#read ware ware da its good

[madmarchhare]

The demon I like from the broadcast Battra(I like all of them) who participated in the Harvest festival.

He got knocked out by Gruppen so he could do a broadcast.

[mimigoey]

Yes! I'm finally able to catch up with Makai no shuyaku ware ware da! (We are the main characters of the Demon world) It's my favourite manga too. I don't see it as a spin off. It is extremely good with its own standard story and what makes it so interesting is that Characters from Iruma kun also appear in it. They're either seen as interacting with the main characters or mentioned by them. Especially Agares Picero and Shoppi got along well because of their common hobby being sleep. Similarly Utsu and Camui became friends.

{CAUTION} Read only if interested.

These panels show the Characters Shaoron and Utsu (a.k.a Dai sensei) trying to impersonate everyone in misfits class. Especially boys. At first Shaoron was struck by Jazzy's coolness 🤩 and he wore rings like him. Utsu copied Kalego sensei's hairstyle 😂 and says shikuni😂 I can't stop laughing after reading this manga. Later they conduct research on every boy in abnormal class and copy their appearance as seen in the pictures. Poor Zom😂 He was driven crazy. They hoped that if they try to look and act like them they could also stand out like them.

Then later Ton Ton arrives and tells them that Fashion is something that should reflect your personality and they understood and became themselves. Then as Ton Ton leaves, we see his slippers that look like Connor and Murf 😂

[ibijau]

Futures Past pt8 / On AO3

Meng Yao's future is dealt with.

To say that Lan Qiren was disappointed in his nephew for helping Nie Huaisang escape into Yunping City would have been an understatement. It was made quite clear to Lan Xichen that he would face punishment of his own for this misbehaviour. Real punishment, too, not just copying texts as had become standards for small infractions. Still, Lan Qiren listened to that tale of a corrupt merchant scamming people with fake manuals, which greatly irritated him, and thus forced sect leader Huang to care as well and deal with it immediately.

It was wrong to think maliciously of anyone without proof, and even more so if the person was an elder. Yet as they all walked toward the market Lan Xichen couldn’t shake the feeling that had he been alone when news of that crooked merchant reached him, Huang Quiling might not have cared enough to do anything about it. After all, he hadn’t asked Lan Xichen for any details about this business, and instead appeared intent on continuing his conversation with Jiang Fengmian about borders and trade.

Lives were on the line, Nie Mingjue and Meng Yao’s futures depended on this day, and nobody cared. 

They didn't care because they couldn't know, of course, but logic wasn't helping Lan Xichen's ever growing anxiety. He only calmed down when they all reached the place where the others were waiting, and found that everyone of any importance was still where he had left them. 

While Lan Xichen was gone, things had changed a little in the market. Most of the earlier crowd had dispersed, tired of waiting for more entertainment, and the market street was almost back to normal. Those few curious folks who remained were trying to inconspicuously listen in as Nie Huaisang chatted with, or rather at poor Meng Shi. The unfortunate woman looked deeply uncomfortable, but didn't dare openly disrespect the young master who had confirmed her son's potential for cultivation by walking away.

She couldn't leave yet, anyway, not until she'd gotten her money back for those fake cultivation manuals. From what Lan Xichen could see, Jiang Cheng and Meng Yao were taking care of that, the two of them counting money with that crooked merchant. Here and there Meng Yao would glance at Nie Huaisang, as if something he said attracted his attention, but each time Jiang Cheng brought his attention back to the task at hand.

When Lan Xichen and his elders came close enough to hear, the distress made sense: Nie Huaisang, after all this time, was still discussing the many failings of Jin Guangshan. Lan Xichen wished he were surprised, but there really was that much gossip going around about that man. Most people just didn't usually discuss all of it at once out of respect for a sect leader.

“And then, da-ge said that Jin zongzhu brought in dancers,” Nie Huaisang was saying to a rapt audience, insensitive to the discomfort of Meng Shi next to him. “Da-ge said it was getting embarrassing to watch when Jin Furen arrived, and she made such a scene because apparently her husband had promised to consult her about all the entertainments at the banquet but he brought the dancers without tell her. So then, she… oh, already?”

Nie Huaisang, so cheerful while telling his story, turned a little pale at the sight of Lan Qiren. He looked around for something to hide him from his teacher’s angry glare, and had to settle for slipping behind poor Meng Shi. Lan Xichen refrained from rolling his eyes, and directed his elders' attention where it was actually needed. 

“Here is the man,” Lan Xichen announced, motioning toward the merchant. “He has been selling fake cultivation manuals to people.”

“Fake talismans as well,” Jiang Cheng said, lifting a few before crumbling them in his hand. “And he has been doing this for a while. How long, did you say?”

“We started buying from him last year,” Meng Yao explained with a polite bow toward the older cultivators. “But he started coming to the market the year before that, and already offered the same wares. We assumed he had received permission to sell those items, since...”

Meng Yao trailed off, glancing toward sect leader Huang before bowing deeper as if in apology.

Strictly speaking, no sect could be expected to be aware of and to deal with every crook that operated in their territory, so Huang Quiling couldn't be blamed for that situation. At the same time, it would be considered shameful for any sect to have someone selling fakes in its own hometown of all places, and for so long. It spoke of unreliability on their part if people would rather go to a nobody on the market, or else it meant that they priced their services much too high for common people. It also meant they didn't care about commoners, who surely had to have complained about that merchant before. Either way, it wasn't a good look for Huang Quiling, and he would have to act properly to clean this stain on his reputation.

But instead of scolding the merchant or threatening him, Huang Quiling only had eyes for Meng Shi, who was glaring at him defiantly.

“So it's you again,” sect leader Huang muttered. “Meng Shi! Haven’t I told you to stop bothering cultivators?” he turned to the other two sect leaders and gave a small apologetic bow. “I’m sorry that your boys got caught up in this. Meng Shi is just a local whore who’s convinced herself that her bastard has what it takes to be a cultivator. Completely delusional, the boy will never amount to anything. You can't judge that merchant's wares just because the bastard of a whore didn't become an immortal from reading it. I'm unsure the boy can even read.”

Meng Shi, proud as a queen until then, went pale. Lan Xichen felt her shock and horror as if they were his own. He turned to glance at his uncle, worried he might side with Huang Quiling, but to his relief Lan Qiren instead appeared annoyed at the sect leader. It was probably only the coarse language that he disapproved of, and the public nature of this confrontation which he must feel stained all their reputations, yet Lan Xichen felt emboldened anyway.

“Huang zongzhu, have you tested Meng gongzi?” he asked. “We checked on him, and found he has potential.”

“What would mere boys know about these things?” Huang Quiling snapped at him. “Which one of you tested him?”

Lan Xichen hesitated, and glanced at the other boys. He hadn’t come anywhere near Meng Yao yet, and couldn’t lie about that. But if he said it was Nie Huaisang who had checked on Meng Yao, and after his horrible performance at the Night Hunt the day before, it wouldn’t be much of an endorsement. Lan Xichen himself only trusted Nie Huaisang’s assessment because he knew from that other future what sort of cultivation genius Meng Yao was.

“I’m the one who checked on him,” Jiang Cheng boldly lied. Or perhaps he really had checked, dubious as well of Nie Huaisang's assessment, because he continued: “For someone not born from gentry, his potential is not to be dismissed. It might be on par with Yunmeng Jiang's first disciple, if he were just taught properly.”

Huang Quiling, so disdainful a moment before, lost all of his confidence. He glanced at Jiang Fengmian whose face showed no particular expression, except perhaps mild curiosity now that Wei Wuxian had been mentioned. Lan Xichen wasn't sure what to make of that. He hadn’t often been near Jiang Fengmian except at the occasional discussion conference, and of course in the other future they had never gotten to work together as sect leaders. According to gossip, Jiang Fengmian was something of a pushover, who loved quiet and peace more than he cared about justice, but on occasion he could show strength of character if the mood hit him.

"What does his skill matter, with a mother like that?" Huang Quiling claimed, refusing to admit defeat. "No self respecting sect would knowingly take in the son of a whore. It'd be like teaching a pig to walk on two legs, dressing it in silk, and calling it human."

"People ought to be judged on their actions rather than their origins," Lan Xichen retorted, which caused sect leader Huang to glare at him with bulging eyes, his face dark with a rage so strong it robbed him of his words. Even without looking, Lan Xichen knew that his uncle too had to be shocked, that there would be hell to pay for this later. But then, if he was going to be punished, he might as well go all the way. "Just because you don't have the talent to teach someone,” he said, “don't assume a skilled teacher can't do it either."

Huang Quiling looked on the verge of having a Qi deviation, gaping and frothing at the mere boy who dared to insult him so openly. He wasn't the only one to stare, either. Nie Huaisang, the Jiangs, the Mengs, and above all Lan Qiren were looking at Lan Xichen as if he'd suddenly grown a second head.

A very rude second head, at that.

Lan Xichen just couldn't help it. Back in that awful future, the man he would have become had also been enraged and saddened at the unfairness of the world, particularly with regards to Meng Yao. If people hadn't judged him so harshly for something he had no control over, if instead they had taken notice of his skill, of his hard working personality, of his determination…

In that future, Lan Xichen had never dared to speak up, believing in the virtues of inaction and of leading by example, the way he'd been taught to behave. So far in this current life his attempts at being more active hadn't really worked so well, only ensuring that Nie Huaisang made a terrible friend in Su She and started hating Lan Xichen much earlier, but maybe this time, just maybe...

“Lan-xiansheng, your nephew is rather opinionated for a boy his age,” Huang Quiling complained. “I have heard a great deal how well behaved the young heir to Gusu Lan is, but it appears some reputations are undeserved.”

“My nephew will be dealt with,” Lan Qiren calmly replied, which dampened Lan Xichen's moment of rebellion more than anger could have. “And he will present excuses to you. Right now, Xichen.”

“But Lan gongzi's right!” Nie Huaisang exclaimed, coming out from his hiding place being Meng Shi. Under Lan Qiren's glare he shivered, but didn't give up. “I mean, he's right at least to ask if Meng gongzi was tested,” he mumbled. “And he's right to say it's not fair if nobody will teach him just because of his family! I've read our histories, you know. I know people didn't want to teach some butcher any cultivation because it's unclean work, and now we're a big sect. Isn't it the same? And it's not just us, right?”

His eyes darted toward Jiang Fengmian, who smiled at the unsaid accusation.

The official history said that Yunmeng Jiang had been founded by a group of rogue cultivators. They had tired of wandering, and established themselves in a small port which soon thrived thanks to their presence and influence. As far as founding stories went, it was a very respectable one.

The less official story was that their founder had been the leader of a band of thieves who had picked up a trick or two and figured that cultivation paid better than robbery. Lan Xichen had never been interested enough in the subject to do any research, but he had a cousin with a taste for history who swore that annals from that period corroborated the second version more than the first. If so, it wasn't much better than being descended from a prostitute, though enough time had passed that it didn't matter so much anymore.

“I see my nephew won't be the only one who needs to be dealt with,” Lan Qiren remarked in an icy voice. Nie Huaisang, having used up all of his courage in standing up to his teacher, hid again behind Meng Shi, trying to make himself small.

“Boys must stand for something, it's what youth is for,” Jiang Fengmian replied with good humour, before gesturing toward Meng Yao. “Come here, boy. Let's see what all the fuss is about.”

“Jiang zongzhu, you're not serious!” Huang Quiling exploded. “That boy is just...”

“I'm only curious. If his proximity is intolerable, then perhaps you might help my son check those manuals to see if they are real or fake. Jiang Cheng, help Huang zongzhu while we deal with this side of the problem.”

Huang Quiling went pale from rage at being ordered around in that manner, but with Yunmeng Jiang the larger and more respectable sect, he still obeyed. He stomped toward the merchant's stall in a manner Lan Xichen found lacking in the dignity to be expected of a sect leader. Meng Yao, for his part, hesitated to obey Jiang Fengmian's order until Jiang Cheng pushed him forward. Huang Quiling radiated hatred when Meng Yao passed by him on his way to the other sect leaders. He looked as if he might have tried something, or said some other insults, but Meng Yao wisely made sure to leave as much space as possible between the two of them, which wasn't easy in a crowded market street.

“Come closer, child,” Jiang Fengmian requested when Meng Yao hesitantly stopped a few steps away from him. “I am going to put my hand on you to check your meridians. It might feel a little odd... but if my son tested you, you know that already, hm?”

Meng Yao nervously nodded glancing back toward his mother who smiled encouragingly. He only shivered a little when Jiang Fengmian put one hand over his heart, and even less so when Lan Qiren did the same after being invited to do so by Jiang Fengmian.

“I suppose the children have a point,” Lan Qiren conceded, his expression turning somewhat warmer. “How old are you, boy?”

“I'm sixteen, Lan-xiansheng.”

Instantly, Lan Qiren's expression darkened again.

