting to tell.

[yandere-sins]

The Fox Wedding - Prologue I

Summary: You are to marry the fox spirit Kita Shinsuke after you accidentally agreed to become his wife by signing the deed to your new home. A contract is a contract, he says, but is there more to this marriage than you know? Will you be whisked away by one of the foxy twins instead, or have to marry Kita after all? Can you be with a creature that only seems tender on the surface, or will you try to run even if it might cost you your life? Choose your route carefully, you never know what these foxes are up to!

Characters: Kitsune!Kita Shinsuke, Kitsune!Miya Atsumu, Kitsune!Miya Osamu, Kitsune!Suna Rintarou, afab!Reader

Rating: Explicit Warnings for this chapter: Yandere, Kidnapping, Forced/Unhealthy Relationships

a/n: Welcome to my new series! I’ve been carrying the starts of this idea around for a while now, but while I was doing commissions it really began to spread it’s roots, so here we are! You can, of course, read every chapter that will come out, or choose your ‘route’ from the ones available after they are all finished (; Please mind the specific warnings for each chapter, as they will vary. Here’s the prologue, please enjoy and leave me a comment what you thought about it! ♥

There was no use in screaming and crying, only a few annoyed sighs you heard from the guard on top of the staircase leading outside. No matter how hard you banged on the bars, yelled for someone to release you, or sobbed into your hands, no one came to your aid, having decided to let you have your ‘temper tantrum’ down here alone. What an inhuman way to keep you, in a moldy, make-shift cell, underground, with only a bucket for your needs and a - stolen - bottle of water. 

“If we’re lucky, you’ll lose a few pounds before the wedding,” they said, bringing their long kimono sleeves to their faces to hide the ill-willed smirks behind them. But that was the least terrible thing the foxes appearing as human women had done to you so far.

Walking back from the bars to the small window, you stepped onto the single chair in your cell to look outside. Occasionally, you heard voices echoing from the buildings around you. The wind swayed the tall grasses covering every inch of the small village, aside from that, everything seemed abandoned. Roofs you could see had holes, there were no streets with cars or rails with trains nearby. The only thing you knew was there were the animals. The bugs in the grass, the deers in the forest, and the foxes in the village.

Crouching off the chair, you sat down, deflated, scared, cold. Not even your pullover could keep you warm, and you shivered, rubbing your hands against each other and blowing air on them in an attempt to warm up. But it was an effort in vain, you just tried to trick your mind into doing anything. Anything, besides freaking out. 

You had every right to be unnerved. It wasn’t every day that some strange man with perky fox ears and a fluffy tail swaying left to right appeared in front of you, announcing you were to become his wife. Actually, the chances of that to happen were so low, you couldn’t even speak of it as a common occurrence at all. He introduced himself, but no matter how hard you tried to remember, the name ‘Kita Shinsuke’ wasn’t one you were familiar with. As absurd as it sounded, you really tried to use logic on a person that was beyond any kind of human reason in the first place.

For the first few seconds, you thought you had actually made a promise to marry this man. Perhaps by accident, maybe drunk? But the longer you thought about it, the clearer you realized that there was no such thing as accidentally accepting a marriage proposal. However, by that time, you had already let him into your newly bought home, served him tea, and questioned his announcement. 

“It’s in the contract,” he had explained, softly, no immediate expression on his face. You couldn’t tell if his voice sounded upset or amused. Everything about him was so relaxed and indifferent, he made the situation seem almost laughable easy. “You agreed to be my wife when you bought the land.”

That was ridiculous. Even you knew there had been no such agreement, and yet, you still tried to find your contract, unable to discern it from all the other documents you hadn’t yet sorted in after just moving into this house two days ago. Much to your surprise, it had been Kita who helped you find what you were looking for, all the other papers seemingly flying out of his hand’s way as he reached by you to grab the contract from them. The old, parchment-like deed of ownership in his hand made you realize for the first time how odd the features of this man were. Fingers as pristine as a child, yet, with sharp, pointy claws instead of nails on them. Not to count the ears and tail that moved accordingly to his doings.

It also made you realize for the first time how deep in trouble you were as you read over the deed again. 

In a matter of seconds, your life had changed around completely. You saw darkness in front of your eyes every time you tried to focus, your mind becoming dizzy from realizing your name underneath the additional marriage condition listed on the deed. Next thing you knew, he caught you with one arm, and you held on to the soft fabric of his kimono, scared you might lose conscience with your heart both setting out and raising your blood pressure way too fast. But that was only just the beginning of your troubles.

You barely remembered everything that happened until you eventually ended up in this cell. Just a lot of denial and refusal, people storming your house and dragging you out. You could still feel their long fingers and sharp claws pressing into your skin, your wrists and digging into your shoulders, and how their mouths formed grins too wide to be human. Screaming and kicking, you didn’t make it easy for them, but with your house so secluded from everyone else’s, you doubted anyone could hear you.

Moving to Japan, starting over, and live the best life you could imagine for yourself, that had been your dream. Now, more than ever, and in a scenario you couldn’t even have imagined in your worst nightmares, it was taking a turn for the worse.

“Kita-san,” you greeted him, your lips shaking as you held back more tears. Looking at him, it was almost unbearable to see him so calm in your distraught presence. “I want to leave--”

“You’re cold,” he noted, unfazed by the words you were about to mutter. Hugging yourself a bit tighter, you couldn’t deny what he was saying. The bars - as sturdy and metal as they seemed when you rattled them before - twisted and turned as his hand approached them, creating a gap big enough for him to step through. Only now, in the dim light of a candle he was holding, did you see the fur blanket over his arm, which he brought to you. Though you dodged away, Kita was unfazed by your fear, letting the cover fall from his arm and draping it over your shoulder no matter if you wanted him to or not. Admittedly, you were glad to receive a little something to warm up, gripping it with your hands quickly to pull it tighter around you. 

Only when you were done shivering, you noticed his hand hadn’t vanished, picking at the part around your neck. With a flinch, you felt his cold fingers dig beneath your hair, pulling it out from under the fur and adjusting the neck properly. It was uncomfortable to have him touch you so casually, perhaps more like a parent would than a stranger who called himself your fiance, but you had to admit it was warmer this way.

“Do you want to marry?” you asked him quietly, a bold question perhaps, but what else was there to talk about? His hand halted, laying down on your shoulder gently, yet you felt almost as if this was a simplified neck hold like you’d do with a cat or dog if they misbehaved. “There’s no use questioning what we want or not. We have a contract, and you signed it. That’s why we are marrying.”

There was a logic to the way he was speaking, yet his words haunted you. Contract here, contract there, what did it matter when this was about marriage? An act of love and partnership? Was this what people called ‘settling for someone’? He couldn’t be seriously wanting to go through with marrying a total stranger just because of a contract, right?

“But I don’t love you! I don’t even know you!” Turning to him, you regretted searching for eye contact with this man, his eyes being just as unnerving as his whole demeanor. Especially now that they seemed to be lit even without the candlelight reflecting in them. Almost as scary was the deep breath that he took after you said what was on your tongue for too long, and you turned away again, not expecting an answer from him. Shrugging off the blanket, you mumbled, “I don’t want to marry you…”

Before it could leave your shoulder, Kita caught it, placing it back where he thought it belonged, and proceeded to make sure it sat right again. This time, the tugs on your hair were a bit rougher, and one of his fingers even scratched you, which you noted briefly with a whine. Kita rounded you, hand falling from your shoulder to the front of your neck, driving up your throat with its claws until it reached your chin, and lifting it, he made you look back into his eyes, despite the tears collecting in yours falling from your cheeks and wetting his hand too.

“My family wants us to marry, and I care about my family.” 

He dragged his hand up your cheek, wiping the tears collecting in your eye with his thumb before leaning down to give your forehead a short kiss. “And now you’re my family too, so I care about you. Keep the fur on, I don’t want my wife to be sick on our wedding day, and then sleep until you’re woken up.”

“How can you care for me if you don’t even know me?” you sobbed, lowering your eyes, unable to keep looking at him. 

“Who said I don’t?”

Ears peaking up, you held your breath, trying to listen if he said anything more. But Kita didn’t care to explain until you finally looked up again, expecting an explanation that you feared he wouldn’t give you. “The ways of the gods are unfathomable, but that doesn’t mean everything that happens is without reason. We met before, [Name], even if I’m afraid you don’t remember.”

For a split second, and perhaps, for the first time that you met him, you saw his brows furrow slightly as he said the last words, his hand falling from your face, as he turned towards the exit, his feet not making any sounds as he stepped away from you. “What do you mean?” you mumbled after him, his back now illuminated by the white moonlight coming through your cell’s window. 

“Who are you?” you kept asking, standing up, barely able to hold on to the fur as you chased after him. However, the moment he stepped through the opening in the bars, they closed rapidly, keeping you from following him outside. All you could do was grip the cold iron with your hands, as Kita turned around briefly. “What are you?” You wished he’d answer you, at least now, at least before this whole ordeal was about to go down. Answer all questions, or even just one, so you could tame those raging feelings of confusion and fear inside of you. 

But instead, he merely put his free hand next to yours, fingers laying down on your wrist for a moment before they patted down your arm, telling you to let go of the bars. Instead, he caught your hand, bringing it up to his lips and kissing the cold knuckles tenderly. 

The candlelight vanished as a cold draft filled the air, coming from above the stairs. “Kita-sama?” an unknown voice asked, and you shied away as all you heard was a short growl in return. However, he held your hand tightly in his, not letting go even when the door seemed to fall shut quickly.

“I’m your husband,” were his last words before he finally let go of you, taking his quiet, barely noticeable leave.

Even when you assumed he was gone, you couldn’t find a calm second to collect your thoughts, the questions and lost answers working you up endlessly. You wished for some clarity, a miracle, or preferable even - an explanation. 

But your night was far from over, even if there might be even more questions than answers awaiting you.

➤ [Move forward to Prologue II]

[wordstro]

[3:08 PM] + naruto/ninja au + “thank you, for everything.”

note: shinobi = ninjas, chakra = energy reserves, yunho x gender neutral reader x mingi implications

-

your team was always dysfunctional. you should have known you’d never grow out of it. you started out as barely teenagers after all, made to train your asses off since you were toddlers in order to protect your village. they’d left your team under the supervision of some twenty something year old shinobi with unprocessed trauma of his own and expected you to come out unscathed. it’s almost laughable to think your team would end up as anything but dysfunctional.

not to mention the ghosts each of you carried with you from the very first day. you’d grown up orphaned and ostracized, with a cursed demon sealed into you that had been responsible for the destruction of your village and the death of your parents. he liked to speak to you, remind you that that was also why your village ostracized you. sometimes the demonic fox spirit would curl its teeth back and remind you that you’d killed people because you harbored him inside you. frankly, it was fucked up.

then there was jeong yunho, kind faced and handsome and infuriatingly good at everything. you’d developed a small rivalry with the boy, only because he’d grin and call you idiot and you knew if you could beat him then all the whispers would cease. he was the last of the jeong clan. yunho sat there on the first day of training with your team and activated his clan eyes, red swirling eyes born of anger and death, and he said he was going to avenge his clan. he would take his brother’s life for killing his clan in front of his eyes. and you thought your life was fucked up.

last was song mingi, with his jokes and clumsiness and heart eyes directed at absolutely anyone who would treat him with kindness. he’d lost his parents to the demon fox spirit’s attack on the village. he looked at you sometimes like he knew exactly what you harbored. or rather exactly what you’d done, as the fox spirit liked to remind you. he was perceptive, but determined, and he could have been the strongest of the three of you if blood techniques and fox spirits did not give you and yunho an advantage over him.

years passed since that first day, and you are all more dysfunctional than ever. perhaps, you are worse off now then you were before. perhaps it was the invasions from enemy villages, the kidnapping and demon extraction attempts made on you, the broken limbs and broken hearts, the reappearance of yunho’s brother and the deep seated anger that reappearance brought out of yunho. with the realization that he was still not strong enough to avenge his family and kill his brother, yunho’s kindness melted into a rage that ate away at everyone and everything. mingi tried to keep you all together. but yunho tried to tear you all apart.

maybe your team's destruction was inevitable.

it’s why you find yourself here now, at the great valley of shinobi, face to face with your self proclaimed rival-turned-best-friend, the demonic fox spirit inside you keening for the chance to be unleashed.

yunho stands across the valley, tendrils of inky black spreading across his skin, over his face, down his arm, reddening his eyes. the curse mark. he’d gotten it during your first exam years ago. you still had no idea how it happened. one moment he was fine and the next he was knocked unconscious over mingi’s shoulders, and when you’d asked mingi what happened, mingi merely curled his fingers into tight fists at his lap and shook his head, wordless. the only explanation you had was watching yunho nearly murder neighboring shinobi during the exam's second round matches.

now, mingi stands at the bottom of the valley, his head tilted upwards, watching both of you. he kept a distance, but he could hear them. he needed to watch them, even when you'd selfishly suggested he stayed back.

he’d mentioned once, in the quiet of an evening post-mission when the three of you were settling into bed with bruised limbs and a deep exhaustion, that he hated how useless he felt in your presence. it wasn’t fair that you had seemingly endless chakra reserves and yunho, well, he was merely perfect in every way. it wasn't fair how weak he was compared to both of you, how he would always be a step behind no matter how strong he got. yunho with his clan techniques and clan eyes and you with your endless chakra and strength. this was before yunho had gone mad for his vengeance. he’d reached out and pressed a hand to mingi’s and said, “you could never be useless. without you i would have died in that forest.”

you’d nodded, whispered, “if anyone’s useless it’s yunho. what kind of shinobi almost dies in a forest?”

yunho tossed his pillow at you and mingi let out a small, choked laugh at your shriek. you’d wiped at his tears, patting his cheek, and yunho rubbed his back, with that kind smile you’d started to mind a lot less.

you tear your eyes from the mouth of the valley, from yunho, from your thoughts of the past, focusing on the here and now.

“you’re really going to desert the village? after everything?”

yunho tilts his head and there’s a familiarity in his smile. he’d look at you like that sometimes, when you’re all trudging back from a mission or after a particularly grueling training session where you’d sit up from where you lay on the dirt, making grabby hands for water, and yunho would toss you his water bottle, laughing quietly when it’d slip past your fingers and hit your chest. he’d look at you with affection. like he was fond of you.

“it’s the only way i can get stronger and achieve my goal.”

yunho’s voice echoes, the curse mark growing larger as it encompasses his face.

“this place is a distraction.”

“bullshit and you fucking know it. we’ve been good for you. if you'd just take your head out of your ass for one moment, you'd see that.”

“let me specify,” he bites out, “you are a distraction.”

“yeah fucking right.”

“and useless,” he spat, unkindly, uncharacteristically. his eyes darted to the mouth of the valley, where mingi crouched, close enough to listen, “both of you.”

he hadn’t thought that when he’d take you and mingi to eat ramen after a long day of training. he hadn’t thought that you were useless when he learned of the beast inside you and his eyes changed, for both better and worse, when he decided he needed to surpass you too. he spent years building mingi up, holding his hand after missions gone awry and reminding him that he was everything but useless, that it was hardly fair for him to compare himself when his strengths lied in chakra control. he spent years sparring you and nodding appreciatively whenever you’d thoroughly kick his ass. if he really thought you useless or a distraction he would never have taken his time to bandage up your wounds after particularly bad missions. he was destroying everything he had here, at home, for his futile vengeance. you could imagine mingi's hurt at his words, even without looking at him. the same feeling, the same hurt, coursed through your veins, consuming you. the demon fox spirit inside you fed off it.

“i’m not letting you do this, yunho. once you step out of this valley, they’ll put you in the bingo book. you'll have a reward out for your head. you’ll be a deserter...a traitor. they won’t let you come back, yunho. you'll ruin your life.”

“you won't let me?" he ignores everything else you say and you notice. he glares, "who are you to make decisions for me?”

“your best fucking friend.”

“that’s useless too. it’ll just make me weak. it's already made you weak. look at you, on the verge of tears. look at mingi.”

you grit your teeth. you want to yell at him, tell him that you and mingi have made him stronger, just as yunho and mingi have made you. friendship, bonds, were not weak. it was not useless. love was not weak.

but you were always bad at speaking your feelings. you worked better with your fists. every disagreement you've ever had with yunho was resolved on the training fields, with well placed punches until you were both too exhausted to move. there was a reason why mingi was the heart of your team.

you clench your fists, before raising them, steadying your chakra, readying yourself. you bite, “i’ll drag you back if i have to.”

yunho laughed, and it was still the same loud laugh you’d grown accustomed to. you glare as he calls, “i’d love to see you try, idiot.”

the demon fox inside you jeers in anticipation. you shoot forward and yunho laughs as he grabs you by the neck, shoving you down and into the mouth of the valley. he moved faster than he ever had before. you vaguely hear mingi shouting at both of you, blood rushing to your ears. you fight, and you bleed, and yunho does not back down. he gathers electricity at his hands, striking midair, and you gasp, tumbling before you steady yourself, moving just as quickly. yunho does not relent, even when mingi steps in.

mingi gathers chakra, eyes determined, but yunho is too fast for him. with his cursed mark energy, he moves faster than even you can track, and his clan eyes make it worse. yunho clamps his hands around mingi's throat and you don't hear what mingi says to him, you just see mingi's mouth moving and yunho's brows furrowing as he stills for a moment. and then yunho blasts mingi into the side of a cliff with a sickening crunch. mingi crumbles into a heap and that spurs you into another wave of anger as you pummel yunho, screaming at him. how could he hurt mingi? he swore he never would. you were fair game, but mingi was different. you both decided that from the moment your team was formed.

he turns into a cursed beast with skeletal wings and black eyes and fangs. his clan eyes spin. he is ruthless. you turn into the demon fox spirit. it salivates at it's chance to be released.

still, in the end, you lose.

-.-.-.-.-

your vision is a blur as you heave for air, your sides burning with each breath. the demon fox inside you growls at you to get up but you’ve used up all you chakra. you vaguely make out yunho slumped over you. he stumbles to his feet, dragging an unconscious mingi to your side.

he looks between you both, the moon framing his slumped form.

“don’t,” you breathe, voice raspy, stilted, “please yunho, don’t go.”

he looks down at you as if he is committing you to memory, even like this. his gaze flits to mingi and he does the same, before he tilts his head up, closes his eyes. his jaw clenches. then he looks at you.

“thank you, for everything,” he says with a quiet finality.

your vision blurs, and you’re fading, but you still try to get up, to move. you’re too weak for any of it. he watches you struggle for a moment, before he turns and he walks away. he leaves you.

later, mingi sits by your bedside in the hospital and you murmur to him, “i swear i’ll bring him back.”

“no,” he reaches out and squeezes your hand, “we’ll do it together.”

[ampleappleamble]

---

There was 'too strange to be true,' and then there was 'too strange not to be true.'

The former was usually easy enough to determine, at least for a woman of Sagani's age and experience: she'd be a piss-poor mother, hunter, and leader were she to give credence to every tall tale a guilty child or unscrupulous trader told her. But sometimes a situation was just unusual enough, skirted that line between plausibility and absurdity just so, that Sagani found herself well and truly baffled. Like now, with these kith.

They'd seemed like a regular bunch of adventurers at first glance, although a motley one. They'd been chatting amiably amongst themselves when they'd noticed her, and if she hadn't heard them talking about a carved bear-- and if Itumaak hadn't nudged her hip and whined, pointed eagerly at the strangers with his whole body-- she probably would have ignored them entirely and let them disappear down the road, over the horizon.

Leaving her alone. Again. And still at square one.

So she had cast her line, and had been completely knocked off guard at the response she'd gotten. She had been expecting the folk man-- the big blonde with the country drawl-- to do what Dyrwoodan men tended to do, and bloviate at her until he lost interest and herded his mismatched crew off to their next thrilling adventure. But instead, he had crouched down to regard Itumaak with childlike delight while, to Sagani's mild surprise, the redheaded orlan had stepped forward and taken the conversational lead.

What with all the bigotry against orlans she'd heard tell of since arriving in the Dyrwood (and the handful of incidents she'd witnessed firsthand), Sagani hadn't anticipated the leader of this little pack to be one-- and a woman at that, although her foreign accent cleared up some of the confusion. Listening to her bold, clear, confident voice, Sagani had been unable to stop herself cocking an eyebrow and cracking a bemused smile at this strange little encounter.

And it had only gotten stranger the more they'd conversed. While answering the orlan's questions about her hunt for Persoq, Sagani had noticed the giant aumaua behind her scribbling frantically on a sheet of vellum, his excited eyes darting between the orlan and herself. She'd also noticed the folk man ignoring the conversation entirely to focus on trying to get Itumaak's attention, as well as the elf standing alone in the back who may or may not have been talking to himself behind his grimoire. And here she'd been, expecting more slack-jawed farmhands. Gods, these people were odd.

Yes, Sagani, they're a bunch of freaks. Not like you, a middle-aged female long game hunter from an isolated village on an island in the arctic who's searching for a dead man with her snowy white fox.

Maybe that was what made her put Persoq's bear in the other woman's hands, that guilt at thinking her and her companions odd when Sagani had such an unusual story herself. And at least these people were actually friendly, for once. She still hadn't decided whether they were necessarily trustworthy or not, but she could fairly confidently tell that they weren't about to pull some kind of shit. Body language was too relaxed, atmosphere was all wrong for violence or trickery. Hel, this girl wasn't even asking for coin. So why not let her have a go at it?

And now, watching the little woman sway on her feet and stare like a sleepwalker, Sagani was starting to wonder if she had made the right decision after all. She wasn't normally an easy woman to rattle, but something about the orlan had changed, something behind her eyes, and it lent her an eerie, uncanny quality that made Sagani's skin crawl.

"What's going on?" she blurted, hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. "What's happening to her?" Itumaak finally snapped at the annoying folk man, curling his lip and snarling, and the big blonde backed off as the fox leaned into Sagani's side.

"Oh, uh, yeah," the man stammered, "prolly shoulda warned you about that. She gets like that when she's doin' her Watchin', or whatch' call it." He dug his thumb into an itchy spot between his eyebrows, side-eyed Itumaak. "...Your fox bite?"

"Yes," she muttered, eyes still fixed on the orlan woman, on Persoq's bear.

"Can I pet him anyway?" The man's blue-green eyes shone with sincerity.

"Worry not, madam! She'll come out of it soon enough," the aumaua interjected, tucking his writing tools away in his satchel before peering intently at the adra carving in the orlan's hands. "At least, she seemed to come out of it rather quickly when she spoke to the spirits in Caed Nua. This might be an entirely different experience, as far as I'm aware." He chuckled and gently waved his gigantic hand in the redhead's face, and she stared through him, completely unresponsive. "Fascinating, isn't it? I wonder what she sees..."

Sagani glanced up at the huge man, careful to keep the orlan and Persoq's bear in her peripheral vision. "You're telling me you all came from Caed Nua? That old keep west of here? I was told that place was nothing but a wraith-infested death trap." She felt her heart drop, just a little. Yeah. I thought these folks might be too strange to be true.

"Sure's Hel was," the folk man grumbled, his tone suggesting he knew from experience. "'Course, that was before we showed up."

The little huntress narrowed her eyes at him. "Care to explain exactly what you mean by that?"

The shy elf finally spoke up, cringing with embarrassment as he drew near. "Er-- begging your pardon, madam; what my cohort meant to say is-- Well, come to think of it, actually, perhaps introductions are in order--"

"Cliffs," the orlan gasped, and Sagani's focus was back on her in an instant, Itumaak yipping softly with surprise. To her credit, everyone else jumped too, startled by the little woman's sudden return to consciousness. But still, she couldn't afford surprises like that, especially when it came to Persoq's bear. Never again. Beast's Hooves, woman, never take your eye off your quarry...!

The orlan shook her head and blinked, finally seeming to come out of her reverie. "By the sea, I think," she continued, trembling slightly as she placed the adra carving back into Sagani's waiting hands. "Pretty high up, but that salty spray still reached my face."

Sagani's gaze flicked rapidly between the green-purple lump in her hands and the woman in front of her. "...What? I-- what just-- what did you do?" That was nothing like the last "Watcher" she'd dealt with, and she knew he was full of shit. But it didn't necessarily mean this girl was on the level, either...

"I... watched, I suppose. Well, not just watching. It was more like... being inside someone else's head, feeling what they feel as well as seeing what they see." The redhead rubbed her eyes, smiled wearily at Sagani. Reminded her of her oldest child after a prematurely terminated nap. "In this case, I was inside Persoq's head, or his reincarnation's, anyway. Damned disorienting, I have to admit. And it tends to make me look a bit foolish at times."

"Right. I'll bet." Too strange not to be true? ...Maybe. Maybe not. The ranger stuffed the carving back into her pack, not quite ready to admit defeat yet. "Y'know, after my story about that charlatan Watcher, I'd have thought a 'real' Watcher like you would have more to say about the experience than that."

"A woman after my own heart!" The aumaua butted in again, looming up behind the little orlan like a sunrise. "I'd love to hear more myself. She only ever gives us the barest hints of what she sees, what the spirits tell her! ...Although," he added sheepishly, "I understand sometimes the scenes that play out before her are... not exactly easy to talk about."

"Yes, Caed Nua and the Endless Paths are not exactly places with happy pasts, Kana," the elf reminded the aumaua gently but firmly before turning to Sagani. "I know we must seem... an unusual bunch, madam, and you've no reason whatsoever to trust us. And we were each just as skeptical when we met her, and just as shocked as you the first time we saw her peer into the aether. But she has proven multiple times over to each of us that, ultimately, she is telling the truth: she is a Watcher."

Gods, they're persistent! If they're liars, at least it seems they've got their story straight. "You realize I don't even have any coin to offer you for... for whatever that was." She knew how dangerous this could turn out to be, but she could feel herself wanting to believe them, wanting her long, difficult search to finally yield a solid lead...

The little woman shrugged, unconcerned, and turned to the road in front of Sagani, shouldering her pack once more. "Didn't ask for any coin," she stated simply. "Although, if you've a tent, we'd trade you for it. Someone ruined ours."

The folk man tore his attention away from Itumaak's fluffy, rapidly swishing tail to regard the orlan with indignation. "Hey, c'mon, Axa, I said it was an accident--"

And as if on cue, he was silenced by a crack of thunder. All of a sudden, the humidity and the smell of ozone was overpowering, and the gathered kith all turned their faces to the heavens.

The first drop of rain hit Itumaak on the nose, and he sneezed.

"Welp," the big blonde sighed, "Sun was settin' anyway. Guess I'll get started on a lean-to for us." He trudged off into the nearby brush, and as the others followed behind him, the aumaua and the elf gave Sagani polite, awkward little smiles. The orlan woman-- Axa, as Sagani knew her now-- watched them go and then turned to her, raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question. The rain was starting to come down in earnest now.

Oh, come on already--

"I... There's... a little rock outcropping about 15 minutes' hike southeast. Should fit five and a fire 'neath it." Sagani reached down and scratched Itumaak behind the ears, and he pressed himself into her strong, steady hand. His reassurance comforted her, and she smiled. "And a fox, of course."

Axa smiled back at the dwarf, her cohorts turning back toward the two women. "Well! I never thought I'd say that that sounds more appealing than my current projected sleeping arrangements, but here we are. You'll lead the way, I trust?"

Just remember, Sagani: if you wake up tomorrow and Persoq's bear is gone again, you'll have no one to blame but yourself.

The huntress shook her head and chuckled. "Sure will. Follow me."

---

[secret-engima]

Title thingy if ur still doing that, my friend. Not Everyday Is A Good Day (Live Anyway)

Ohhhhh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

So many things I could DO with this title. *squints*.

Did I ... ever do that ffxv naruto crossover I came up with at like 3AM?

Let’s assume I didn’t and roll with that.

It ends with dying.

It starts with waking up after dying, and finding a world gone bloody and primitive and strange.

It starts with a little boy from a village no one knows opening his eyes one day and ... remembering. Feeling the burning Light under his skin that tangles with the energy in the world around him and realizing he is alive once more ... and the world is completely different from what he remembers.

It is not a good beginning. Because the world has more than fallen apart since he was last awake, and people are superstitious and afraid of odd things.

And there are few things more odd than a little boy with too old eyes and a too sharp mind. A little child with no fear of death, with a birthmark on his front and back that looks like a blade went right through his heart, who dances in the storms with the rain beating his skin and a grin that is two shades too wild to be human.

It is not a good beginning, and there are a very many days that are even worse.

He lives anyway. He lives and he learns. Of ninja and clans, of a world where all have a fragment of magic, a tamer version of the Thing in his veins. Where the powerful wage war and technology is long, long lost (stolen, he thinks, by the paranoid, or perhaps forbidden by them out of fear of another Niflheim).

He lives, and when he is only eleven, he takes what few things he has to call his own and he leaves the village behind. No one misses him.

He walks and walks and walks, deeper and deeper into the wilds. At one point, he meets a giant orange fox who burns with old anger and simmering indifference. Their eyes meet, an old King and a newborn Astral, and the fox dips his head in silent, surprised acknowledgment of the truth men have forgotten. He keeps walking. Living off the wilds like he has done a thousand times in memories not his own, unafraid of the beasts, for they are not daemons, and nothing is scary after facing down daemons.

He finds a nice little nook in an unassuming wood, and there he builds himself a home. There is a village a few days walk away, and after growing bored with making too many potions to place even in his massive armiger, he goes to the village and sells them as herbal remedies. They taste terrible to drink instead of crush against skin, but they work just as well when swallowed.

The people of this village are superstitious too, but they do not know him as a boy turned suddenly too old, only as a mysterious wood hermit who looks too young for his eyes and sells miracle medicine for a pittance, who will save lives from incurable fates with a touch of green hands and a flicker of burning feathers and ask nothing in return.

It takes him a long time to realize the little house they’ve built him for when he comes to visit is actually a shrine.

Yoru, they call him. Night. For his hair and his quiet, for the shadows that walk in his steps. He thinks it’s funny, that even now, in another life, he still ends up with a name that means Night.

And it is a very lonely life, to be held as a friendly, if strange spirit of the woods by other humans, to be alone in his memories and his ghosts in a world that remembers his sacrifice when the humans there do not. The Astrals he has always known are deep in slumber, and for all he is lonely he is reluctant to wake them. Not everyday is a good day.

He lives anyway.

He is thirteen, he thinks, maybe fourteen, when she finds him. She is only his age, and she is so very, very pretty. A rarity with hair the color of pale gold and eyes as blue as the sky.

Funny how they look the same as they did in their last life.