“Too old then. If you'd been two or three years younger... and even then it would have been difficult. It's best to start young.”

Meng Yao's shoulders slumped down at the news, while all of Lan Xichen's hopes were crushed. He knew that his sect preferred younger disciples, though he suspected it had less to do with actual cultivation, and more with the fact that children took to discipline better than teenagers. Still, he had hoped that Meng Yao, with his potential... but Lan Qiren's word was final in these matters, with only their sect leader having a right to contradict him. Meng Yao couldn't be brought into Gusu Lan.

Which meant another option would have to be considered.

With dread curling in his guts and a choking sensation tightening his throat, Lan Xichen looked at Nie Huaisang still half hidden behind Meng Shi, and found the other boy staring right back at him. Nie Huaisang no longer appeared as furious at him as he had been before, but that might have been because he was preparing his own move, ready to ruin all of Lan Xichen's efforts. Nie Huaisang opened his mouth, surely to offer again that Meng Yao be sent to Qinghe, but missed his chance to speak.

“Yunmeng Jiang has never looked down on older disciples,” Jiang Fengmian said with a pleasant smile. “It can be a challenge to learn cultivation with a late start, but anyone who cannot take a challenge has no place teaching in the Lotus Pier. Sixteen... it could be worse. One of my own shidi was in his thirties when he joined us, and still did well enough for himself.”

Lan Xichen shivered, his body tensing further at this proposition.

Perhaps it was because he knew already, but the resemblance between Meng Yao and his father, between him and his half-brother also, was quite striking to him. It was possible that Jiang Fengmian hadn’t noticed, but unlikely when he often dealt with Jin Guangshan. Even if he really saw nothing, his wife was well known to be a very close friend to Madam Jin. There was no way Madam Yu wouldn’t notice that their newest disciple resembled Jin Guangshan, and since she was said to be a tyrant and the true ruler of Yunmeng Jiang…

“Are you sure this is wise?” Lan Qiren asked. “Even if that boy can be taught, his family…”

“His mother taught him well enough that he would take the defence of a stranger even in a fight he couldn’t win,” Jiang Fengmian said. “Or so your nephew said before. A good heart is what matters.”

“But half of Yunping City could be his father,” Huang Quiling argued, who'd paid more attention to their conversation than to the cultivation manuals he was meant to inspect. “From the lowest beggar to any drunk merchant with too much money to waste.”

“His father is a cultivator,” Meng Shi said, striding to come at her son's side. “He said he would return for A-Yao, but…” She glanced at Nie Huaisang who had followed her to hide again behind her. He had shared so much gossip earlier, it would have been hard for her to keep her hopes up. She sighed. “I only want for my son to live up to his potential. If he can be a cultivator, then that’s... good enough.”

“Is your son under any contractual obligation?” Jiang Fengmian asked.

“He's not,” Meng Shi vehemently decried. “He's free.”

“That will make things easier. If that is fine with you, I will accompany you two to your place of residence. We can talk about certain details while your son packs, and then he will come to Yunmeng with me. Would that satisfy you?”

Meng Shi, speechless, could only bow deeply before her son's new master. Meng Yao did the same a few times, before hugging his mother, both of them too stunned by this good fortune to even smile. As they held each other's hands tightly, Jiang Fengmian gave his son a few things to do while he was busy.

Huang Quiling too appeared quite stunned by this turn of events, and a good deal less pleased than the Mengs, but he wisely kept quiet about it. Lan Qiren's refusal to teach Meng Yao on account of his age would save Huang Quiling some face, since he could now pretend he had the same issue, but it wouldn't surprise Lan Xichen is the relationship because Yunmeng Jiang and Yunping Huang remained tense for a while.

Lan Xichen couldn't quite feel sorry for it. He didn't like people who thought they were allowed to be rude to their inferiors, and hoped that sect leader Huang would learn something from this experience.

Then, having given his son instructions, Jiang Fengmian walked back to Lan Qiren to bid him goodbye, explaining he expected his schedule for the day to be so changed that they might as well separate for good right then. Lan Qiren agreed, but frowned as he glanced toward Meng Yao.

“That boy's father, with his looks...” he said in a voice low enough the Mengs might not hear, but still clear enough for a cultivator's ears.

Eavesdropping was forbidden, but Lan Xichen found he couldn't help himself. Neither could Nie Huaisang, who leaned toward the two men to hear better.

“Probably. I'll have his mother confirm it,” Jiang Fengmian said in a similar tone. “but it won't change things. Even if my wife doesn't like it, I would be a fool to pass a chance to teach a boy of such potential. And Jin zongzhu would never admit any relation, so it'll all be fine.”

Lan Xichen let out a deep breath, relieved that things had worked out so well after all. He would have preferred to have Meng Yao in the Cloud Recesses, where he could have watched him closely and made sure he didn't go again down the same path as before, but the Lotus Pier wasn't an awful option either. They'd managed to turn someone like Wei Wuxian into an honest enough man, so they might know how to deal with Meng Yao as well.

Even when Lan Qiren reminded his nephew and Nie Huaisang that they would both be harshly punished for their bad behaviour, Lan Xichen found that he didn't mind, not when there was a good chance they had saved Nie Mingjue's life.

[sophielovesbooks]

Sophie’s Dark Academia Rec List

In honour of my favourite genre, have a very personal, very subjective recommendations list!

-        The Secret History (Donna Tartt)

The obvious choice, a classic. In my personal opinion, it’s not perfect and there are better dark academia books out there, but it has massively shaped the genre and therefore deserves recognition. Also, the aesthetic is on point! Read if you want to get a feel for the genre or if you’re simply curious.

-        If We Were Villains (M. L. Rio)

Basically a newer, better The Secret History?? Plenty of similarities, minus certain problematic bits that were present in TSH. Amazing prose, incredible characters, absolutely worth the read. A prime example of dark academia! Read if you love Shakespeare and college settings and compelling characters and drama and just beautiful writing!

-        Black Chalk (Christopher J. Yates)

Also a fairly good example of the genre, but tragically underhyped. Darker than, for example, If We Were Villains. Set at Oxford! Will mess with your head. The characters are not necessarily likeable, but interesting. The writing is fairly complex. Read for a dark academia thriller which takes the unreliable narrator to an impressive new extreme (in a good way!)

-        Truly Devious (Maureen Johnson)

A rare YA dark academia book! Read for murder and mystery and a beautiful boarding school setting as well as a really likeable main character! Due to its nature less dark and somewhat less mature than most of the other books on this list, but if you’re looking for more of a quick and fun dark academia read, this is the one for you!

In a similar vain: The Vanishing Stair (Maureen Johnson)

Cannot actually vouch for this as I haven’t read it yet, but it’s the sequel to Truly Devious and I have heard good things.

-        The Secret Place (Tana French)

MASSIVELY underappreciated dark academia with (gasp) supernatural elements?! The most beautiful prose and funniest dialogue you will ever see. Incredible characters. Again, amazing boarding school setting and close group of female friends! (They will break your heart). Also murder. Also half of the story being told from a detective’s PoV. Read if you value good literature. Just. Read it.

-        The Likeness (Tana French)

Actually, maybe I was kidding before, maybe this book is the most underappreciated dark academia book out there? Either way, it’s my favourite. Within dark academia and within ALL OF THE BOOKS. This is it. The perfect novel. Characters that own my hearts to this day. Writing so beautiful that it had me sobbing uncontrollably on several occasions. The university it is set in is Trinity College Dublin. (Cue me being bitter that I don’t go there every single day for the rest of my life.) Very intriguing mystery, too. Hilarious dialogue. All the emotions. All the heartbreak. Just… I love it so much, okay? <3

-        The Lying Game (Ruth Ware)

Good, very good. Set in a boarding school near the ocean, but unfortunately, only the past tense story line is and we don’t get to see too much of it. Very interesting characters. Much heavier on the dark than the academia. Read if you’re looking for more of a classic murder mystery/thriller and are not too focussed on the academia. Also read for an interesting group of female friends.

-        The Basic Eight (Daniel Handler)

Very promising, but wasn’t my cup of tea at all. The setting is an American High School on the West Coast. The murder isn’t that much of a mystery. I’m mentioning it here because I know that other people love this book, even though I really didn’t. I would say don’t read, but see for yourself, I suppose.

-        The Lessons (Naomi Alderman)

Yes, okay, an interesting one. Set at Oxford, which was amazing. Interesting characters with interesting dynamics. I read it quickly and was quite entertained. But there were certain problematic bits (regarding LGBTQ+ representation and mental illness), so you’ve been warned. Not my fave, but I mostly enjoyed it while reading it.

 There are a few more dark academia books on my shelves, which I unfortunately cannot include on this list, as I haven’t read them yet. One of them is “The Lake of Dead Languages” by Carol Goodman. Another is “Brideshead Revisited” by Evelyn Waugh. Might edit this post later to add these and more. xx

UPDATE!! (With slightly longer descriptions this time, because people are actually reading this? Reblogging even? Wow!) 

-        The Lake of Dead Languages (Carol Goodman)

THE ALL-FEMALE DARK ACADEMIA NOVEL WE ALL NEED AND DESERVE…?? The setting is A++. An all-female boarding school in the Adirondack Mountains in New York! There is a lake that features so heavily in the story, it basically counts as a main character. Told from the PoV of a teacher who used to go to the school. There are two close groups of female friends, one in the present timeline, one in the past. Both have dark, dark secrets and both fit the dark academia genre so well! Also, heavy focus on Latin rather than Ancient Greek, which I have all the love for. This one is a gem, so give it a chance!

-        Brideshead Revisited (Evelyn Waugh)

An actual classic, as in… first published in 1945. And it reads like it. The beginning came with beautiful vibes! Our young boy Charles starting his time at Oxford, meeting a lot of pretentious people, including one Lord Sebastian Flyte, who Charles is suspiciously fascinated by. Sebastian is the biggest dork to ever dork, carries around with him an actual teddy bear named Aloysius, the absolute madmen?? But it’s all downhill from there, with alcoholism and war and depressing times… And Oxford only really features in the first half or less.

-        People Like Us (Dana Mele)

Another rare YA dark academia!! Features a group of Mean Girls who one day, when out at night to go swimming, find one of their classmates floating dead in the lake. Which is an excellent dark academia set-up, let’s be honest. Also, sapphic girls, incredible sapphic girls with really complex relationships! Bi main character! A fun and quick read, much like “Truly Devious”. More descriptions of the beautiful boarding school buildings would have been welcome, but at least we got a few! Anyway, go forth and enjoy this little beauty.

-        Party Girls Die in Pearls (Plum Sykes)

Umm… I barely even comprehend this book’s existence? Has a prime dark academia set-up with a murdered girl in Oxford, but I still somehow DNF’d it after about 20 pages?! The main character’s name is Ursula Flowerbutton, and if you think that’s quirky and funny… good for you, you might actually enjoy this book. But you’ll also have to endure descriptions of clothes, oh, so many descriptions of clothes! And for anything unique to Oxford that might make the book fun because only those who know will know… you’ll get a footnote. So actually, everyone will know, with zero effort. Definitely not for me, but if you want to read a glossy magazine style dark academia, knock yourself out, friend!

-        The Night Climbers (Ivo Stourton)

Breath-taking! A piece of beauty! Set at Cambridge (and the campus features heavily!), a main character reminiscent of Richard Papen, an intriguing group of new friends that he would do anything to belong with. Including… climbing the buildings of Cambridge at night? Without proper equipment, just with his hands and feet?? Honestly, out of the books on this list, this one is the closest in style and maturity and characterisation to The Secret History! The writing is absolutely gorgeous, the plot fascinating. And it’s dark academia that features a non-violent crime, which works surprisingly well. All in all: A STUNNER THAT FANS OF THE SECRET HISTORY SHOULD CHECK OUT!!

-        As I Descended (Robyn Talley)

A queer, sapphic Macbeth retelling?? Also a rare YA dark academia with strong supernatural elements?! The representation is on point, with two hispanic main characters, wlw, mlm and one of the girls in the main couple being disabled! The boarding school setting is also on point (and uniquely different as the school building is actually a former plantation in Virginia). This book is so different and so spooky! It wasn’t perfect and some say the retelling didn’t work 100% (I, personally, felt that the plot slowed down a bit), but the atmosphere is amazing and the characters are pretty cool, too!

Not to worry, my quest to find and read as many DA books as possible isn’t over. So this list might be updates again some time in the future! :)

[fountainpenguin]

Status Update

Been pretty quiet since that Knots chapter on October 13th so wanted to update y’all on the situation.

I’ve been keeping busy with my mod duties in Creature-Crossing as per usual. These last several weeks were big for us as we held an intense event and released our new story arc... unveiling our witches and potion system. I’m the one who got to design recipes for over 70 unique potions, and it’s been a joy to watch the community zoom to solve them so far.