She is a noble’s daughter, and she is too young to be out of her family’s care, but she is not the daughter of the nobleman’s wife, and the son who IS is deathly ill.

Heal my son, says her father with desperate eyes, and I will give you my daughter.

He is angry at the thought of it. At seeing her, who has saved the world and holds his heart even now, being used as a bargaining chip with what these people think is a wayward forest spirit. He could do anything to her in their minds.

And they do not care.

The son matters more.

He accepts and he heals the son they have brought of his illness (something simple, something the non-magical medicine of his era could have healed).

The nobleman, his son, and his escort depart. They leave her behind.

She takes his hands in hers and whispers that she is glad, they touch lips, brief and chaste, and she laughs when he names her Tsuki. His Moon.

Maybe it is a good day after all.

The locals acclimate to her quickly, whisper over the powers they think she has gained by becoming his bride. He does not care, he has his Moon and his little forest home. If his brothers find him ... then life would be perfect, but until then, he is content.

And then a ninja sets his house on fire.

Well, the village shrine really, but it’s the same thing now after Luna talked him into moving in permanently so as to better treat the villagers.

There are five of them, three with black hair and fire licking their bones and two with brown hair and magic like water or earth. They are fighting, and while one of the black hairs sets the shrine on fire, it is one with brown hair that knocks down the lovely Tori gate he’d grown rather fond of.

His magic unfurls, heavy and displeased, and all five drop to their knees with gasps of shock and fear. Two struggle to their feet, collapse again when he presses downward with his magic. They have more magic than the villagers, but compared to him and his Moon, they are raindrops in an ocean.

“Leave this place,” he snarls, his voice layered with a hundred others, and the ninja blanch as they flee.

Except one. The brown haired one who knocked over his Tori gate and is apparently bleeding very badly from his torso, struggles to stand and then collapses.

The other brunette leaves him behind.

He sighs as his magic curls inward and it’s the work of a moment to drag the man inside the crispy house and see what’s wrong. A few potions set the man to rights, and when he wakes up hours later, stupefied and wary, his Moon laughs as he sends the ninja on his way with a scowl.

Three days later, two ninja arrive in the village. All the villagers glare, they are still trying to figure out how to fix the gate on such short notice, but the ninja make no trouble as they approach the shrine home.

“I am Hashirama, leader of the Senju Clan,” the elder says with a low bow, so low his long brown hair touches the ground, “and I came to offer thanks and apologies for my clansmen.”

The white haired one just scowls, skeptical as he stares at the shrine and its inhabitants.

“I am Yoru,” he answers, all of maybe seventeen now, “and this is Tsuki. Your ninja knocked my gate down. And three more set my house on fire.”

Hashirama winces, “I am sorry for the gate, I can fix it if you like.” Yoru tilts his head and Hashirama takes it as an agreement.

Tsuki makes a noise of surprised delight when a new gate grows up from the ground, living wood in the desired shape. Yoru makes a pleased noise, his magic couldn’t do that. He looks back down at the Senju in interest, “I’ve never seen a ninja do that before,” he muses, and the man laughs a touch nervously.

They have come to make amends, but as far as Yoru is concerned, the gate has paid their tab. Even so, he asks questions and when he learns of the Senju’s war with the Uchiha, he frowns.

“Leave my village and my forest alone,” he says, “So long as you are within twelve miles of the village, you are not to fight.” The white-haired one protests, but Yoru will not budge.

It doesn’t take long for him to have to enforce that rule.

He hears the burning of wood and the feels the flare of magic and sighs as he warps over there. A glance proves it’s the brunettes and the black hairs again.

He lets his magic surge out and flatten them in their surprise, snuffs the flames with an ice spell, and glares, “I said,” he intones darkly, “no fighting near my home.”

“You dare-!” snarls the leader of the black haired ones, only to falter when Yoru turns his gaze on him. Speechless under the weight of the gaze.

Most people are when facing eyes the color of age and blood.

“I don’t know what war you fight,” he says slowly, “but you will not fight it here. If you do this again, there will be consequences.”

He looks over at the Senju, silent warning that his message applies to them too. Then he sighs and folds his arms over his chest, “Are you even fighting for a cause? Why are you so determined to kill each other?”

Both sides break out in shouting, accusations of death and vengeance that makes him feel weary. Tsuki touches his shoulder from where she has caught up, her eyes solemn, and Yoru scoffs, “What a pointless reason to fight.”

“And what would you know?” Snarls one of the Uchiha as he stalks forward, moving under the weight of Yoru’s magic only because Yoru is not projecting it all. The sword lashes out for Yoru’s neck, and his armiger flairs to life, blocking the blade and pointing four more at the man’s throat.

The leader of the Uchiha hisses a name, it sounds like “Izuna”.

Yoru looks into red eyes with black marks and crushes the attempt at an illusion (so pathetic compared to Ardyn’s a lifetime ago) with barely a thought, “What would I know?” he muses softly. “What. Would I. Know?”

His magic begins to rise, shifting into visible spectrum, crystalline shares and licking blue fire, an armiger of dancing blades risking in ghostly white. He can feel his skin cracking open and gleaming, mortal skin fracturing under the pressure of angry magic, he lets it form, lets his skin turn grey and terrible, lets his magic coat the summer field with ice and his shoulders with ghostly blue fire.

He watches as the Uchiha who lashed out at him pales, eyes flickering frantically, trying to see through a trick that does not exist.

“Do not presume to know me,” Yoru growls, “do not presume to know my heart or my ways. I have seen what vengeance wreaks. I have walked through its graveyards, I have stood beneath its blackened skies and tasted its ash as the world rots beneath the endless night. Vengeance will eat you alive and hunger for more, it will demand more blood than the world contains and at the end of the day, the dead you claim to be avenging Will. Not. Care. Vengeance is not a reason to fight. It is a reason to die. And if it is death you want, then I will give it to you. I will burn your home to as he and stand upon the bones, and when I am done and the world goes quiet, there will be none who look upon them and will be able to tell your bones from those of the Senju you despise. Is that what you want, little ninja? To paint the world brown with your dried blood? To rouse what lies sleeping and destroy what yet breathes?” All the ninja have gone dead white and Yoru snarls, old, tired fury in his blood, memories of Conqueror-Fierce-Warrior-Mystic stirring him toward violence, “Well? SPEAK and it will be so. Speak and I will SHOW YOU what vengeance is-.”

Tsuki’s- Luna’s- arms rest on his bicep, unflinching from the heat, and she whispers, “Peace, my love.”

His anger cools. His skin heals over. His armiger fades.

Yoru steps back from the white-faced ninja, those who have heard of the supposed healer guardian of the forest but not believed it until this moment, and he warns with dark exhaustion, “Leave. Leave and think about what it is you really want. For your world to burn? Or for your children to be able to grow old rather than lie forgotten in shallow graves and crows’ bellies. Fight here again, fight anywhere with in fifty miles of my home, and I will end your blood feud for you, and neither side will celebrate my intervention.” Yoru turns away, ignoring the wide-eyed Hashirama, the spinning red eyes of the Uchiha, “go away and cease playing at war.”

Tsuki leads him home and he lies on the floor for a long time. Letting the cool of the wood leach into his bones, letting his magic curl lazy patterns in the air as his Moon and his Love curls patiently against his chest, waiting for him to rise out of the memories howling in his head.

Today is not a good day.

Tomorrow might be better, when it comes, but even if it isn’t ... well.

Not every day is a good day.

He lives anyway.

And he will never forget what a blessing that is.

[eatprayworm]

without fox demons, no village is complete: an essay on tsomd’s li zilong and fox spirits

The big bad of The Sleuth of the Ming Dynasty live action series, Li Zilong, is in many ways a mystery. We never learn his real motivations for wanting to take down the emperor, and there’s so many odd details about him that don’t add up (how did he disappear in thin air from Wang Zhi?). I propose a theory that provides an explanation for this antagonist: he is a fox spirit. I use a combination of sources to come to this conclusion. Let’s read.

The Real Li Zilong

A good place to start is the history of the real life Li Zilong. According to “The Eunuchs of the Ming Dynasty” by Shih-shan Henry Tsai, the Chenghua emperor established the Western Depot in 1477, with Wang Zhi at the helm. What made the emperor create the Western Depot? Well! The original mission of the Depot was to investigate the case of Li Zilong, a “transvestite” (the book’s words, not mine) who allegedly practiced witchcraft and had magical abilities. Li Zilong worked with a court eunuch to sneak into the imperial harem and mingle with superstitious women. And so, the Chenghua emperor created the Western Depot and had Wang Zhi search for any other witches or strange people. Wang Zhi went on to become a terror in the lives of many common folk.

So, the real Li Zilong was tied to mystical practices.

The Book Li Zilong

What about Li Zilong in the novel? Well! I haven’t read the novel so I can’t fully speak to it, but I’ve read some passages that describe Li Zilong. In chapter 3, Tang Fan discusses the Demon Fox Case, about a golden fox demon who was sent in to kill the emperor. This demon fox was said to be killed by the Ming Dynasty’s founding emperor. There was also a Taoist named Li Zilong who appeared around the same time, and for whatever reason, the court associated Li Zilong with the fox, and he was executed. After Li Zilong was executed, the emperor established the Western Depot so he’d have a more reliable source of information.

Since I haven’t read the novel, I can’t say if Li Zilong is really dead or if there’s more information on this case. I’d love to hear if there is! Otherwise, what we can infer here is that Li Zilong was, most likely, a fox demon spirit out to kill the emperor.

The book is not the show, though, so this could be dismissed. However, I propose that the show version of Li Zilong is indeed a fox spirit. To better explain why I believe this, we need to understand a few things about Chinese fox spirits.

What are fox spirits?

There is a very long history of fox spirits in Chinese lore. I’ve done a few hours of research, but I am by no means an expert, so take all of this with a grain of salt. Likewise, fox spirits are called many terms (huxian, humei, huli jing, to name just a few) and they have various roles within ancient lore. For the purposes of this essay, I’ll focus on some general fox spirit information.

There are some generally accepted lore about fox spirits. According to old records, fox spirits have long lives and can take different forms depending on their age. When they reach 500 years, they can take the form of a beautiful woman, a handsome man, or an old wise scholar. When they reach 1,000 years, they may enter the heavens and become a celestial fox.

In some stories, foxes are seen as good omens who bring wealth and fortune to humans. In other stories, foxes take human form and seduce men or women. In others still, foxes are seen as signs of misfortune, sorcery, and rebellion.

Powers

Fox spirits are noted to have particular traits and powers, including:

strike their tail on the ground to cause fire

the ability to possess humans

ability to see into the future

can see events up to 1,000 li away

invisibility

pass through walls

a cunning and trickster disposition

Motives

The motives of foxes vary. Some have no moral alignment. Others seek to play mischief and tricks on humans; others steal the spirits of men so they may increase their own.

There are also tales of fox spirits taking revenge, either for themself or a deceased individual. To quote one source, “Typically in folklore the Chinese fox had two basic motives, to show its powerful shape-shifting ability by assuming the form of a person or demon to achieve the second motive: that of revenge for some crime it perceived, real or imagined.”

Interestingly, this is not the only source to discuss fox spirits and revenge. One tale speaks to a fox who cursed three generations because it was harmed by the family. Another source states, “...the Chinese revenge-fox stories: the killed fox is able to punish his murderer, being almost as clever as he is.”

Li Zilong? A Fox?

Now, why do I think the show!Li Zilong could be one of these crafty fox spirits? It’s a combination of canon clues and some inferences on my part. Let’s begin!

Age & Revenge

Li Zilong tells Princess Gu’an that he is a descendant of the Li family, who ruled during the Tang dynasty. The Tang Dynasty. What’s interesting to note is that the Tang Dynasty ended in the beginning of the 900’s - over 550 years before the present day in the show. Why would a descendant from this very old royal family have it out for the emperor? And what does this have to do with foxes?

The Tang Dynasty was the height of fox and fox spirit worship. The Tang Scholar Zhang Zuo noted: “From the beginning of the Tang Dynasty, many of the commoners worshipped fox deities. They offer sacrifices to them in their bedchambers, and food and drink offered are the same as those consumed by humans. At the time there was proverb saying ‘without fox demons, no village is complete.’”

There are other mentions of fox demons and their roles as gods. In one instance, dozens of “fox demons” appeared at a temple honor Li Jing, a Tang Dynasty general who was revered as a god. In another instance, a temple was erected for the “fox kings” in the land. In the year 1110, the Grand Councilor ordered that 1,000 fox-king shrines should be destroyed. (Li Jing? Some demon foxes being called huli jing? interesting coincidences.)

So. We have Li Zilong, who was a descendant of the royal family that ruled during the height of fox worship. What’s more, Li Zilong wears the same type of headpiece that the Chenghua emperor wears.

Was Li Zilong truly the descendant of royalty? Or, is he perhaps royalty from the era itself, a remnant of the fox kings of old? After all,  why would a descendant of the Tang Dynasty care about an emperor who lived hundreds of years later, unless he’s been around long enough to have a reason to care? Could he, like his book counterpart, have been slighted by the Ming Dynasty’s founding emperor?

When he finally confronts the emperor, he stares and says he’s waited a long time for this day. Maybe he’s waited over a hundred years.

Photos for reference:

Powers & Omens

Li Zilong exhibits traditional powers of fox spirits.

Invisibility. When Wang Zhi and he are walking out of the brothel, he tells Wang Zhi to look away. Wang Zhi looks away for a few seconds, turns back, and Li Zilong is gone. There’s no hint that he leaped away; he seemed to disappear out of thin air.  Or, perhaps, he simply turned invisible. He pulls a similar trick when Tang Fan sees him across the street, but he disappears after a carriage goes by. Naturally, he probably hopped on the carriage. But….what if he didn’t. Additionally, how did Li Zilong get into the brothel when he was holding the meeting with the Oirats? Why was he so unafraid to be in public when he was literally public enemy number one? Only someone who could disappear quickly could have such confidence.

Precognition/knowledge. Li Zilong knew everything about everyone, even when it didn’t make sense for him to know these things. How did he know so much about the chicken cup? How could he predict the moves of the heroes again and again and again? How did he know the history of individuals so well? Sure, he had men that kept him informed. He had Qing Ge. But his ability to not only know so many past and current events, and keep a thumb on so many individuals and schemes (like the Yunhe silver situation) for years is very, very impressive. Almost inhumanly impressive.

Fire. Now, Li Zilong himself does not have the power of fire, but he sure is attracted to it. Ding Rong describes the explosions of the bolang as a sea of fire - and wouldn’t that appeal to a fox who can strike fire with his tail? Imagine being able to amplify this natural ability. Li Zilong seemed to grow particularly protective and fond of the bolangs; his eyes would light up, he asked for far more than he ever needed. A fox with a penchant for fire indeed.

Wealth & Rebellion. Li Zilong fits the archetype of the fox being both a benefactor and an ill omen. He says time and time again that he’s a businessman, and indeed he is: he fills the pockets of men (and himself) with gold, so long as they follow him. Sounds almost like worship? And wouldn’t an old fox king just love that? Additionally, Li Zilong is considered a rascal, an outsider, a rebel; Shang Ming, Wan An, and Wan Tong will collude with him, but they still deem him an “other”, an outside force. Fox spirits were typically seen as the other, as a sign of chaos.

Miscellaneous

Here’s some additional details I picked up while rewatching that lend some credence to my fox theory.

Fox Rings. On one of his hands, Li Zilong wears orange and black rings, side by side. These colors are typically associated with foxes.

2. Actual fox reference. In episode 47, Li Zilong warns Qing Ge that you cannot run from the eyes of the “three old foxes.” These mean the corrupt officials, of course. But what’s even more curious is what Dong’er tells the emperor: don’t run from Li Zilong, because he will always find you. So who is really the old fox here?

3. Qing Ge. One of the most common tales of fox spirits is them taking on the form of beautiful women to enchant men. Li Zilong adopting a skilled courtesan who canonically has men falling at her feet? Could this old fox king see a potential fox spirit in this adoptive daughter?

4. Tang Fan. In the Encyclopedia of Demons in World Religions and Cultures, the author states that “huli jing are especially fond of attacking virtuous scholars, as reasonable and virtuous people enrage them.” Li Zilong focused on Tang Fan as his real enemy. Not Sui Zhou. Not Wang Zhi. And why, when all three would eventually lead to his downfall? Because I think Tang Fan was the exact kind of scholar who Li Zilong couldn’t outsmart and beat, and he hated it.

5. Eyes. When Li Zilong falls down and dies, his eyes briefly change color. They flash from grey to silver; in the next scene, they’re brown again. What happened here? What spirit has left him? Could it be the death of a very old fox?

Conclusion

Fox or human? Descendant or royalty? Who knows what a Li Zilong is, but I think we can certainly assume he isn’t human - and may be the trickster from old. Ultimately, this is just my headcanon. At the end of the day, he may just be an old man who wanted to cause havoc for the hell of it. But I think this is a fun theory to entertain, and it gives him far more depth and intrigue than canon gave him otherwise.

Again, I am no expert in Chinese lore or Chinese fox spirits. Any mistakes are mine, and I’m certainly open to corrections!

[rogerblackwolf]

The Fox and the Huntsman

-Year 1889-

The man awoke suddenly to the blaring of the steamship's horn. He reluctantly gets dressed and heads up to the top deck, his eyes adjusting to the dawn light and the smell of seasalt teased his nose. He stretched because he didn't sleep well, the various vertebrae in his back were popping loud enough to be overheard by a pair of crewmen as they went about their morning duties. He then leaned against the rail to further awaken himself, the spray of the sea helped as did the rays of the sun as it made it's ascent above the horizon.

"Up early again, I see." The captain of the vessel said as he descended the steps from the helm of the steamship.

"Didn't sleep well." The man replied

"Nightmare?"

"Yes."

"Soldier's lives are hardly peaceful." The captain said

The man looked at him surprised before asking

"How did you know?"

"Remember when those rebels had an uprising back in 1828 in Brazil? I was in the Royal Marines back then, I just so happened to be in port during it all." The captain says showing a pin from the time.

"I was in the 66th." The man says

"At Maiwand?!" The captain asked stunned

"Yes."

A few moments of silence went by before the captain spoke once again.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced, Captain Howard Channing, at your humble service."

"Nathan Andrews. Pleasure to make your acquaintance." He says as they shake hands.

The two vets proceeded to chat while the ship continues on its course. The call "Land Hoe!" interrupts their conversation. Nathan looks out to see the horizon turn from ocean to a vast expanse of land, in response he goes below deck to his cabin to collect his things, including an letter with an official seal. He sits down on his bunk reading it one more time.

"Sergeant Nathan Andrews

By the order of the Elders, and the will of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria of England, you are to be sent to the colony of Hong Kong, China to hunt a vengeful spirit that has been causing trouble for many of the locals; one village in particular has expressed great concern about this spirit. Your mission is to travel to this village and determine the nature of this spirit. If it is possible, relocate it somewhere away from civilization; if the spirit is hostile you have permission to kill it. May your hunt be a success and your travels safe.

-Elder J."

Nathan then folded the letter and packed it away before checking his weapons. His single shot carbine, his 6 shot webley revolver, and finally his bayonet. As he did this, a second letter fell from his pack, this one from a woman he was engaged to in London. He had hoped this this hunt would be short so he could return quickly.

By the time he got back topside, Nathan realized that the steamhip had managed to dock.

Once the anchor was dropped and the gangplank lowered, Nathan was among the first to disembark along with several of the crew. The captain waved him off and wished him luck as Nathan surveyed his new surroundings. Unquestionably Hong Kong was a beautiful city, the streets were full of people from food vendors to clothing salesmen, and shops. The mountains however captivated and startled him reminding him of a time he wished he could forget.

Thankfully he was brought back to reality by a tapping on his shoulder. Nathan turned and was met with a short portly man dressed in a suit with a dark overcoat and a wide brimmed hat.

"Sergeant Andrews I presume?" He asks whilst nervously extending his hand.

"Yes." Nathan answered a little on edge

"Oh jolly good, I'm Reginald Collingwood. The Order saw fit to elect me as your guide and interpreter." The portly man explained as they shook hands. Mr. Collingwood then went on to explain the situation as he understood it from his own investigation.

"It started some weeks ago, the villagers all told me they witnessed a young woman come into town for supplies. The day after she left several young men became bedridden and had episodes of convulsions; I, myself, was able to cure this with some help from a local monk, curious fellow. Still though the villagers believe until this spirit is found and destroyed they will be in danger."

"Do you have any idea what I should be looking for? Aside for some strange woman?" Nathan asked

"Well I'm certain the villagers would be keen to assist you. We're heading there now." Reginald responded as he brought Nathan to a cart, the driver ready to take them to their destination.

The sun was directly above their heads by the time Nathan and Reginald had arrived at the village. With some assistance from the villagers the two Engishmen found themselves welcomed into the Elder's home. Nathan was fascinated by the many rituals that went into serving a single cup of tea, not to mention he was also served a bowl of rice with some sort of meat coated in a spicy sauce.

"Mr. Collingwood, I'd like to begin my hunt as soon as possible." Nathan insisted after they each had their fill

"Alright alright, I'll translate for you so don't worry." Reginald stated before asking the Elder about the spirit.

The elder and Reginald spoke for some time with Reginald stopping every so often to explain;

"He said that a mysterious woman came from the wilderness looking for rice, meat, and incense. She didn't leave til evening but when night came, the first of several young men began having convulsions and talking in their sleep. They kept saying the same thing.."Shen Li". Curious if you ask me." Reginald stated

"Is there nothing else he can tell us?" Nathan asked gesturing to the Elder.

"He said that the woman went North and the only place that he can think of is an old shrine that no one has visited in decades. Perhaps that would be a good place to start?" Reginald questioned

"Better than nothing." Nathan spoke.

After everything was said and done, the two men thanked the Elder for his help. Nathan decided to leave Reginald with the village for his safety, after all it was just an animal he was hunting. Taking his weapons, Nathan traversed to the northern parts of the countryside eventually arriving at the ruins of an old temple. The stonework was noticeable despite the multitude of vines and overgrowth, on the inside was wooden pillars holding up a stone roof and a shrine had freshly lit candles and incense.

"Someone was here...where are they now?" Nathan asked himself before deciding to lay in wait at the back of the temple. When night came so did the keeper of the shrine. Dressed in a loose white robe with long black hair, Nathan could barely make out a feminine figure in the low light. Only when he made himself known did he see her face, her eyes captured his attention the most. Their silver glow striking him in a way that made him blush embarrassed, even making him lower his weapon.

"Who are you and why are you here?" She asks in English.

"You speak English?" Nathan asked

"Should I not when faced with an English Man?" She replied.

"Hmph, you got me there." Nathan said.

"You have yet to answer my question." The woman responded.

"Right you are, I am Nathan Andrews and I was sent to hunt a spirit that may have come from this temple." He explains

"Do you intend to kill this spirit?" The woman asked as she locked eyes with him as if studying him

"If this spirit is a danger then yes...I won't hesitate." He said after a pause.

"We have not been introduced, I am Shen Li and I am a Hulijing, a fox spirit." She says, revealing her long tail and ears.

"I am Nathan Andrews. A Huntsman from England." Nathan said

"For being polite I will give you an explanation. You have earned that much." Shen Li says.

As Nathan sits with her, Shen Li explains that her magic is random in terms of enchanting men. In many cases men tend to forget her and move on with their lives due to her reclusive nature but sometimes men become annoyingly obsessed and refuse to leave her alone. Shen Li then goes on to say those particular men she tried to ignore but their cries and pleas are not deaf to her, she had to physically remove the enchantment herself. Thankfully there was a Englishman and a monk who cured the men she accidentally enchanted recently.

'Hmm, guess Reginald wasn't entirely useless.' Nathan thought.

"Well...what do you think? Am I a threat?" Shen Li asks him.

Nathan contemplated silently weighing the evidence of both her testimony and Reginald's investigation. As he thought he couldn't stop looking at her as if absentmindedly memorizing the curve of her cheeks, the smoothness of her skin, and her lengthy black hair but above all he found her eyes the most pleasing. He was so lost in them he didn't realize she was staring back at him, as if looking for something hidden.

"I think you're misunderstood, and despite your abilities you are not a threat. If you wish, I will gladly leave you be." Nathan says finally.

"I do enjoy my life here but it does get lonely. I would not be opposed to you returning whenever you wish. It is late, you may remain in the temple til morning. Get some rest, I must hunt for food." She says before turning into her fox form. Nathan would be surprised but he was already tired to begin with, he watched Shen as her silver fur glistened in the moonlight and with a pounce out the entranceway she was gone.

Once Nathan had lied down he began to slowly dose off but this night he didn't have any nightmares, for the first time in many months he was able to have a peaceful sleep. Nathan stirred from his slumber by the rays of morning, as he went about having some rations for breakfast he saw no sign of Shen. He decided to head back to the village since his work had been done, the only thing left to do was to deliver his report. As he traversed the path Nathan felt at ease, again a first in a long time. When he arrived back at the village he was welcomed by the people and Reginald.

"Mr. Andrews! Great to see you again old chap. Did you find the spirit?" He asked

"I did, and I have a report to write and send." Nathan responds

"Of course, at once." Reginald said as he showed Nathan to a office where he could write. It took maybe an hour before Nathan emerged once again and gave the letters to Reginald.

"You know what you have to do. Ensure the Order gets the report first. The second one I will not fault should it arrive late." Nathan said

"Yes of course, and where will you be going?" Reginald asked as the wagon was brought to the residence the two men were staying at.

"To have a chat with someone I met." Nathan said before he gave Reginald a handshake and a pat on his shoulder before walking back off into the woods.

Reginald also saw a silver furred fox sitting on a rock at the edge of the woods, even he could tell there was something not normal about it. When Nathan got close to the fox it let him pet it's head gently before both disappeared into the forest.

"Hmm, Curious." Reginald said to himself as the wagon leisurely made it's way to Hong Kong's port.

[mhall070]

MY SUPER SMASH BROS STORY

I first played super smash bros in 08, when brawl was new. It belonged to my mom's ex's nephew's friend, me my brother my mom's ex's nephew and his brother all played for countless hrs (funny with the 4 of us it really was super smash BROTHERS). Now I first played smash before I new what smash was so it was really just a fighting game with a bunch of familiar faces to it. My mane was Mr game & watch I only played him because he was visually the most impressive character (being flat and all), my brother played snake because he was a solder the nephew would play sonic and his brother would play rob cuz he looked like wall e.

Unfortenently this fun would not last for I had forgotten all about it in the 3 yrs it was absent from my life. 3 yrs later in the last month of of middle school I did not rediscover smash but it was first introduced to me. It was super smash bros 64 I fell in love instantly with its bizzar game play and mechanics, but most importantly with the characters and settings. The first character I played was jigglypuff because no one else played her and she was the only unlocked character. The connection with jigglypuff and I was strong and would be indefinite because she was so quirky and fun, I enjoyed being a nuance to my friends while having my ass handed to me. Note ssb64 is when I first met my partner so you could say smash is a love story. After a while I new I had to own this game so I asked my mom for super smash bros, yep those were my words, I never specified I wanted ssb64. On my next birth bay I received a videogame as my gift it was super smash bros brawl (in my opinion the most ambitious game in the series). As I played through with my brother we shuffled through an onslaut of options like music choices and modes like saving photos and replays it was amazing, and don't get me started with subspace emissary. The story mode was almost to much fun being so dramatic and hilarious, it really was something to behold. In super smash bros brawl there were a few more characters I found I had a great fondness for. They were Zelda & sheik, falco, marth, and the ice climbers whom I would not learn were from the previous instalment for some time and the newcomers were zero suit samus, Lucas, pit, toon link, and rob. It was also brawl that introduced me to my favorite video game franchises, like metroid, star fox, zelda, and f zero. When we first returned to the fighter select screen a memory from the past suddenly changed the way I looked at this game series. My life was suddenly just like the entangled crossover mess that was the game, it was like meeting an old friernd who had always been there, and it was then I decided super smash bros was the greatest video gaming experience of my life. Not long after completing brawl I discovered super smash bros melee instantly I new I had to own it, so I bought a copy and a GameCube cuz I didnt own one. It took me a stupid long time to unlock every character and stage (melee stages explained). I was surprised to learn that some characters in melee didn't make it to brawl, only one of wich I really fall in love with. Roy was one of many characters that were sadly cut from the next instalment. And I mean clones they were everywhere in melee and all but absent from from brawl. As for other characters I grew especially fond of the ice climbers and their gimmicky play style. Unfortunately super smash bros melee modes were a bit lackluster compared to brawl. Say for adventure mode wich was surprisingly deep, it really made you feel as if you were traversing through the games the characters belong to, unlike subspace emissary. But where I believe super smash bros melee really shines is in its game play and mechanics. It feels like a movie hopping around with explosions and lightning fast movements and it's technical input options that make the competitive scene so alluring (I'm a casual player BTW), unlike brawl wich is slow and sloppy and ssb64 wich in my opinion is worse. All things considered it is perhaps the most well put together game in the series.

Some time later super smash bros for Wii u and 3ds was announced, I was shocked, I believed ssbb was to be the last game in the series. I couldn't believe it, smash for handheld and home it was unreal. The first installment in the series I could truly enjoy the hype for, it was fun aside from being a skeptic of all the leaks that would later turn out to be true. First I shall say I accurately predicted paluteana would be a playable character, second the biggest surprise was definently pac-man (didn't think he'd  be possible), and third I was crushed to learn ice climbers would not make the cut because of the 3ds and I'd resent it for that reason. Not only that but I new the 3ds version would be inferior so I waited for the Wii u version. I stood out side the game store late at midnight to get my copy early. And I played for hrs, my favorite addition to the game had to be 8 player smash I allways wanted more action. I must say the roster of this game is one of if not the strangest with the cutting of semi clones like wolf and Lucas and the return of clones, specifically Dr Mario, of all the melee characters you'd choose to bring back why him over mewtwo, and the inclusion of dlc later. Nonetheless I did receive a few new characters to enjoy in paluteana, villager, the mii fighters, and corrin. Speaking of dlc I was not surprised by the announcement of mewtwo as dlc and I am glad both Roy and Lucas returned and Ryu I new you couldn't represent capcom with just megaman. The other game modes in Wii u and 3ds were interesting to say the least, target blast was fun but I still prefer target smash, master and crazy orders were amazing but hard, smash run was certainly the best thing about the 3ds version oh yah I did get a copy and a 3ds because I didn't have one. Oh and people, smash board isn't comparable to subspace emissary or world of light so, stop comparing them. The inclusion of amiibos really can make the game interesting but ultimately (pun intended) aren't very fun, however that won't stop me from buying all the amiibos I want. Now taking all this into account super smash bros for Wii u and 3ds allthough is flawed is also endlessly entertaining.