I also had the chance to design a delightful new NPC for the group whom I’m really clicking with, and that always makes the work much lighter. He’s a witch’s assistant and twice a month he runs a terrible, terrible knock-off shop called the Crescent Moon Market where he sells off-brand toys and potion ingredients and stolen journal pages that he demands back with no refund, all of this while his wares are sold for bizarre prices just to mess with bank accounts that were once pristine even numbers, and he’s just. Awful. I love my Chaotic Evil son.

[More about my status and plans under the cut]

So doing my Creature-Crossing things has been fun, for the most part. As part of my duties, nearly every bit of my free time the last couple months has been absorbed in updating things, writing guides, organizing resources, and just getting our group shifted into its next story arc. I wrote lots and lots of journals, ahaha... I’d show off how nice they all look, but two days ago dA released an “update” that obliterated every painstaking layout I poured my heart into. So. That’s one of the things emotionally destroying me at the moment.

It doesn’t feel real. I’ve tried so hard to adapt to dA’s awful new systems, but just when I was mastering it, the rug was yanked from under me. I guess I give up now; at this point the learned helplessness is eating me from the inside out. Tons of my beloved work has been ruined, and even the thin image files I uploaded to replace <hr> lines (which were removed from dA months ago) have been wiped from view.

I’m desperately clinging to any possible hope that dA will reverse these changes soon, because I might seriously come crashing down if this is what I’m left to suffer with long-term, blech. Definitely not feeling super great about having my name attached to “group organization, journal writing, and layout” to say the least.

On a semi-related note about my exhaustion levels, I’ll finally be honest even though I’ve worried so long about voicing this. Recently, I’ve been seeing so much critique on my writing from so many people that I’m slowly draining like a balloon. I suspect someone advertised a few of my old fanfics, bringing lots of curious people to read my 7+ year old writing, and some of them are... not as tactful in their reactions as they maybe could be. Takes a toll on the heart after a while, even when some of it probably does come from a good place. It’s always hard to get into the writing zone when you’re waking up to morning after morning of rude comments...

WELL-!

I’ve been sucked into CC in all the chaos of our new story arc, and I definitely need a break from the bulk of my workload. I have a few mod duties I need to stick around for over there, but you’ll be seeing me oozing back to Tumblr very soon. I’ve got Asks I’ve been sitting on for ages (I’m so sorry!) not to mention that I actually do want to post the writing I’ve been working on. Thanks for hanging around!

For those who’ve been reading my fanfics (or who intend to soon), I’d really love to see some feedback on my work, either in the form of reviews or blog Asks. I haven’t heard from anyone about the Knots chapter I posted in October, and I’m hoping it turned out okay. Thoughts? I always feel uncomfortable posting new chapters when I haven’t gotten any kind of response on the old, because it makes me feel like I’m going faster than is possible to read. In long ‘fics like mine, I’d rather take it slow.

So I might ask a few questions about ‘fics in upcoming posts, try to get some conversation flowing. I would really like to talk about how my Anti-Cosmo portrayal has been coming across, because Cosmo himself is just around the corner and we’ll hit the ground running from here.

And if Knots isn’t your jam but the 130 Prompts are, I have good news for you. Even in my busyness, I’ve been chipping away at the rest of this arc. The next several 130 Prompts are... fairly important to me, and if you’re able to find the time, I’d love to hear a review or a blog ask about them. It can be anonymous if you like, but it’s really appreciated <3

I’m ending this note with yet another Thank You for sending me Asks, and I truly thank you all for the continued curiosity in my work. Hoping to get back into my groove soon! I always miss my blog every time I go, no matter how fun it is in an ARPG <3

See you soon with more of my Fairy things~!

[war--lords]

If it’s still open, could you make Ieyasu drink a truth serum? ( *｀ω´) Thank you so so much in advance if you do this!!!!!!!!! I really love your writing^^ I hope real life treats you well soon!

Thanks for the request! Many of you wanted this so I’m just gonna turn your request into episodes of some sort, so this could be a long fic. To make this easier to track, Ieyasu’s Truth Serum series is gonna be titled and tagged Truth Be Told.

Happy reading!

Truth Be Told

1. Diagnosis

“You look really good today.”

You almost break your neck from swinging it too hard to look at your lover behind you as the two of you get ready to start the day. Ieyasu has always been somewhat chilly, even though he’s way less so in private, but it’s not like he never compliments you. It’s just—‘you look really good today’ sounds so forward and unlike him. Even here in your shared bedroom, he usually tiptoes around it, makes several circles before pushing his point through…

The look on his face makes it seem like he’s the one being complimented because he’s red, and you’re red, too, but with a dash of confusion. 

“Ieyasu? Are you okay?”

“I—yes, I suppose I am,” he quickly sputters, attributing it to a mere slip of the tongue. He looks bewilderedly, first at you, then at the floor. Ieyasu Tokugawa almost never makes that sort of error, he’s too used to not vocalizing how he really feels. Has he finally spent too much time with you? Is candor a contagious thing?

“Actually I’m starting to feel a bit woozy now, love.”

You jaw nearly drops on the floor as you rush across the room to a half-dressed, very surprised Ieyasu. It really doesn’t look like he means to say these things! ‘Love’!? He never calls you that!

“What did you just call me?” 

“Love,” he answers, without a single beat of silence, but the face he puts on says more than words—it’s one of settling realization. He’s just given the wrong answer. The normal Ieyasu would never admit to calling you that. At least not without fumbling with his words, or blushing a little. Most of the time he’ll just blame you for your bad hearing because he certainly didn’t say such a thing.

“Why did you call me that???” Now you’re full-on in his face, partly due to concern, the other part due to freaking out. 

“Because I love you.” 

Ieyasu blushes so hard it looks like steam is going to start blowing out of his ears. This can’t be right.  

And then it strikes you.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

“Soro da Verdade is what the merchant called it. ’Truth serum’. He says that this type of liquor is very special, even going so far as to say that it pains him to part with it for one reason or another,” Sasuke tells you, handing you the pretty glass vial, “He did look like an eccentric one, however. I don’t drink much, so it’s yours. Think of it as a gift.”

“Thanks,” you say, admiring the beautiful clear liquid as you swirl it inside its bottle. “Why not give it to Kenshin? Isn’t he some kind of an alcoholic?”

Sasuke flashes you a wry smile. You smile back. “You’re correct, but I don’t think he’d like to deal with Portuguese wares much—a precautionary move after the affair with Motonari.”

“Right,” you reply. You place the antique vial inside your shopping basket. 

“The Portuguese sure do take ‘in vino veritas’ seriously. Though I don’t doubt it. I myself may loosen up quite a lot after a few drinks.”

“Stop fooling me, Sasuke, you’re Kenshin’s drinking buddy!”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

You remember how you parted cordially with Sasuke at the marketplace yesterday afternoon, how you told Ieyasu about the fancy-schmancy, extremely limited edition liquor some Portuguese merchant was selling, and how you drank it after a fine dinner. You remember how the lovemaking afterward felt strangely hot, like it’s your first time with him again, and how soundly the two of you slept.

Soro da Verdade is what the merchant called it. ‘Truth serum’.

“Oh my goodness,” you say, cupping your hands to your mouth. Ieyasu looks at you with pure confusion on his face. You quickly take a breath and swallow whatever that’s stuck down your throat in order to be able to speak. “You know the alcohol I got from the market yesterday? I don’t think it’s alcohol.”

“Are you saying that it really is—”

You nod, still looking very much stressed out. He can’t even finish his sentence.

[reaper-royalty]

Vatican Museums (Musei Vaticani)

The entrance is in Viale Vaticano near Piazza Risorgimento. There is also a regular free bus service from Piazza S.Pietro (on the left of Bernini's Colonnades as you face the Basilica). 

The Vatican houses one of the world's great art collections. Its 7km of exhibits will daunt even the most energetic tourist. So if you only have limited time plan to take in what interests you most - and hurry past the rest. 

A oneway system operates for security reasons, so work out in advance what you wish to miss - you cannot go back for example to the Stanze di Rafaello after visiting the Capella Sistina (Sistine Chapel). Remember also that the Sistine chapel is a long walk - about 400m from the entrance along many corridors and staircases.

Popes have been collecting antique art for at least 500 years and today the Vatican contains the largest number of Greek and Roman statues, reliefs, mosaics and inscriptions of any museum in the world. 

The Museo Pio Clementino takes its name from two 18th-century Popes who tried to put some order among the large number of pieces of classical statuary littering the Vatican gardens and palaces.

Note the splendid 4th-century porphyry sarcophagi in the Sala a Croce Greca (hall in the shape of a Greek cross), also a sculpted head (no. 567) that is most likely a portrait of Cleopatra.

In the octagonal courtyard of the Belvedere Palace, which was the creation of one of the main founders of the Vatican collection, Pope Julius II, you can see one of the most famous sculptures of ancient Greece, the Laocoon, a marble group of the 2nd century bc dug up on the Esquiline hill in 1506 (from Domus Aurea). Laocoon, a priest of Apollo, and his sons were suffocated by serpents as a punishment by the gods. Opposite is the Apollo del Belvedere a fine Roman copy of a famous 4th-century bc Greek bronze.

Nearby in the Atrio del Torso is the famous Torso del Belvedere a fragment of a naked figure seated on the skin of a wild animal. The hidden power in this much damaged piece of marble is reputed to have impressed even Michelangelo.

The Braccio Nuovo (New Wing) a 19th-century addition, contains a telling portrait of Augustus (No. 14) at about the age of 40, and a colossal statue of the Nile river god surrounded by sphinxes and crocodiles.

You now penetrate into part of the Vatican Library. In the Sala Sistina is a strange wooden device which was used to fix the Papal seal or 'bollo' on important Papal documents or 'Bulls' as they were called in English. The central reading room is laid out with various valuable codices, or handwritten versions of the Bible, some written on papyrus. 

The Library contains over 70,000 codices, manuscripts and early printed books. On display are a set of love letters from King Henry VIII to Ann Boleyn (evidence used against the sovereign in excommunication proceedings), an illustrated book on falconry by the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II, and autograph letters of Michelangelo and Raphael.

The Capella Sistina (now undergoing its first major cleaning and restoration) is perhaps the most famous and overwhelming of all Rome's art treasures. The chapel, built by Pope Sixtus IV at the end of the 15th century, was decorated by some of the greatest artists of the day, including Botticelli, Signorelli, and Pinturicchio. But it was Michelangelo's painting of the huge ceiling between 1508 and 1512 and his masterpiece, the LastJudgement painted on the main altar wall 23 years later that set the seal of greatness on the building. 

Michelangelo was at first reluctant to carry out Pope Julius I’s commission to paint the events of the Creation, and had great difficulty in getting paid for his tour deforce. Refusing all assistance, he locked himself away for years, lying on his back suspended from scaffolding in order to paint over 3000sq m 10,000sq ft of ceiling. It is a feat that still takes away the breath of the visitors who pass through the chapel every day.

If the Creation breathes the very spirit of the Renaissance at its height, the Last Judgement is in very different mood. Terribilitd (terribleness) was the quality in Michelangelo's art that most impressed his contemporaries, and here with Christ standing in final judgement over humanity (including many actual portrait's of the artist's friends and enemies), you feel Michelangelo is making his final statement on life and death, honour and ambition, love and hate. 

The Last Judgement did not meet with universal approval. Prudish Popes ordered trousers or loin cloths to be painted on some of the nudes. (They were later removed.) The Sistine Chapel is today used for the election of a new Pope on the death of the Roman Pontiff, and for solemn assemblies of the College of Cardinals.

While Michelangelo was labouring alone on his great ceiling, his rival and fellow artist Raphael was working (with plenty of assistants) on the decoration of the nearby Stanze di Rafaello. (Raphael Rooms). This was the private apartment of Pope Julius II who did not want to live in the Borgia Apartment below, because of its unpleasant historical associations. Two of the rooms, the Stanza della Segnatura, the Pope's study and library, and the Stanza di Eliodoro, his bedroom, are mostly by Raphael's own hand. 

Truth, beauty and goodness are the subjects of the frescoes in the first room. The Disputation of the Sacrament and the School of Athens represent respectively religious and philosophical truth, while Apollo and the Muses on Mount Parnassus represent beauty. Goodness is portrayed by the cardinal virtues, prudence, temperance and strength. The second room contains three superb frescoes; the Expulsion of Heliodorusfrom the Temple in Jerusalem, Pope Leo Stopping the Invasion of Attila the Hun, and the Miracle of Bolsena.

The Museo Gregoriano Etrusco should not be missed as it -contains the Etruscan treasure discovered in 1837 in a tomb at Cerveteri (then part of the Pope's earthly domain).

 The three occupants of the tomb were buried with gold, silver, jewels, and richly decorated table ware. The Museo Profano and the Museo Cristiano (Profane and Christian Museums) used to be housed in the Lateran Palace and were transferred here into a new building in 1970. 

They contain Roman sculpture, inscriptions and sarcophagi dating from the lst-4th centuries ad. The 4th-century statue of the Good Shepherd is an excellent example of the continuity of Mediterranean art forms - the inspiration is clearly pagan and ancient Greek.

If you are not too exhausted, the Pinacoteca or Vatican Picture Gallery contains further riches. It is particularly well endowed with Primitives and 15th century Italian artists.

 The Giotto polyptych in Room II and the Melozzo da Forli Angels in Room IV are worth more than a passing glance. In Room VIII there is a Raphael feast. The Transfiguration, Raphael's last work (it was hung above his bier as he lay in state) has been cleaned recently, revealing unexpected new details. Also on view is a set of tapestries woven from Raphael's cartoons for the Capella Sistina, now in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. The Coronation of the Virgin was the first work of Raphael's maturity - he was 20 years old when he painted it.

[daedriclorde]

15, 22 and 28, can't wait to read it! 😋😘

My goodness. Once I finish this multi-chapter I’m working on, I need to just write one-offs like this. I haven’t written something this easily since the Heart’s Day Fluff I posted back in February.

Decided to take a slightly different direction with this so have some LITTLE BABY AERISIF! AH! She’s cute :)

So anyway I accidentally wrote 2k words here you go!

“Good Morning, my little wildflower.”

Aerisif peeled her eyes open. Her mother leaned over her, the sunlight gleaming on her raven hair. 

“Happy 9th Birthday, my darling,” her mother cooed softly.

With a gasp, Aerisif sat up. “It’s my birthday!”

Her mother laughed. “It’s your birthday!” She reached out and hugged her daughter. 

The door to Aerisif’s room creaked open. Her father tenuously entered, and the sight of him sent Aerisif into a burst of laughter. He stood in the doorway, his large build filling the frame. Three apples danced in the air, resting briefly in his hands as he juggled the fruit. Perched haphazardly on his head was a sweetroll with nine little candles in it. Aerisif squealed with delight as her father made his way over to her bed in this manner.

“Gardimor,” Aerisif’s mother chastised him, but her tone and the warm smile on her face betrayed her. “Be careful! You’ll burn the house down!”

“I am being careful,” he said with a wink. He struggled down onto one knee before his daughter’s bed. With soft grunts, he caught the apples, extended his arms out wide and shouted “Ta da!” to the amusement of his wife and daughter.

Gardimor gently took the plate from his head and offered it to Aerisif. “A sweetroll for my sweetroll?” 

Aerisif grabbed the plate with joy.

“Make a wish!” Her parents encouraged her.

After a moment of serious contemplation, scrunching her face up in thought, Aerisif took a huge gasping breath and blew out the candles before her. Her parents let out a gentle cheer and her mother hurriedly pulled the candles from the sweetroll before the wax could reach the delicious pastry.

“Eat up, Aerisif, and hurry about your chores. We’re going to Markarth today!”

Aerisif let out a delighted sound, muffled by a mouthful of sweetroll. 

Dressing quickly, Aerisif did as she was bidden. She completed her chores with haste. The chickens indignantly clucked at the manner in which their breakfast was thrown to them, but Aerisif couldn’t be bothered. She stomped toward their cow, her tiny brow furrowed in determination.

“Now listen here, Ulga. Today, you’re going to come with me without a fight. It’s my ninth birthday and we’re going to Markarth. Not you, though. You’re going to go over to the pasture. Without a fight. You got that?” Aerisif’s tiny voice was filled with fire.

Ulga blinked slowly with lazy eyes. 

“Hmph.” Aerisif took the rope in both her hands and pulled. Ulga could not be bothered to move. 

“Come on, move!” Aerisif yanked at the lead again.

Ulga moved a single hoof forward.

“Lets go, Pot Roast!” Aerisif moved and started to push the cow’s flanks.

Finally disturbed, Ulga lazily walked toward the indicated pasture.

“Yes! That way! Go! Faster!” Aerisif slapped the cow’s rump for good measure. If Ulga noticed, she gave no indication.

Animals fed, Aerisif raced back toward the house. Her parents were waiting for her in the wagon. Gardimor bent to pick up Aerisif to lift her up, when she violently shook her head. 

“No! I can climb in myself! I am nine, after all!”

Gardimor straightened, surprised. Then he grinned. “Forgive me, Wildflower. I am, after all, not yet used to having a big, grown, nine year old!” His blue eyes twinkled.

Aerisif hoisted herself into the back of the wagon, struggling and gasping, but she made it. Once she stood in the back of the wagon, she smoothed out her skirt and hair, trying all her best to look as dignified as her mother.

The journey to Markarth was just over an hour by wagon. Her father, sitting up front and driving the horse, sang the songs he had learned from his parents, who had learned them from their parents, all the way back to the Nords that travelled with Ysgramor. Aerisif’s mother busied herself with some mending she had brought along. Aerisif stared at the sky, watching the clouds drift by and amusing herself by seeing fantastical shapes in them. She called out the animals she imagined, getting particularly excited at the vague shapes of a unicorn and a dragon.

They arrived to the city by mid morning. Aerisif’s cloud watching was forgotten as she gaped in awe at the stone gates. The magnificence of the towering stonework always captivated her. 

Gardimor pulled the wagon off the road and stabled the horse. The trio walked up to the monolithic gates, open wide to accept travelers. Aerisif’s eyes grew wide as she stepped into the city.

It was not her first time into Markarth, but Aerisif was stunned every time she laid eyes on the city. It was the vastness of it, the looming, ancient towers of stone, the mysterious to be discovered in its nooks and crannies. She was captivated by it. Aerisif skipped toward the stream. She immediately jumped with both feet and landed with a splash in its shallows.

“Aerisif!” Her mother chided. “Your shoes!”

“Ah, her shoes will dry, Kjolti,” Her father placated. “Let the girl have her fun.”

The marketplace was buzzing with shoppers. Never one to miss an opportunity, Gardimor had brought with him a large basket of produce from the farm. He went about trading it to the vendors while Kjolti led Aerisif around the market, looking at each stall’s wares.

“Ooh, mother, look at the jewelry!” Aerisif ran toward the stall. She pressed her face as close to the glass as she dared. A Redguard man smiled down at her.

“Perhaps a lovely trinket for the lovely girl?” He gestured at his jewelry. “Fine Redguard craftmenship, all made by me and my kin!”

“Don’t touch the glass, Aerisif,” Her mother warned. “Your work is fine indeed, silversmith.”

“Mama, look! Isn’t that a sapphire?”

“Yes it is, Aerisif. Those are very rare.” She smiled apologetically at the silversmith.

“I’ve got a delicate silver chain that would be just right for a girl her age!” the smith offered. He picked up a thin necklace. It was plain, and it bore no pendant, but it gleamed in the light nonetheless.

“Oooh,” Aerisif admired the chain, and it was clear in her eyes that she wanted it, but she knew her parents couldn’t afford it.

“Made by my boy, there, my Endon,” the Redguard gestured to his son across the marketplace. “A fine apprentice, he is.”

“How much for it?” Gardimor walked up to his family.

“Only sixty septims!”

“Gardimor, don’t be silly. We can’t afford that. And Aerisif doesn’t need a silver necklace, she’s nine.”

“A divine age!” The silversmith offered with a grin, waving the necklace in the air.

“It’s my ninth birthday!” Aerisif declared.

The smith raised an eyebrow. “Is it now?” He turned to Gardimor. “I can give it to you for fifty.”

Gardimor considered it. “Could you do forty?”

The smith worked his jaw, pondering. “Forty-five is as low as I can go, else my wife will have my hide.”

“How about forty two and the rest of my produce? It’s fresh, picked from the farm this morning!”

The silversmith looked over into Gardimor’s basket. “A fine crop you have there. Yes, that’ll brighten my Adara’s day. Sold.” The two men traded coin and good, and Gardimor took the thin chain and knelt before Aerisif.

“It matches your eyes,” he said as he clasped the chain around his daughter’s tiny neck.

“Thank you, father,” she replied, her eyes glowing with pleasure.

The rest of the day was spent with Aerisif pulling at her mother’s hand as they explored the city. Aerisif demanded they have their lunch on one of the walkways high up in the city, where the view was most stunning. 

When the market closed for the day and all the stalls locked up and pulled their carts aside, a troupe of entertainers took over. Aerisif and her parents joined the crowd gathered, eager to see what they had in store.

There were dancers who claimed to have traveled to Valenwood and Elsweyr, musicians who boasted of studying on the shores of Auridon.

“Rubbish,” Gardimor muttered under his breath. “Not with Tamriel in this state.”

Kjolti said nothing but nudged him and gave him a reproachful look.

The entertainers performed and the crowd was pleased, shouting their approval. There was an occasional flash of gold as a coin was tossed through the air.

“Alright, little wildflower, time to go home,” Gardimor began to scoop up Aerisif, who was tired but trying very hard not to show it.

“Aww, not yet, father!” Aerisif pleaded. “Just one performance more?” She looked up at him with wide eyes.

Gardimor muttered something under his breath, then relented. “One more,” he warned. “Then we leave.”

Aerisif grinned and scooted closer to the front of the crowd.

A wisened old man took the performing area. 

“I am Jos The Storyteller. Listen close, young ones, and listen well! This is the tale of our past, and our future.” He nodded to a drummer, who began to pound out a rhythm. The pulse was steady and vigorous. Many of the crowd began to stomp in time with it. The rhythm made Aerisif’s blood burn.

Satisfied with the drum, the old man began to call out, chanting:

“Dragonborn! Dragonborn! By his honor is sworn,

To keep evil forever at bay!

And the fiercest foes rout, when they hear triumph’s shout,

Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray!”

Some of the other performers emerged, and began to shout and sing, joining the storyteller.

“Hearken now, sons of snow, to an age, long ago,

and the tale, boldly told, of the one!”

The storyteller’s voice changed, then, and become gravelly and restrained.

“Who was kin to both wyrm, and the races of man, 

with a power to rival the sun!”

The pounding of the drum filled the air. It felt as if the whole of Markarth was watching this performance.

“And the Scrolls, have foretold, of black wings in the cold,

that when brothers wage war come unfurled!

Alduin! Bane of Kings! Ancient shadow unbound, 

with a hunger to swallow the world!”

Aerisif looked around in surprise as many of the men in the crowd joined in the shouting, the performance now woven with shout and chant and song. Her jaw dropped as her father’s deep voice was among them. 

“But a day, shall arise, when the dark dragon’s lies,

will be silenced forever and then!

Fair Skyrim will be free from foul Alduin’s maw,

Dragonborn! Dragonborn! By his honor is sworn,

To keep evil forever at bay!

And the fiercest foes rout, when they hear triumph’s shout,

Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray!”

The drum beat ended with a triumphant cadence. Aerisif found she was breathing heavily, and that several others were as well. She looked up at her father. Gardimor stood tall with his chest puffed out and his hands in fists.

“Father, what’s going on? What’s the matter?”

The sound of his daughter’s voice broke him of his reverie. He knelt down in front of her. “Nothing, my wildflower. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Why does everyone want to fight? Why do I want to fight??” Alarm creeped into her voice.

Her mother chuckled softly and bent down as well. “It’s in your blood, dearest. That was the Legend of The Dragonborn, Aerisif. An ancient Nordic tale, very dear to Nord hearts.”

“That tale has been passed down for generations and generations. It is well loved with our people, which is why so many in the crowd knew the song.”

“Oh. So, we want to fight because we’re Nords?” 

Her parents both erupted into laughter, stood, and took her hands. Aerisif pondered all this as her parents led her back to the wagon. She drifted to sleep in her mother’s arms, lulled by the rocking of the wagon. A black dragon flew and roared through her dreams. 

[prolapsarian]

Notes to Sean Bonney (1969-2019)

The great ruse of our political epoch: Cameron, Osborne and Clegg, and their crows in press, scorched a set of oppositions in the minds of the people. The whole of society encapsulated in an image of “workers versus shirkers”, “strivers versus skivers.” The great tragedy of our political epoch: the Labour movement, the left, and the social democrats took the bait of these laminated ghouls. They responded simply by saying that there were no skivers: instead there was a worthy working class, labouring away ever harder, and getting ever poorer. They said the whole thing was a myth, that the shirkers were a phantom, a chimera, a scapegoat, an image invented by evil overlords to turn the working class against itself, leaving it prone to the ideologies of reaction. The labour movement talked instead only about the working poor, or the unemployed who wanted always to get back to a good job, on a good wage, forever and ever.

Few resisted the ruse, but Sean Bonney was one of them. Perhaps it was because Sean himself was a skiver, a drunk, a scoundrel, a villain, an addict, a down-and-out, a fuck up. More likely it was because of his deep political intuition and understanding. For him, the politics of class warfare was never about worthiness; it was never about what the working class deserve at the end of a hard day’s work, but instead its crucible was the hatred of the social conditions that pummelled people, silenced them, boxed them in, boxed them up, oppressed them, made them suffer. This politics was uncompromising because it understood that any compromise was a failure: there is no weekend that redeems the week, no pension that makes good on the life wrecked by the conformity and unfreedom of work.