Then one day my partner came up to me and said, MERDY (thats my name) there's a new super smash bros game coming out. We watch the teaser and the thoughts just start rolling in, what characters will there be, what stages, what items, what modes, I was ready for all the answers but I would have to wait. I can say before the big "everyone is here" reveal I knew the ice climbers would return I also new there was no way they'd pass up another chance to add a story mode. World of light and spirits for that matter are probably the best thing to happen to smash, it's so complex and in depth it's creative and bewildering, it may not be as enveloped in worlds as adventure mode and we may not be able to enjoy the creative level design Masahiro Sakurai brought to subspace, however world of light has one thing the other two don't, customisation and the choice to play how you want, it's not as linear as adventure mode or subspace, and your fights aren't chosen for you. As for other game modes, I should first say 2 great new additions are video editing and vr mode, anyway you might as well go back and play some of the earlier installments in the franchise because ultimate leaves a little to be desired. Say for smash mode wich has lots of fun and well we can't talk about smash mode or super smash bros ultimate as a hole without mentioning it's shining star. The characters in super smash bros ultimate really make the game, I always dreamt that all the character from past installments would be in one game together. Of course I still had my predictions and surprises, first I accurately foresaw chrom, Simon, king k rool, technically hero (I really predicted erdrick only), and banjo & kazooie. Second I did not suspect, daisy, dark samus, and incineroar, although it was not a surprise ridley's presents in the game is highly appreciated for I am a huge metroid fan, BTW inkling was a no brainer. And I should mention the only new character I really enjoy playing is king k rool. Before the last section I wanna reminisce the things I'll miss about super smash bros. I'll really miss board the platforms, race to the finnish, 3d models of the characters and stages on select screens, event matches, coin launcher, boss battles, master and crazy orders, trophy rush, trophies, smash run, and good online gameplay... oh wait that was never a thing. I must state I'm sorry this story kind of turned into a critique, but super smash is first and foremost an experience and looking back now my life has be influenced by it, learning to grow strong and live big, and I can tell you super smash bros still is both a brotherly and love story for I still play with my brother and partner frequently. As for the future I can't say, ssbu is still growing and I personally believe it'll be Sakurai's last game in the franchise and video games are starting dwidle out of my life. Nonetheless it will be an unforgettable experience and I plan to continue to share it with all the world as it should be, being the largest crossover event in the history of entertainment, how can you even avoid it.

Waluigi for smash!!

 -------------------END-------------------

[aithne]

(Illume) From Lady Yukiko's Journal, 7/9 - 7/13: Cold as River Stone

7/9/1583 Aomori

We've stayed here an extra day to restock and decide what we need to do next. There are several things in Tokyo that need our attention, including finding another part of the key to Sky Home and, possibly, finding and freeing Akechi. While my heart leaps at the idea of having Akechi back with me, I fear that to go into the enemy's very strength is a foolish venture that will doom us all. We will see if the feat proves possible. We also need to go visit Miyazaki, the Scorpion ancestral seat, but that's at the other end of Japan and it's over a week's voyage down there if the wind is with us--which, this being summer, we cannot count on.

First, however, we are going to make a stop in Dragon territory. Haku has a scroll that he would really like back, and that would make him the leader of the Dragons, as his claim to the Ruling Lord's seat is far better than anyone who has held it for the last while. As he explained to me, the scroll is written in Vedic and contains the accumulated wisdom of his entire family, handed down over the ages. One who can read the scroll can read the Ritual of Ascension, which confirms one's blood right to rule the Dragons.

And, should we manage that, our alliance with yet another clan will be cemented. Scorpion, Phoenix, Unicorn, Dragon, and part of Crane would fall on our side. The main strength of Crane currently falls on the other, with Crab and Lion still unallied. On paper, we have the advantage, especially if we can get all the Clans working together. But our strength is far too diffuse. We have the hand but cannot as yet make a fist.

This is where I sorely wish Akechi with us once again. I am not a war leader, that isn't where my strength lies. And the child more than ever grows restless, as quarters begin to get a little cramped. I spend quite a bit of time wandering the deck. Me being in motion seems to soothe the child within me.

One of these walks this afternoon, I saw the oddest thing. Reiko has taken to teasing the Thrykeen, waiting until they fall asleep and then crouching by them and staring at them until they wake up. It seems to be her goal to make sure none of them sleep at any time she's awake. But what she was doing now was different.

She was surrounded, as usual, by the three or four mantids that were awake, in their human forms. They moved restlessly, wanting to get closer to her but prevented by their orders from doing so.

And the kitsune was dancing among them.

She would dance forward a few steps, and the mantid would back away. Dance back, and it would come forward. She turned this back and forth into a silent dance that spoke eloquently of hatred and fear, her partners the mantids who, not understanding what she was doing, were connected to her as with invisible threads. She pressed them into each other, surrounding them even as they were surrounding her.

It is easy to forget how dangerous she is, our confused little shaman. Though not so confused, these days, it seems. I'm almost used to her spirits now. On occasion, I fancy I can see them myself, though I know it's only heat-shimmer and wishful thinking. Funitsu, I think, is still of the opinion that Reiko has merely seen things none were meant to and is mad as a result. While that may be true, I no longer doubt the existence of her spirits.

For some reason, I can't get the image of the kitsune dancing to music only she heard among her blood enemies out of my mind. Perhaps she is mad, at that.

This evening, we had someone request permission to come aboard--a tall man with blond hair, unusual in the Kingdom. I find myself being suspicious that every person we meet who is more than usually attractive is something other than what they seem. In this case, I was right. He brought a message to Funitsu, which the Scorpion read and sighed. "Kakita Reina is dead. Arenro blamed her Akechi's orb going missing, and he tortured her to death. We have to assume that he knows we have it, now." I was shaken--I liked the gawky Crane girl, and she had information that would have come in handy.

For some reason, I feel as if we should have protected her but failed. I'm not sure why I feel this way--she was under the protection of Lord Tsuneyasu, not us--but she died because of us.

No matter.

The blond man asked to see Tadaki, and introduced himself to him as Jeron, a Thrykeen who had come with five hundred mantid eggs for Tadaki, a gift from my father. Tadaki can give the order for them to hatch, and three days later we will have five hundred perfectly loyal warriors. He told Tadaki that he was a commander assigned to Tadaki's crystal, and owed his loyalty to the Sparrow.

He then reached into a bag that he'd carried on board the ship. "I found this, and rather than killing it, I thought I would bring it to you." He pulled out a fox, red fur glowing in the setting sun. A fox with two tails. Another kitsune.

"It's bound and therefore helpless. It's a male. Very rare. Almost a curiosity, if one were interested in these things." The kitsune, held by the scruff of the neck, glared balefully at Jeron and then at the rest of us. "What would you like me to do with it? One word, and I will kill it for you." Beside me, Reiko uttered a whimpering cry.

"I'll give it as a gift to our other kitsune." Tadaki reached out and took the fox by both its tails. He brought it over to Reiko and said, "Here. Present for you." He dropped it at her feet and went back to talk to the Thrykeen.

"Do you have any standing orders for us? Anything I need to know about?"

"You're to stay at least seven feet from the kitsune at all times, and protect her when it becomes necessary. However, a clarification of that is in order. You can stay farther than seven feet from her. Hanging around her is beginning to make her very, very nervous."

The Thrykeen bowed. "As you command. I will endeavor to keep those in my command away from her."

Reiko was kneeling beside the male kitsune. "He's bound, like I was. He can't change and he can't feed. Unless we have a shujenja with a concentration in Water that I don't know about, I'm going to need to do this the hard way. It'll take me a few days." The fox was nuzzling her fingertips, and automatically she started scratching it behind the ears.

Before I retired tonight, I saw two foxes--one small and coal black, the other a bit larger and fire red--chasing each other around the deck. Playing together. I am hoping this bodes well, but one kitsune was probably too many. Two may prove a strain on my retinue's good nature.

We'll see, though.

7/10/1583 At sea, late morning

Was woken early this morning by Reiko, who had been on watch with Tadaki. From what she said, they had both heard a pop of some sort in the crow's nest. When Reiko climbed up to take a look, she found a decrepit old orange cat sitting up there. She surmised that it wasn't what it appeared, but picked it up and carried it down to the deck anyway. Panda confirmed that it was a hengeyokai, frowning, saying that it seemed very odd that tiny Reiko was carrying an old man who, even stooped, was taller than she was.

The cat changed into an old man, who asked to see the librarian. Evidently, the old man (whose name is Winter) is an old friend of his, and one of the only people to ever live long enough to retire from the Black Hand. Winter asked where we were going, and we said we were heading towards Miyako, the Dragon Clan seat. He shrugged and said, "Well, you could try, but you might have some trouble sailing down there. The sea's starting to freeze over."

General muttering ensued. It turned out that the leader of the Dragon clan, one Lord Takuma, had learned how to read the Vedic scrolls that belonged to Haku's village, without learning the wisdom of what to read when. He'd changed summer to the depths of winter for a thirty-mile radius, accidentally. Haku muttered, "And I'll bet he has no idea how to fix it, either." He seemed to be more disgusted than angry at the wayward Lord, but I could tell, knowing Haku, that somewhere in his mind Tanaka was already dead. The fact that he was still breathing was merely an unfortunate condition to be corrected as soon as possible.

From the story that Akechi told me about where he came from, Haku does indeed have a legitimate feud with Tanaka, since he (without any provocation as far as anyone could tell) rode into his home village with samurai and wu jen and slaughtered them all, down to the last child, except Haku. And Haku was badly wounded; Panda found him and patched him up, taking him into Akechi's service when he was well enough to travel.

The last anyone knew, Lord Tanaka was near Baiden Mountain, somewhere close to the pass. Funitsu used his orb to scry on him, and made a surprised noise when he saw the scene in the orb.

Tanaka was standing in chains, something dark and monstrous standing over him. He was before a pool of steaming water, evidently inside of Baiden, and he was reading from Haku's scroll. Every time he would falter, the thing standing behind him would prod him.

"What is that thing?" Funitsu asked.

Panda looked into the orb, her brow dark. "It's an oni. A sort of demon. Nasty things."

Well, we were going there anyway, and so we made plans to stop a bit north of where the ice began and fly to Baiden--one person riding Gryphon, the rest of us in the mirror. Tadaki elected to hatch eleven of the mantid eggs, so we'd have a nice even twenty if she came back without losing any of the Thrykeen. I suspect that this isn't going to be the case, though.

Winter's bright eyes focused on Funitsu. He bowed and greeted him with, "Lord Soshi. It is good to finally meet you. I must tender my congratulations on the marriage of your sister."

I'm not certain if I've ever seen anyone look so stunned. But he swiftly recovered and said, "My sister? you must be mistaken. My sister has been missing for a number of years now. We've all assumed she was dead. Also, I am not Lord Soshi. Unless you have news of my brother that I don't yet know...?"

Winter shrugged. "No, no, no news. Merely...being polite. But your sister has been hiding in plain sight for years. She changed her name and went into the Hand. You may recognize the name she took. It's Minaku."

The Scorpion sputtered. "Minaku? But--"

The librarian frowned. "It can't be. Minaku raised me, she'd have to be in her forties now--and your sister is younger than you, isn't she?"

"By several years. They can't be the same person. Perhaps she killed the old Minaku and replaced her." Funitsu was still scowling, lines marring his smooth brow. "Winter, you said that she married. Who's her husband?"

The old man's eyes were still bright as he replied, "Arenro."

Ah, yes, Arenro's revenge for Funitsu's marriage to Tomika. Now the scales are balanced once more, and Arenro and Funitsu are in approximately the same position within each others' clans. Just the news we wanted to hear.

Tomorrow, we'll be in flying range of Baiden, and we'll go see if we can get Haku's scroll back.

7/11/1583 At sea

We're flying to Baiden sometime within the next hour. I have to say that the mirror's really the only way to travel. The beds are comfortable, the food is good, and the only downside is that you never know what's going on outside.

Tadaki was the one riding Gryphon when we reached Baiden. We heard his voice echoing into the entrance hall. "You'd all better come out and look at this." We came out into the scene of a battle, apparently between Oni and human warriors. The humans had triumphed, it appeared--there were oni tracks and black blood leading away from the battle--but nobody was there now. The steam vent that the humans had been guarding lay wide open.

I shivered. The air was very cold, and there was a thick layer of snow on the ground. Panda, after looking down at the tracks in the snow, raised her head. "What's that?" She pointed into the steam vent, where all of us could now see some shadowy shapes approaching. Too large for humans. I slipped back into the mirror to let my retinue fight.

I realize that it keeps me safe, this hiding, but it does grate so! I should be out there with my retinue, and instead I am hiding in the mirror. But I remembered my faithful Panda's black eyes as she had told me, "If you die, all is lost, my Lady. Please, let us guard you as best we can."

And so I wait in the mirror for the all-clear, and I worry about my retinue, fighting a battle just on the other side of the mirror hanging in the entrance hall.

The rest is put together from tales my people told when we were traveling back, since I was unable to witness it myself.

We found out that the oni can spit chunks of molten copper as a weapon. That was a painful lesson for several of us. Reiko, as usual, hid behind a boulder, and the rest of us charged in and smote oni. We triumphed, relatively easily, and we captured one that told us there were two different ways to get to where they were holding Tanaka. We thanked it and then gave it the gift of a dagger in the heart.

Reiko picked up Winter, who was in cat form and looking cranky about being in the snow, and dropped him into a sling she'd fashioned from a piece of silk she'd found in the mirror somewhere. The orange cat blinked and promptly went to sleep.

Into the steam vent we went, taking the top of the two routes, twisting and turning our way into a large cavern, the walls made of basalt. Reiko volunteered to be a scout, saying she had a spell that would keep the enemy from seeing her. The spell, oddly enough, worked, and she came back and reported that there were fifteen oni and one nearly-dead Tanaka who was still reading from the scroll.

Panda frowned. "The orb says there's a fragment of the night spirit in there somewhere. Can anyone turn me invisible so I can go look?" Reiko assented, and Panda went and found a small woman who was invisible and watching the proceedings.

We came back together, retreated a bit, and then in whispers made a plan. It was very simple, as all the best plans are. Panda would try and get a dose of the true source down the invisible woman's throat, and we'd send in the Thrykeen ahead of us and then just kill oni. And, oddly enough, it worked.

Panda managed to get some of the true source into the unsuspecting woman, freeing the fragment of spirit from her body and trapping it in the orb Panda carries. The woman collapsed, as if she were a puppet with her strings cut. The rest fought most bravely, both human and oni blood flowing freely. The librarian, who for some reason had decided to get into direct combat with an oni, was most gravely wounded, falling dead on the basalt floor. As Tomika was dosing him with one of her resurrection tablets, Reiko (still under that spell that renders her invisible to our enemies but visible to us) wandered up to Tanaka, who was still reading, summoning something far worse than the oni we were fighting from the steaming pool.

Winter, at this point, woke and jumped down from her sling, wandering away through the battle. Evidently he anticipated what the kitsune was about to do.

The kitsune reached upwards and snatched the scroll out of Tanaka's shaking hands. She flashed the startled Dragon a grin and then began running absolutely flat-out towards the entrance we'd come in from. Gryphon saw her running and ran after her, snatching her up and taking to the air as all of the remaining oni turned and began to run after her.

Haku and Panda glanced at each other. One of those quick unspoken conferences that my two warriors have on occasion occurred, and it was quickly and silently decided that since we now had the scroll, it was time to retreat. Panda grabbed the woman who she'd given the true source to by the scruff of the neck and dragged her out behind her, and the rest of my retinue beat a hasty retreat out into the snow.

Reiko said, "Haku, catch!" and tossed the scroll at him. He caught it, looking gratified. Reiko and Funitsu busied themselves with binding wounds and giving what healing they had left.

We questioned the woman we'd given the true source to, and it turned out that her name was Hitomi, and she was a Crane Clan member. We couldn't decided what we wanted to do with her--kill her, let her go, or ransom her back to her clan. The latter is probably the better of the three options, but it does give her right back into Arenro's clutches.

We were about to depart when the one person we were missing--Winter--came limping out of the tunnel, dragging three oni heads and one extremely bedraggled Lord Tanaka with him. The kitsune said, "Hey, it's the kitty!"

"'Ey. Thought you might want this one. He's not looking so healthy, but you know." And before my retinue's amazed eyes, he changed back into his cat shape and went over to Reiko, who silently picked him up and put him back into the sling she wore.

(Gryphon, at this point, started pouting at Reiko, and saying, "But I thought I was Kittycat!" She hastened to reassure him and scratch his ruff, rubbing her nose against his feathers. He forgave her. I think.)

We climbed into the mirror once more and Gryphon (accommodating sort that he is) flew us back to Miyako, the Dragon Clan headquarters.

We walked through the town, the barely-conscious Lord Tanaka in chains among us. We were getting some very odd looks of the sort that usually presage a general riot, so Haku hastily found a place to speak from and read from the scroll--something called the Clause of Ascension. And then he killed Lord Tanaka with a dagger in the back of the neck.

There was not a sound other than the thud as Tanaka's body hit the ground. Haku cleared his throat and said, "All right. Any questions?" None were forthcoming. The second in command in the Clan seemed to be a man named Tohiro, and Haku hastened to find him.

The news of the clan was not good at all.

The Dragons have been fighting many battles in the past few months, almost all of them suicide missions of one sort or another. Tanaka, near as anyone could tell, was intent on running the clan into the ground. At the moment, the only sortie that was going on was a General Isamu who was leading a bunch of Dragons into Lion territory. Haku did what he could, including sending a message off to Storming Bear, asking if the Unicorns would consider a mutual defense alliance with the Dragons. We await their response.

Haku also put the weather right, which I almost objected to but thought better of it. It's difficult, being so pregnant in the swelter of the summer, but I persevere. The growing season has been interrupted, and that will cause problems with having enough food to go around this winter. I suggested to Haku that he look into having grain brought in before the neighboring lands discover that Miyaku is in desperate need of it and thus raise their prices.

We'll be here for a few days, I think, to let Haku.

It's odd how things are beginning to fall into place. It may be that each of us (except probably the kitsune, who I cannot imagine leading *anything*) ends up as a leader of our own people.

But if that happens, this war we are fighting may yet consume Japan.

7/12/1583 Miyako

Funitsu came back from a visit to the local Black Hand headquarters--sorry, the local "private library"--with interesting news. He said that the local Hand, when he asked them if they'd been attempting to destabilize the Dragon leadership, fell on their faces and begged from him the opportunity to die honorably. When he asked them why, they said that they had been given orders or kill Tohiro, the Clan's second-in-command, but had seen no reason for it and thus had ignored their orders.

"I had to talk fast to get them to not try to kill themselves for disobeying, and even faster to convince them I wasn't upset at them for disobeying what was really an unlawful order," Funitsu said with a wry smile on his face. "In the end, I managed."

We're planning on settling here for a few days, with our departure tentatively scheduled for the fourteenth. The kitsune says that she's almost done unraveling the bindings on the male kitsune she was given, and Panda wants her to finish the unbinding on dry land, within the heart of the Dragon strength, just in case he proves troublesome.

The Thrykeen, now that their orders have been amended, have stopped being merely ominous towards the kitsune and have started being obnoxious. They come to within seven feet of her, stop, bow, and walk away. All day long. I'm irritated by it, and I'm not the one it's aimed at. Reiko is spending quite a bit of time in the crow's nest or around Winter and Gryphon.

My father's reach is long, it seems. He can annoy the kitsune even half a country away.

7/13/1583 Miyako

Reiko finished unbinding the kitsune today, spent a few minutes talking to him, and then brought him out to introduce him to us as Ito. He's a pretty boy, but there's something I found unnerving about him. Ito has been staying close to Reiko, wary of the Thrykeen and, it seems, not sure of his welcome among us.

I caught Reiko and pulled her off to the side. "What's his story? What do you think?"

She sighed. "He says he was Nobunga's prisoner his entire life, until the old Emperor was killed and he was set free. He's never known freedom, never known free will. I need to teach him a few things about being a kitsune, like how to feed without killing, and I have threatened him within an inch of his life if he harms any of your retinue or you yourself. I'd like to bring him along for a while, if I could. But only with your permission." She looked sidelong at me, evidently gauging my reaction to her request.

I frowned, but I couldn't think of any real objections. "I'm holding you responsible for his behavior, Reiko. If he misbehaves, it's your job to bring him back in line. Is he willing to swear loyalty?"

"Yes, and even better, he's agreed to follow the same rules I do."

"All right. Keep a close eye on him."

"Don't worry. I don't trust him as far as I can throw him." She gave me her most charming smile, and added, "After all, he's a kitsune. Just like me." With that, she wandered away, back towards where the male kitsune was talking with Winter and the librarian.

Taking yet another assassin into our midst, and this one we can't trust. Possibly foolish. No, probably. I think both I and Funitsu should sleep lightly for a while.

Ah, the child is restless tonight once more. The same as his mother, I fear.

Waiting for Haku to finish his business, the rest of us enjoyed a bit of rest today. I was finishing writing a letter when Tomika came and sat on the cushion beside me, settling herself down and glancing over at me. Panda was in earshot but on guard, and Tomika elected to pretend that she wasn't there.

"Lady Yukiko...can I speak to you?"

I nodded. "What do you need?"

She grimaced. "Advice, I think. You seem to be a most unusual woman, and I find myself in an unusual situation."

She seemed to be searching for words, and I prompted her with, "Unusual, how?"

"I....well. You know I was not particularly happy with the necessity of marrying Funitsu, I assume."

"Many of us aren't, when we marry for politics instead of love."

"Over the past few weeks, I've found myself with...fewer objections about my marriage. I find myself admiring my husband, for some reason. Though he is still irritating, he also has a number of qualities that I might have overlooked at first. And he does not seem to be a typical Scorpion, in many ways."

"That's good news, then. I know I've found much happiness in my own marriage. So why does this occasion the need to talk to me?" I was genuinely curious now. The pretty, auburn-haired woman was obviously troubled, and perhaps it was this that had caused her irritableness over the past week or so.

She was twisting one of the dangling ties of her kimono in her hands, absently. "This is somewhat embarrassing. Do I have your word that this conversation will remain private?"

"You have my word, and the samurai's honor. Is that sufficient?"

"I suppose it'll have to be." She kept twisting the silk, back and forth. "My Lady...am I so very ugly?"

I looked at her, shocked. "Tomika, no. You're not, at all. Why do you need to ask?"

She looked down, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. "Funitsu...has not touched me. Ever. He has the rights of the marriage bed and yet he has never exercised them. I don't understand why not. At first I was relieved about it and didn't question why. And now, when I wish he would, he does not. The only explanation I can think of is that he finds me repulsive."

Of all the things I had thought the Crane would bring to me, this was certainly not among them. I thought carefully through my reply before I gave it to her. "Tomika, you were raised in the house of your father, were you not? What were you taught about how a husband and a wife act towards each other?"

"They raised me to behave with honor and bring no shame upon my house. My father was the one who insisted I be trained as a wu jen, as almost all of the children of my Clan are. My mother thought my time would be better spent learning more...womanly arts. Dance, the tea ceremony, things like that. But either way, I was raised to be an obedient daughter. Even the smallest rebellion was punished--I still remember the beating I got when I slipped off one afternoon to read some poetry that I wanted to study rather than my spellbooks."

I sighed. Such potential, such fire, wasted in the cause of "obedience". We are, all of us, our fathers' daughters. "And so you were probably taught that a proper wife makes no demands on her husband, that she is silent unless spoken to. Not in so many words, of course, but that is what we are taught. The problem, Tomika, is that I have known Funitsu for years now, and one of the basic facts of his character is that he respects woman. Well, people in general, women in particular. Very un-Scorpion like, really. He knew that you weren't happy with having to marry him, and elected not to force himself on you. It isn't that he finds you unattractive. It's that he thinks you don't want him."

I could see Tomika turning this over in her mind, tasting it. Her hands stilled as she considered my words. "So...how would I go about changing this? I've always been the pursued. I've never had to...say..." She blushed. Tomika, blushing! Surely, the end is nigh.

I tried to keep the laughter out of my voice and mostly succeeded. "You can say volumes without any words. You've watched the kitsune at work, haven't you? You've seen how she touches people, straightening their clothing or smoothing their hair. She flirts like she breathes. The same thing might work on Funitsu. Though, at this point, you may have to give him a stronger sign than that."

"How much stronger?"

I gave her a mischievous smile. "Going into his cabin after he's retired and dropping your robe to the floor might be strong enough."

She gasped, on hand covering her mouth. "I couldn't! It wouldn't be proper, not at all. Do you mean you've--"

"Akechi, though I love him dearly, is occasionally difficult to distract from his work. I had to resort to that exact tactic a few times when I was feeling a trifle neglected. He was never unappreciative, let me tell you."

She was still blushing, flipping her fan back and forth. "I don't know if I could--perhaps I'll try the other, first. Though I am not certain I like the idea of imitating the kitsune. She's so..." She trailed off, perhaps realizing that comment was not appropriate for my ears.

I raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Tomika?

"Common." Her eyes met mine, challenging.

I snapped my fan shut. Between the heat of the day and being physically uncomfortable in general, I fear I lost my temper. "Tomika. I recommend, that if you're going to stay with us, that you amend your attitude. First, even those of my retinue who look common evidently aren't, as Haku has demonstrated to us today. Second, the kitsune is one of my chosen retainers, and she is one of Akechi's ancestors. Calling her common is walking very close to the edge of heresy. And third, the act isn't necessary. Not here, not among us. It doesn't impress anyone, and only serves to irritate."

Her mouth was open as she stared at me. Finally she asked, in a small voice, "Act? What act?"

"The 'noble lady' act. You're a wu jen, powerful in your own right, the wife of the Soshi scion. Power doesn't simper, or complain about wanting comforts that aren't available." I sighed. "I'm sorry, Tomika. It's the heat, it makes me irritable."

Her eyes were cast down at the floor as she sat. "You have given me much to think about, Lady. If I may, I think a walk would do me good."

I opened my fan again and waved it at her. "Go, Tomika. And remember what I said about the robe, if flirtation doesn't work." She blushed again and fled.

Such a pretty puzzle, this Crane Funitsu has married. We'll see if she takes my advice to heart.

Tomorrow, we sail for Tokyo.

Quotes: "Why would a librarian need a spying orb?" "To make sure nobody's dog-earing the pages!"

"The problem with Tokyo is--" "all the goddamned Godzillas!" (Laura interrupts Reiko with an OOC remark)

"You know you're old if your wrinkles are old." (Ray)

"He's definitely a prisoner, then?" "Yes." "I feel all warm and fuzzy." (Haku and Storm)

"Ah, the Dread Pirate Minaku!" (Laura)

"Kitsune are notorious for their...breadth of sexual appetites." "Gee, Kris, roleplaying this character must be *so* difficult for you." (Kris and Laura, who got tickled for her pains.)

"Demons are people, too." "No. They're not." (Haku and Funitsu.)

"That was the chilly finger of prostate examination." (Laura, referring to one of Tadaki's spells, which did four points of damage and brought down an oni)

"All right. Any questions?" (Haku, after killing Lord Tanaka in front of the Dragon clan)

(play date: 7/18/2004)

[bluewolflock]

MapleStory - Okami AU

What else could one expect of me, really. But I’ve actually had this little idea stewing around in my head for years now, but never got past some (hella old and subpar) sketches to actually draw it out. But I’ve been in an art slump for a while now and decided, ‘to heck with this. I’m drawing indulgent ideas and no one can stop me.’

And boy was it therapeutic. And fun! And my anger that this huge ass file won’t display properly is boundless.

Full size solo pics under cut, plus my ramblings

The Heroes taking the place of the Satomi Canine Warriors is where this idea initially sprung up from, but a couple of other roles got fitted in as the years passed, most notably Beta taking Amaterasu’s place, and Alpha taking Oki’s (might draw them later too). The canine warriors also play a much larger role in this au than in okami, since I really liked them and was sad only three of them really did anything. 8′D so without further ado

"'Tei' stands for 'brotherhood'. Brotherly affection breeds understanding. It allows us to be ourselves and accept our fate."

Freud is the leader of the Maple Canine Heroes, holder of the Brotherhood Orb, and the only hero remaining with Princess Cygnus by the time Beta awakens. After the previous priestess, Aria, is killed by the demons that infiltrate the Ereve Shrine, the group broke up in order to train/take care of personal affairs. Freud remains to guard Cygnus and the village, awaiting the day his friends gather again...

"'Chu' stands for 'loyalty'. To give one's whole life for the good of one's master...To focus on the goal with all of one's concentration..."

Mercedes is the holder of the Loyalty Orb, and the dedicated queen of a small group of peaceful fox spirits that dwell in Elluel Sanctuary. The growing number of demons in the wake of the Dark Lord’s return threatens the peaceful way of life in the sanctuary, forcing Mercedes to remain to stave them off. But the call of her friends can’t be ignored, especially when another nine-tailed fox appears, invading the dreams of the people outside the sanctuary...

"'Rei' stands for 'honor'. Honor calls for careful moderation when dealing with others. If we lose this sense, we rush headlong into chaos."

Holder of the Honor Orb and the strongest of the heroes, Aran has traveled the farthest of any in her quest to become stronger, as far as the frozen lands of El Nath to the north. However, though the direwolf has returned to the land of Maple, something is amiss. She seems to have no recollection of her comrades or goals, wandering Lith Coast. But she is still driven forward by something, a nagging desire to become stronger, the idea that somewhere in this land there are people who need her...

"'Jin' stands for 'justice'. To show compassion to both the living and the dead...To care enough to give one's own life in service..."

After the death of the priestess he so loved, the holder of the Justice Orb was the first to leave, determined to grow strong enough to avenge Aria’s death. He scours Victoria City, hunting the demons attracted by the sickness that plagues the area. Grief has sharpened his loneliness, but though he misses the other heroes, he masks it with a charming smile, for he is determined to take vengeance on his own terms...

"'Chi' stands for 'knowledge'. Knowledge is useless without deep reflection. This reflection is essential in the pursuit of understanding."

Living humbly in Ellinia Village with young Lania under the name of ‘White’, Luminous reveals himself to be the holder of the Knowledge Orb. On his travels, he bared witness to (or perhaps, caused...?) the attack that would kill the real White. As he lay dying, he imparted on Luminous the vision he’d had, of Lania being killed by an arrow during the village festival on the night of the full moon, and begs Luminous to protect her in his stead. Determined to redeem himself and fulfill White’s dying wish, Luminous takes his place in the village, postponing his return to the other heroes, waiting for the chance to change Lania’s fate...

"'Ko' stands for 'wisdom'. True wisdom is that passed on from one's parents and grandparents. Rely on those who came before to show you the way in all things."

The newest and youngest addition to the heroes, Evan is the holder of the Wisdom Orb. He and Mir are best friends and battle partners, and were sent back to their family in Henesys Pass to train in relative safety. Despite his youth, he learns quickly, and strives to make the other heroes proud. Determined to prove his training has paid off, he joins Beta in rounding up the heroes. Unknown to the others, Freud has been training Evan to take his place as leader one day...

"'Shin' stands for 'faith'. Faith flows from an open heart and is exchanged between friends. It is the root of our convictions and guides us to our goals."

Having inherited the Faith Orb from his father after his death, Mir is determined to help Evan and the heroes in their battle against evil forces. Despite his naivety, it is his steadfast (if stubborn) belief that they are destined to become heroes and win that has kept Evan’s spirits up and driven them ever closer to their goal. He will make his father proud...

"'Gi' stands for 'duty'. To remain firm in one's duties in each and every aspect of life...Bravery and duty go hand in hand. Bravery shows one what is right. The greatest form of bravery is that born from a sense of duty."

Last but certainly not least is the holder of the Duty Orb, EunWol, who dwells in Ellin Forest with Lang after the girl saved his life some time past after a particularly difficult battle. Though he knows his friends call to gather, he is indebted to Lang and worries that without him, the headstrong girl will soon bite off more than she can chew. His fears seem to be justified, for when the two go exploring the Vulpes Ruins at Lang’s insistence, they find the ruins are not quite so empty as previously thought...

[sciencespies]

Christmas Across Indian Country, During the Pandemic and Before

https://sciencespies.com/history/christmas-across-indian-country-during-the-pandemic-and-before/

Christmas Across Indian Country, During the Pandemic and Before

Smithsonian Voices National Museum of the American Indian

Christmas Across Indian Country, During the Pandemic and Before

December 22nd, 2020, 11:00AM / BY

Dennis Zotigh

“Hogan in the Snow,” ca. 1985. Painted by Robert Draper (Diné [Navajo], 1938–2000). Chinle, Navajo Nation, Arizona. 26/6481 (National Museum of the American Indian)

The introduction of Christianity to the original peoples of the Americas can be controversial in Native circles. Europeans brought Christianity to this half of the world and imposed it on Native communities, knowingly replacing existing spiritual beliefs with the beliefs taught in the bible. Cruelty and brutality often accompanied the indoctrination of Native peoples. Yet it is also true that some tribes, families, and individuals accepted the bible and Jesus’ teachings voluntarily.

Music played an important part in converting Native people, establishing their practice of worship, and teaching them how to celebrate the Christmas season. Perhaps the earliest North American Christmas carol was written in the Wyandot language of the Huron-Wendat people. Jesous Ahatonhia (“Jesus, He is born”)—popularly known as Noël huron or the Huron Carol—is said by oral tradition to have been written in 1643 by the Jesuit priest Jean de Brébeuf. The earliest known transcription was made in the Huron-Wendat settlement at Lorette, Quebec, in the 1700s.

During the 1920s, the Canadian choir director J. E. Middleton rewrote the carol in English, using images from the Eastern Woodlands to tell the Christmas story: A lodge of broken bark replaces the manger, the baby Jesus is wrapped in rabbit skin, hunters take the place of the shepherds, and chiefs bring gifts of fox and beaver furs. A much more accurate translation by the linguist John Steckley, an adopted member of the Huron-Wendat Nation of Loretteville, makes clear that the carol was written not only to teach early Catholic converts within the Huron Confederacy the story of Jesus’ birth, but also to explain its significance and to overturn earlier Native beliefs.

Here are the first verses of the carol in Wyandot and Steckley’s complete English translation:

Estenniayon de tsonwe Iesous ahatonnia onn’ awatewa nd’ oki n’ onyouandaskwaentak ennonchien eskwatrihotat n’onyouandiyonrachatha Iesous ahatonnia, ahatonnia. Iesous ahatonnia.

Ayoki onkiennhache eronhiayeronnon iontonk ontatiande ndio sen tsatonnharonnion Warie onn’ awakweton ndio sen tsatonnharonnion Iesous ahatonnia, ahatonnia. Iesous ahatonnia.

Have courage, you who are humans; Jesus, he is born Behold, the spirit who had us as prisoners has fled Do not listen to it, as it corrupts the spirits of our minds Jesus, he is born

They are spirits, sky people, coming with a message for us They are coming to say, Rejoice (Be on top of life) Marie, she has just given birth. Rejoice Jesus, he is born

Three have left for such, those who are elders Tichion, a star that has just appeared on the horizon leads them there He will seize the path, he who leads them there Jesus, he is born

As they arrived there, where he was born, Jesus the star was at the point of stopping, not far past it Having found someone for them, he says, Come here! Jesus, he is born

Behold, they have arrived there and have seen Jesus, They praised (made a name) many times, saying, Hurray, he is good in nature They greeted him with reverence (greased his scalp many times), saying, Hurray Jesus, he is born

We will give to him praise for his name, Let us show reverence for him as he comes to be compassionate to us. It is providential that you love us and wish, I should adopt them. Jesus, he is born.

All throughout Indian Country, Native people have gathered in churches, missions, and temples to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ by singing carols and hymns in their Native languages. In some churches, the story of Jesus’ birth is recited in Native languages. Some Native churches host nativity plays using Native settings and actors to re-enact the birth of Jesus Christ. Among Catholics, Christmas Eve Mass traditionally begins in Indian communities at midnight and extends into the early hours of Christmas Day. In tipis, hogans, and houses, Native American Church members also hold Christmas services, ceremonies that begin on Christmas Eve and go on all night until Christmas morning.

In contemporary times, traditional powwow singing groups have rearranged Christmas songs to appeal to Native audiences. A humorous example is Warscout’s NDN 12 Days of Christmas, from their album Red Christmas. Native solo artists also perform Christmas classics in Native languages. Rhonda Head (Cree), for example, has recorded Oh Holy Night, and Jana Mashpee (Lumbee and Tuscarora) Winter Wonderland sung in Ojibwe.

Native communities host traditional tribal dances and powwows on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Among the Pueblo Indians of the Southwest special dances take place, such as buffalo, eagle, antelope, turtle, and harvest dances. The Eight Northern Pueblos perform Los Matachines—a special dance-drama mixing North African Moorish, Spanish, and Pueblo cultures—takes place on Christmas Eve, along with a pine-torch procession.

In an earlier year, Grandson Maheengun Atencio and Grandmother Edith Atencio prepared for the Matachines Christmas Eve dance at Ohkay Owingeh Pueblo, New Mexico. Due to the pandemic, many ceremonial dances across Indian Country have been postponed, as Native people are very concerned for the safety of their elders. (Photo courtesy of Maheengun Atencio, used with permission)

For Native artisans, this is traditionally the busy season as they prepare special Christmas gift items. Artists and craftsmen and women across the country create beadwork, woodwork, jewelry, clothing, basketry, pottery, sculpture, paintings, leatherwork, and feather work for special Christmas sales and art markets that are open to the public. For the 15 years before 2020, the National Museum of the American Indian held its annual Native Art Market in New York and Washington a few weeks before Christmas.

In many communities and homes, Christian customs are interwoven with Native culture as a means of expressing Christmas in a uniquely Native way. The importance of giving is a cultural tradition among most tribes. Even in times of famine and destitution, Native people have made sure their families, the old, and orphans were taken care of. This mindset prevails into the present. Gift-giving is appropriate whenever a tribal social or ceremonial gathering takes place.

In the same way, traditional Native foods are prepared for this special occasion. Salmon, walleye, shellfish, moose, venison, elk, mutton, geese, rabbit, wild rice, collards, squash, pine nuts, red and green chile stews, pueblo bread, piki bread, and bannock (fry bread) are just a few of the things that come to mind. Individual tribes and Indian organizations sponsor Christmas dinners for their elders and communities prior to Christmas. Tribal service groups and warrior societies visit retirement homes and shelters to provide meals for their tribesmen and women on Christmas Day.

According to the Urban Indian Health Commission, nearly seven out of every ten American Indians and Alaska Natives—2.8 million people—live in or near cities, and that number is growing. During the Christmas holidays, many urban Natives travel back to their families, reservations, and communities to reconnect and reaffirm tribal bonds. They open presents and have big family meals like other American Christians.

For the last few years, Native friends have shared their families’ Christmas plans and traditions with the museum. This extraordinary year, we asked how the Covid-19 pandemic is affecting their families and communities. Those replies are given first here, then the answers we received in 2019 and 2018. Thank you to everyone who took time to tell us a little about their lives.

I live in Upstate New York. Most of my adult life I hardly had Christmas with my family, because I was deployed, stationed overseas, or too far from home. It’s nothing new to be with just my immediate family. So, for anyone who says they can’t have Christmas with family, please consider the men and women in uniform who can’t this year and ones before who weren’t able to.

Topeka, Kansas: I’m a middle school history teacher, and we are in remote education. Our Covid numbers are some of the highest in the country. No churches are open, so no services. Most stores close early, and there is a restaurant and bar curfew. No congregating of any sort is allowed, and we have not only mask mandates, but other rules that have curtailed any events.

The saddest thing I saw today was that our Prairie Band Potawatomi neighbors just a few miles north of us can’t sell enough of their meat, so they are advertising selling it at the Rez gas station in bulk. They’re hoping to break even, but likely will take a loss. Covid is taking a toll everywhere, but here in Indian Country it’s so real. Many of my students, including my tribal students, are facing a very difficult Christmas. Our school has adopted a family whose parents asked only for a kitchen trash can, storage container, and cleaning supplies for gifts. It truly is a hard Christmas.

Zuni Pueblo, New Mexico: We will be fasting for the winter solstice as usual here in Zuni. No change for us, the whole village will be in seclusion and praying for 10 days. So no big change from the lockdowns. Stores and business are usually closed during that time.

Elgin, Oklahoma: My husband is in the hospital with Covid, pneumonia, and blood clots in his lungs. I am trying to keep the Christmas spirit alive for our kids. We cannot go to the hospital to see him, and that is driving me nuts.

I usually host a family Christmas cookie exchange party each year. It’s a time our relatives come together, despite our busy lives, to spend a day of fun, laughter, and love during Christmas, and it was canceled this year due to the pandemic. I cannot spend Christmas with my sisters or dad because of the pandemic. I just have to drop their gifts off at the porch. We cannot get together on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day to exchange gifts and partake in the Christmas holiday.

When I get on social media, I see so many people asking for prayers because someone they love has tested positive for Covid, or their loved one is in the hospital because of Covid, like my husband, or they lost a loved one due to Covid. I just pray for everyone.

Garden Grove, California: With California in another lockdown, we will be stuck in our homes for Christmas. We will only be able to call our relatives this year and wish them a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Unfortunately most gifts have to be mailed out and not hand delivered, so we can’t really see the excitement our gifts give to others. I’m hoping next Christmas will be way better for all of us.

Cherokee, living in Spain: I do not celebrate Christian ways but respect the ones who do. My kids, grands, and I had covid-19 by early March, without much trouble, so we hugged all year through. Sending much love and many prayers to each and all back home.

Duluth, Minnesota: No impact. We’re still making homemade gifts and will gather like we do every other day. We have a social contract.

In Manitoba, Canada, we are under a Red Zone, which means a lot of restrictions when it comes to gatherings. People from this province have traveled to Kenora, Ontario, and Yorkton/Regina, Saskatchewan, to shop for the holidays. Toys R Us is the go-to place, but some orders are not filled, and you’re given a rain check. Places such as Walmart stopped selling anything outside of essentials.

As for my home, my child is not traveling this year to spend the holidays with his dad’s side of the family. Flying is out of the question, and driving would be hazardous, not to mention each province has its own high numbers. We can’t even go home to our reserve due to limited access to the communities. Outside of our own home, we have declined dinner invitations due to social distancing and have made alternate plans to stay home and have a hot meal.

No matter what, I am with my child, and that is all that matters to me. I don’t really care for the commercialization of Christmas. I think it’s best to have money in case of an emergency. We had a major storm that took down power lines last year. Who knows what this year will bring?

All in all, I wish everyone a safe holiday. Prayers to those who lost loved ones or have loved ones whose lives have been impacted by Covid. My gift is spending the holidays with my li’l sidekick and creating our own memories. Be safe!

On the eastern coastal lands here in North Carolina, no friends are sharing the rides to the winery for the Christmas decorations and lights. Celebrations have been thrown out the window, and, as restaurant gatherings are gone, so is the laughter and good cheer with friends while sharing a memory of the past year. Hibernation is occurring as no doorways are opening. Shopping and wrapping gifts are gone, even the homemade ones—the pandemic has closed employment. Less making cookies and cakes–the oven surely won’t be used for just li’l ole me.

And it’s okay. Life is going to turn around. What Christmas will bring is to celebrate with more phone calls, including a face-to-face; chatting on social media; wishing all the best of the holidays; dreaming of a new world in 2021. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Gloucestershire in the UK: All Christmas and solstice plans involving travel are canceled as the virus is still spreading. The government was allowing travel for Christmas period, but we don’t trust what they say. If people travel, it will be out of control again.

New Hampshire: Typically I take baked goods and homemade Christmas presents to friends. I will often spend time with them catching up. I also send out 50 or so Christmas cards. None of that this year. I will see my children and granddaughter though, as we live in the same town and have been seeing each other since the beginning. I am sad I can’t spread my usual greetings this year when we all so need it.

Fort Hall, Idaho: We generally have a Christmas Eve gathering with family. Not this year.

Del Muerto, Arizona, on the Navajo Nation: The 76th year of family hosting a community Christmas has been canceled. Treats, toys, and winter jackets will not be provided, but it’s all for safety precaution.

South Dakota: I have not done Christmas or any holidays for over 24 years as part of my de-colonization. We are so brainwashed from childhood. The real tests are triggers like certain songs. It’s a hard journey to undertake. It’s another level of healing the traumas of Christianity and family beliefs, however, and I made it.

Louisville, Kentucky: Well, as Christmas comes around, I always look forward to going to my last living grandmother’s. Like 90 years old. Normally we would go to see her and the whole family—all the cousins and, yes, even aunties. Ayeee. Lol. We would all eat and open presents and chat. But this year presents are being sent in the mail. We may have a family computer time face to face. It isn’t the same as giving my grandmother a hug and her seeing all her kids, grandkids, and great grandkids. It saddens my heart. She is at an age, and we never know when it’s time to be called home. So I know these times are important. The pandemic as made a saddened Christmas time.

Manitoba, Canada: First time ever not all congregating at Mom’s house. We are having our smaller dinners in our homes. However, this Santa will be delivering gifts Christmas Eve.

Living in Southern California has made celebrating or doing anything for the holidays nearly impossible. We are on total lockdown. Even going out to buy decorations has not happened for me. Many family members have been unemployed for five or six months, so we are all financially unable to help each other. And because of the lockdown, we can’t even get together in person to support each other. We are blessed, however, to all be healthy.

Cloquet, Minnesota: We are not having a family get together. First time ever in my life.

Edmonton, Alberta: No travel to family in the north and south. My 75-year-old mom is depressed. My grandbaby will not see his dad’s side, which affects bonding. Normally we have a big Christmas meal and share with others. Not this year, though.

Lac du Flambeau, Wisconsin: No visiting from friends and relatives on Christmas Eve, and the big Christmas dinner feast is just for immediate family. Once again, I can’t show off my baby grandson, who still hasn’t met some of his relatives.

Tualatin, Oregon: We are already isolated and have been practicing social distancing and wearing our masks because it is mandated, so we plan to have our Christmas as usual. Our children and grandkids will be with us to celebrate. We are a very small family and living here all these 30-plus years, it’s no different than before. It’s always been just us. We’ve grown from a family of five to ten. God has blessed us so. Aho Dawkee—thank you, God!

Holiday ornaments created by schoolchildren for the Capitol Christmas Tree Campaign to decorate a holiday tree at the museum on the National Mall. From left to right: Three ornaments made by unnamed Pikumi (Blackfeet Nation) students, 2008. Blackfeet Reservation, Montana. 26/7446, 26/7451 and 26/7454. An ornament representing a rattle made by Shelbey (family name not recorded, Yavapai), 2009. Prescott, Arizona. 26/7716. A snowman ornament made by Ayanna (family name not recorded, Tohono O’odham), 2009. Arizona. 26/7717 (National Museum of the American Indian, Smithsonian)

White Swan, Washington, sent on the winter solstice: “This is NDN New Year (the shortest day of year), but it’s close to Christmas so we still have gift exchanges. Santa shows up at our longhouse; he also has 2 with him, our version of Krampus. I’m not sure how far back this goes. Maybe it’s Bigfoot and is s’posed to scare the kids into being good. My dad used to dress that way and come in with Santa. I don’t know who does it now. Some of my family thought it was me, but I think it’s two of my cousins.”

Miami, Oklahoma: “Seneca–Cayuga social dances with horned rattles and supper at my sister’s house. Oh, can’t forget our coins for playing some Indian dice and playing Cards against Humanity! Lol. Lots of fun and laughter.”

Albuquerque, New Mexico: “Spending Christmas Eve in the village of Taos Pueblo, building and then watching the bonfires burn, and watching the procession of the Virgin Mary.”

Minneapolis, Minnesota: “Honoring our relatives with a memorial horse ride called the Dakota 38 + 2. On December 26, 1862, at Fort Snelling, Minnesota, in Dakota County, 38 Dakota men were hung all at once. It is recorded as the largest mass execution in U S. history. This is how most of us here in Mni Sota celebrate this time of the year.”

Southern Manitoba, Canada: “Last year we as a family spent the day together and went to a movie theater all day. On the 26th, we made a meal and set out a spirit dish for the Dakota 38 + 2.”

Nevada City, California: “I’m a Choctaw Jew, so I celebrate by having a gift-card drive, and going to temple and Christmas church! My grandfather is in a home, so I spend time with him and whoever else is close.”

Kents Store, Virginia: “We don’t do Christmas, but we have a solstice celebration and teach Abenaki farming at a local school. It’s part of their winter festival including other people and faiths into their curriculum.”

Phoenix, Arizona: “I will go to my reservation, Eastern Band if Cherokee in North Carolina, and exchange gifts with my family. My dad is 84 years of age, so I always make it a priority to go back there. Everyone will come to Daddy’s house to eat turkey and ham. And whatever else my sister cooks.”

Disautel, Washington: “Leading up to Christmas we take grandson out to chop down a tree. Let him help pick it out. Hunt for a deer. Then a family dinner at home. Kids come to visit to get their presents. Tree’s lit up. Decorations. Candy and snacks.”

Tesuque Pueblo, New Mexico: “Spending time at the Pueblo plaza house, watching the winter dances, being with all the family, sharing wonderfully prepared food by the women in the family. There is always laughter, kids running around, and friends dropping by. The usual! Lol.”

Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada: “We’ll spend Christmas with family, sharing a meal and putting out a feast plate for our loved ones who passed away.”

Montross, Virginia: “My family recognizes our elders community members and recalls those who, though gone, have impacted our lives in a good way.”

Edmondton, Alberta, Canada: “Now that I’m a grandma, I spend it with my grandbaby. Usually my daughter, mom, and nephew, too. If I can, we cook (a lot) and eat together. In the past, we have shared with police officers or corrections staff where I used to work. If there is a round dance close, I go there.”

Portland, Oregon: “Donate time at the local veterans shelter.”

Warm Springs, Oregon: “I usually stay home with my granddaughters. We spend the day with each other and enjoy a nice hot fire with delicious foods. We understand that this is not our holiday, but we have adapted it to suit us.”

Apache, Oklahoma: “Christmas Eve: Attending Petarsy Indian Mission in good ol’ Richards Spur, Oklahoma. We get greetings from the Indi’n Santa who brings all the good lil Indi’n boys & girls presents. We sing Comanche hymns, and everyone receives a brown bag of fruit, hard Christmas candies, and nuts. Then we go home to eat Uthivah (Mexican) food and play monopoly till some gets mad. In the morning the kids must sing a Christmas carol before they are allowed to open presents, and we only hope no one sings the Twelve Days of Christmas! The day will be followed by a Christmas dinner.”

Santa Fe, New Mexico: “Since we aren’t Christians, my mama called it Big Winter Give-Away Day. She always put up an NDN tree full of Native ornaments made by her friends—tiny beaded moccasins, little pottery angels, wee cradleboards, miniature painted rawhides, and a very special felt beaded turtle that her mother made. Our angel was always one of us girls‘ little Indian dollies.

“Now that Mom‘s footprints have joined the others in the Milky Way, I put her tree up. She taught us to be generous, ‛to give until it hurt.’ It is this lesson that I pass to my sons, not only for one day, but as a way of being in this world.”

Winter Haven, California: “With my little family. We don’t do gifts just have a feast and spend quality time.”

Hood River, Oregon: “We spend Christmas centered on our Creator, whose name is Jesus Christ, who brought our people to this great promised land. As an Elder, I gather and teach my children my life’s lessons and the reality of resurrection and life after this mortal life because of this Jesus Christ. I cry out of gratitude for his tender mercies. I smile because I see the light of this knowledge in my children’s eyes.”

“After we put the star on the tree, open our simple gifts for one another, eat and laugh with one another, we kneel and pray as my father and grandfather did, carrying on our tradition of gratitude, the tradition of knowing of a greater power. My children have learned that Christmas is not the only day for prayer and sincere repentance. We follow after our Creator, Jesus Christ, with all our imperfections, and because of him we can be forgiven. How holy is His name! We prepare to meet Him, for He will come again, soon.”

Hąwe Wakąndeyinge Tųnye Girorisge! (Merry Christmas!) This Native nativity scene took place at the Otoe–Missouria Tribal Complex near Red Rock, Oklahoma, as part of their Light up the Encampment Grounds event. The animal figures represent the seven clans of the Otoe-Missouria Tribe. Instead of a manger, a cradleboard holds the newborn Jesus. (Used with permission, courtesy of Johnnie Dee Childs)

Tama, Iowa: “As a special day of feasting, we first set aside prayer and food offerings in the sacred fire for relatives before our own indulgence. The respect is that you allow your remembrances—those who have passed—to eat first. Oftentimes with the greater ghost feasts you are also sending prayers for good health, long life—for yourself as well as for your family, plus any others. It is promised that your requests will be granted.”

Southern Maryland: “Our Elders Council (Choptico) have our winter gathering and feast close to or on the day of winter solstice. This year’s menu: Seafood and root veggies. We still have a traditional Christmas dinner for the extended family. Historically Maryland Natives were proselytized by Jesuits and many, if not most, tribal members remain Catholic today.”

Barona, California: “This year I’m doing tamales, meat pies, and empanadas! Someone else made tamales and I’m making the rest.”

Carnegie, Oklahoma: “I remember when we would camp at Red Church or White Church Christmas week. There would be snow on the ground. We slept in the tent with our Ah-Pea (grandmother), and people would get up and cook in the dining hall all three meals. All those paper sacks would be lined up in the church and filled with fruit and Christmas candy. Everyone got a treat sack and missionary gift. Church ran late; sometimes we’d sleep on the floor.

“I wouldn’t trade anything for those days. Singing and praying in Kiowa. Some beautiful memories. They have all gone on now. Thank you for letting me share.”

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania: “On Christmas eve my grandkids have a sleepover with their cousins and we have singing and dance contests (the best steps win a prize) with the kids to encourage them all to sing and dance. Food-eating contests, too (who can eat the most fry bread). We wind up having a little powwow in the house. It tires them all out, too. Breakfast is a big pot of sofkee (seasoned grits). I cook fry bread, three sisters [corn, beans, and squash], salmon, turkey, ham, corn-on-the-cob, cornbread, bread pudding, sweet potato pies, wild rice, string beans, other vegetables. All fresh, nothing from a can. My mother this year started a new tradition: She wants us to write down on a paper and bring it to Christmas dinner to speak on what we are all thankful for and how our year went. My mom also leads us in the traditional holiday songs everyone knows.”

Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin: Christmas was introduced to certain families back in the late 1920s, early 1930s by my grandfather (choka) George Lonetree and his cousin, Sister Kate Massey, who was a priest. They both were in boarding school in Toledo, Iowa, when they first knew about Christmas and the art of giving presents to people. So my choka decided to gather families who were curious about Christmas. These Christmas gatherings happen near Wisconsin Rapids, Wisconsin. We always have some Native food on the table. My mother always made sure of that. It could be Indian corn soup, fry bread, cranberries, duck, rabbit, and sometimes wintergreen tea. Right around Christmastime, the Eagle Clan of the Ho-Chunk Nation of Wisconsin will have their Winter Clan feast. The winter solstice, yeah, like the first day of winter.”

Parker, Arizona: “Sheep ribs cooked over the coals, tortillas, vegetable and mutton stew. Roasted Hatch chili salsa, yeast bread, coffee, and maybe empanadas.”

British Columbia, Canada: “We try to include Native-inspired dishes—salmon, berries, roots, deer meat. I only cook turkey for the kids. But if I cook a turducken (turkey, duck, and quail) it seems more inspiring lol.”

Ohkay Owingeh Pueblo, New Mexico: “At Ohkay Owingeh the Turtle Dance is the driving event. Everything else is second or worked around the dance.”

Crystal Falls, Michigan: “Gotta have some wild rice and venison is we what have. It is always good, and turkeys are native to here, though I’m not a wild turkey fan lol.”

Tappahannock, Virginia: “Dinner is mostly the regular holiday foods except we have to have potato salad and corn pudding. Our Christmas breakfast is oyster stew and watercress if we can gather enough.”

Chicago, Illinois: “Ten years ago we would cook up ham and turkey with all the side dishes. For years the American Indian Center had a Thanksgiving dinner and a Christmas party. We would decorate the tribal hall. I would hear people talking about how traditional they were and still celebrating these holidays and not caring about their cultural teaching. So I decided to change it. I just reworded it to a “giving thanks feast” and encouraged everyone to write what they were truly thankful for. We had a “winter feast.” No decorations, and we shared the teachings of how we celebrate the seasons and why each is important to us. I had many positive comments, and it seemed like they were listening and questioning the religious beliefs. It wasn’t about shopping and presents. Unfortunately they have not been doing any of these events since I left. Everyone wants their urban rez back.”

Ardmore, Oklahoma: “Our church plays have Christmas hymns in Choctaw language, and we always get that brown paper bag filled with fruit, ribbon candy, and orange slice candy. Our church is the Ardmore Indian Baptist Church, in the Chi-Ka-Sha Baptist Association.”

Maui, Hawai’i: “We cook pigs underground here on the Islands. It’s called imu. This year we are going to do it for the homeless. We pretty much go around and see if everyone is fed.”

Dennis W. Zotigh (Kiowa/San Juan Pueblo/Santee Dakota Indian) is a member of the Kiowa Gourd Clan and San Juan Pueblo Winter Clan and a descendant of Sitting Bear and No Retreat, both principal war chiefs of the Kiowas. Dennis works as a writer and cultural specialist at the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, D.C.

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#History

[ampleappleamble]

CHAPTER NINE OF ANTHEM INFINITUM IS FINALLY FINISHED AND UPLOADED

Chapter Nine: Mother, Daughter, Sister, Queen <- AO3 LINK

Defiance Bay is a city that could use a woman's touch.

Full chapter under the cut~

—

There was ‘too strange to be true,’ and then there was 'too strange not to be true.’

The former was usually easy enough to determine, at least for a woman of Sagani’s age and experience: she’d be a piss-poor mother, hunter, and leader were she to give credence to every tall tale a guilty child or unscrupulous trader told her. But sometimes a situation was just unusual enough, skirted that line between plausibility and absurdity just so, that Sagani found herself well and truly baffled. Like now, with these kith.

They’d seemed like a regular bunch of adventurers at first glance, although a motley one. They’d been chatting amiably amongst themselves when they’d noticed her, and if she hadn’t heard them talking about a carved bear– and if Itumaak hadn’t nudged her hip and whined, pointed eagerly at the strangers with his whole body– she probably would have ignored them entirely and let them disappear down the road, over the horizon.

Leaving her alone. Again. And still at square one.

So she had cast her line, and had been completely knocked off guard at the response she’d gotten. She had been expecting the folk man– the big blonde with the country drawl– to do what Dyrwoodan men tended to do and bloviate at her until he lost interest and herded his mismatched crew off to their next thrilling adventure. But instead, he had crouched down to regard Itumaak with childlike delight while, to Sagani’s mild surprise, the redheaded orlan had stepped forward and taken the conversational lead.

What with all the bigotry against orlans she’d heard tell of since arriving in the Dyrwood (and the handful of incidents she’d witnessed firsthand), Sagani hadn’t anticipated the leader of this little pack to be one– and a woman at that, although her foreign accent cleared up some of the confusion. Listening to her bold, clear, confident voice, Sagani had been unable to stop herself cocking an eyebrow and cracking a bemused smile at this strange little encounter.

And it had only gotten stranger the more they’d conversed. While answering the orlan’s questions about her hunt for Persoq, Sagani had noticed the giant aumaua behind her scribbling frantically on a sheet of vellum, his excited eyes darting between the orlan and herself. She’d also noticed the folk man ignoring the conversation entirely to focus on trying to get Itumaak’s attention, as well as the elf standing alone in the back who may or may not have been talking to himself behind his grimoire.

And then the orlan claimed to be a Watcher. Sagani’d had to fight to keep from rolling her eyes upon hearing that one again. And here she’d been, expecting more slack-jawed farmhands. Gods, these people were odd.

Yes, Sagani, they’re a bunch of freaks. Not like you, a middle-aged female long game hunter from an isolated village on an island in the arctic who’s searching for a dead man with her snowy white fox.

Maybe that was what had made her put Persoq’s bear in the other woman’s hands, that guilt at thinking her and her companions odd when Sagani had such an unusual story herself. And at least these people were actually friendly, for once. She still hadn’t decided whether they were necessarily trustworthy or not– the orlan was probably about as real a Watcher as that last “Watcher” she’d met– but she could at least fairly confidently tell that they weren’t about to pull some kind of shit. Body language was too relaxed, atmosphere was all wrong for violence or trickery. Hel, this girl wasn’t even asking for coin. So why not let her have a go at it?