I like to think of Sean as the thing that terrified those Tories most, as one of those beautiful creatures who so absolutely threatened them that they had to transfigure him into a phantom. His poetry too was one with this politics in this. Every line is written in solidarity with the shirking class, a class whose underground history crawls and stretches backwards, a perpetual dance, an unending squall, as anonymous as it is enormous. If Sean was a skiver he was also always hard at work, undertaking an immense labour of compression, in order to make that history heard. And this furious labour was quick and angular, because it always came with some sense that history was, already, ending. As a singular voice that resisted the ruse, his writing is one of the most important political efforts of our time.

o scroungers, o gasoline there’s a home for you here there’s a room for your things me, I like pills / o hell.

*** Since hearing of Sean’s death I have been thinking a lot about what I learnt from him. Learning is maybe a strange way to look at it. Because Sean’s poetry was not really so complicated. He stated unambiguous truths that we all knew and understood. Just like Brecht’s dictum in praise of communism: “It’s reasonable, and everyone understands it, it’s easy […] it is the simplicity, that’s hard to achieve.” This was the plane on which we met. All of us, Sean’s friends, comrades, loves, beloveds, others we did not know who all were invited, all in this common place where we know how simple these truths are, even if none of us were able to express them with such concision as Sean – even if we were all somehow less rehearsed, less prepared, less audacious. And suddenly I know it was a common place he made, wretched and hilarious.

*** So communism is simple. But running beneath all of Sean’s work was an unassuming argument, from which I have learned so much. Although argument was not his mode – his poems were always doing something, accusing but never prosecuting – an argument is there, even if it was exposed as a thesis in its own right. It is something so simple, easy, and so obvious that it barely seems worth saying. Sean’s poems made an argument for the enduring power of French symbolism – for a power that surged through history in the spirit of that movement. No surprise for a poet who rewrote Baudelaire and Rimbaud. But constantly a surprise to a world that thought that mode already dead, a world no longer animated by the literary symbol, nor transfixed by the resurrection any such symbols could herald. His writing followed the traces of this hyperhistory that wrapped around the world and back, from the high culture of decolonial revolutionism back in to cosmopolitan centre where bourgeois savages feast greedily on expropriated wares; into the dark sociality of the prison, and out again into every antisocial moment that we call “society”; sometimes making the earth small within a frozen cosmos ringing out noise as signal to nobody and everyone; sometimes bringing the whole cosmos in crystalline shape (sometimes perfect, sometimes fractured) as the sharpest interruption within the world - every poem charting a history stretched taut between uprisings and revolts. He knew the rites of symbols, the continuing practices with which their political power could be leveraged.

Sean was one of the few untimely symbolists of our time. His poems are full of these things: bombs, mouths, wires, bones, birds, walls, suns, etc - never quite concepts, never quite images, never quite objects, but pieces of the world to be taken up and arranged, half exploded, into accusations; treasured as partial and made for us to take as our own, a heritage of our own destruction, at once ready at hand, and scattered to the peripheries on a map of the universe, persistently spiralling, in points, back to the centre, some no place.

But if Sean was a symbolist, if he was attentive to its fugitive history, a slick and secret tradition of the oppressed, then this was also a symbolism without any luxuriant illusion. It is a symbolism in which all knowingness has been supplanted with fury and its movements. Sean’s poems are spleen without ideal. They have nothing of the pointed, almost screaming, eternal sarcasm of Baudelaire when he ever again finds the body of his beautiful muse as white and lifeless cold marble, utterly indifferent to the desirous gaze. There is no such muse, no callous petrified grimace, half terrified half laughing, ancient enough to unseat Hellenism itself - although there is beauty still but it exists otherwise, amid a crowd, darkened and lively. When I think of Sean’s monumental work I imagine an enormous bas-relief of black polished marble jutting out from some monstrously disproportioned body, angled between buildings. This great slab flashing black in the white noise of the city. This great slab as populous as the world. Flashing black and seen with the upturned gaze. There is no oppression without this terrified vision that sees in ever new sharpness the oppressor.

When you go to sleep, my gloomy beauty, below a black marble monument, when from alcove and manor you are reduced to damp vault and hollow grave; when the stone—pressing on your timorous chest and sides already lulled by a charmed indifference—halts your heart from beating, from willing, your feet from their bold adventuring, when the tomb, confidant to my infinite dream (since the tomb understands the poet always), through those long nights in which slumber is banished, will say to you: "What does it profit you, imperfect courtisan, not to have known what the dead weep for?" —And the worm will gnaw at your hide like remorse.

*** I haven’t explained what I learnt. I ask the question, What does it mean to find the late nineteenth century stillborn into the twenty-first? Why should these febrile years, from 1848 to the Commune have been so important? What was Sean leveraging when he recast our world with this moment of literary and political history? And what was he leveraging it against? I have a sense that what was important to Sean was a sense of mixedness. There were those who would read these years, after the defeat of revolution, as a dreadful winter of the world. There were those who saw only society in decline. “Jeremiads are the fashion”, Blanqui would say while counselling civil war. And then there were those for whom arcades first provided an extravagant ecstacy of distraction and glitz. These were the years of monstrocity, from Maldoror to Das Kapital. These years of the great machines that chewed up humans and spat out their remains across the city, of great humans who chewed up machines and made language anew. These years in which the fury of defeat burnt hot. These years of illumination. These years where gruesome metallic grinding and factory fire met the dandy. Few eras have been so mixed, so utterly undecided. No era so perfect to carve out the truly Dickensian physiognomy of Iain Duncan Smith. This was neither the stage of tragedy nor comedy, but of frivolous wickedness and hilarious turpitude. The world made into a barb, and no-one quite knowing who is caught on it. The great progress. The great stupidity. Street life. The symbol belonging to this undecided realm.

Marx was famously dismissive of that “social scum” the Lumpenproletariat, who he described at the beginning of this period as “vagabonds, discharged soldiers, discharged jailbirds, escaped galley slaves, swindlers, mountebanks, lazzaroni, pickpockets, tricksters, gamblers, maquereaux, brothel keepers, porters, literati, organ grinders, ragpickers, knife grinders, tinkers, beggars — in short, the whole indefinite, disintegrated mass, thrown hither and thither, which the French call la bohème.” Marx saw in these figures, in their Bonapartist, reactionary form, a bourgeois consciousness ripped from its class interest and thus nourished by purest political ideology. But if he could excoriate the drunkenness of beggars, Marx failed to appreciate its complement: the intoxication of sobriety of the working classes, the stupefaction in methodism, their imagined glory in progress. Wine, as the beggars already knew, was the only salve to the social anaesthetic of worthiness and the idiotic faith in work.

If Sean were here I’d want to talk to him about this learning in relation to a fragment by Benjamin, which he wrote as he thought about the world of Baudelaire; this world of mixedness of the city constructed and exploded, and the people within it subject to the same motion:

During the Baroque, a formerly incidental component of allegory, the emblem, undergoes extravagant development. If, for the materialist historian, the medieval origin of allegory still needs elucidation, Marx himself furnishes a clue for understanding its Baroque form. He writes in Das Kapital (Hamburg, 1922), vol. 1, p. 344: "The collective machine ... becomes more and more perfect, the more the process as a whole becomes a continuous one — that is, the less the raw material is interrupted in its passage from its first phase to its last; in other words, the more its passage from one phase to another is effected not only by the hand of man but by the machinery itself. In manufacture, the isolation of each detail process is a condition imposed by the nature of division of labor, but in the fully developed factory the continuity of those processes is, on the contrary, imperative." Here may be found the key to the Baroque procedure whereby meanings are conferred on the set of fragments, on the pieces into which not so much the whole as the process of its production has disintegrated. Baroque emblems may be conceived as half finished products which, from the phases of a production process, have been converted into monuments to the process of destruction. During the Thirty Years' War, which, now at one point and now at another, immobilized production, the "interruption" that, according to Marx, characterizes each particular stage of this labor process could be protracted almost indefinitely. But the real triumph of the Baroque emblematic, the chief exhibit of which becomes the death's head, is the integration of man himself into the operation. The death's head of Baroque allegory is a half-finished product of the history of salvation, that process interrupted — so far as this is given him to realize — by Satan.

I won’t pretend to know all of what Benjamin means here but I have some idea. And those last sentences terrify me. Modernity begins with a war that is a strike, one that repeats through history. And the shape of this strike, this war, this repetition, is the shape of detritus of production interrupted. We shift perspective and the machine is revealed as other than it was once imagined: it is not some factory churning out commodities, but a world theatre of soteriology. An exchange takes place: the half-finished product for the half-destroyed body. Although what is created (albeit as a “monument to the process of destruction”) is some monstrous combination of the two. One and the same seen with two different perspectives, and the two perspectives separated by the distance between the promise that production will be interrupted, in rhythmic repetition, and the force of the machine that completes the product, kills the body into it, sealing death perfectly within the commodity, as its catastrophe. This distance, a tropic on the edge of the end of the world, is Hell.

This is a lot. But maybe it gets close to what I learnt. That all those bombs, mouths, wires, bones, birds, walls, suns, etc were for Sean the emblemata of our political times. These are the monsters, half-finished, half-human, half-machine, the bird interrupting itself with a scream a silent as the cosmos once seemed. I don’t know if they are to be taken up as weapons in the battle for salvation, or as mere co-ordinates on the map of hell. But they are certainly potent, and set here in commitment to redemption, for the work of raising the dead. Sean’s writing was always ready for this task, in constant preparation, and in constant interruption. Its angles quickly pacing between the two.

This has become theologically ornate. But perhaps something of the point is clear: that in the symbolic realm of Sean’s language are staked the great theological and materialist battles of our age. He had to deep dig into our time for that, furrow and dig so deep that he found the nineteenth century still there, crawling everywhere, right up to us. And all of this was set, furiously, against a more everyday view that production has all but disappeared from sight: society fully administered slips across screens with nothing but a sense of speed and gloss. His poetry decries, digs into, a laminated world with which we are supposed to play but in which we are never supposed to participate, never mind to get drunk, see the truth, raise the dead, even now as they slip away ever further through the mediatized glare.

*** Are we not surrounded by those who cast spells? Sorcery is the fashion, if only for the blighted, the meek, the poor, the oppressed. And it would be easy to mistake what Sean was writing for just another piece of subaltern superstition; promising mighty power for as long as it remains utterly powerless and otherworldly. But this is not right. Seans symbols are not just any old sign, or signal, or sigil. They are not arcana, but materials taken to hand out of the dereliction of the present. They are certainly magic, just as Sean was certainly a seer. But this is a materialist magic, a fury, a joy. They are not drawn from some other mystical world, but from this one. And his magic was to suspend them between this world and the next, between law made in the mouths of a class who hated him, and justice. He saw more deeply than most of us dare, and invited us along. Invited everyone along, including the dead who will rise, even if we have to dig and dig and drag them out of the ground and through the streets, to show the world what streets are really for. Here in this common place, between buildings, together. This is the place of magic, for riots, for burning cars; here a wall, there a blazing comet. Let his poetry dance on, and we will dance on too.

[wowfan-me]

1.2 - DA CHILDREN OF DA NIGHT

Music: THE ONLY ONE || Evanescence

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A plethora of established venues, pubs, clubs and restaurants offered a wide range of cuisine and liquid refreshment. Many had guest musicians, be they solo or groups entertaining the masses.

Stands and stalls equally showcased their wares; food, drink, arts and crafts, gimmicks and costumes all for sale.

Whitby had opened its doors to a myriad of colourful characters in the second of its bi-annual Goth Weekends. Many paraded around in costumes which bespoke their fascination with the macabre and the laughably titled King of vampires, Count Dracula - the Transylvanian nosferatu, given life in this very corner of the world by a then little-known theatrical company manager called Bram Stoker. Somewhat ironically, the entire town had come alive with the 'undead'.

From ghostly brides to stylish Counts the visitors to the festival were resplendent in their gothic and steampunk garb. Make-up and wigs were utilised to the maximum, producing truly intoxicating as well as some seriously disturbing visages.

Most attended in the true spirit of the themed weekend; relishing the opportunity to dress up as their favourite dark, menacing movie or literary characters and enjoying a couple of days good music and all-around entertainment. They meandered through the town, mingling with like-minded strangers; fictional monsters galore, laughing, talking, singing. Friendships were forged. Relationships made. All appeared to be a rather bizarre, unified 'family'.

But, little did they know a real fiend walked amongst them. And he was on the hunt for the few lesser-festival-minded attendees.