And now, watching the little woman sway on her feet and stare like a sleepwalker, Sagani was starting to wonder if she had made the right decision after all. She wasn’t normally an easy woman to rattle, but something about the orlan had changed, something behind her eyes, and it lent her an eerie, uncanny quality that made Sagani’s skin crawl.

“What’s going on?” she blurted, hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. “What’s happening to her?” Itumaak finally snapped at the annoying folk man, curling his lip and snarling, and the big blonde backed off as the fox leaned into Sagani’s side.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” the man stammered, “prolly shoulda warned you about that. She gets like that when she’s doin’ her watchin’, or… whatch’ call it.” He dug his thumb into an itchy spot between his eyebrows, side-eyed Itumaak. “…Your fox bite?”

“Yes,” she muttered, eyes still fixed on the orlan woman, on Persoq’s bear.

“Can I pet him anyway?” The man’s blue-green eyes shone with sincerity.

“Worry not, madam! She’ll come out of it soon enough,” the aumaua interjected, tucking his writing tools away in his satchel before peering intently at the adra carving in the orlan’s hands. “At least, she seemed to come out of it rather quickly when she spoke to the spirits in Caed Nua. This might be an entirely different experience, as far as I’m aware.” He chuckled and gently waved his gigantic hand in the redhead’s face, and she stared through him, completely unresponsive. “Fascinating, isn’t it? I wonder what she sees…”

Sagani glanced up at the huge man, careful to keep the orlan and Persoq’s bear in her peripheral vision. “You’re telling me you all came from Caed Nua? That old keep west of here? I was told that place was nothing but a wraith-infested death trap.” She felt her heart drop, just a little. Yup, that’s what I thought. Too strange to be true.

“Sure’s Hel was,” the folk man grumbled, his tone suggesting he knew from experience. “'Course, that was before we showed up.”

The little huntress narrowed her eyes at him. “Care to explain exactly what you mean by that?”

The shy elf finally spoke up, cringing with embarrassment as he drew closer to the front of the little group. “Er– begging your pardon, madam; what my cohort meant to say is– Well, come to think of it, actually, perhaps introductions are in order–”

“Cliffs,” the orlan gasped, and Sagani’s focus was back on her in an instant, Itumaak yipping softly with surprise. To her credit, everyone else jumped too, startled by the little woman’s sudden return to consciousness. But still, she couldn’t afford surprises like that, especially when it came to Persoq’s bear. Never again. Beast’s Hooves, woman, never take your eye off your quarry…!

The orlan shook her head and blinked, finally seeming to come out of her reverie. “By the sea, I think,” she continued, trembling slightly as she placed the adra carving back into Sagani’s waiting hands. “Pretty high up, but we still got a snootful of that salty ocean spray.”

Sagani’s gaze flicked rapidly between the green-purple lump in her hands and the woman in front of her. “…What? I– what just– what did you do?” That was nothing like the last “Watcher” she’d dealt with, and she knew he was full of shit. But it didn’t necessarily mean this girl was on the level, either.

“…Watched, I suppose. Well, it’s not just watching. It was more like… being inside someone else’s head, feeling what they feel as well as seeing what they see.” The redhead rubbed her eyes, smiled wearily at Sagani. Reminded her of her youngest waking from a nap too early. “In this case, I was inside Persoq’s head, or his reincarnation’s, anyway. Damned disorienting, I have to admit. And it tends to make me look a bit foolish at times.”

“Right. I’ll bet.” Too strange not to be true? …Maybe. Maybe not. The ranger stuffed the carving back into her pack, not quite ready to admit defeat yet. “Y'know, after my story about that charlatan Watcher, I’d have thought a 'real’ Watcher like you would have more to say about the experience than that.”

“A woman after my own heart!” The aumaua butted in again, looming up behind the little orlan like a sunrise. “I’d love to hear more myself. She only ever gives us the barest hints of what she sees, what the spirits tell her! …Although,” he added sheepishly, “I understand sometimes the scenes that play out before her are… not exactly easy to talk about.”

“Yes, Caed Nua and the Endless Paths are not exactly locales with happy pasts, Kana,” the elf chided gently before turning to Sagani. “I know we must seem… an unusual bunch, madam, and you’ve no reason whatsoever to trust us. We were each just as skeptical when we initially met her, and just as shocked as you the first time we saw her peer into the aether. But she has proven multiple times over to each of us that, ultimately, this is no act: she is a Watcher, truly.” He pursed his lips, fidgeted, wrung his hands together– but his face was open and honest.

Gods, they’re persistent! If they’re liars, at least it seems they’ve all got their story straight. “You realize I don’t even have any coin to offer you for… for whatever that was.” She knew how dangerous this could turn out to be, what a stupid mistake it might be to trust these strangers, but she could feel herself wanting to believe them, needing her long, difficult search to finally yield a solid lead…

The little woman shrugged, unconcerned, and turned to the road in front of Sagani, shouldering her pack once more. “Didn’t ask for any coin,” she stated simply. “Knowledge seeks freedom, we say in Ixamitl, and the freer I can make it, the better.” A cheeky grin popped up on her face. “…Although, if you’ve a tent, we’d trade you for it. Someone ruined ours.”

The folk man tore his attention away from Itumaak’s fluffy, rapidly swishing tail to regard the orlan with indignation. “Hey, c'mon, Axa, I said it was an accident–”

And as if on cue, he was silenced by a crack of thunder. All of a sudden, the humidity and the smell of ozone were overpowering, and the gathered kith all turned their faces to the heavens.

The first drop of rain hit Itumaak on the nose, and he sneezed.

“Welp.” The big blonde sighed dejectedly. “Sun was settin’ anyway. Guess I’ll get started on a lean-to for us.” He trudged off into the nearby brush, and as they followed behind him, the aumaua and the elf gave Sagani polite, awkward waves. The orlan woman– Axa, as Sagani knew her now– watched them go and then turned back to the huntress, raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question. The rain was starting to come down in earnest now.

Oh, come on already–

“I… There’s… uh, a little rock outcropping about 15 minutes’ hike southeast. Should fit five and a fire 'neath it. And a fox, of course.” Sagani reached down and scratched Itumaak behind the ears, and he pressed his head into her strong, steady hand. His reassurance comforted her, and she smiled.

Axa smiled back at the dwarf, her cohorts turning back toward the two women. “Well! I never thought I’d say that that sounds more appealing than my current projected sleeping arrangements, but here we are. You’ll lead the way, I trust?”

Just remember, Sagani: if you wake up tomorrow and Persoq’s bear is gone again, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.

The huntress nodded and chuckled. “Sure will. Follow me.”

—

Honestly, it wasn’t as if Axa didn’t know how farfetched her whole story sounded, especially after listening to herself recount it aloud to a stranger. She was also self-aware enough to recognize that she and her companions probably came off as... eccentric, at best. So in the end, she couldn’t really blame the dwarf for being wary of her and her party– anyone would be– even though they had told her nothing but the truth.

It would certainly be a lot easier to convince the huntress of her sincerity, though, if the truth could stop being so gods damned bizarre as of late.

Axa couldn't help but feel like the more of her story she told, the more a liar she made herself look, and the older woman's guarded body language and skeptical expression weren't very encouraging in that regard. She was a mother, she'd told Axa at the camp that evening– five times over, although only three of her children lived yet– and Axa could tell she was a seasoned veteran of the child-rearing arts. She'd borne that accusatory, incredulous glare from her own mother ten thousand times, and it hadn't made any difference to her whether Axa was telling the truth or not either.

 –Serpent's Wings, I don't want to hear it anymore! He's not some poor stray tom you rescued from the gutter! He's not even a proper priest, Axa; he's a strange, sick con man who was lucky enough to find a softhearted, foolish girl to–

She winced at the memory. Yes, thanks, Mama. Helpful as always.

Then there were all the things she wasn't telling anyone about yet, let alone this woman she'd just met. She wasn't concealing anything especially damning, just perfectly mundane, boring, everyday intensely painful and private experiences and memories, including some that might explain a few things about her current circumstances. But as usual, every time she was presented with an opportunity to open up about herself, Axa just... clammed up instead. The Ordhjóma thing, for instance, had come up again in an otherwise pleasant dinnertime chat about the southern lights over Nasitaaq when Axa had absent-mindedly mentioned the time she had seen them in the White that Wends, and then she'd had those questions to deflect. She knew there was nothing inherently shady about it, but even so, just the act of politely declining to elaborate on her time in the Land or to speak any Ordhjóma for her curious audience made her feel nervous and guilty, as though she were withholding evidence instead of simply keeping a private matter private. Mercifully, everyone seemed to let it go easily enough, but Axa couldn't shake the feeling that Sagani in particular held it against her.

And if it wasn't what she said or didn't say making her appear suspect, it was the series of ludicrous coincidences that now passed for her everyday life. According to the Lady of Caed Nua's trusted local guide (the smoke-addled fool who'd nearly gotten his fingers bitten off by Sagani's fox), the cliffs from her vision of Persoq just so happened to be a few hours west of Defiance Bay. How convenient, then, that she and her crew were headed that way anyway, and how generous of them to offer Sagani a place in their traveling party. It was all the truth, of course, and intended in the spirit of benevolence– but all the same, it sounded like such an obvious contrivance that Axa had almost not wanted to say anything at all, to save them both the embarrassment.

But when the dwarf had accepted, had shrugged and sighed and told her to "lead the way," Axa had had to actively stop herself from shooting back, "Are you sure?" Even though it was perfectly understandable, Sagani's obvious reticence to trust her (especially while she was actively electing to travel with her anyway) still stung, and it frustrated Axa that she couldn't quite figure out how to not let it make things awkward during their long hike to the city. Each of the menfolk had approached her on his own at one time or another and inquired discreetly after her health and mood, each noting how unusually untalkative she was, and each time she found herself too stubborn to admit why. They were damn near crossing the bridge into the city proper by the time the orlan was finally tired of torturing herself about it, and she impulsively squeezed her left eye shut, hoping for some insight–

–Sometimes, with some kith, there just ain't nothin' for it but to just keep on livin' your truth, Lil' Blossom. Just let 'em be, and you just go on bein' true t' yourself. They'll come 'round, with time... or they don't, 'n you cut 'em loose. Th' true o' heart will follow. Either way you're better off than y'were before, worryin' yourself sick about what some blowhards think–

Wael had answered the spontaneous prayer with a promptness that had startled her almost as much as the answer itself. She hadn't thought about her father in some time, but it seemed the Lord of Mysteries had reached down into her mind and plucked out exactly the right memory for the situation. It was something Papa'd told her back when she was a little girl, tormented by peers far crueler than the kith she was keeping company with now, and she had come to him for advice not on revenge, but on how to get them to like her. At the time, Axa had balked at essentially being told that sometimes there was nothing one could do about another's unfair opinions of them. But in time, she came to see the wisdom in his words, and she found that the less she tried to shape herself to please others and the more she focused on cultivating her own identity and interests, the truer the friends she kept and made.

Not that she'd ever had a very broad circle of friends. She was more like her mother than her father in that way.

She lifted her head, cast her gaze over the small group of oddballs and misfits trailing merrily along behind her, and a sudden, fierce sense of camaraderie rushed through the little woman. She felt tears well up in her eyes, and she quickly brushed them away with the back of her furry hand.

 Good advice, Papa. Thanks. ...and thank You, Eyeless One.

"Hey. ...You feelin' alright?" This time, it was Sagani herself who drew up next to the orlan, concern plain on her motherly face. Itumaak's nose brushed Axa's fingertips on her other side, the fox giving her a cursory sniff before returning to his mistress. "You've been pretty quiet these last few hours. Nervous, now that we've made it to the big city?" She nodded her head in the direction of the city gates, no more than a stone's throw away now.

Axa wondered, looking at Sagani's kind smile and knitted brow, how she ever could have thought the older woman had borne her any ill will. "Not really, no. I grew up in the second-largest city in the Plains, so tall buildings and busy streets don't faze me much. I've just been... lost in thought, I guess." She smiled back briefly before tilting her head just so, to obscure her face with her burgundy curls. Just in case.

"You're not still hung up on that Magranite priest we met on the road, are you?" Kana closed the distance between himself and the two women in a few broad steps, sensing that the tension in the group was dissipating now, positively famished for a good chat. "In truth, I still am, a bit. I certainly hope we don't meet any more of his sort beyond these gates!"

"Still feel like we kinda overdid it there," Edér piped up, picking at the bandaging on his fox-bitten fingers. "Sure, he was a weird, rude prick, but did we really have to set his beard on fire after kickin' his ass?" Despite his words, the farmer still smiled fondly at the memory as though reminiscing on some old childhood mischief, chuckling as he spoke.

"He called Axa a vicious, unrepeatable slur, Edér," Aloth huffed, clutching his grimoire close to his chest as the group passed over the long bridge into town. "Honestly, he's lucky he got away with his head still on his shoulders, never mind his beard."

Axa's gaze shot to Sagani, eyes wide and innocent even as she fought back a feisty grin. And in response, the huntress laughed, clapping Axa gently on the shoulder. "Now that sounds like a good story. Maybe tell me over a drink once we get settled in at the inn."

'Be true to yourself, and the true of heart will follow you.' Good advice, indeed, Axa thought, smiling back at the dwarf as the party approached the gates of Defiance Bay.

—

As soon as their party had crossed the threshold of the city proper, they'd turned to a local rabblerouser for directions, inquiring about points of interest and general information about the city. He'd filled them in while still trying to hold court with the group of refugees and protesters crowded around him, adding in his own fiery criticisms of animancy and the local constabulary (along with his endorsement of the local vigilante militia), and as soon as the opportunity to escape had presented itself the little band of adventurers had beelined for the nearest tavern, a busy little neighborhood eatery and inn called the Goose and Fox.

Bit strange, that name. Sounds kind of predatory for a house of respite. Sagani glanced down at her own fox, and then chuckled to herself, shaking her head. ...Alright, maybe I'm looking a little too hard into this.

She noticed Axa looking at her quizzically, so she leaned over and murmured: "Here, stop me if you've heard this one: An orlan, a dwarf, a folk, an elf, an aumaua, and an arctic fox walk into a bar..."

"The bartender looks at them and says, 'What is this, some kind of joke?'" Axa quipped back, not missing a beat. It was a punchline from a different bit, catching Sagani off guard, and both women laughed loudly enough to draw attention. In particular, that of a sour-faced elf with a rag draped over his shoulder who frowned and pointed at Itumaak, shaking his finger at the beast as he scurried out from behind the bar.

"Hey, hey, c'mon now, ladies, no loose animals in the dining area– Is that a dog, or...? Either way, tie it up outside, please. This isn't the Salty Mast." He spat the last few words from his mouth like a foul-tasting venom and turned to resume his duties, only to find himself nose-to-chest with Edér.

"He's an arctic fox, actually," the large man drawled softly, his tone hovering between casual and threatening. "And he goes where we go. 'Sides, he's clean, and he don't make no trouble. Not 'nless there's trouble with us. Which there ain't. Right?" He smiled amicably, looming over the sweaty little man as Axa stepped forward to intercede and the rest of her crew discreetly slid into a corner table.

The blonde and the redhead returned shortly, followed by a husky orlan barmaid loaded down with stew and brew for the party of five, plus a little something for Itumaak. They talked while they ate: planning, mostly, about what to do with the rest of the evening and the days to come. The Hall of Revealed Mysteries, temple to Wael and the largest library in the Dyrwood, was a high-priority destination, as was the Ducal Palace in First Fires, for the war records Edér was after. According to the talkative fellow by the gates, First Fires was also where Axa could find the temple of Woedica, and hopefully some clues regarding the enigmatic Leaden Key. And, of course, eventually they'd have to head for the western gates to escort Sagani to the cliffs where she might meet Persoq.

Even though your initial offer wasn't an escort to the cliffs. Only to the city. Sagani smirked as she considered the implications and nursed her tankard. You that eager to prove you're really a Watcher? Or are you just hoping to keep me on a little longer as a hireling you don't have to pay? She watched them eat and talk and drink and laugh, and when the orlan caught her staring, she smiled and offered the huntress a toke from her pipe.

...Frost's sake, Sagani, she thought as she politely waved the proffered whiteleaf away, maybe she's just nice.

Soon enough, she was pleasantly buzzed and half-listening to Aloth and Kana argue about whether to visit the asylum in Brackenbury when she noticed that Axa's attention had drifted as well– to the folk woman at the table nearest the back wall, the one who kept her face out of the lamplight and stared grimly into her ale.

Sagani nudged Axa, indicated the woman with a nod of her head. "You know her?"

"No." The redhead rose from her seat, wiping her mouth and knitting her brow. "But I know that look." She spared a glance at the lads– Edér, his eyes shut, blissfully gnawing on a hunk of beef the size of his hand; Kana and Aloth still wrapped up in the discourse on animancers in the Dyrwood– before striding purposefully towards the solitary woman, Sagani close behind.

It took some coaxing, but they got her talking. She told them her name was Kaenra, and that her fiancé had recently struck up a close friendship with svef, had started bringing strange, unsavory people around to the house to use. That he'd become distant, and then violent, and that now all she wanted from him was for him to take his grandmother's ring back and fuck off out of her life. Sagani watched as Axa listened, watched as she bristled with righteous rage, her eyes lingering on the woman's fresh bruise as she squeezed the ring tightly in her fist.

"I'll make sure he gets it," she vowed.

And so it came to pass that Sagani found herself spending her first evening as a tourist in Defiance Bay firing off arrows in a stranger's kitchen and siccing Itumaak on the drug-addled thugs in the study. Judging from the reactions of the rest of her retinue, apparently this sort of thing wasn't exactly out of the ordinary for Axa: the girl had a thirst for justice, it seemed, and she damn well meant to slake it.

Before long, they were all standing above the cowering, bloodied homeowner, a man called Purnisc who struggled to explain himself to Axa's satisfaction. Turns out he had been dealing svef, too, and when his supplier had found out that he'd been pocketing more than his fair share of the profits–

"–they sent the kneebreakers downstairs," Sagani finished for him, "and the wizard to replace you. Literally." She shook her head in wonder. It really was just like one of her Vailian crime novels.

"Replacement wasn't much of an improvement on the original." The little redhead was steaming mad, and she made no move to hide it as she leaned over the battered man, finger in his face. "You silly bastard, you really thought you could steal from a professional criminal, and lie to your woman about it, and you're just so gods damned clever that no one could ever possibly be the wiser?"

The man's blacked, swollen eyes went as wide as they were able. "You... you've talked to my Kaenra? Is she alright? Sh-she doesn't know I was selling, does she? Oh, gods, please don't tell her. I'm so sorry for putting her through all this. Please don't–"

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Axa's cry came shrill and piercing, her typical rich, smooth voice consumed in the fire of her outrage. "Kaenra sent us here to return your ring because of your lies, you crooked little shit-for-brains! She loves and respects you! And you'd have us lie to her again?"

The pathetic man had withered under the orlan's verbal assault, and Axa seemed to have made her mind up about him as the group marched solemnly back to the Goose and Fox. But after returning to Kaenra, after telling her what Purnisc had done, the little woman once again defied all reasonable expectations.

"He's just an idiot, not a monster," Axa assured the other woman, "and he still loves you. And although he did a damned foolish thing, he never meant to hurt you. You just need to decide for yourself whether he's worth a second chance." Her violet eyes shone with tears as she spoke, Purnisc's ring on the table next to the women's clasped hands.

When Kaenra smiled and said she’d think about it, that was when Sagani suspected that even if it turned out she wasn’t a Watcher, this girl might really be something special after all.

—

Axa could feel them watching her as they settled into their room at the Goose and Fox that night, could feel them wanting to know. Not only so they could understand why she had done what she had with Purnisc and Kaenra, but also so they could (no doubt) uncover and examine all the painful, humiliating life experiences behind her every decision, all her successes and failures, and then judge her accordingly. Like kith will, she thought, of course. That’s normal and healthy to think.

Genuine concern mingled with morbid curiosity, hung palpably over the group like a scythe posed to reap as everyone sat and waited for Axa to break the oppressive silence. So she drained her goblet, emptied her pipe, got out her whiteleaf, and with a grim sense of determination, she told them about it.

About the career she'd built back in Ixamitl, where she had lucked into a scholarship to a prestigious lore college, bestowed on her by a generous politician acquainted with her father. Because she'd always loved to learn and hear stories about kith from around the world, she had chosen to put her good fortune to good use and study to become a naturalist, concerning herself with the cultures and languages and histories that constituted the kith population of Eora.

While most of her colleagues had decided to specialize in Vailian– a popular choice for the political or business-oriented crowd– Axa fancied herself an intellectual, and so she had challenged herself with mastering Ordhjóma: the exotic, mysterious language of the Glamfellen, separated for 10,000 years from their tropical Sceltrfolc cousins in the far-flung, frozen south, in The White that Wends. She had thrown herself into her studies, blowing through massive tomes and ancient scrolls like a hurricane, outperforming her peers with ease. Within four years, Axa had risen like a Dawnstar to the top of her class.

And then the field work had begun.

"It's one thing to read about a people, learn their language from books and study up on their culture," Axa explained, stuffing her pipe slowly, taking her time. "It's quite another to visit their homeland, speak with them, live among them. I was barely seventeen, I'd never even been out of the city..."

Kana winced, painful recognition in his black eyes. "Culture shock can be particularly difficult for younger scholars. We have certain expectations after all our years of academic study, and to find out that the genuine article doesn't quite match up to the image in one’s head can feel disorienting and disappointing. There's not only the shock, there's anger at the natives, and then the guilt over said anger..."

Axa accepted Aloth's proffered light while Kana trailed off– it always delighted her, using arcane flame for something so trivial as a smoke– and sighed. "That's what was really odd about it. I experienced some culture shock, but ultimately the problem wasn't me. It was them. I know it sounds like I'm just being bitter, but... honestly, for whatever reason, the whole village really was actively freezing me out."

"Nice," Edér chuckled, grinning at the unintentional pun until Aloth's glare chastised him back into solemnity.

"No one wanted to talk to me," Axa continued. "Oh, I tried, incessantly, but they just... kept turning away, or answering with nonsense or... or riddles. My colleagues had little difficulty integrating, but I felt like my presence was just barely tolerated by the villagers. I tried asking the other lore students about it, but they either feigned ignorance really well or they honestly couldn't tell what these Glamfellen had against me."

"Some sort of... racial prejudice, perhaps?" Aloth looked as uncomfortable as he sounded, but at least the topic was broached. Axa shrugged.

"I don't think so, but I honestly have no idea. The other three scholars with me weren't orlans, but they weren't Glamfellen either. And no one ever specifically said anything about my being an orlan."

Sagani nodded. "In my experience, while most Glamfellen tend to be as standoffish as any elf– no offense, Aloth– they don't usually have specific prejudices like that."

"Right? Ordinarily, unity and hospitality are taken very seriously in the frozen south; to support one another is indispensable to survival. Nevertheless, I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong by them, and it was driving me out of my gods damned mind. I was supposed to be studying local accents, dialects, and colloquialisms, but that's somewhat difficult when nobody will actually speak with you. So, I ended up spending a lot of time eavesdropping on people, mostly outside, by myself."

Sagani shook her head, drawing her whetstone across her hunting knife. "Bad idea to go it alone out there in the White. All kinds of dangers hiding in the snow."

The orlan huffed a sharp, sardonic laugh. "You're telling me. That's how I met Vaargys."

As soon as his name was out of her mouth, Axa could feel her entire demeanor transform, and the atmosphere in the room with her. It was the first time she'd said his name since she'd left home, and even though she knew they'd already been listening, her audience really seemed to be listening now. She felt her face get warm and her eyes sting from the impending tears, so she turned to the window, trying hard to focus on the streets outside and not at her own reflection in the glass.

Come on, girl. You’ve run far enough. It's time you faced this.

"I spotted him from afar one day at dusk: a dark, distant, shaggy figure out there among the rocks, shambling around just beyond the village's borders. It took me a few minutes to even realize he was kith. My colleagues noticed me watching him eventually, warned me away from him: the 'wild man' the locals called the 'Cursed Vagabond,' the 'Exiled Priest.' And he was out there all alone, struggling to survive because nobody wanted him around, and no one would say why..."

"You had a lot in common," Aloth murmured gravely. It wasn't difficult to see where this story was going. And he couldn't help but think it sounded similar, thematically, to one he knew quite well.

"Kith will paint a face on a rock with their own blood if it means they can have someone to talk to," Sagani sighed sadly, sympathy heavy in her chest. She could see where this was going too, and she dug her fingers into the thick fur on the back of Itumaak's neck for comfort. He grunted in appreciation.

"I introduced myself, like you do. He was... cautious, but receptive. It helped that I'd brought gifts." Axa smiled with fond recollection, despite herself. "We got to know one another, and over time we became fond of each other. We started sharing meals and stories about ourselves, our lives. He told me he was a priest of Wael, self-taught, and exiled from his clan for venerating the Eyeless Face instead of the Beast of Winter... He let me get close to him, cut his hair, tend to his wounds..." The tears spilled over at last, and she paused for a moment, hid her face.

"And you fell in love," Sagani finished for her. Classic. Tale as old as time.

Axa smiled again even as she brushed her tears away, dragging her little fist across her golden cheeks. "And I fell hard. I was his first real friend, gave him his first kiss. And very soon, I became his first lover." The men blushed and looked at the floor. Axa and Sagani paid them no heed.

"I was fascinated by him, and he adored me. We made our own little world together there in the caves, in the snow. And we lived there, separate from everyone and everything else. Until I had to return to Ixamitl, of course. But I had a plan: Before I could talk myself out of it, I asked him to marry me– the very night before I was to return to the Eastern Reach. ...Gods, I had known him for only five months."

"And... wait, how old were you?" Edér spoke up for the first time since Axa had started her story, confusion clear on his face.

"I– Seventeen, almost eighteen by the time I went back home," she clarified, miffed at the interruption. "I'm twenty-two, now."

The blond man held his hands out in front of him, squinting at his fingers, baffled. "And... and how old were you when you left home? Hey, how old was he?"

Kana sighed and leaned over, patting him on the shoulder with one huge hand and confiscating the man's pipe with the other. "Erh– Never mind that now, my friend. Please, Axa, continue." He smiled that big, toothy smile at the little woman, and she blinked very slowly.

"...I brought him home to meet my family and colleagues, to assist me in my studies since all I'd really brought back from the Land was him, and ultimately, hopefully, to become my husband. In the interest of brevity– albeit somewhat belated– here’s how all that turned out: my family and colleagues hated and distrusted him, and after I had defended him so fiercely I'd alienated myself from my peers, I found out that about three-quarters of everything he'd ever told me about his home and his language was complete horseshit and all of our work together was complete bunkum. So! I burned it all in a big bonfire behind our house before telling him to leave and never come back."

She had ticked her misfortunes off on her fingers as she’d described them, her hands trembling, and then gesticulated fiercely before letting her fists fall to the small tabletop before her. "And then... I left, too. And now, here I am."

 ...Gods, that was easy. Much easier than I thought it'd be. Why was it so–

She rambled on before she could lose her nerve. "So. That's why I... wanted to do that for Kaenra. My fiancé lied to me and fucked up my life, too, and I can't just ignore that kind of shit when I see it anymore." She sighed, turning to the window again with her pipe still burning away in her hand. "Vaargys is the reason I had to leave my home and everything I've ever known, because his lies ruined my career and my academic standing and my reputation. How could I just stand by and watch it happen to someone else?"

"Yet, you advised Kaenra to forgive Purnisc?" Aloth twisted his fingers together in his lap, staring at them rather than looking at Axa as he spoke. "After... all he'd done?"

Sagani glanced at him, narrowing her eyes as he reached up to smooth his hair– and wipe away a stray bead of sweat in the process. Is it my imagination, or is he...?

Axa kept her gaze fixed on the street below. "Yeah, that sort of surprised me too, to be honest." She spotted a stray soul, its violet wisps of essence drifting slowly amongst the city goers, and she squeezed her eyes shut, felt them burn behind her eyelids. "I suppose... I just got the feeling that it wasn't too late for them, that what they had for each other wasn't so broken it couldn't be repaired. Vaargys and me... not so. There was no coming back from what he'd done, and we both knew it."

"Whatever became of him? Of Vaargys?" Kana leaned forward eagerly, his eyes shining with compassion. For once, he actually wasn't taking notes on the conversation, and Sagani noticed that, too.

Axa opened her eyes, and saw the lost soul on the street no more. She shuddered. "After I confronted him, Vaargys simply... left. Vanished into the horizon, just as abruptly as he'd first appeared to me. And then, I got to clean up after him– after us– all alone. I wasn't up to the task; wasn't really up to the task of anything but hiding in bed and regretting my life decisions up to that point. I could really only scrape together the wherewithal every now and then to go out and sell off or give away all the ridiculous trinkets and baubles we'd accumulated together. A few of the things I tried to get rid of turned out to be stolen, of course– big surprise, Axa, he's a thief and a liar– which did my already brutalized image no favors. Nor my purse, when I was obliged to pay out of my pocket for his chicanery."

"Villain," Kana spat, shaking his head slowly. "Scoundrel! ...Oh, how dastardly, to sow discord between the woman he loves and her neighbors and colleagues, then to abscond, completely free of reproach!" His sorrowful frown was as huge and expressive as his smiles always were, almost theatrically so.

Sagani just barely looked over in time to spot Aloth surreptitiously roll his eyes, and she couldn't suppress her grin. I thought so. Ondra's Lure, they're pretty obvious now that I think of it...

The elf cleared his throat and took the reins. "Shall we assume, then, that your family and friends were unable or unwilling to aid you in your time of need?"

Axa scoffed. "My little brother was sympathetic, but ultimately powerless to help me. He's stuck too far under our mother's thumb. He's a Godlike, and it's made things... difficult, for both of them. He feels obligated to her. As for our mother, she blamed me for my own misfortunes, for 'shacking up' with a man like Vaargys in the first place. So... that sort of says it all about our relationship. My father hasn't been in the picture since I was 13, and any non-academic friends I hadn't already traded for school, I ended up trading for Vaargys. I'd made him my whole world, and he–" She stopped herself, puffed on her pipe. "I don't... really make new friends easily. Never have."

Kana laughed good-naturedly. "With all due respect, present company seems to indicate quite the contrary."

"Ha! Since becoming a Watcher with her own castle who offers to help everyone she meets solve all their problems, I do seem to be quite popular, yes," the orlan agreed with a wry smirk. "...I jest, of course. In any case, the friends I do make, I tend to keep. And cherish." She smiled at Kana earnestly, and now he averted his eyes and went ruddy in the face.