Cain's appearance, although somewhat bedraggled was met with courtly nods, mirthful salutations or drunken mumbles. The corners of his lips twitched at the camaraderie on offer.

He had no doubt his face had the stereotypical sunken look with dark shadows beneath his eyes, an unearthly pallor and long straggly hair. His clothes, old and still a little dusty and stained from carnivorous indulgence some fourteen days prior, all aided to his blending in with the festival-goers.

A few twitching noses subtly made him aware that - as he had suspected - he was a tad ripe. Only memory served his sense of smell, and he could still remember, quite vividly, the occasional stench from working the land and being amongst the livestock which his bro -.

He exhaled. Now was not the time to think of such things.

In order to move around without causing offence - or worse, alarm - he thought it best to freshen up. This involved an exercise he had mastered over the years. He was as much a thief as he was a killer - all necessary in keeping up appearances.

He had a little time, so he weaved his way through some of the streets, his eyes scanning stalls and shop windows. Inevitably, he arrived in front of the one he had considered earlier. It was preparing to close, the owners perhaps keen to partake of the festivities themselves.

A few bodies milled about the narrow street, some, like him, looking in the window. There were four customers making last-minute purchases and as one of them neared the door, Cain, slid inside, undetected, blending in with the numerous racks on the shop floor. He was more than adept at such manoeuvres and could also easily outwit a camera or two when the need arose.

Aware he was still somewhat malodorous he did not take long to select what he needed. It would not do if his stench attracted unwanted attention. Quickly ensuring no electronic tags would give away the fact someone was hurtling out the door with goods in hand (it had happened in the past in other venues), he waited until the shop assistant was bagging up the last customer's purchases before he made his escape.

Once outside, he quickly hauled himself up drainpipes and brickwork, over balconies and onto the roof of a building where he could scan a large part of the town. He needed somewhere to wash now. His eyes zoomed in on lit windows, gauging the possible houses or hotel rooms where he could 'borrow' the facilities.

He scuttled across some more rooftops until finally, he spied an open skylight. He listened to ensure no-one was within the vicinity of his point of entrance. Only muffled sounds from a room nearby reached his ears, one voice hurrying another along or they were "going to be late". Perfect.

He dropped down into the lobby of the guest house and quickly determined which room the voices had come from. More good fortune - a cupboard across from it offered an ideal hiding place.

He pulled the door almost closed when the voices spilt out into the hall. One of the occupants emerged in costume.

"Come on! They'll be waiting for us," the man's impatient voice grumbled.

"Just getting my hat, give me a minute!" Another male retorted.

"You've had an hour trying different outfits! You are worse than a woman!"

"Love you too, honey!" The second guest came out with a flurry donning a wide-brimmed hat.

A kissing sound permeated the cupboard door. Cain's eyebrows pinched at the endearment.

The first male then adopted a theatrical tone. "Right then! Let us join da children of da night."

Cain truly wanted to strangle the man for his pitiful attempt at a Romanian accent. He knew only too well the reference made, having read the very book which was so associated with the town.

"Lock the door."

"I will! Now move it!"

The couple teased each other as they descended the stairs. Cain waited to make sure they were not about to return. He heard them knocking at another door. A woman's voice greeted them. Once all their voices moved down to another landing, Cain emerged from the cupboard and crossed the hall.

He turned the handle on the off-chance they had actually forgotten to lock up in their hurry to get out. They hadn't. It was no problem though, he was strong enough to crack open the yale without causing much damage to the door itself.

He slipped inside and drew the door closed. The disarray in the room momentarily took him by surprise. Clothes were flung over the bed and the only armchair in the room. Some items were scattered on the floor and hanging out of drawers.

More amusing yet, was that some of the articles of clothing were not all menswear. He stooped down and picked up a stray stocking attached to a suspender belt. Next to that had been a pink tutu and a corset.

He had lived long enough to know the laws and rules by which he once fervently lived by had very little to do with the lifestyles of humankind today. Little shocked him. In fact, he had learned to turn a blind eye to certain ways of life. They were none of his concern - affection between people of the same gender was the most trivial of 'practices' in his opinion.

He had wasted enough time looking around, now he needed to shower. He stripped off his rank clothing and tossed it in the corner of the bathroom. He read the labels on the gels within the cubicle and rigorously washed his hair and body.

For all his skin was oblivious to the sensation of touch he still relished the fact he was becoming clean and would, as a result, smell better to others. It made the hunt easier, for they were not so quick to shy away from him. And it seemed to add some strange kind of allure.

He roughly dried himself and donned the new clothing - shirt, trousers, long coat and boots - all in keeping with the theme of the weekend while not completely outlandish that they would not serve him for several months.

He picked up a hairbrush from the shelf above the sink and dragged it through his hair. It was still damp but would dry quickly enough once back on the streets.

He collected his old clothes and on finding a carrier bag stuffed them inside. He would dispose of them elsewhere so as not to cause distress to the lovebirds when they returned. That consideration was waived once he opened the door with the broken lock.

A rueful smile crossed his lips. Seemed they may end up a little stressed after all.

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[2bitplayer-blog]

[Garage Sale]

[BGM]

“Alright, I’ll see you later!”

You bound down the concrete porch steps and down the driveway with a wave, the spring in your step petering out by the time you reach its end. Your one task for the day was now complete, but you didn’t quite feel like going home.

Where were you now? Right, it might help to establish that.

Enter Mapledale; a neighborhood some might describe as idyllic. You didn’t disagree entirely, but standing here among the perfectly sculpted houses and immaculate yards made you feel as though you didn’t exactly belong.

Regardless, an old classmate of yours from The Academy had gotten in touch with you recently to discuss a graphic novel you were both into; Gun Punch Man, or Gunchman as it was more commonly referred- an action packed series about a vigilante hero whose claim to fame was fighting off armed assailants with his fists, often while yelling in a nonsensical fashion.

You’d gotten your hands on the latest installment before him, so he had asked to borrow it from you. Though you two weren’t the closest of friends, he was the only person who still spoke to you after your time at The Academy. So even if there was a slight worry that you might not be seeing Gunchman (Volume 26) again, you still lent it out.

Of course, since this friend was often broke, he couldn’t afford the lifeline trip over to your place, so you had to bring it to him instead.

And that’s why you’re standing here now. It’s too early to go back home, so where should you go instead-

“Huh!?”

Your heart practically leaps out of your chest when a streak of black darts past your vision, and the feeling only intensifies when you identify the source: a sleek black panther, standing right there on the sidewalk!

Even if it weren’t immediately hostile, seeing a big cat this close was more than enough to startle you. Your first instinct is to draw your weapon, but a few seconds of rational thought coaxes you out of your battle stance. Would a neighborhood like this really have this sort of spawn?

But still, it definitely wasn’t normal…

The creature turned as if it were going to leave, then paused. From this angle you could see a sign that was dangling from its back, which read: ‘Garage Sale!! Follow me!’

… What?

There was no way you were going to-

A soft jingle chimes, and a message scrolls past your peripheral vision; Quest Received - Follow it.

Great. It wasn’t like you couldn’t just ignore it, but… you were kind of curious. You take a tentative step towards the panther, still wary of being this casual around a dangerous predator, but true to the sign on its back, it began to lead you down the sidewalk.

--

You stood at the end of a driveway which led up to the only house that had its garage door open. The panther trotted up the driveway and disappeared into the shadowy garage ahead. You follow, a little self consciously, until you reach the threshold. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the lighting, until finally this garage sale faded into view.

A small, eccentric looking girl sat upon a metal folding chair with enough poise that seemed out of place for this setting. There was something familiar about her, but you couldn’t place why. Folding tables were set up, each holding meticulous rows of strange baubles and other small objects.

The panther approached the girl, who gave it a pat on the head and a small piece of meat. Then, with a parting glance in your direction, it left. Ah, so it must be this girl’s pet, then. That made more sense than whatever you were thinking.

“Welcome, my best beloved.”

Was she talking to… you? You gave a quick glance around, even if you’d already seen that you were the only one here.

“Er… thanks.”

You weren’t sure what to say besides that. Nothing immediately caught your eye, so you were pretty sure you weren’t going to buy anything here. Maybe if there were some bigger looking figures, but everything here seemed like it was meant for someone much younger than you.

“I’ve got a little something here for everyone. Please, take a look around.”

You frown, feeling the weight of social obligation begin to press down on your shoulders. You wave a hand, hoping to get out of this.

“No, that’s okay. I was just passing by. Have a good da-”

“I insist.”

Another chime jingles, this time accompanying the words: Quest Updated: Browse the wares.

You sigh under your breath; again, you could ignore it, but… quests always seemed to have this unavoidable air about them that forced your hand. Finally stepping further into the garage, you stop in front of one of the tables. There were so many small objects lined up that it was hard to focus on any one thing.

You pick up something out of obligation; some well-rusted, dented can that looked like it had been through at least two apocalypses. It looked like there had been a label printed onto the can at one point, but it was long gone now.

“Ah, a man of class, are you? Those Canned Olives have seen countless cycles and are still marginally edible.”

Edible!? You pull a face at the thought, while you hastily set down the alleged food. The can was surrounded by a sea of miniature plastic figures that had no cohesion whatsoever. Some were little dolls, others animals… and the closer you looked, the more you realized they were all incredibly shoddy.

“R-really, I’m okay. I don’t think I’m going to-”

“Oh no, I insist.”

Quest Updated: Buy something.

Seriously? This was getting out of hand, but it seems like you’re going to have to buy something if you want to get your free time back. Your eyes dart around until they settle on the first acceptable thing, although even that was generous...

It was a small toy that looked like a hand giving a thumbs up, with legs, that was standing on top of a skateboard. The wheels don’t even turn… but did it really matter?

“I’ll just take this, then.”

“A lovely choice- and look, it even does a little trick.” The girl moves over to take the toy from your hands, placing it upon the table for a moment to demonstrate. She applies pressure to the back end of the skateboard, causing the front wheels to lift up.

The back wheels remain on the ground, while the front wheels are lifted up… That trick is...

“That’s a manual, right?”

“Wrow.” Was her only response.

Does that mean you were right, or not? Again, it didn’t matter.

“11k for our darling Emanuel, then.” She declares after a few beats of silence, holding out a small, gloved hand.

“11k!?”

[BGM]

No way! 11k was way too much for a piece of junk like that! “No way!”

The girl tilts her head, brows raising. “But you’ve already agreed to purchase it.”

“I’m not paying 11k for something like that.” Quest or no, you weren’t going to spend your hard earned money on a little piece of junk that was just going to end up in the trash! Besides…

You don’t even have that much money right now! Even if you haggle the price down, you won’t have enough money for the trip back home…

Not that you were even going to bother haggling over something like that.

“I understand. A good conscience like yours won’t allow you to have it for such a meager sum. Truly, you’d be leaving me high and dry. 15k, then.”

That’s the opposite direction the price should be heading! “That’s even worse! I can’t pay you 15k OR 11k for that. It’s got to be worth 100g, and even that’s way too much.”

A small gasp that’s definitely forced leaves her, as she lazily covers her mouth. “You’ll drive me out onto the streets with a price like that.”

Saying ‘I don’t care’ would be way too harsh- but there’s no way that’s true. “Well, that’s seriously all I’m willing to spend on it. So, take it or leave it.” You can’t budge on this, even a little! 

“Wrow, what a dilemma. I suppose I could let your highway robbery go unchecked, if you split the payment. 100g and something else.”

You didn’t like the sound of that…

“Something... else?”

Her smaller arm hooked into yours as a veritable flurry of activity is unleashed. With an item placing itself into your inventory and your funds draining before your eyes, you were led into her house with the sound of the garage door closing further and further behind you.

> You spent some time you’ll never get back dressing up for Lilith!

[madmarchhare]

Marbas March teaching torture arts in ware ware da! Shao, Zom and Krayn[Not shown here] take the class.

[kaimaciel]

My Favorite Books of 2018

The Archived  by Victoria Schwab

“Each body has a story to tell, a life seen in pictures only Librarians can read. The dead are called Histories, and the vast realm in which they rest is the Archive. Da first brought Mackenzie Bishop here four years ago, when she was twelve years old, frightened but determined to prove herself. Now Da is dead, and Mac has grown into what he once was: a ruthless Keeper, tasked with stopping often violent Histories from waking up and getting out. Because of her job, she lies to the people she loves, and she knows fear for what it is: a useful tool for staying alive. Being a Keeper isn't just dangerous—it's a constant reminder of those Mac has lost, Da's death was hard enough, but now that her little brother is gone too, Mac starts to wonder about the boundary between living and dying, sleeping and waking. In the Archive, the dead must never be disturbed. And yet, someone is deliberately altering Histories, erasing essential chapters. Unless Mac can piece together what remains, the Archive itself may crumble and fall.”