Sagani and Aloth surprised one another, simultaneously faking coughing fits to cover their derisive snorts. Kana went even redder, but still managed a sheepish smile as Axa quickly redirected back to the topic at hand.

"In any case, it was my mother who gave me the idea to relocate to the Dyrwood. She brought back the notice advertising the caravan from the marketplace, threw it at me as I lay in my little nest of quilts and despair, and told me I had better either try and do something to rebuild my life or I may as well just return my soul to the Wheel to start a new one, save it some time and trouble."

"So... in response to your fiancé sabotaging your career and your reputation in your own home community, your own mother told you to... choose between self-exile and suicide?" Aloth spoke very quietly, very carefully. When Axa nodded and shrugged, puffing nonchalantly on her pipe, he couldn't quite come up with anything to say to that.

"As harsh as it sounds," she pressed on as she rose and crossed the room to stand before the hearth, "I agreed with her. I still do. Mama grew up a slave and only finally earned her freedom by running away, so maybe she's biased, but... I was never going to be able to move on like that, lying around like I was dead already, surrounded by bad memories. I had to do something, get up and get out. And she dropped a nice, pre-packaged escape plan in my lap, just like that. Nicest thing she'd done for me in a good long while. ...So. That's what lead me to the Dyrwood."

"And then it lead you to the bîaŵac, the Engwithan ruins, the machine," Kana murmured, rubbing his chin and studying the little woman. "Perchance, did you ever pray to Wael that you might live an interesting life? Because if so, you've had your wish granted many times over!"

"It's funny," Axa sighed as she bent and tapped her pipe against the bricks of the fireplace, "you'd think I'd hold a grudge against Wael, allowing Their priest to make a fool of me like that. But in the end, I had to admit that although he betrayed my trust and wrecked my life, Vaargys hadn't actually ever violated any of Wael's tenets. ...Made me rethink the gods, a bit. Maybe he was a true servant of Wael after all, sent to guide me here for some reason. And I do still pray to Wael for guidance, on occasion."

The aumaua sat up in his chair, beaming. "Ah! Shall we go to the Hall of Revealed Mysteries tomorrow after all, then? We can ask the scriveners' opinion!"

"Gods! I spill my guts to you, and you're still thinking about going to the library?" Axa shook her head and chuckled. "You're a mystery, Kana."

"Wait, so... you were gonna marry the pale elf?" Edér mumbled into his pillow, half asleep and trying to kick his boots off. "But you're an orlan. Would that... how would that work?"

The little woman threw the sheets back on her bed, using a little more force than she'd meant to. "Another mystery, Edér," she snapped, rolling her eyes. "Mysteries abound."

The other two men winced as Sagani laid a gentle, steady hand on the orlan's shoulder. "Hey. ...Hel of a day for all of us. Let's call it a night, yeah?"

"Let's, yes." Axa turned and smiled wearily, placing her little hand over the huntress'. "Thank you. All of you. Truly. Tomorrow... tomorrow should be easier, I think."

—

The next morning, Axa woke facedown on the floor halfway between her bed and the door to the room.

The rest of the day proceeded along the same lines.

They made for First Fires first, to visit the Ducal Palace and discern the fate of Edér's brother from the military records, as well as square away some lingering paperwork dealing with Caed Nua. Naturally, they came away from the Palace with no answers for Edér, more paperwork to do with Caed Nua, and a new, even longer list of tasks and priorities.

"You Watchers do that every time you roll into a new town?" Sagani stretched and yawned and Itumaak did the same, both of them glad to finally be back outside. "Introduce yourself, get involved in local politics, promise the townsfolk you'll visit the caves from their visions for 'em?"

"Sure she does," Edér grinned over the dwarf's shoulder. "How d'y'think we met her?"

Axa sighed, rubbing her bleary eyes. "That seems to be my routine since moving to the Dyrwood, anyway. No better way to earn a bit of coin and endear oneself to the locals than to offer a helping hand. The better to 'establish myself in the city,' too, I suppose– apparently a necessity if one just wants to access one little simple gods damned war record." She looked up at Edér with sympathy.

"Perhaps we might start realizing that goal by familiarizing ourselves with the local constabulary?" Aloth waved a slender finger in the direction of the squat, imposing keep that housed the Crucible Knights. "If what the... representative from the Dozens we met yesterday eve says is true, it sounds like they're well in need of the assistance and more than capable of affording your fee."

"Oh, they're more 'n capable of plenty," Edér grumbled as the party approached the stone arch and started up the stairs to Crucible Keep, "but it don't mean they'll actually do what they say they will. The Dozens, they got the opposite problem: they like t' say they done shit they haven't."

"As long as they pay us and help us get you your war records, they can talk all they like and I'll do the doing." Axa flashed her feisty, confident smile at the first Knight she spotted in the great hall–

–and within twenty minutes, she was storming back down the steep stairs, red-faced and fuming, her companions trailing nervously behind her.

"'Orlans aren't suited for the work,' he says!" she spat, flinging her hands about, teeth bared in anger. "We're 'too hostile,' he says! And then Clyver just... throws some bullshit fetch-it job at me and dismisses me like I'm a child!"

"Now, Axa, please, just– just try and calm down..." As soon as Kana said it, Sagani winced in sympathy for the stupid man. Oof... Wrong approach there, lad.

And she was right. Axa whipped around so fast that the huge man stumbled backward in surprise, nearly tripping over his own feet. She reached up to jab a finger into his solar plexus while her eyes, narrowed into slits like thin violet blades, cut into him. "Never tell me how to feel, Kana, never again. Or by the Beast, I'll show you fucking hostile."

She whirled back to fore, marching away with her fists clenched at her sides, leaving Kana to stare after her and press his palm to the divot she'd poked in his belly. He watched as Sagani and Aloth followed close behind her, before he turned to Edér, eyes wide with bewilderment.

The blond chewed his pipe stem, giving the ochre-hued lad a look of pity. "First time pissin' off a woman? Or... just an orlan woman?"

"Hardly," Kana chuckled, "on either count. Why, it's not even my first time pissing off that particular orlan woman!" He shook his head, slowly ambling after the little woman, taking his time to catch up. "Although that barrel of powder was already well primed to explode, and not without reason. I suppose I just had no idea how serious the anti-orlan sentiment really was around here. Evidently, even the justiciars will make brazen, odious assumptions about a perfectly amicable visitor like Axa based on nothing more than bigoted superstition! And with the four of us standing right there alongside her, no less!"

"Well, I mean, yeah, but... I wasn't gonna say anything." Edér looked away, scratching at the back of his neck, and Kana turned to rebuke the man before realizing, with no small amount of shame, that he hadn't said anything to the justiciar to defend Axa either. He fell uncharacteristically silent pondering this, and Edér thumped him affectionately between the shoulders, passing the other man his pipe in the spirit of brotherhood. For whatever reason, it made Kana feel worse.

It didn't take the two men very long to catch up to the others. They had come to a dead stop not too far away, the three of them standing just beyond the threshold of a nearby building– or, what was once a building. The burnt out, crumbling ruins of Defiant Bay's temple to Woedica appeared to Edér and Kana to be rather unremarkable, considering its purpose and patron. Weeds poked up through the broken stone, insects and small vermin skittered amongst the scattered bricks.

And there Axa stood near the center of the ruin, still as a statue, staring into thin air. The clouds shifted with the wind, and a thin, feeble sunbeam dragged itself slowly across the district, catching her in the light for just a moment, but she made no sign of noticing.

Kana sidled up timidly behind Aloth, peering at the little woman over the elf's head. "Is... is she quite alright? I didn't upset her that badly, did I?" He looked to Sagani, hoping to see an encouraging face, but found the huntress entirely fixated on the orlan woman instead.

"Don't worry, Kana, it's nothing to do with you." Sagani's voice was quiet and clipped, and her face wore concern and shock in equal measure. "She's just... talking to a ghost."

"Oh– why, so she is!" Kana still stood behind Aloth– reminding himself of hiding behind his mother as a child after he'd angered one of his sisters– but he leaned forward all the same to better observe her. Sure enough, the signs were all there: her blank eyes, her unsteady stance, her lack of response to stimuli.

"Told ya, she just does that sometimes," Edér quipped, returning some of the dirty looks they were starting to draw from passersby. "We let her. She seems t’ like it."

Aloth leaned away from the giant chanter looming over his shoulder. "The shock starts to wear off after you've seen her do it a few times," he assured Sagani politely.

And as if on cue, Axa suddenly shuddered and blinked, coming out of her trance dazed and slightly paler than before. Her voice was shaky, but she kept it under control. "...The temple proper is underground. We can reach it through the catacombs, on the south side of Copperlane. That's... where we'll meet her. The Queen that Was." She turned to her comrades and found Sagani in front of her, the older woman's face a shifting landscape of wonder, fear, pity.

"You really are a Watcher, aren't you?" The way she said it, Axa knew Sagani believed it, now.

She smiled weakly. "I am, yes. For better or for worse."

—

Kana Rua breathed deeply of the sea air as the band of adventurers wandered through Ondra's Gift, and a powerful, heart-wrenching homesickness hit him like a punch to the gut. The smell of the ocean was the smell of home to him, and he'd been landlocked so frequently as of late on his journey across the Eastern Reach that he'd started to find it hard to recall the exact details of its tangy, briney aroma. Although the winds from the bay that swept across him now didn't smell quite like the ones he'd enjoyed back home in Tâkowa– rather fishy smelling, this particular shore– they were still a fond reminder of his coastal home, a kindness from Ondra Herself to him, here in Her namesake district in this faraway land.

Chest and mind alike full of the heady fragrance of the waves, he smiled down at Axa, and the little woman smiled back, giving his elbow a gentle squeeze. She had apologized to Kana for her earlier outburst as soon as she'd had time to process her conversation with the ghostly Woedican worshipper, and he had responded with a lengthy apology of his own for his cowardly silence during her earlier confrontation with the bigot at Crucible Keep. Before long, they were laughing and jesting as though nothing had ever happened. Neither of them could stay angry with a friend for very long, it seemed, and both were amenable to a sincere admission of guilt and a genuine attempt to make amends.

And he couldn't deny that the more time he spent in conversation with her, the more he found himself blushing and grinning stupidly, stumbling over his words. Though it felt... coarse to dwell on it, he couldn't help but wonder if there might be something between the two of them. We suffer misunderstandings here and there, but ultimately, she seems rather fond of me. And I have to admit, she's a stunning little beauty... She's strong, principled, fantastically clever... And her charm–

"Smells like a kraken took a shit out here and died," Axa groused, her lip curling back in revulsion as she tried to peer around the other pedestrians crowding the street. "Gods, I detest the sea. ...We must be lost. Isn't there supposed to be an inn around here somewhere?"

Kana cringed as his amorous daydreams quickly deflated. "Ah... there is, yes, the... Salty Mast," he replied reluctantly. "But, erh, you might not wish to give custom to–"

The crash of a heavy wooden door being flung against masonry shattered any sense of tranquility left in the muggy afternoon. Everyone on the street, Axa and crew included, quickly turned to the source of the clamor: a tall, slim woman in silver armor and purple silks, evidently doing her damndest to tear the door to the Vailian Trading Company office off of its hinges on her way out of the building. She appeared to be Ocean Folk at first glance, but when she whipped her head of thick, dark hair around, her feathers–

Her feathers, cerulean and emerald and azure, caught the late afternoon sunlight, fluffed up and fluttered in the breeze. Axa could hear the others around her gasping, whispering, but she–

–a gift, honeycomb, a gift from the Sky-Mother Herself! Oh, Axa, look at him, look at your beautiful little brother and she'd looked and seen feathers, feathers and blood and wet, pink flesh–

–had seen an Avian Godlike before.

"Gods damn that son of a cur!" Her voice was smooth and melodious despite her fury and fervor, and as Axa approached she found herself met by a pair of sharp, golden eyes that rivaled her own in intensity.

The feathered woman sneered, gesturing to the building she'd exited seconds before. "Ado. Looking for work? You could try your hand at running a down-on-its-luck Vailian Trading Company. There'll be a good position opening up soon enough, provided you don't mind mopping up your predecessor's blood before assuming his duties." Her Vailian accent was strong and rich, and she glared at the badly abused door, arms crossed over her chest, careful not to obscure the five suns on her breastplate.

Axa looked at the door herself just in time to see a frantic little fellow inside scramble to shut it as best he could. She turned back to the woman before her, whose scowl cut ever deeper into her striking features. "Uh. W‐well–" It took the little woman longer than usual to find her voice– "Enough coin, and you'd be surprised how well damn near anything'll clean up."

The scowl eased up, for a moment. "True enough. Verzano's just lucky he's not getting his payments in steel these days. Or not yet, anyway." The armored lady cast her piercing gaze at the orlan one last time– pinkish-white membranes sliding up out of the corners of her eyes– before striding purposefully up the road Axa and her companions had just come down.

No one spoke until the brilliant woman had vanished into the crowd, and then it seemed like everyone had something to say all at once. Axa had to lean in close for Sagani to hear her over the din. "I know we made a promise to take you to those cliffs," the redhead told her, "and I do intend to honor that promise. But do you think you'd mind if we made a brief diversion?"

Sagani saw Axa's violet eyes lingering on the ruined front door of the VTC branch office, and the little huntress grinned, Itumaak perking up at her side. "Don't mind a bit, Watcher. Never could resist a good mystery."

—

[tipsycad147]

Animals and Witchcraft

(The Witches Familiar)

Written and compiled by George Knowles

Introduction

Since time began animals have been revered and worshipped as spirits of nature, known to the ancients as power animals or the animal guides of the Gods.  Many animals therefore became associated with various deities, such like:  Diana and the Hound, Heqet (or Heket) and the Toad, Proserpina and the Raven, Pan with the Goat and Athena with the Owl.  Most other deities in one way or another became associated with animals.  The ancients believed animals were closer to nature than humans, and would perform rituals and make offerings to their spirits in attempts to communicate with them.

Old shamans believed that all things and beings, particularly animals, were possessed of a spirit or soul, and that one could attract parts of their soul, thus their spirit and powers with mimicry.  To achieve this they dressed in appropriate animal furs and feathers or wore horns and fierce looking masks while performing dance and imitating their antics.  The novice shaman would acquire his animal spirits on completion of his initiation.  These he would send out on errands or to do battle on his behalf, however if they failed or died, then so too did the shaman. The shaman would keep and use the same animal spirits until his death, upon which time they would disappear or be passed on to aid his apprentice.

Given the animal kingdoms intimate relationship with nature, its not surprising that witches as they evolved should adopt certain animals as their own link to nature, spirits and deities.  Wise men and women commonly used animals, while wizards, magicians and village healers used them to diagnose illnesses, sources of bewitchment, divination and to find lost property or treasure.

It was not until the Middle Ages and the rise of Christianity that the witches pets and animals became thought of as agents of evil.  As the persecution of witches began, so the church started teaching the concept that the Witches’ familiar was an associate of the Christian devil.  They became demons and evil spirits in animal form, sent out by the witch to do their nasty bidding.  They also believed witches possessed the power to transform themselves into animals, in which guise they committed any number of diabolical deeds.  Later they were believed to use animal products in spells, making potions and concoctions to aid transformation, gain power over nature, or even to harm and kill.

The most common animals associated with witchcraft were the:  Frog, Owl, Serpent, Pig, Raven, Stag, Goat, Wolf, Dog, Horse, Bat, Mouse and of course the Cat, though virtually any animal, reptile or insect would be suspect.  Obsession with the witches familiar was most prevalent in England and Scotland and was mentioned in numerous trial records of the period, particularly those related to “Matthew Hopkins”, the infamous Witch Finder General (see Matthew Hopkins).

According to the ancient Witchcraft Act of 1604, it was a felony to:  “consult, covenant with, entertain, employ, feed or reward any evil or wicked spirit to or for any intent or purpose”, an act that Hopkins used with zeal when extracting confessions.  He also used the “Malleus Malificarum” the so-called Inquisitor’s Handbook.  Though it offers no instruction concerning familiars in the interrogation and trial of witches, it does acknowledge that an animal familiar “always works with the witch in everything”.  As such it advises the inquisitor never to leave a witch prisoner alone, “or the devil will cause him or her to kill themselves, accomplished through a familiar”.  This in mind Hopkins would tie the witch up in a cell and leave them alone, while watching secretly for their arrival.  If so much of as a fly or beetle approached them, it was deemed proof enough that they were indeed witches.

Today in contemporary witchcraft any thoughts of animals as “demonic spirits of evil” has been left by the way side, though many modern witches still use animals when working with magick utilising their primordial instincts and psychic abilities to attune with nature and deities.  Animals are sensitive to psychic power and vibrations, and are welcomed into the magick circle when power is being raised or spells are being cast.  They are also used to aid scrying, divination and spirit contact.  When working with magick animals act as a guard in psychic defence for they react visibly to negative forces and harmful energy.

Perhaps the most famous of contemporary witches to keep a familiar was Sybil Leek and her pet jackdaw named “Mr. Hotfoot Jackson”.  Sybil was a hereditary witch with a long lineage going back to the witches of southern Ireland in 1134, but her choice of a pet jackdaw bears an uncanny relationship to one particular ancestor called Molly Leigh:

Molly Leigh

As the story goes, Molly was born in 1685 and lived in a cottage on the edge of the moors at Burslem near Stoke-on-Trent.  Molly was a solitary character who never married; she talked to the animals and kept a pet Jackdaw.  She made her living selling milk from a herd of cows to travellers and passers-by.  An eccentric person, the Jackdaw was often seen perched on her shoulder as she delivered milk to the dairy in Burslem.

Molly was known for her quick temper and the people of Burslem were suspicious and frightened of her.  This was not uncommon in those times, for throughout the country ‘women’ and particularly elderly women who lived on their own in remote places, were labelled as witches.

In Molly’s case it was the local vicar the Rev. Spencer who made witchcraft accusations against her.  He claimed that Molly sent her Jackdaw to sit on the sign of the Turk’s Head pub, a pub that the vicar frequently visited, and when it did the beer turned sour.  She was also blamed for other ailments suffered by numerous townsfolk.

Molly died in 1746 and was buried in the Burslem churchyard, but then many claimed that her ghost haunted the town.  A short time after her burial, the Rev. Spencer along with clerics from Stoke, Wolstanton and Newcastle went to open her cottage and retrieve her pet Jackdaw.  When they arrived they were shocked to see Molly (or an apparition of her), sitting in a favourite armchair knitting with her pet Jackdaw perched on her shoulders (just as she had often been seen in real life).  Frightened, the vicar and others returned to the graveyard and reopened her grave.  They drove a stake through her heart and threw the living Jackdaw into the coffin.  The vicar then decreed that as she was a witch, she would not rest easy until her body was buried lying North to South.  To this day, Molly's tomb is the only one that lies at right angles to all the other graves in the churchyard.

Many believe that an animal familiar is not acquired through personal choice, more that an animal will choose you as its guardian and companion.  One cannot go down to the local pet-shop and choose a familiar simply on its symbolic significances:  “I shall take an Owl for Wisdom, a Dove for Peace and a Spider for Imagination and Creativity”.  Sorry, but that won’t work.  Animals have their own in-built wisdom and intelligence, their own spirit and skills, and a bond needs to be made with them if they are to volunteer to work as your familiar.  Most often the animal itself will let you know when this has been achieved.

Generally there are four different kinds of animal familiar.  The first is our physical everyday live-in pets, most commonly the cat or dog.  As with all our other family members an instinctive bond and psychic link is created over time.  Silent communication of their needs exists and instinctively we know if they are happy or sad, hungry, hurting or in need of attention.  They in turn reciprocate and adapt themselves to our life styles, intuitively they attune to our mood swings and circumstantial changes.

The second type of familiar is an imaginative creature, one you can closely identify with but never hope to own such like a lion, tiger or leopard.  This is an animal whose characteristics you admire, and you may collect and hang pictures of it in your home.  It resided in the astral plane and because of your intense liking for it; you consciously or unconsciously attract its aid.  It’s said that deceased pets with which you had an affinity return in this capacity.

The third type of familiar is magickal, an elemental spirit.  Witches and Magicians often call upon elemental spirits for aid when working with magick.  When making talismans or amulets for specific purposes, they may call upon a particular familiar elemental to inhabit an object to enhance its effect.  It is believed that Paracelsus; a medical academic (1493–1541) instilled such a familiar into a large precious stone on the pommel of his ritual sword.

The fourth familiar is the spirit of a human being, someone who has died.  Many adept magicians will command the appearance of a human spirit but such spirits are hard to control, for instance, a spirit who has been commanded against his or her desires can be troublesome, in which case you need to be sure of your ability to get rid of them and this can be much more difficult than the original calling.  Those spirits willing to act as our astral guides or teachers are commonly called ‘Guardian Angels’.

The most effective familiars tend not to be our domesticated pets, for due to their life expectancy our pets come and go, though the spirit of a deceased pet can still be used.  The use of our domestic animals as familiars is merely a stepping-stone to the raw power and energy of wild animals that are much closer to nature; for instance, a domestic dog is a softened version of its wild counterpart the fox, wolf, coyote and other wild canine creatures.  Similarly a domestic cat can be linked to other wild felines such like lions, tigers and leopards.  Many witches and magicians start with a domesticated animal as a familiar in the hope that one day they will be able to handle and work more effectively with its true power form, the wild animals of nature.

https://www.controverscial.com/Animals%20and%20Witchcraft%20-%20Intro.htm

Picture https://earthdna.wordpress.com

End

[gomisart]

Headworld/Story Guide

I wrote up this sort of short introduction thingy for my original stories and worlds they happen in, but it got a bit long because there’s just a lot to say about some of them! So it’s under cut!

Ghost Syndrome World

- Setting to Ghost Syndrome, my active webcomic. Main genre is urban fantasy.

- The story focuses around Vivian, a new vampire, and a group of other people tied to magic happenings, set in the fictional town of Hexerkeep in northeast United States.

- Alternative version of our world with secret magic and supernatural stuff like vampires and werewolves and ghosts.

- Normal people don’t know magic exists, and even “magic people” don’t always know much because magic communities are scattered and poorly organized. Several pocket dimension cities exist all over the globe, and even some magic societies outside pocket dimension cities. But a lot of new vampires, werewolves and mages are just left with poor knowledge of what’s going on and might never meet others of their kind.

- Humans are the vastly major sapient species, followed by werewolves and vampires. But werewolves and vampires usually used to be human as well, though both conditions can be gained by other species as well. Werewolves can also be born hereditarily, but vampires can’t. Ghosts, also largely human, don’t count as a sapient species since they aren’t a species, but a state of an individual’s existence.

- There are some non-human sapient species, but their numbers are scarce, and they’re mostly living in pocket dimension cities. None of these species are natural shapeshifters, which hinders them a lot. Several individuals might seek shapeshifting disguises through magic in order to live outside pocket dimension cities.

- There are still a handful of magic animals like griffins and unicorns around, but they’re even rarer than magic folk.

- Dragons were sapient and capable of shapeshifting, but they are extinct, apparently. At least that’s the general consensus.

- Rumor is that fair folk are real, but they rarely interact with people anymore, and live mostly in their own pocket dimension if they are real.

- Demons and angels are real. Demons interact with real world a lot more than angels. There are also other spirits and unclassified supernatural beings that partially exist in the world and partially in pocket dimensions. Demons and such mostly interact with humans to make contracts, offering magic powers and getting stuff like souls in return.

- Potentially used as a setting for other stories too in the future, who knows? Sounds like a vast world.

 Changer World

- Setting to Changer, a comic-to-be I’m working on. I used to call this setting Godrealm before the actual story started settling in. Main genre for this story is fantasy.

- The story focuses around Huuhkaja, who finds out she’s a demigod and has an important mission to fulfil. She sets out on a journey with some allies, forming a nicely balanced RPG party.

- A fantasy world based on Nordic, and especially Finnish mythology. “Timeline-wise” it’s about ancient agrarian culture fantasy Finland, with some bigger cities already formed, but since it’s a fantasy world, it’s not going to be historically accurate. Just the general gist of it. The whole story happens in just this one country, but other countries are hinted to exist.

- The main deal with this world is that gods are alive and real, and directly affect people’s lives, but people’s actions and worship can also directly affect gods.

- There are several spirits, usually directly created by the gods, but sometimes formed by places and natural phenomena. It’s a fairly animistic world.

- Magic is a fairly everyday thing, most people use everyday good luck charms and so on, but only few people can actually actively use magic to do (almost) everything they want. Most villages have at least one magic user. The way magic works in this world is mostly shamanistic, and a lot of magic users have familiars to help them, and use songs and spells. But magic, as a force, is all around people, and doesn’t come from a malevolent or benevolent source. Magic as a force is neutral. Magic users can be any kind of people they want though, from helpful healers to questionable witches.

- Just humans in this world, and spirits and gods. No magic animals or anything. Though, a lot of things can be achieved with magic…

- Currently no plans to include more than this one story in this world.

 Cervid World

- Setting to Cervid, a comic series I mainly draw in 24 hour comic events, because that’s a good excuse to draw something light-hearted. Currently includes three chapters made into zines. Main genre for this one is slice of life, with a comedic take.

- The story revolves around Stan, a deertaur boy who transfers to a new high school and meets a bunch of new friends. Hilarity ensues, perhaps.

- Alternative version of our world with monster people. Your everyday modern day world, just add monsters.

- Humans are the majority of the population, around 60-70 % of people are human, the rest are something else. Non-human sapient species include pretty much any sapient monsters you could think of, more or less human-shaped. Centaurs, harpies, sphinxes, manticores, merfolk, cyclopses and so on, to name a few.

- If it’s a mythological creature and not human-based in any way, chances are it’s an animal in this world. Stuff like griffins, unicorns, wyrms, shishi, qirins, so on.

- There is really no magic in this world. There used to be magic in ancient times, but it has run out. All kinds of weird species were apparently created by magic back in the day.

- The only species that still has magic is dragons, which are sapient, and they can only really spit fire and shapeshift with their magic. Apparently they, as a species, are so ancient that their magic is too deeply entwined in their DNA to just disappear. Some dragons live in human forms, some live more animal-like lives. All are equally sapient.

- There are no other shapeshifters in this world, so no werewolves, vampires, nine-tailed foxes or anything. No magic users either.

- A few generations ago, there was a huge surge of wild magic about in the world, which caused a bunch of people to mutate into non-human species. Back then only around 5-10% of the world’s population was non-humans, but this phenomenon closed the gap to the current numbers. This also helped non-humans finally get full person rights all over the world (they already had those in most countries, fortunately). General consensus is that this was the last burst of magic the world had to offer, but some people speculate there could be another phenomenon like this happening in the future.

- A lot of species can have viable offspring together, but a lot also can’t. Most offspring from this kind of couplings are either the mother’s or the father’s species (like a cyclops and a human having both human and cyclops children), some are slightly hybrid in nature (for example an oni with dragon-like scales)

- Right now only Cervid is set in this world but honestly I could put any kind of stories here since the fate of the world is in no way tied to Stan and his antics. Who knows! Maybe there’s room for more! Modern fantasy is always fun.

 ”Plantings” World

- Setting to Plantings, a short comic I drew for a zine. Currently one-shot, plans for continuation are afoot. Main genre is post-apocalyptic sci-fi, and slice of life.

- The story so far follows Honka, a person with three arms, who rides around post-apocalyptic wastelands with their riding dog, and plants seeds and saplings around, hoping the world will restore itself.

- A post-apocalyptic setting, but it has been so long since the cataclysm that most people don’t really remember it anymore, and things are starting to grow again, but of course they could use a little help. This whole world is supposed to have an “overgrown abandoned place” aesthetic vibe.

- Humans mostly live in underground shelters in this world, but people are starting to move back to the surface now that things aren’t so bad anymore. Right now societies are scattered, but trade routes and contacts are being re-established.

- There are some weird mutations and stuff going on. People can just randomly have green hair and three arms and it’s normal. Horse-sized dogs are normal and specifically bred to be mounts. Most mutations are just weird but not scary and murderous. There might be some sentient blobs of more or less radioactive slime but those are, uh, probably friendly!

- There isn’t definite proof of other sapient species surfacing alongside humans after the cataclysm, just some individual creatures have achieved sapience.

- Some societies might be more effed up but most people are just really chill and honestly want to rebuild the world and get in contact with other humans again. The world was already thrown to chaos once and most people don’t want to see that again.

- The basic idea is very clear, some details need ironing out, but mainly this setting just needs more stories! The starting point is clear and a prologue of sorts has been drawn – I have to figure out what Honka does next! I’m sure they have potential for a lot of adventures..!

- Come to think of it, this project might work as an art book with a series of illustrations and short comics. Hmmm. Endless possibilities!!

 ”Upgrade” World

- Setting to Upgrade, a short comic I drew for a zine. Currently one-shot, hopes for continuation are around! Main genre is sci-fi, and I guess so far slice of life.

- The story so far is about a (currently nameless) robot boy who wants to buy a new head, since his old one is overheating.

- So this is a modern day or near future sci-fi world with robots! Who apparently have full person rights and can buy parts for themselves. A lot of stuff is open-ended right now, but I think robots in this world are basically, at least surface level, treated like humans and do all kinds of things humans do like go to school and have jobs and such. Despite the robot factor, I see this otherwise as a really mundane world right now. - One funny mental image I had though was that robots have more career options than humans in a way, since their AIs can be transferred to all kinds of bodies, so they could, for example, become spaceships when they grow up. Something like that!

- Well, there’s a whole lot I don’t know about this world yet, but! Let’s see if this robot boy gets more adventures. The setting doesn’t really mix with any of my other headworlds though, so it’s gotta be its own world!

Seven Suns World

- Setting to Seven Suns, a story project that’s in the backburner right now because this is a big world in need of heavy worldbuilding, and somehow it’s surprisingly hard for me to focus on. Probably going to be a comic one day, maybe? If I get to work the actual story into some sort of consumable form. Main genre of this story is sci-fi.

- The story revolves around a lovable rag-tag party of space pirates. This story needs about as much work as the world.

- Sci-fi world with seven solar systems, a bunch of habitable planets, and 14 sapient species in total. That’s a. Uh. Lot of work.

- Humans are one sapient species, and then there are 13 different sapient alien species, ranging from “these are kinda like anthro dinosaur cats” to “this species has serpentine body, ten limbs, two mouths and six eyes”.

- A lot of stuff is still up in the air with this one – I am not super knowledgeable about space, and that’s a lot of stuff to research, worldbuilding-wise. However, from a story writing perspective, a whole lot of stuff will absolutely never be touched in the story, so I’m kinda trying to tell myself there’s a whole lot of stuff I could just handwave and be done with. In any case, this one is still in such a mutable, subject-to-change place, and not the highest one on my priority list, so for now that’s just where it’ll be. I think about it occasionally and things will move at their own pace – occasionally.

 I-Don’t-Have-A-Name-For-This-World High Fantasy World

- A setting and world that’s still pretty much up in the air – currently a place I have placed a lot of characters who have lacked a proper place. But I am uncertain whose story I’d want to write, or who the main character should be! Right now I’m leaning towards the story of Six. In either case, this is very much a fantasy world.

- Currently leaning towards the story revolving around Six, a chimera who starts studying magic, and Torpedo, a mercenary she meets. But there could be other stories too! Well, several stories could happen in this world too, it’s a vast world!

- A classic kitchen sink, D&D-esque high fantasy world with humans, elves, orcs, dragons, monsters and magic, all that jazz. Pretty much everything is magical or at least has the potential to be. There’s magic in the air and dirt and water and so on, it’s something you can study, and the strongest wizards can do absolutely ridiculous stuff. There are adventuring parties made up of talking dogs and magically created chimeras can go to magic college. Wild stuff!

- The main building blocks are actually there, it’s a Generic Fantasy World – right now I’m just lacking the stories to put there, or rather, I have way too many ideas! I need to trim it down, maybe make individual stories shorter, and put a bunch of stuff to happen here. A name for the world would of course be nice, so I could call it something else than “generic fantasy world”. In either case, a lot of characters, some more or less connected to each other, already call this world home.

 “Spirit World”, “The One With Pyrrhos and Bacchus and co. World”

- The setting I put a couple of characters from a few years back in and started developing, but I ran into a brick wall. Fantasy something.

- Right now the story is about Pyrrhos, a wolf spirit who gets cursed because he did something stupid. And that’s it; I have a starting point, and nothing else. Also another story from this setting is focused on Jin, a shishi statue who comes to life and starts adventuring. But that’s only the starting point, too.

- Something keeps insisting that this is it’s own world with spirits and stuff in a pocket dimension existing liminally with real world, and no other supernatural elements. But that’s as far as that goes, too.

- The few characters from this world will probably be assimilated into another setting, or kept as solitary characters for now, because it feels kinda redundant to build a world with no actual stories. I could easily just rethink the characters a bit and put them in the “generic fantasy world” setting and be done with it.

[ash]

What I Learned about Russian Men

by Elizabeth Eagan

Coronet Magazine, June 1947, pp. 173-196

Before going to Moscow, I had a double-image idea of what Russian men looked like — the same idea, I imagine, that a lot of other American girls still cherish.

My Russian man was a brawny, muscled, six-foot Adonis of iron, with arm forever stretched challengingly before him, clutching a sickle (or was it a hammer?). Yet at the same time, muffled somehow in the background, was the vision of a tall, handsome, dark-haired Czarist prince, with booted legs, military jacket and lots of gold braid.

Today, my double-image dreams have vanished. I have seen plenty of Russian men. I have talked with them, learned to know them, gone to parties with them, even had “romances” with them. And for the benefit of other American girls, I would like to report that the romantic vision of Soviet supermen is plain bunk.

I have seen plenty of Russian men, but few of them measured six feet — or even close to that. Of those in overalls, few looked very exalted, and the only sickles I saw were in the hands of women. Most of the men were in uniform when I arrived, but only fat generals' jacket fitted snugly. And even if I had run across a “tall and handsome prince,” his charm could not have been for me, since Russian men live in a controlled State where romances with foreigners are snuffed out by rules and regulations.

For instance, I recall a Monday morning when I was coming into Moscow from my cottage in the country. I had ridden a commuters' train to the city's outskirts, then switched to the subway. The Metro cars were packed, so instead of finding a seat I hung onto a strap. Now aside from the merit of spotlessness, the Metro has on virtue that you don't find in crowded American transportation systems. There are no mashers in Moscow. The pretties girl in the entire city can ride the subway, and no matter how much she is shoved and mauled, she knows it was impersonal shove, an accidental maul, caused only by the incredible 24-hour crush.

On this Monday Morning, I suddenly become aware that someone was staring at me with greater intensity than the normal staring-at-foreigners. This man was actually flirting! I was more surprised than flattered when a second glance revealed that he was a passably handsome, black-eyed Red Army major.

I was surprised, first, because there aren't many passably handsome males to be found in the Soviet Union. Second, because Red Army majors should know their political catechism, which damns all foreigners. In today's Russia, no man, woman or child who fears the midnight knock of the secret police dares have much to do with a foreigner.

I forced my way through the crowed car to the handrail and got a good grip on it, along with a dozen other impersonal hands. In a moment my hand was “accidentally” covered by the major's. His glances might have been meaningless: this certainly wasn't. I moved my hand. So did he. I glanced sideways. He was looking at me almost with a smile.

I guessed that he took me for a Russian hussy. It was raw fall weather, and I was wearing a Russian scarf and an old raincoat. He couldn't see my shoes, standard office wear for Americans but a dead giveaway because Russian women's wartime footwear was in sad condition.

Anyway, it was fun flirting with a strange man in a strange city under strange rules — anonymously, with not even my nationality showing.

When I got off at my station, the major followed me up the stairs, through the crowd and across the square to the little street where I lived in the Finnish Legation, which was then rented to the Americans and constantly guarded by two State policemen.

As I neared my house, the major at my elbow, I turned to him with a smile and an unlit cigarette. “May I take a light?” I said in Russian. He broke into a self-satisfied grin, lit my cigarette, took my elbow and tried to lead his conquest down the street.

But I crossed the street, said good-morning to the staring guards, and tossed a farewell to the Russian major. I have yet to see a more shocked and startled face than his as he realized he had almost been caught flatfooted — guilty without question of being friendly with a foreigner! And especially, with a foreigner from that never-never land — America!

Now, that I am back in New York, I keep recalling that inconsequential adventure. I keep reminding myself that, as a citizen of the capitalistic United States, I can do pretty much as I please, when and where I please, and talk with whom I choose. Those are freedoms that life in the Soviet Union taught me to appreciate more than I had ever appreciated them before.

I arrived in Moscow on D-Day — June 6, 1944 — with a strong, positive faith in our ally, a classless nation of vigorous and diverse peoples who were fighting their way back across the devastated Ukraine. I came home in December, 1946, with a simmering disapproval of the caste system, the police spying, and the hatred of foreigners in the Soviet State.

In those two-and-a-half years, I made many friends in Russia. I learned things about Russians that may have escaped newspaper correspondents. I got to know much about Moscow women that even Americans married to them do not seem to know. And no man could properly be expected to match the data I accumulated about Moscow's males.

I am not anti-Russian. I am anti-misinformation, because I believe that our lives depends on getting along with the Soviet government, And when I say ”our lives,” I include the Russians. I am also convinced that “getting along” can best be furthered by learning more about each other.

As Moscow editor of Amerika, the OIC-State Department magazine published in Russian, I did my official best to tell the Russians about the United States. As the first American woman sent to work in the Moscow Embassy, I had unique unofficial opportunities to demonstrate what Americans are like and how we live.

Now, and also quite unofficially, I want to put down in detail some of the interesting, exiting, exasperating facts about Russia that one does not find emphasized in the newspapers.

I left New York for Russia in April, 1944, by ATC plane, bucket-seat by day and ridged metal floor at night. I am a moderately friendly soul, not a helpless female, but I have seldom felt more friendless or helpless than on my three-stop flight from Tehran to Moscow.

Accustomed to the easy comradeship of the ATC boys, I smiled and spoke to my Russian pilot as we disembarked at Baku for breakfast. Ge looked right past me, never so much as flicking an eyelash. I was, to be British about it, somehow taken aback.

At Astrakhan, our second stop, a husky Red Army girl traffic cop flagged us in from the landing strip. Ignoring the unresponsive male fliers, I approached her with what I hoped was a cheery greeting. I might gave spoken to a flaxen-haired automation. She literally didn't see me, though I stood an arm's length off. I wasn't abashed this time — I was crushed.

Moscow was not unlike what I had imagined except that it sprawled so widely over the plain on either banks of the Moscow River. Its outskirts were simply clots of villages, close-packed, weathered log cabins, each clot separated from the next by open fields. Within this circle of villages lay the city proper, a wide smear of low brick buildings which give the city a distinctive dark-red color from the air.

I was met at the Moscow airport by two American male friends. Because the knew the Russians would be shocked by my slacks, they spirited me off to the Embassy where they made me change into a wrinkled, unpressed suit before they would take me to my hotel. So, before actually settling down in Moscow, I had had two lessons in how to live with the Russians.

The first, of course, was that foreigners, even Allies, weren't accepted as friends. The second, was that ladies — in the Russian caste sense — do not wear pants. I had yet to learn just how rigid the class rules in Russia are, and how very difficult it is to make friends.

But I began to learn — and learn quickly. Perhaps my illusions about Russian men were naïve. For one thing, I had expected them to be tall. When I arrived in Moscow, almost all the men in the street were in uniform — Red Army, Navy and Air Force. But they were all short — far too short for me, with my five-feet-eight. Yet, I must confess, I found them quite exciting.

As I walked through the streets I stared at them with interest And they stared back but without a glimmer, not event a gleam of flirtatiousness on their grim visages. Any American girl knows how to look at a man on the street so that it is understood at once just what attitude she wishes to convey; and she knows, too, what the looks given in return mean. American men look hard at American girls — right into their faces and eyes — with often a half-smile, friendly or flirty. It's flattering and fun.

But I missed all that in Moscow. After a few attempts I gave up expecting Russian men to notice me and talk with their eyes, and soon I was glowering right back into their square, dark, dour faces.

My OWI job made me it possible for me to observe at rather close quarters the public behavior of Russian women, as well as the men. Generally speaking, there are three classes — Soviet classes — of women in Moscow. They can be distinguished at a glance by their clothes. Silver fox is the badge of the high official's or general's wife, or the successful actress. The secretaries and students, the white-collar women, favor mannish suits and silk prints. The working girls, unskilled and semi-skilled laborers at the bottom of the income scale (at best, about 500 rubles a month), wear square-cut, peasanty linen or cotton dresses with a turnover collar and cross-stitch embroidery.

Except for the ballerinas and some of the film and stage stars, few Russian women gave what we call good figures. The average Muskvitcha is BIG. Really big but not tall. Heavy-boned, broad, with thick, shapely legs.

In wartime, during the winter, the white-collar girls usually wore dark fabric coats with narrow fur collars and small fur muffs. Beneath the coats they commonly wore wool dresses or suits and a couple of sweaters and, under the dress, cotton flannel bloomers over heavy wool underwear.

The shawled women, the factory workers, the street cleaners, the hod-carriers, the snow shovelers, gave a second distinctive winter garment — a padded, quilted jacket which reaches just below their hips. This gives them a boxy look — ungainly and sexless — like walking pincushions. And to a woman, Muskvitchas wear valenki, mostly heavy gray felt boots that reach to the knee and double the size of their great calves.

Few Moscow women wear lipstick, except for dress-up occasions. All I saw was orange — or foreign loot. Orange is the only cosmetic color manufactured in the Soviet Union. Exceedingly few wore nail polish, also orange but light in tone, Their perfumes, again unless foreign, are heavy and sweet, almost barber-shop tonic scents, bearing such political names as Red Moscow and October Revolution.

About May 1, the ladies begin to peel for the summer. My first May Day was warm and sunny and I had gone for a walk around the Kremlin. Suddenly I was conscious of seeing again the normal outlines of the female figure. The girls had probably been shedding under layers for weeks before sloughing the outer padding of jackets and coats. But to me it was a startling and pleasant sight to see legs bare of valenki and bare arms swinging as the big girls came jostling and giggling four abreast down the sidewalk.

Despite all one hears about “free love and promiscuity” in Russia, I never knew a Russian who took marriage or divorce lightly. Quite the contrary, and for a very simple reason. We in America think we have a housing problem. But we can't hold a candle to the Muskovites, whose housing shortage has had a discouraging effect on marriage. There is no such ting as an empty apartment in Moscow. Every square foot of space is assigned to someone, though it is possible to “buy” a room illegally — and pay through the nose for it.

Suppose a women has a two-room flat — living room and bedroom. Her husband has been transferred to Kiev for two years. She cannot leave her job to join him, and she wants to buy a piano. So she decides to sell the bedroom and move into the living room. She sets the price at 20,000 rubles — a very stiff figure — because the “sale” is for life. The purchaser will be registered as her cousin, nephew or niece and will thereafter be the legal resident of that room. The seller is gambling that her husband will qualify for better apartment by virtue of his two-year hitch in Kiev. If he doesn't, they will be stuck with a one-room home.

News of the room for sale spreads discreetly by word of mouth. The woman is besieged by buyers. She likes best the young couple who want to get married. But they cannot meet her asking price. So she settles for 15,000 rubles, 10,000 down and the rest on terms. After that the room is theirs, and they are luckier than the most young couples.

Marriage almost always means doubling up in the home of whichever partner is less crowded. Often newlyweds move into a single room with parents, a brother or sister, or even another young couple. Whole families groan in unison when the bride announces she is going to have a baby. But the baby, on arrival, is not only adored, but absorbed — somehow.

One might think that such crowded conditions would not only discourage marriage, but make for divorce. They don't. One can divorce a man — though the process in expensive and long-dawn-out — but one can't get him out of the house.

For instance, Tatiana goes home from the courthouse, released at least from the brute, but there he sits in his regular chair, reading the Evening Moscow.

“Hey, we're divorced!” she cries.

“Yeah? So what? Where do you think I'm going to live? Under a tree in the Park of Culture and Rest?”

Of course, if Tatiana marries again, she can bring her new husband in to protect her against the insults of her ex-spouse. And if he remarries, he can bring his bride home, too. So... as an apparent result, marriages are pretty well stabilized in Moscow.

Before the war, of course, one could get a divorce for a post card. And one could have an abortion simply by applying for it and agreeing to pay 10 per cent of one month's salary. Today a divorce costs 2,000 rubles, and an abortion — an illicit abortion — costs up to 10,000. Naturally, at those prices, there are few abortions and the birth rate is rising.

Of course, more births make for ever more-crowded quarters, but then, only really crowded rooms were livably warm in the wartime winter. No matter how tightly squeezed they are, most Russians shun the outdoors in cold weather. In summer, however, they flock to the park, the river beaches, the outlying villages. Only men and wives with husbands can, with propriety, go to restaurants, but everybody can go picnicking and swimming, and go together. In the “all-together,” too, with qualifications.

Americans seem to have an almost insatiable curiosity about nude bathing in the Soviet Union. Here's what I saw of it.

I lived one summer with some other Americans on the banks of the Kliasma River, in which we — with other foreigners, the members of a Russian summer colony, scores of Red Army convalescents from a near-by hospital and about 100 neighborly cows — all took a daily dip. Except for the children under 10 or 12 and a group of young men who swam in the raw a hundred yards or so from the rest, there was no nude bathing. However, there were very few bathing suits — unless what I took to be bloomers, rayon undershirts and bras are a new style in bathing costumes.

One day when I had gone walking along the river unprepared for a swim, a group of young people asked me to join them. I merely peeled my cotton dress over my head and dived in, in panties and bra. There was no comments other than that my panties were much briefer than theirs. I was as covered up as I would have been in almost any suit in America, but I couldn't have appeared that way back home.

The only really nude swimming I saw was after the war, at Batumi, a Black Sea resort. The beach was devided into three sections — Ladies, Ladies and Gents and Gents. Elma Ferguson, one of the editors of British Ally, a Russian-language weekly magazine published in Moscow, joined me on the Ladies Only beach the first day.

We changed into our suits in little cabanas and afterward paraded out among the sprawling multitude of bronzed, naked Russian women. Our suits were more than cute — they were downright fetching. But after an hour of being stared at, we slunk back into the cabanas, stripped, and sauntered out again, feeling foolish but far less conspicuous.

A limp strand of barbed wire separated ours from the mixed beach. There, families sat around in odd bits of costume, eating pickles and buns and going for an occasional dip in the cold Black Sea. Up beyond them, another 50 or 75 yards, was the beginning of the men's beach where nude bachelors by the dozen were sunning themselves in absolute un-selfconsciousness.

Twice during our ten days there, newly arrived Red Army groups blundered — I'm sure by accident — onto our beach, clumping along in heavy boots. A shower of stones and a chorus of indignant feminine imprecations — “Louts! Lecherous ones!” — sent them running, with tunics flying, all holding their caps over the near side of their faces.

If it was difficult to meet Russian men at the beaches, it was quite the opposite in a Moscow night club. My first visit to one was withing few hours of my arrival. D-Day — the actual opening of the long-awaited second front — obviously called for celebration. I was invited to a restaurant for dinned and dancing by a group of young men — American sergeants in the military mission, boys who worked in the Embassy, a couple of engineers from the wilds of Siberia and a French sergeant.

We went about 10 o'clock. Earlier the place would have been empty. Just off Gorki Street we entered the Astoria, pushing by two Red Army men standing in the entryway with mounted bayonets. I got used to seeing these M.P.'s in all restaurant lobbies, and learned they were there to squelch fights that inevitably broke out among the hearty guests, most of them soldiers on leave.

They boys checked their caps with two bearded old men behind a coat counter, and we went up six steps into a brilliantly lit hall. I caught my breath, both at the gayety and the decor. The room was large and long, its ceiling held up by great columns ornamented with voluptuous stone beauties.

Along the right side of the room stretched a row of little cubicles made private by dark red draperies — and at the rear a mixed male and female orchestra was playing very bad jazz.

Almost none of us could speak more than a few words of Russian, but we managed to get served with enormous quantities of food and drink, simply by leaving the matter up to the waiters, who brought what the same number of Russians could put away. And that's a lot.

First we were supplied with two plates, one on top of the other, an array of silver and a myriad of glasses — vodka glasses, champagne glasses, wine glasses for red and white, and liqueur glasses. We started out with zakuski, which consisted of several huge plates of lettuce, lamb, chicken and potato salad, onions and cucumbers, all arranged in towering pyramids. Plus a big bowl of caviar, a little dish of chopped onions and great piles of white bread with little squares of butter.

With the zakuski came carafés half-filled with vodka. This — unlike the Russian who tend to dash it back against their tonsils — we sipped while we nibbled at the salad.

Such behavior! Every Russian eye in the room was on us. I could see that surrounding parties had stopped eating to watch us. Someone walked casually by our table. Other, bolder, simply walked over and stood near us, getting a good eyeful of the inostranki (foreigners).

After our zakuski the waiters brought steaming cabbage soup. Then big, thick, juicy steaks — each with a fried egg on top. On the side, fried potatoes, fried carrots and dry, red Russian wine. For dessert there was ice cream with canned fruit on it, with which we drank Soviet champagne in tall Russian champagne glasses. We finished, three hours after we began eating, with demitasse of thick, black ersatz coffee. Even in a commercial restaurant like the Astoria, you couldn't get real coffee. But that was about all you couldn't get.

During all this time, between courses, and even between bites, I had been dancing with the Americans. Whenever we danced, the Russians withdrew to the side lines to watch and applaud after each number. Word spread that it was, without question, a nastoyashaya Amerikanka — a real American girl — who was dancing. Tgat brought more onlookers and finally, probably as a result of a bet, a Red Army lieutenant came smiling to our table and inquired of my escorts if they had any objections to asking the Amerikanka for a dance.

The boys all agreed that he might ask me, and I was enchanted. So we danced. He got a firm grip around my middle, stretched toward the far end of the dance floor, his shiny black leather boots sometimes coming down hard — and there's nothing harder — on my feet. But he loved it and so did I.

When the music ended, my beau gallantly took my right hand in both of his and tenderly kissed it, looking me straight in the eye. Then he guided me back to my table, kissed my hand again, thanked the whole table for the pleasure, and disappeared.

That started it. My friends quickly made a rule that I might dance only every other dance with the Red Army stag line which swarmed about our table. Each Russian cavorted as ebulliently as the first, and each kissed my hand at the end of the performance.

Red Army officers far outnumbered civilians that night at the Astoria — and generally in Moscow night clubs, I was to learn. Many had their wives with them, bulging, drably dressed women, who were as energetic in the dance as their husbands. Some had their girl friends, and some had tramps — who looked just about like tramps anywhere, except that these had more than their share of shiny gold teeth and stiff-braced bosoms. They wore more of the orange lipstick than nice girls would — and, anyhow, nice girls did not go to restaurants unchaperoned.

Being the only American girl free to go where I wished, I had numerous opportunities to learn about Moscow's night life. There were scarcely more than three restaurants open when I arrived. The Moskva was the hot spot during the war and afterward. It was the largest restaurant — with the largest dance floor and the biggest, noisiest crowds. It was rowdy and expensive and promised a skandal (fight or furious argument) at any moment.

During the war there was a 1 A.M. curfew. And strict. It meant that the Metro, all street traffic, everything but military movements stopped at that hour. The result was that the night clubs stayed roaring full all night long. The orchestras quit at 3, but the waiters kept on bringing drinks, and the celebrants guzzled themselves sleepy, quarrelsome or amorous until the curfew lifted at 5 A.M., when those who still could, made their way home.

Foreigners could get away after 1, often just by showing their identification cards, very impressive with big red seals. We Americans could argue that we lived just across the square. Once outside, we generally were able to talk the bayonet teams into passing us.

Though D-Day night was a special exception, I seldom went to a night club where Russian fighting men did not dance with me. Always, and punctiliously, they asked me my escort's permission first, and generally they left me afterward. But on a few occasions, vodka-emboldened warriors heavy with medals braved the foreigner taboo and remained at our table to talk, and sometimes hopefully offered to take me home.

One cold blustery night, an American who lived next to me in the Hotel National knocked on the wall. He had some extra rubles, no desire to sleep and a craving for a midnight steak. Would I go to the Moskva with him?

We took a table rear, far from the crowded dance floor, and attacked our beef. But in the middle of it, a stocky, black-haired Red Air Force pilot came over to our table and asked for a light. Then he sat down and helped us finish our bottle of wine.

By the time the NKVD* (secret service) spotters caught up with him — all waiters were required to shoo Russians away from foreigners — we had decided to hell with it! We were a threesome and so we would remain.

For some reason, perhaps because the little pilot had about 20 medals jingling on his chest, we got away with it. He ordered a steak and vodka, scorning our wine, and talked about his friends in the French Normandie Squadron fighting in the north, and his dream of flying an American four-motored plane.

At 2 A.M., after we had eaten and danced till we were tired — the Russian pilot insisting that only he and American tovarisch should dance with me — he said he had a friend we should call on. We left the restaurant, persuading him that it would be unwise to wake up a friend at that hour, particularly with two foreigners. He agreed, but insisted it was much too early to go to bed. Besides, his bed was about 13 miles outside Moscow at an Air Force barracks and his only chance getting there now was to hitch-hike. Couldn't he please come home with us?

So we let him. When we reached the hotel we again tried to send our pilot on his way, but he was just tight enough to be tearful, and he painted such a grim picture of icy roads and unfriendly patrols that finally my escort said: “Okay, tell him to come up and sleep on my couch. But it's on his head if he gets into trouble.”

I translated and the weepy pilot swore that nothing could be worse than going home. “Besides,” he added ingenuously, “if they get tough with me, I'll just tell them I was drunk and don't remember anything.”

We walked past the policeman at the door as if we didn't know each other and the pilot followed us upstairs, all of us tiptoeing past the little old man on night duty whose inquisitive, terrier-like face was buried in his arms; he was asleep.

Fingers on lips, constantly shushing our talkative guest, we made t unchallenged up the four flights to our floor, where we hid the Russian pilot around a corner while we awoke the old woman who served as floor clerk to get our keys. Barely waking, she handed over the keys and resumed snoring. I went into my escort's room, where I helped him fix covers and a pillow for the hard little couch. As I left, the pilot was already out of his boots and stripping off his blouse. We never leaned just how he manged to get out of the hotel undetected next morning, but he made it. Two weeks late I met him again at the Moskva. He was still on furlough and having fine time. He danced once with me, but he didn't ask again if he could see me home.

_

* In 1946, the NKVD was succeeded by the MVD, the Ministry of Home Affairs

Because Moscow's young lades cannot be seen in night clubs without loss of reputation, home parties are a big social item. But they are likely to be crowded. Even a small guest list packs a two-room apartment. At that, it's safer for an American new to Moscow attend a party where guests sprawl on the floor than a more formal sit-down party, for Russians take an unholy delight in ganging up on strangers at such affairs — just as Stalin's aides are reported to do at the big shindigs in the Kremlin.

My friends, Alexander and Olga (nicknames Sasha and Olia) once staged a party for six Americans and six Russians. We Americans parked a block away and arrived in pairs so as not to attract attention. The main room, about 12 by 16 feet, was crowded with furniture and guests. A dozen chairs and stools were drawn up around a big table and a small phonograph was squeaking out Russian jazz from a warped record. There were plates full of appetizers and black bread and, at every third place, a bottle of vodka and one of wine.

As soon as the last guest arrived, we were seated. Apparently the was no formal seating plan, but it happened that every American found a Russian on either side.

Then the toasts — and the fun — began. I knew what to expect. I saved my concern for an American major opposite me, a man who had just arrived in Moscow and obviously had not been told the facts of Moscow night life. He was flaked by two cute, chubby, ex-Red Army girl officers who saw their duty — and did it.

For once I was first with a toast — to Olia's mother. That started things. I had the woman's prerogative of toasting in wine and refused to be drawn into a vodka drinking bout with blond Sasha on my left or Misha, a dark, gay, big-eyed Red Army tank man, on my right. Instead, I kept my eye on the major.

First one of his pretty companions tapped him on the wrist and proposed a toast: “To the American Army and the Red Army.” The major, being a man, had to drink the toast in vodka. Moreover, being a member of one of the organizations toasted, he had to drink it do dna — to the bottom.

Meantime, the girl who had wisely ignored the first toast had been stowing away zakuski, including a stable drinking-base of black bread. Three minutes after the first toast, she proposed a toast to Victory over the Fascists. The major drank another one — do dna.

He turned now to the pickled fish on his heaping plate. Meanwhile the first girl had practically polished off her first full plate of everything. Now, she returned to the contest and, engaging the major in casual conversation, discovered he was the father of four children.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, “in all the world there is no better toast that one to children. I drink to your children and to all children.”

The beaming major agreed, and downed his third straight vodka in less than 15 minutes. He had scarcely touched his food, but his two companions were already at work on their second helpings. Now the other girl tried him out again.

“TO DROOOOZHBA!” she cried with a flourish, holing out her small glass of wine. “To friendship between our two great peoples!“

By now the major was cocky. He winked at me. “Say — this is the way to drink. I could go on like this for a long time.”

He did. The girls kept thinking up toasts that no gentleman could ignore — to Stalin and Roosevelt, to peace, even ti health. The major was quite a man, but. . . .

The rest of us, knowing what our partners were up to, managed to drink in wine or not to drink do dna. The Russians were a little piqued, but when the party broke up at 2 A.M., the major was our only casualty. We got him out, with a helper under each arm and a silk scarf stuffed into his mouth to muffle the wailing baritone in which he begged the world to “bury me not on the lo-oone prairie-eeee!“

I was able to give a number of parties myself when I was at last assigned to an apartment outside the Embassy. My three-room apartment in a Russian apartment house — with no police guard at the door — was a magnet for the curious.

All my simple furnishing were American. Being used to quarters stiff settees, monstrous tables and hip-high beds, my guests were fascinated by the ”emptiness” of my home. Best of all, there was room to dance. Other attractions were American jazz records and home movies.

My practice was to invite one Russian whom I knew and have him or her invite the rest of the party. That way there was no danger of Russians bumping into others they didn't know or couldn't trust. On one typical occasion, the entire party of five Russian men and four girls arrived half and hour early, just as I had smeared my face with cream after preparing the drinks — grapefruit juice and bourbon — which had less authority but more zing than Soviet Koktail of straight vodka which orange peel has soaked for 24 hours.

I shooed the men into the living room and the girls all flocked into my bedroom while I finished dressing. In five minutes they had tried on my hats and shoes, tested the bed by bouncing on it, gone through my jewelry box and experimented with my makeup, then rubbed it off and replaced it with their own orange glow. They giggled over everything, especially my quaint practice of wearing my slip outside my pink snuggies. I giggled too when they flipped up their skirts to show me how they tucked their white cotton slips inside knee-length gray boomers.

I finally got them away from the dressing table and into the living room, only to discover that the five men were crowded into my tiny kitchen. One had pulled the refrigerator away from the wall and was examining the motor on top; another had the door open and was extracting an ice tray. Two others had discovered the pop-up toaster, and the fifth sat on the window still taking it all in.

I held the ice tray under the tap, put the cubes in a bowl and refilled the tray with water. (Later I noticed that a first-time guest named Sergei went several times to the kitchen, pulled out the tray and tested the process of freezing with his finger. Thereafter, at my parties, Sergei was official iceman and no one else could remove the cubes.) For the toaster addicts I demonstrated with a slice of bread. They goggled with gadget worship and insisted that I take the marvel into the living room to show it to the girls.

Eating was always a problem at my parties because uncorrupted Russians eat and drink simultaneously and copiously. But I served only koktails before the movie with a plate of hors d'oeuvres, usually dainty round bits of white bread with a smear of cheese or a slice of Spam. Strange Russians would be aghast at this queer cup of tea. Drinks but no food except these piddling tidbits? But one of the regulars would usually take them aside and spell it out for them.

After the movie, I would serve an American buffet supper. This, too, stumped the uninitiated. The food would be put on the table — meat pie, biscuits, pumpkin pie, apple pie — and the chairs placed around the walls. One of my older friends would explain that, since Lisa had such a small table and so few chairs, each was to help himself, then sit down where he could. The consternation never lasted long. Russians are good picnickers and mostly ended up cross-legged on the floor. The more sophisticated of my guests liked to smoke my cigarettes — one of them always requested a “Looky Strooky” — but incautious first attempts to handle our cigarettes ended in confusion. The Russian cigarettes are called papirosi, and are mostly paper. Each has a two-inch cardboard mundstuck, an individual holder, attached to an inch-and-a-half of cigarette. Russians, consequently are “wet” smokers. When they smoke our cigarettes for the first time, they wind up with their teeth full of paper and soggy tobacco shreds.

Most of the Russians I got to know in Moscow didn't go to work until 10:30 or 11, and this always constituted another party problem. They never wanted to go home. At about 1 A.M., therefore, I would give the high sign to one of my friends and word would spread that Lizotchka had to get up at the ungodly hour of 8 and be at work the unheard hour of 9, so it was time to go home.