The Death of Mrs. Westaway by Ruth Ware

“On a day that begins like any other, Hal receives a mysterious letter bequeathing her a substantial inheritance. She realizes very quickly that the letter was sent to the wrong person—but also that the cold-reading skills she’s honed as a tarot card reader might help her claim the money. Soon, Hal finds herself at the funeral of the deceased…where it dawns on her that there is something very, very wrong about this strange situation and the inheritance at the center of it.”

Still Me (Me Before You #3) by Jojo Moyes

“Louisa Clark arrives in New York ready to start a new life, confident that she can embrace this new adventure and keep her relationship with Ambulance Sam alive across several thousand miles. She steps into the world of the superrich, working for Leonard Gopnik and his much younger second wife, Agnes. Lou is determined to get the most out of the experience and throws herself into her new job and New York life. As she begins to mix in New York high society, Lou meets Joshua Ryan, a man who brings with him a whisper of her past. Before long, Lou finds herself torn between Fifth Avenue where she works and the treasure-filled vintage clothing store where she actually feels at home. And when matters come to a head, she has to ask herself: Who is Louisa Clark? And how do you find the courage to follow your heart—wherever that may lead?”

Nine Perfect Strangers by Liane Moriarty

“Could ten days at a health resort really change you forever? In Liane Moriarty’s latest page-turner, nine perfect strangers are about to find out... Nine people gather at a remote health resort. Some are here to lose weight, some are here to get a reboot on life, some are here for reasons they can’t even admit to themselves. Amidst all of the luxury and pampering, the mindfulness and meditation, they know these ten days might involve some real work. But none of them could imagine just how challenging the next ten days are going to be. Frances Welty, the formerly best-selling romantic novelist, arrives at Tranquillum House nursing a bad back, a broken heart, and an exquisitely painful paper cut. She’s immediately intrigued by her fellow guests. Most of them don’t look to be in need of a health resort at all. But the person that intrigues her most is the strange and charismatic owner/director of Tranquillum House. Could this person really have the answers Frances didn’t even know she was seeking? Should Frances put aside her doubts and immerse herself in everything Tranquillum House has to offer – or should she run while she still can? It’s not long before every guest at Tranquillum House is asking exactly the same question.”

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

“On 21 June 1922 Count Alexander Rostov – recipient of the Order of Saint Andrew, member of the Jockey Club, Master of the Hunt – is escorted out of the Kremlin, across Red Square and through the elegant revolving doors of the Hotel Metropol. But instead of being taken to his usual suite, he is led to an attic room with a window the size of a chessboard. Deemed an unrepentant aristocrat by a Bolshevik tribunal, the Count has been sentenced to house arrest indefinitely. While Russia undergoes decades of tumultuous upheaval, the Count, stripped of the trappings that defined his life, is forced to question what makes us who we are. And with the assistance of a glamorous actress, a cantankerous chef and a very serious child, Rostov unexpectedly discovers a new understanding of both pleasure and purpose.”

Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1) by Ashley Poston

“Seventeen-year-old Ana is a scoundrel by nurture and an outlaw by nature. Found as a child drifting through space with a sentient android called D09, Ana was saved by a fearsome space captain and the grizzled crew she now calls family. But D09—one of the last remaining illegal Metals—has been glitching, and Ana will stop at nothing to find a way to fix him. Ana’s desperate effort to save D09 leads her on a quest to steal the coordinates to a lost ship that could offer all the answers. But at the last moment, a spoiled Ironblood boy beats Ana to her prize. He has his own reasons for taking the coordinates, and he doesn’t care what he’ll sacrifice to keep them. When everything goes wrong, she and the Ironblood end up as fugitives on the run. Now their entire kingdom is after them—and the coordinates—and not everyone wants them captured alive. What they find in a lost corner of the universe will change all their lives—and unearth dangerous secrets. But when a darkness from Ana’s past returns, she must face an impossible choice: does she protect a kingdom that wants her dead or save the Metal boy she loves?”

Our Dark Duet (Monsters of Verity #2) by Victoria Schwab

“THE WORLD IS BREAKING. AND SO ARE THEY. KATE HARKER isn't afraid of monsters. She hunts them. And she's good at it. AUGUST FLYNN once yearned to be human. He has a part to play. And he will play it, no matter the cost. THE WAR HAS BEGUN. THE MONSTERS ARE WINNING. Kate will have to return to Verity. August will have to let her back in. And a new monster is waiting—one that feeds on chaos and brings out its victims' inner demons. Which will be harder to conquer: the monsters they face, or the monsters within?”

Uprooted by Naomi Novik

“Our Dragon doesn’t eat the girls he takes, no matter what stories they tell outside our valley. We hear them sometimes, from travelers passing through. They talk as though we were doing human sacrifice, and he were a real dragon. Of course that’s not true: he may be a wizard and immortal, but he’s still a man, and our fathers would band together and kill him if he wanted to eat one of us every ten years. He protects us against the Wood, and we’re grateful, but not that grateful.” Agnieszka loves her valley home, her quiet village, the forests and the bright shining river. But the corrupted Wood stands on the border, full of malevolent power, and its shadow lies over her life. Her people rely on the cold, driven wizard known only as the Dragon to keep its powers at bay. But he demands a terrible price for his help: one young woman handed over to serve him for ten years, a fate almost as terrible as falling to the Wood. The next choosing is fast approaching, and Agnieszka is afraid. She knows—everyone knows—that the Dragon will take Kasia: beautiful, graceful, brave Kasia, all the things Agnieszka isn’t, and her dearest friend in the world. And there is no way to save her. But Agnieszka fears the wrong things. For when the Dragon comes, it is not Kasia he will choose.”

Far from the Tree by Robin Benway

“A contemporary novel about three adopted siblings who find each other at just the right moment. Being the middle child has its ups and downs. But for Grace, an only child who was adopted at birth, discovering that she is a middle child is a different ride altogether. After putting her own baby up for adoption, she goes looking for her biological family, including— Maya, her loudmouthed younger bio sister, who has a lot to say about their newfound family ties. Having grown up the snarky brunette in a house full of chipper redheads, she’s quick to search for traces of herself among these not-quite-strangers. And when her adopted family’s long-buried problems begin to explode to the surface, Maya can’t help but wonder where exactly it is that she belongs. And Joaquin, their stoic older bio brother, who has no interest in bonding over their shared biological mother. After seventeen years in the foster care system, he’s learned that there are no heroes, and secrets and fears are best kept close to the vest, where they can’t hurt anyone but him.”

Obsidio (The Illuminae Files #3) by Amie Kaufman, Jay Kristoff

“Kady, Ezra, Hanna, and Nik narrowly escaped with their lives from the attacks on Heimdall station and now find themselves crammed with 2,000 refugees on the container ship, Mao. With the jump station destroyed and their resources scarce, the only option is to return to Kerenza—but who knows what they'll find seven months after the invasion? Meanwhile, Kady's cousin, Asha, survived the initial BeiTech assault and has joined Kerenza's ragtag underground resistance. When Rhys—an old flame from Asha's past—reappears on Kerenza, the two find themselves on opposite sides of the conflict. With time running out, a final battle will be waged on land and in space, heroes will fall, and hearts will be broken.”

The Last Time I Lied by Riley Sager

“Two Truths and a Lie. The girls played it all the time in their tiny cabin at Camp Nightingale. Vivian, Natalie, Allison, and first-time camper Emma Davis, the youngest of the group. The games ended when Emma sleepily watched the others sneak out of the cabin in the dead of night. The last she--or anyone--saw of them was Vivian closing the cabin door behind her, hushing Emma with a finger pressed to her lips. Now a rising star in the New York art scene, Emma turns her past into paintings--massive canvases filled with dark leaves and gnarled branches that cover ghostly shapes in white dresses. The paintings catch the attention of Francesca Harris-White, the socialite and wealthy owner of Camp Nightingale. When Francesca implores her to return to the newly reopened camp as a painting instructor, Emma sees an opportunity to try to find out what really happened to her friends. Yet it's immediately clear that all is not right at Camp Nightingale. Already haunted by memories from fifteen years ago, Emma discovers a security camera pointed directly at her cabin, mounting mistrust from Francesca and, most disturbing of all, cryptic clues Vivian left behind about the camp's twisted origins. As she digs deeper, Emma finds herself sorting through lies from the past while facing threats from both man and nature in the present. And the closer she gets to the truth about Camp Nightingale, the more she realizes it may come at a deadly price.”

[starswornoaths]

A Memory, Faded... Pt. 1

So this is just some of Serella’s backstory that I’ve been meaning to get to; and how she wound up with a brother, Uthengentle. I’ll toss ‘em up in little tidbits :D

The first time Serella met her brother, it was on a dirt path between New and Old Gridania.

She had come tottering along to the market stalls with her mother and father, an eager little girl of just barely three summers, giddy at the thought of going out to the, “big city,” compared to her tiny and secluded world, sequestered deep into the Twelveswood as their village was. The village had recently struggled with providing enough supplies for farming and security both, reluctant as they had been to pull too much from the wood itself for fear of drawing its ire. So it was Serella's mother and father that had volunteered to head to the stalls and barter with the merchants there to supplement what stock the village had. The walk would be good for them- her father could stretch his bad leg, and her mother could peruse the stalls for that replacement lance she had been hoping to get for the last while now. That Serella was allowed to tag along was a mere bonus for the girl.

Serella loved coming to Old Gridania- there were more people to talk to than those in her village, new people coming and going all the time it felt like, though it was not so crowded that she felt trapped. She could still feel nature beneath and around her, but there were brief windows into worlds she could only dream of, found in the eyes of strangers that would come from distant lands that she could only scarcely remember the name of. Lands that seemed very much alive in her imagination. Lands that she promised herself she would go visit someday, when she was bigger and older and knew their names better.

Even the enclosed ivory and ebony stalls were welcoming and cozy- their warm lighting and rich wood interior a familiar setting in which Serella found unfamiliar faces. It was the blend of home and not home that she loved; she could almost pretend that these people were sitting in her home and telling her all about theirs, through their wares, their clothes, and the scents of the winds that carried them there still clinging to them. Serella wished that she could stay and ask them to tell her in words, to give her mind more to turn over when she let herself dream, but even if she had the right words for it and her mouth knew how to shape them, her parents had taught her better manners than that. So she held her tongue, and let her curiosity burn in her chest.

It hadn't taken overly long- their trips never did, much to Serella's chagrin; her mother the sharp and scrupulous negotiator that she was, had succeeded in settling on a reasonable price for the village's much needed supplies, and her father had managed to get a few good bits of wood and bone to craft a lance worthy of his beloved wife. Their chocobo and cart were laden with their haul, and they had made to pass through New Gridania to venture home when Serella's father had spotted a small scrap of a Hyur boy huddled in front of the bushes that lined the path. From what she could see of him, he was trying to find foliage amongst the branches. She felt her mother's hand on her shoulder, silently asking her to stop. Her father had already paused, his walking stick in his hand, watching the boy with a curious gaze.

“Give me a moment, loves.” Her father had said, patting his daughter's head a moment before stepping near the boy. Serella had made to move when her mother gently squeezed her shoulder.

“Stay with me, Ella,” she had said softly, the low alto of her voice soft and soothing.

“Wha’s Da doin’?”

“Seeing where his parents are, most like.” She tilted her head, curious as she watched her father use his cane to help ease into a crouch in front of the boy.

“Are you lost, little one?” She heard her father ask him. Taking a closer look at the Hyur child, he was maybe two years or so older than she, gaunt face smudged with dirt. She couldn't even begin to guess at his hair color for the soot that clung to it, but through all the grime that the boy was caked in, his eyes were bright, almost too bright to be natural, a glittering grayish storm that bore into hers when he caught her staring.

“I guess so.” The boy sniffled, looking away and scrubbing at his eyes. The storm clouds within had begun to pour their rain down his cheeks, streaking through the smudges the dirt. “We were runnin' from home, and my Pa... he...” the boy let out a hiccuping sob. “Th-the bad men got 'im an', an' my mamae got hurt. I, I tried to help her but she-!” He began to weep in earnest. “Now s'like no one sees me, and m'so hungry and-!” The boy's words dissolved into sobs, unable to go on.

Her father patted the boy on his head as he continued to cry, sobs heaving the whole of his little body. As the boy wept, her father looked up at her mother, though at the time Serella had no idea what the look on his face meant.

“Sweetheart, look at the boy.” He insisted, his hand still softly patting the boy's head in an effort to soothe him. “He's barely a little scrap of nothing- surely it wouldn't be too much for us to-”

“That's...” her mother grimaced, clearly torn between wanting to help the boy and concerned with bringing a stranger into her home near her daughter. She removed her hand from Serella’s shoulder and tapped her chin. “It's not so easy a choice to make, love...”