They would finally go, noisily shushing each other, down the stairs and out into the blackout. Some would return at the next invitation. Others never came back. Still others would risk three or four parties before, their curious satisfied, they would decide they had better swear off foreigners before they got into trouble with the NKVD.

As I made friends among the Russians, I came to be invited to nice, small, spontaneous evenings out. Someone I knew would call up and say that a friend was in unexpectedly, from Odessa or Leningrad or Omsk, and wanted to meet a real live American girl.

And often I'd be asked not to wear “that drab brown dress” — which I valued because it made me relatively inconspicuous among my shabby Russian friends. “Come looking like an American,” they would say. “Put your hair on top of your head, put on a lot of makeup and wear your red suit with the pale blue blouse.”

So I would dress as directed and go. Feeling a trifle silly, like something from the zoo, I would meet the visitor from Omsk and eye him as covertly as he did me. But usually, the problems of language broke down our embarrassment and we were able to accept each other as friends of a friend. We would talk of rationing, of German atrocities, of differences between our two great countries. But we never got much beyond that.

For a young Amerikanka traveling about Moscow, a car is a luxury, so I welcomed the use of office machine. But I never drove more than 80 miles outside Moscow. Russian roads do not arouse the tourist urge, even if you have permission to travel. Plane and train are the only conveyances for long distances and, until the summer of 1946, even these were restricted to priority travelers.

A year after the war, however, a formal announcement from the Kremlin lifted travel restrictions, so Elma Ferguson and I decided on a Black Sea vacation and set off by train. All went well at first. All would have continued to go well, no doubt, if we had not decided to test the amount of actual freedom given a foreigner by leaving the Intourist route. Moreover, we decided to see how far we could get without using our foreign diplomatic-identity cards.

In Tiflis, where we had given ourselves 24 hours for sight-seeing, we men a pleasant young Georgian woman who suggested we take a picnic lunch next day to Gori, a three-hour train ride, and visit the birthplace of Stalin. We did. We saw the works, including the humble cabin where Joseph Vissarionovitch Djugashvili was born and which is now enclosed in a fancy Greek temple.

We walked, viewed and picnicked our fill and, with a couple of hours to kill before our 6 o'clock return train to Tiflis (which would give us just ten minutes to make our connection to Batumi), we were back in the station. Our guide had gone off to see about tickets.

When a big, double-chinned, oily-skinned man in uniform entered, we paid no attention until he addressed us jovially in Russian and invited us to go out with him to “see something interesting.” The day was hot and the man's uniform was not trig. I recalled afterward that his hat was pushed well to the back of his head. He led us through a trim lawn-garden and through a charming rustic stone doorway to a near-by building which I thought was perhaps a museum.

We entered a rectangular room containing a long table and an official-looking desk. The big man gave us chairs, sat at the desk and, taking off his cap, tossed it top downward on the table. I stiffened. It was red and blue. An NKVD cap! Our jovial guide was really a lieutenant in the secret service.

I looked up at the window. It was barred. The door was shut. I nudged Elma. “Do you see what I see? We're in jail!”

The boorish lieutenant didn't approve of our speaking English. He growled: “You both speak Russian?” I answered that I did, but my friend only a little.

He smiled. He had thick lips and his smile wasn't friendly. “Very well, talk. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

II told him my name was Elizaveta Eagan, that I was an American from Moscow on my way for a vacation at Batumi; that my companion was Elma Ferguson, British, also from Moscow and going to Batumi. We had been routed by Intourist by way of Tiflis, where we had decided to make a side trip to the birthplace of Marshal Stalin. We had now seen the sights and were waiting for our train which would make a connection at Tiflis for the Black Sea.

“Now,” I said, “I see you are NKVD. Will you please tell me why we are being held here and how er are going to make our train?”

“Train?” He grinned. “You have no need to worry about trains.”

He tossed a chuckling comment to a swarthy little man who had entered the room as the questioning began and was sitting silently. I took it that he was the local Communist Party secretary, just observing.

I began again pointing out that we were legal travelers with Intourist tickets, that Moscow had lifted wartime restrictions on travel, and that he had no right to restrain us.

“Now, Tovarisch Elizaveta — ” the lieutenant interrupted.

I interrupted right back: ”I'm not your tovarisch and, to you, I am not Elizaveta. You will please address me properly.”

That stung him. After a few flustered words in Georgian to the party man, he returned to the attack.

He asked for our passports. I told hum he should know that Intourist had taken them away as soon as we registered at the Tiflis hotel, and we wouldn't get them back until we checked out.

By now it was nearing time for our local train to Tiflis. I said as much to the lieutenant and demanded that a decision be made. I insisted that, if we were to miss our train I must at once be allowed to call Intourist in Tiflis and friends in Moscow. That stumped him. He said he would have to submit the matter to his kapitan.

“Bring on your kapitan,” I said. “I'd like to discuss this phony arrest with him. You were going to show us ‘something interesting.’ Show us your kapitan.”

Soon he came back with a tallish, spare-haired captain. The lieutenant was talking volubly. The captain was looking worried. They stopped in the corner and held a conference in mumbled Georgian with the party man, then the captain came to the table and addressed me. He asked all the questions the lieutenant had asked, and got the same answers. Then he asked the one his fat aide had not: “Did Intourist route you to Gori?”

I admitted it had not. He shrugged. “See?”

”I do not see,” I snapped. ”Is it forbidden to go on a picnic without a special pass? We have ridden an interurban train up here from Tiflis to have a picnic and see the great Stalin's birthplace. What is so illegal in that?”

The outburst got us nowhere. Mumbling a few words, the captain left the room. At 15 minutes of train time, I insisted that the lieutenant go get Kapitan. He left. The party man left. The train came and left. Elma and I could hear it through the barred window.

I was concerned then. How could Intourist, or our Embassies, trace us? Had we got ourselves in a jam we couldn't get out of? I confess we were worried and scared.

Finally Kapitan and the lieutenant returned. They had questioned our guide. Her story agreed with ours, but they were taking no chances. We were not to be turned loose . . . yet. At this point, I knew it was time to play our trump card — and hope for the best. I pulled myself up, took a deep breath and let my words rip:

“Listen, Mr. Captain, I am a diplomatic attaché from the American Embassy and the editor of the magazine Amerika, published by the Bureau of Information and Cultural Affairs in Moscow. My friend is a diplomatic attaché of the British Embassy and an editor of British Ally, published in Moscow. Now, are you satisfied?”

Kapitan studied us and his lean cheek twitched. Then he turned on the lieutenant with old fury. Even in Georgian, I knew what he was saying. ”Great grunting son of a pig! Look what you have got us into with your clever spy catching. Diplomats! Immune diplomats! No one can arrest them. We shall be lucky if this does not cost us both our heads.”

I broke in on the captain by asking if we could go now. “But certainly, certainly, a great mistake . . . You understand, of course, you have not been arrested . . .”

Not arrested? Then how explain the missed train, the missed connection in Tiflis? If he had released us in time to catch our train, we should not have considered ourselves arrested. As it was . . .

Kapitan bellowed for the station master. In a moment the little man appeared. “The express to Tiflis — when is it due? Stop it!”

The little man answered calmly: “Impossible, Tovarisch Kapitan. The express cannot be stopped.”

What look the Kapitan turned on him then I do not know, but I saw the little man's face blanch. “Yes — yes, Tovarisch Kapitan. I shall stop the express.”

Ten minutes later Elma and I were installed in a luxurious compartment, having been handed up the steps by the bowing, scraping captain. Behind him stood the lieutenant, timidly smiling and bearing Elma's coat. The captain tried to make his last smile friendly.

“And please bear in mind, Citizens,” he said, “that you have not been under arrest. One so humble as I, a mere kapitan, could not presume, you know, so much as to question diplomats.”

I did not sleep well that night. I kept wondering what might have happened if we had not been immune diplomats.

No Russian has immunity from arrest, and the fatalism with which they undertook friendships with Americans often astounded me. They risked their jobs, ration books, even apartment leases by befriending me. I felt imepped, in turn, to protect them. There is no one I am more concerned with protecting than the man who bought my Christmas tree decorations.

It was my second Christmas in Moscow. When I heard that the Mostorg (Moscow's Macy's) had the ornaments, I couldn't stay away. Aroun the counter where the baubles were on sale, the crowd was five deep.

I had pushed well to the front when it dawned on me that I did not know the Russian names for these things. I looked around for help. On my right was a short, shoving, Red Army pilot. On my left, a studious-looking, pleasant, dark young man in civilian clothes. Perhaps because he was at least five foot ten, I turned to him.

“Bute-lubezni . . .” I began — which means something like “Have the goodness . . .”

He smiled a really warm, attractive smile and said, “Pazhaluste — Your pleasure, Citizeness . . .”

I told him, first, that I was an American and, second, that I wanted to get some of the ornaments but didn't know their names.

“Merely point out what you wish,” he said smilingly. “I shall do the rest with pleasure.”

I did, and he did, and I thanked him. Then we prated — as simply as that.

About a month later I was in the between-acts promenade in the Bolshoi Theater. He was standing on the steps. Our eyes met. I smiled and his eyes lit up. He nodded, ever so slightly. Here was a cautious one, I thought; he'll have no dealing with an inostranka. And I decided to forget him.

Later, after we had taken our seats, I swept the theater with my rented glasses and saw him. He was looking at me. I lowered the glasses and smiled. So did he. And that was all there was to that.

The next time I saw him, perhaps two weeks later, was when I was enjoying a manicure and he was having a haircut in the hotel barber shop. We paid our rubles at the same time and he followed me out. Instead of turning toward the Embassy and its vigilant guards, I turned in the opposite direction and started walking purposefully — nowhere. Within a block I heard his quick step crunching on the snow-covered sidewalk and, glancing sideways, met his shy grin.

“The Russian lessons?” he asked in English. “How do they go?”

As I fumbled for an answer, he went on in halting but correct American. He apologized for “accosting me,” and when I brushed that off by asking where he had learned English and why he hadn't used it at the Mostorg, he explained, now in Russian:

“I speak English, though not well, partly because I am a metallurgist and must read it, partly because for several years I worked as an interpreter for an American mining engineer in the Urals. Also, partly because my mother's first husband was an Englishman.”

He stopped speaking, but his eyes twinkled. Then he added: “But you are the only American I have ever spoken since nine years ago when the mining engineer was ordered home.”

“You know, of course,” he added, “that we Russians are discouraged from having contacts with foreigners — that I should not be walking with you. Do not think I disapprove of such regulations. I approve. I believe it is a good thing to discourage Russians meeting foreigners.”

I took issue with that. In a world grown small by virtue of radio and aircraft, I argued, all the world's people needed to know about all the others so as to create peace and brotherhood.

“No,” he said. “Our country is young. Our political and economic system is the most advanced in the world, but it is still not strong. We do not yet have physical comforts. Our people are not yet wise. Many might become overcritical if they knew how great is the difference between the way we must live and the way the big capitalistic countries do.”

He went on to say that he felt no qualms about talking to a foreigner because he was quite satisfied with his life and his future. He could withstand the “temptation.”

“But I'm no fool,” he added. “I know I am breaking the unwritten law in walking and talking with you. Anyway, may I go walking with you again some day soon? Sunday at 5 P.M., say, on Gogolovski Boulevard?”

I said yes, and that I understood the situation, but wasn't he risking a lot just to practice his English?

He flushed, then grinned shyly and looked me straight in the eye. “It is not the English. I would like to know you. So — shall we walk on Sunday?”

I said what any girl would. Yes. It was only after we parted that I realized we had not even introduced ourselves.

It is dark in Moscow in winter-time at 4:30, but we had no trouble finding each other for our date. We struck across the little park above Pushkin Square and out the boulevard. This time I took the initiative. Perhaps he already knew my name, but I said: “My name is Elizabeth. What is yours?”

He told me — Alexei — and asked me my father's first name. I answered William, and he told me his father's name was Mikhail. That put us on a very formal footing and we remained Elizaveta Vasilevna and Alexei Mikhailovich for the next several meetings. For we made other dates and walked miles through the bitter Russian nights.

It was at the third meeting that Alexei brought me a bundle of press clippings — stories about Russian women scientists, doctors, writers, politicians, soldiers. I explained 6hat we got all these stories at the office, and he rather lamely excused himself by saying that he wanted to be sure I saw what marvelous opportunities the Soviet Union granted its women.

Suddenly I realized that I was being wooed. Alexei Mikhailovitch had a motive in trying to sell me on a future in the Soviet Union.

We walked all winter — once or twice a week. When spring came we were still walking thought we had got to the Lisa and Alyosha stage. But Alexei never came to my apartment and I never met him anywhere but on the street.

One day in May we took a train to the country. We got off at a little village station on the edge of a birch forest and walked through the sodden leaves to a hillock just beginning to green. We ate our picnic lunch. Afterward we strolled through the sunlight into the helter-skelter cluster of log cabins that was the village-proper.

Alyosha stopped a sweet, wrinkled old Babushka and asked her if there was a place in the village where we could buy a glass of tea. She insisted we come into her house. As we entered the old lady's cottage, I whispered to Alexei that he must explain I was an Amerikanka.

So he did, and she did not seem to fear me. Instead she beamed all over and, turning again to Alyosha, asked: “And you, boy, you are the husband of the young Amerikanka?”

Alyosha turned to me. “What shall I sat? May I tell her, Lisa, that I soon shall be?” Then, in a swift outpouring of persuasive Russian: “Let me say it, Dorogaya moya — my dear. Will you stay in Russia with me — be my wife — join me and my people? . . .”

I had known it was coming. But this was — literally — too sudden. I lost the words of Alyosha's impassioned plea, but the gist was that he was offering me the greatest gift in his power to bestow: that I should, by marrying him and becoming a Soviet citizen, fulfill the destiny of modern woman by renouncing the false idols and ideas of imperialistic capitalism for world-wide communistic brotherhood.

I don't know, really, how I should have reacted to such a proposal — by moonlight, say, on the banks of the Moscow River, or even if it had been offered in a peasant cottage without political orchestration. But I could not help looking beyond Alyosha to Babushka. I saw her eyes darting from his lean, strong figure in his dowdy, almost-threadbare civilian “uniform” of shiny blue-serge coat and worn brown trousers to my old, but still firm and well-cut, mustard-colored tweed suit.

I realized, which Alexei had not, that he was speaking Russian and that Babushka had anticipated my answer with her eyes.

“Alyosha,” I said, and I spoke in English but my answer was American. “Alyosha, you are kind, considerate and most patriotic. But I cannot marry you. Not for the reasons I see in the eyes of our hostess — not for any reason that would occur to you, because it has nothing to do with clothes or food or housing — not for the reasons you defend as justified in keeping Russians and foreigners apart.

“Believe me, Alyosha, I cannot marry you—” and here my voice almost broke, because he had never before looked so admirable, so almost-heroic, so dedicated — “because you do not really love me. You love Russia. You would love to make a convert. You want a disciple, not a wife.”

I had got a grip on myself now. I was filled with a rush of recollections of Red Army men and women ��� fliers, foot soldiers, policemen, housewives, students — all of them living in daily dread of a visiting from the secret police.

“I am an American woman, Alyosha,” I concluded, “and I have bred in my bones the conviction that a man — or woman — is not born to serve the State but that the State is born to serve the man or woman.”

[talesfromthefade]

Orana x Solas || SFW || 3479 words

It will be two days time to prepare the necessary supplies for Orana, Cassandra, Varric and Solas to make the journey to the Hinderlands to establish a foothold for the Inquisition there with some camps, helping the refugees, and with any luck securing some manner of help from Mother Giselle. In the meantime, Orana takes the opportunity to search the trunk in the room where she woke earlier while Cassandra and Leliana are busy spreading word of what’s happened both to the troops, and abroad with Leliana’s ravens carrying messages to more remote locations, finding a set of light wool leggings and tunic, along with a leather vest and longcoat which suits her fine and should do well to keep out any lingering chill she might encounter here. She still misses the clothes she wore when she first came here, but was informed that they were badly scorched beyond repairing either in the explosion, or her trip in the Fade and have since been disposed of. She’s had her coin purse returned though, and her set of lockpicks, with a suspicious sideways look from Cassandra, and what had looked rather surprisingly and a bit disturbingly like amusement from the quiet redhead. Determining she’s as ready as she is ever likely to be to encounter the rest of what their camp has to offer, she leaves once more to explore the other buildings that surround the Chantry.

There is a tavern, with ale that doesn’t taste nearly as bad she had initially feared, although she limits herself to half a flagon, pausing to appreciate the sultry and dulcet tones of the minstrel that sings in the corner and plays the lute. She’s very good. Far better than the ones that played at ‘the Hanged Man’ in Kirkwall, and Orana thinks that perhaps she’ll have to come back here some evening to relax if she finds an opportunity. Perhaps once the soldiers have gotten more used to her presence and stop staring and whispering quite so much, she thinks as she takes her leave.

There is a merchant with a small cart of items for sale just outside the bar. Orana thinks he’s probably charging a bit more than is charitable, even after he shares that this is all that remains of his shop, the rest of it having burnt down from flaming rubble from the explosion. The people of Haven have all been through a similar ordeal and have their own trouble as well, afterall, but the elf bites back any comment for the moment, and pays far too much for a large man’s pair of leather worked boots with a fur cuff that appears to be fox, or perhaps wolf pelt, Orana recognizes to be of good quality, tucking them under her arm with a smile as she walks away to continue exploring.

She finds and greets the man in charge of their Apothacary, who it seems was also in charge of her care while she was indisposed after closing the breach, and thanks him for his skillful intervention on her behalf. She finds and stealthily scans his notes while he is busy giving instructions to an apprentice, and thanks him again. It seems her mark and condition were far more unstable than anyone had yet told her after the stress of trying to seal the breach, she awoke after one day, but was given potions to slip and stay back under until her body had fully recovered from it. The man is a bit harried as it seems the man who is usually in charge, or at least helping the other to run things was in attendance and died at the Conclave without giving any of them any idea as to where he might have left his notes about potions he had been working on perfecting. Years of work, all lost. Orana nods sympathetically, not bothering to offer what might be an empty promise, but resolving to keep an eye out should she find any lonely notebooks around Haven somewhere. Apothecary Adan has far too many other things to worry about to busy himself with searching for his master’s notes, however valuable they might potentially be, and it’s not as if she has been tasked with any other chores yet.

She meets their Quartermaster, who mistakes her for a servant at first, and addresses her with the appropriate manner of abrupt and sharp directions as such, before realizing who she is while Orana is still internally blistering a little and quickly apologizes. Orana is not as fond of her as she is Master Adan, but similarly resolves to herself to try and help the young woman to find the wood and iron she needs in the nearby area to supply their Blacksmith with the means to make new weapons for their soldiers. The soldiers can hardly be held responsible, nor should they be made to suffer with less than adequate equipment for poor manners on her part after all.

Segritt, their blacksmith greets her with no small amount of delight and enthusiasm, asking immediately about her new armor and coat. Are they breathable, can she move well enough in them, are they warm? Orana decides of the various lower-level players of the Inquisition she has had the pleasure of meeting so far, she likes him the best. Segritt talks with her at length about what she might need in a belt to hold her various tools- lock picks, daggers, caltrops, and flasks of both healing and poisons, clapping his hands together with no small amount of glee and promising to get to work on drawing up some schematics for something straight-away, thanking her for a new challenge. She heads back towards the Chantry feeling considerably lighter, despite the unlikely circumstances that have befallen her in the past week. She could never have expected her trip to spy on the peace talks between the mages and Templars to turn out this way. But she can at least be of use here, and is surrounded by some very good and friendly people. She spots Varric talking to another Inquisition soldier by a large fire, probably regaling them with some wildly exaggerated tales about Hawke and the adventures the Champion of Kirkwall drug him along on, smiling before spotting Solas in the distance at the top of the hill looking out over the rest of the Village, and offers the dwarf a wave, which he returns with a smile and nod, before making her way over to the other elf.

“The chosen of Andraste,” Solas greets as she approaches, turning to greet her with a small half-smile, “the blessed hero sent to save us all.”

“Am I riding in on a shining steed,” Orana asks with an amused smile.

“I would have suggested a Griffon, but sadly, they’re extinct. Joke as you will,” the other elf adds, “but posturing is necessary. I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten,” Solas admits, staring out over Haven once more, before turning his attention back to her. “Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

“Ruins and battlefields,” Orana repeats before she can come up with an answer for his question. If Solas is in any way disappointed or annoyed with her non-response to his speculation, he doesn’t show it, smiling at little at the question.

“Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade, I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”

“You fall asleep in the middle of ancient ruins. Isn’t that dangerous?”

“I do set wards. And if you leave out food for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live,” Solas shrugs with a hint of amusement.

“I’ve never heard of anyone going so far into the Fade, that’s extraordinary,” she assesses.

“Thank you. It’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning, but the thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything,” Solas replies. “I will stay then,” he declares thoughtfully after a moment. “At least until the breach has been closed.” Orana bites the inside of her bottom lip a little to keep herself from frowning. Had he not intended to before? They do not know one another all that well yet, of course, but Orana thinks she would almost certainly miss his company if the other elf were to leave now. At the very least it would be a terrible shame to lose all of the knowledge and understanding he seems to have of the Fade, the Veil, and his theories about the breach and her mark.

“Was that in doubt?”

“I am an apostate, surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion,” Solas points out. “Cassandra has been accommodating,” he acknowledges with a nod, “but you understand my caution.”

“You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you,” Orana replies firmly, shaking her head.

“How would you stop them?”

“However I had to,” she replies sincerely.

“Thank you,” Solas replies after a moment, eyes wide and eyebrows raised slightly in surprise at the unexpected loyalty and protectiveness she has even so early on, already deemed him worthy of. A moment of silence passes between them as the two stare back at one another, though it is not an uncomfortable one. “For now let us hope either the mages or the Templars have the power to seal the breach,” he assesses finally. “Closing the breach is our primary goal, but I hope we are also able to discover what was used to create it. Any artifact of such power is dangerous. The destruction of the Conclave proves that much.”

“You don’t think whatever created the explosion was destroyed in the blast,” Orana asks curiously, looking out over Haven as he had done earlier. It is rather beautiful here, in its way.

“You survived, did you not,” Solas points out. “The artifact that created the breach is unlike anything seen in this age. I will not believe it destroyed until I see the shattered fragments with my own eyes.”

“We would do well to try and recover whatever created the breach,” Orana agrees, nodding.

“Leliana’s people have scoured the area near the blast and found nothing. Whatever the artifact was, it is no longer there.”

“You think the person responsible for the explosion survived? Took it with them?”

“I don’t think we should rule out that possibility,” Solas confirms, nodding with a slight frown at the thought. A frosty breeze brushes by them, bringing a slight flush to the young elf’s cheeks and suddenly reminding her of the parcel she’s carrying.

“Oh,” Orana exclaims softly, causing Solas’s attention to shift back to her again. “I almost forgot. These are for you,” she offers, pulling the boots from where she’s had them tucked under her arm, and holding them out to the other elf. “Not that you complained about it or anything,” she adds hastily, suddenly a little less sure about the gift as the other elf studies them and her with wide-eyed surprise. “If you don’t want them you won’t hurt my feelings, I promise. You don’t have to accept or pretend to like them just because they’re calling me the ‘Herald’ now, or anything,” she continues anxiously. “Maybe it doesn’t even bother you. You said you’d traveled a lot…” Maker. Creators. Someone stop her babbling and making a complete fool of herself, she thinks a bit desperately. She swallows hard, forcing herself to take a deep breath and to look up to meet the other’s gaze again after she’s nervously dropped her gaze to her own feet. Solas’s expression is both patient and kind, perhaps even a little bit fond, softly encouraging her to go on. “It’s just that I never really saw snow before coming to Ferelden. I got terrible frostbite my first few days off the ship. Boots were actually the first thing I bought here,” she shrugs, smiling down at the well-worn pair she wears. “You joined the Inquisition to help, even though it could have been dangerous for you to do so. And I saw you helped to heal some of those soldiers when we went to the Temple to try and seal the breach, even though you didn’t have to and it must have been a drain to your magic and energy. I just thought, maybe it was about time someone offered to help you,” Orana concludes softly.

Solas gently accepts the boots from her outstretched hands, turning them over in his hands studying them, before slowly leaning against the nearby stone wall, lifting a foot and dusting off the snow, then sliding into one and repeating the same with the other with a soft, nearly inaudible, hum of contentment, a small smile slowly growing across his face as he straightens up once more, shifting his weight from foot to foot, testing them. They’ll need to be broken in a bit, of course, but they should help to ward off any chill at the least.

“You are full of surprises, Da’len,” Solas smiles warmly at her, shaking his head. “Thank you, this was an incredibly thoughtful gift, I will see that they are put to good use,” he nods gratefully. Orana’s face bursts into a relieved and delighted smile, she can’t help it.

“You are very welcome, Solas,” she replies warmly.

“Is there anything that I might give you in return? No,” Solas interrupts as she opens her mouth to protest, gently cutting her off. “I know you did not give these to me with the expectation of anything,” he assures her. “They call you ‘Herald’ now, but the last few days have been… incredibly trying for you. And yet- you took the time to notice and find me a fine pair of boots. Such kindness and concern for others is rare. It is noticed and rewarded even less. I should like to remedy that.” Orana hesitates for a moment, considering. As a slave she wasn’t allowed much in the way of possessions, even after she gained her freedom, the habit was largely ingrained by then. She didn’t need much and had long ago learned to want for even less to avoid disappointment, so she’s never been in the habit, or entirely comfortable with asking for things of others. But Solas seems genuinely interested in returning the favor, and there is one thing…

“I like stories,” Orana confesses softly, “and learning new things.” Knowledge was one of the few things no one, no Master or Mistress, however cruel, could take away from her. She cherished it. “Perhaps now and then- when we have the time- you could tell me more about your travels, places you’ve been, things you’ve seen in the Fade,” she asks hopefully, and Solas smiles.

“You ask for something I would already have given to you freely,” the other elf admits chuckling warmly, light icy-blue eyes shining bright, and for the first time, now that she has the time and occasion to truly study the other’s face Orana notices that pale as Solas may be the bridge of his nose and cheeks are littered with a dusting of faint freckles, “although I am delighted to hear such things are of interest to you. I would be happy to share some of my stories with you, Lethallan.”

She worries her bottom lip for a moment. To ask for anything more, she worries she might sound selfish. His stories, even the most boring ones, are sure to be unique, something she could not hear from anyone else, that should be enough. She frowns ever so slightly, internally scolding herself.

“Da’len,” Solas ventures cautiously when he notices the slight downturn of her mouth, drawing her attention back up to him once more.

“I don’t know what that means,” Orana mumbles softly, embarrassed. “Da’len,” she repeats. “Lethallan,” she continues, shaking her head. “They are elvish,” she asks, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes for confirmation, frowning still more when Solas nods, looking apologetic, perhaps even sympathetic. She doesn’t want his pity. “It’s a part of my people’s history,” she continues. “I don’t know if I believe that I’m Andraste’s chosen,” Orana admits softly. “But the Inquisition needs me for my mark. People in cities I’ve never even heard of before are gossiping about me. …Having a position like this- it’s possible that I might influence the way other people see and think of elves. But how can I possibly be a good representative, a good ambassador for a people I scarcely belong to,” she frowns harder, brows furrowed. “Why should Andraste- why should anyone choose me? Why not a Dalish elf? Or you? You know so much more about magic, the elves we come from, about the Fade… You could do so much better for them. They would respect you.”

Solas laughs at this last note, “That is what you think,” he asks shaking his head, biting off his chuckles when he notices she looks impossibly more distressed. “Permit me to tell you what I think, then,” he interjects softly, one hand gently reaching out to clasp her own. “I think the elves are incredibly fortunate to have you to thinking of and standing for them,” Solas offers, smiling a little as bright green eyes, widen as they turn up to look at him while he continues to speak. “The Dalish are not the ‘true’ elves they claim to be anymore. After so many years of wandering, they forget bits and pieces of their gods, their language, their stories… Nor are they the only elves in Thedas, and certainly not the only elves worthy of aspiring to,” he continues, thumb gently dragging back and forth across the back of her hand in a comforting gesture, squeezing lightly, and then letting go, allowing his hand to fall back to his side. “I believe that there is every bit as much to admire- perhaps even more- in an unassuming elf who has managed to remain thoughtful and kind, when the world has not been,” he continues patiently. “Have a little faith, you give yourself far too little credit. You speak Trade Tongue, Tevene, and the common tongue of humans, these are the languages of a great number of our people,” he points out. “But, I would be happy to teach you Elven, if you would wish it.”

Orana’s eyes shine with tears, a few leaking out despite her best efforts to hold them back, shaking her head. Of course, she wishes it, but… “That hardly seems a fair trade,” she mumbles softly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Solas replies with a soft chuckle. “They are very fine boots.” Orana chokes a bit on a chuckle of her own, then laughs. Softly at first, then growing in volume- perhaps even just a little bit hysterical, with the realization this is the first time she has genuinely done so in months now. She doesn’t know how to convey as much to the other elf, or her gratitude for his company, his patience, and comfort, but she thinks perhaps the way he is smiling at her that he understands anyway. “Da’len,” he offers up softly when she’s finally managed to recompose herself once more. “It is a term of endearment of sorts,” he admits, and Orana cannot be certain, but she thinks perhaps there’s just a moment where the tip of Solas’ ears seem to flush a little with something other than cold. “It’s closest translation would be something like ‘youngling’.”

Orana smiles, but arches a skeptical eyebrow. “You can’t be that much older than I am,” she disputes.

“Mmm,” Solas hums amusedly. “You think so, do you? So just how many annuals are you, then?”

“I-“ Oh, she hadn’t really thought that particular branch of thought out before opening her mouth, had she? “I don’t remember,” Orana admits.

“Convenient,” Solas teases, smirking, eyes seeming to sparkle a little with amusement and a kind of playfulness she’s not had the opportunity to see before. “Seems I’ve quite forgotten my age now as well. In any case, the other word you did not know- Lethallan,” he continues patiently, “would be like the word ‘cousin,’ ‘clansmen,’ or something similar. It is commonly used to recognize a fellow of the Elven people. Like you,” he adds sincerely, nodding to her.

“Thank you, Solas,” Orana smiles softly.

“My pleasure, Lethallan,” Solas nods, offering a polite bow and goodbye as she takes her leave to go find and catch up with Varric.