Serella looked back at the boy, two whole heads taller than she, covered in dirt and crying beside a bush, and felt a deep seated need to comfort him. Her little toddler legs were graceless but they served her well enough to get her to his side, and she reached out with her tiny hand, wrapping her fingers as best she could around his pointer finger, the only thing she could really reach. He looked down at her, the light in his eyes almost too much compared to the grime that clung to him but she didn't mind – she could see him, and she knew that he was good and needed help. And a bath.

“Your Da?” She asked, tilting her head. The boy shook his head.

“He's gone.” He mumble, and her eyes widened, horrified that the thought.

“Your Ma?” She tried again – surely he had a Ma to take care of him, she thought. He let out a hiccup and shook his head again.

“She's gone, too.” She gasped, mortified. He had no one? No Ma to teach him to fish or hunt? No Da to read to him at night or sing songs to him? That was a thought too sad to think about! She turned her whole body toward her mother, tugging at the boy’s hand.

“Brudder?” She tried to articulate to her mother that surely he could stand to have a family again? Surely they could be that family? Her language lacked nuance and elegance and a great many words, however, and it was all she could manage.

Her mother, tall, proud, and hardened woman that she was, faltered at the wide mismatched eyes that blinked owlishly at her. Beside those pleading eyes were her husband’s, gentle and patient and too kind for his own godsdamned good, and beneath their combined power, even the mightiest of mothers crumbled.

“...We can have him over for dinner and a bath, and see how things work out.” She settled on, not wanting to tip her hand and admit that she was more scared of getting attached and being told that the Twelveswood didn’t abide his staying. The boy’s eyes sparkled even brighter, and Serella jumped up and down in celebration of the victory, still holding the boy’s hand. “But I’m not having a stranger under my roof- what’s your name, little one?” She asked him, head tilting to regard him. He gaped at her for a moment, faltering under her scrutiny.

“... Uthengentle, ma’am.” He stammered. Serella stopped her jumping, cheeks puffed as she turned the word over in her mind. She let go of his hand to cross her arms in intense concentration- for if this was to be her brother, she would have to get his name right, surely?

“Ooothan!” She proclaimed after a pause, too proud of herself for getting through half the name to bother completing it. Uthengentle let out a waterlogged laugh.

“Close ‘nough, yea.” He said with a nod.

“Perfect!” Her father leaned against his cane and stood. “Come along then, little ones - the day is still young, but we’ve dinner to put on!”

“‘Kay!” Serella hopped to it, falling into step behind her father as they began to leave. She turned around when she saw that her newfound brother hadn’t moved. “Uthen!” She waved both of her tiny arms over her head dramatically. “Food!” He laughed again, a little easier, a little more like a child of his age should, and followed after her.

He stayed for far more than just dinner and a bath.

[sanwaldeen]

Neruda: A Passion for Life

New Post has been published on https://sanwaldeen.com/journal/2020/03/11/neruda-a-passion-for-life/

Neruda: A Passion for Life

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Read­ing a biog­ra­phy is always an unusu­al expe­ri­ence; to think that a per­son­’s entire life can be churned into a dense col­lec­tion of words and fold­ed between two pieces of cheap paper, even a life as event­ful and dra­mat­ic as Pablo Neru­da’s. It is an expe­ri­ence that is both hum­bling and unnerv­ing, for it makes one reflect on one’s own life.

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Pablo Neru­da was born Ricar­do Eliecer Nef­talí Reyes Basalto in Par­ral Chile, where “the vines curled their green head of hair.” His moth­er died two months after his birth; her grew up with his grand­par­ents; then lived whit his step­moth­er; went to San­ti­a­go for col­lege; joined the gov­ern­ment so he could trav­el; trav­eled to Ran­goon in Bur­ma; then India, before remov­ing to Spain where he helped refugees escape to Chile from Fran­co’s fas­cist regime dur­ing the Span­ish civ­il war; went back to Chile; was exiled for his com­mu­nist ideals poems and writ­ing; lived as a fugi­tive and returned to Chile a hero; died in Chile because of can­cer, dur­ing a U.S. spon­sored mil­i­tary coup that end­ed up tak­ing thou­sands of inno­cent lives and placed a dic­ta­tor in office that was two rule Chile for over a decade.

Through his life, Neru­da taught me what being an artist means:

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The qual­i­ty and tex­ture of his work was per­pet­u­al­ly chang­ing. He kept play­ing and exper­i­ment­ing with dif­fer­ent styles, tech­niques, and ideas, mak­ing the entire body of his work rather uneven. Crit­ics hat­ed this, but Neru­da did­n’t care. Sepul­ve­da, the best-sell­ing Chilean nov­el­ist even wrote:

” I share Borges view of Neru­da that he was uneven. All poets are uneven, of course, but Neru­da’s poet­ry under­went some pecu­liar leaps. How could the same man write both “El hon­dero entu­si­as­ta” and the “Odas ele­men­tales?”

To me, this will­ing­ness to exper­i­ment and con­tra­dict him­self is pre­cise­ly the rea­son Neru­da’s work is so refresh­ing. He was­n’t afraid to dis­prove or ques­tion him­self ide­o­log­i­cal­ly or styl­is­ti­cal­ly, despite his fame. His con­stant play and exper­i­ment are pre­cise­ly what enabled him to go from writ­ing poems of love to start­ing a rev­o­lu­tion.

[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row unlock_row_content=“yes” row_height_percent=“0” back_color=“color-914157” overlay_alpha=“50” gutter_size=“3” column_width_percent=“100” shift_y=“0” z_index=“0”][vc_column column_width_percent=“50” gutter_size=“3” overlay_alpha=“50” shift_x=“0” shift_y=“0” shift_y_down=“0” z_index=“0” medium_width=“0” mobile_width=“0” width=“1/1”][vc_single_image media=“90743” media_width_percent=“100”][vc_custom_heading heading_semantic=“h6” text_font=“font-767115” text_size=“bigtext” text_weight=“100” text_color=“color-200557” separator=“over”]“This is the poet­ry we should be after, worn away, as if by acid, by the labour of hands, impreg­nat­ed with sweat and smoke, smelling of lilies and of urine, splashed by the vari­ety of what we do, legal­ly or ille­gal­ly. A poet­ry as impure as old clothes, as a body, with its food stains and its shame, with wrin­kles, obser­va­tions, dreams, wake­ful­ness, prophe­cies, dec­la­ra­tions of love and hate, stu­pidi­ties, shocks, idylls, polit­i­cal beliefs…“1[/vc_custom_heading][vc_column_text]

Per­haps that is as true for life as it for poems.

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He was poor for the major­i­ty of his life, even when he became a famous and suc­cess­ful poet. The neces­si­ty of liv­ing-pay­ing bills. Rent­ing an apartment—that was paid for by his “day job” as a sen­a­tor. A posi­tion he hat­ed for the major­i­ty of his life. But he did­n’t let the mun­dane reg­u­lar­i­ty of dai­ly life get to his cre­ative spir­it. He con­tin­ued to write, exper­i­ment and read every day just to keep his soul nour­ished. Even when he was a fugi­tive, he con­tin­ued to write in dark clos­ets and unlit spaces, let­ting his words con­vey the light.

He stood up for what he believed in, even when it means that he would lose his job and free­dom. He died a dis­il­lu­sioned man; as a com­mu­nist, he was shocked when he learned about Stal­in’s crimes and hav­ing seen the effects of the US inva­sion of Latin coun­tries and Viet­nam (direct­ly or through proxy) made him wary of cap­i­tal­ism. Despite the dis­il­lu­sion­ment from pol­i­tics, he kept fight­ing for the rights of every­day work­ers till his dying breath. Even when it meant going to jail or fac­ing tor­ture. Neru­da nev­er sac­ri­ficed his ideals.

Even at the low­est points of his life, he nev­er lost the pas­sion for liv­ing. He kept throw­ing par­ties and meet­ing with friends, even when he was in dan­ger of being thrown in prison He did­n’t let fear con­quest his life or art.

He had an exten­sive library col­lec­tion and loved to read. But he was­n’t read­ing books on about books; he was read­ing to be inspired. At the cer­e­mo­ny at the Uni­ver­si­dad de Chile on 20 June Neru­da exclaimed: ‘I’m not a thinker, and these col­lect­ed books are more rev­er­en­tial than inves­tiga­tive.”

He learned ear­ly on in his life to look at the world through sym­bols. Grow­ing up in a pio­neer town where no one spoke the same lan­guage, the shops around him were strewn with sym­bols instead of words. So instead of see­ing J.B Hard­ware com­pa­ny, you would see a giant ham­mer; a cob­bler’s shop would be rep­re­sent­ed with a shoe; and so on. The world around him was all rep­re­sent­ed in sym­bols rather than words, much like his poet­ry.

He nev­er lost his sense of play­ful­ness and humor. As he was flee­ing Chile on a horse, cross­ing the moun­tains while every cop in the coun­try look­ing for him, he saw a tree and was inspired to write a note to his hunter:

“How good the air smells In the Lilphela Pass Because the shit has not yet arrived From trai­tor con­soles Videle’s ass.”

He loved writ­ing and cre­at­ing art for art’s sake. Of course, he enjoyed fame and lav­ished in it; but at the begin­ning of his writer’s life, he had to fight his father and alien­ate him­self from his fam­i­ly to pur­sue art. Lat­er on, peo­ple tried to box him as a “love” poet or a “rev­o­lu­tion­ary” poet but he still kept evolv­ing and chang­ing; even when the crit­ics wrote about how ter­ri­ble his work was. He kept his eyes on his writ­ing.

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Neru­da’s favorite col­or was green. He thought it was the col­or of hope and life. And so, he always wrote in green ink. His life, like there col­or green, has giv­en me hope. Hope that despite all the chal­lenges that life throws at us, we need to keep the child in our­selves alive and keep mov­ing for­ward, with courage and love.

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[jyvaswriting]

da

         BLACKNESS.

                             STEFAN (V.O.)                    I was born on June 2nd, 1922.

         PURE WHITE. FADE IN: revealing the whiteness as snowflakes,          gently falling down...

         To the city. A cold place, with gray buildings and few          people out on the streets. The snow coats the roofs and          cobbles and pavement.

         1. EXT. MISLOVY - DAY

                             STEFAN (V.O.) (CONT'D)                    In 1950, I was... twenty-eight                    years old - no, twenty-seven at                    this time.

         STEFAN, younger than he sounds as he's speaking. He is          bundled in dilapidated-looking yet warm clothing; most          notably a long coat that seems just slightly too large for          him, almost as battered as its wearer looks.

                             STEFAN (V.O.) (CONT'D)                    At this time, the war between us                    and Vserov had not happened yet,                    but it was inevitable. Everybody in                    the country could feel it coming,                    you know... a lot of mistrust.

         MISTRUST, reflected in the eyes of everyone the young Stefan          passes as he makes his way down the road. People keep to          themselves, huddled and bent over in the cold. Mouths are          curled into thin, bitter lines. Hardship and resentment.

                             STEFAN (V.O.) (CONT'D)                    People did not want to talk you if                    they did not know you, because                    anyone could be a Vserov spy. Even                    your neighbour that you know for                    many years could have defected to                    keep himself safe. I saw people I                    knew that had been good friends,                    and then once the kidnappings                    happen, everyone keeps to                    themselves. And then, if you found                    someone that you knew was a spy,                    you could not report them to the                    government. Because the phones were                    all tapped, you know? And the                    Mislovy government was weak. They                    were falling apart. We had                    politcija, but they were too thin                    and many were corrupt so you could                    not trust them.

         A GUNSHOT punctuates the air.

                             STEFAN (V.O.) (CONT'D)                    So... people dealt with the spies                    themselves.

         There is distant shouting; sounds of someone being SHOVED,          furniture being knocked over, wooden walls taking an impact.          On the street, some people raise their heads or walk faster,          but none come over to help or investigate. THIS IS AN          EVERYDAY OCCURRENCE NOW.

         Stefan, too, DOES NOT INTERFERE. HE ONLY WATCHES as three          men in civilian clothing haul another out of a doorway. The          discovered traitor sports a bloodied lip, a broken nose, and          a black eye. Stefan walks on.

                             STEFAN (V.O.)                    And it was hard. You know? It was                    hard. Especially since I was not                    born in Mislovy. So people were                    more suspicious of me. Some days, I                    remember thinking that I just                    wanted it to happen, I wanted the                    war to hurry up. The whole country                    simply waiting to be annexed. I                    wanted it to hurry up so we go into                    Vserov and then maybe things can go                    back to normal. I knew it would                    still be violent, and many people                    would be hurt, you know, as it                    happened. But it would be better.                    So we can have more food again and                    I can find a job. But that was                    dangerous to think.

         2. EXT. MISLOVY MARKETPLACE - DAY

         Stefan arrives at the city centre: a plaza far too large for          the sparse amount of stalls that still weather the cold in          it. There is a sizeable amount of people here, however, and          to Stefan that means more danger. He enters the marketplace.

                             STEFAN (V.O.) (CONT'D)                    Because I knew of some people that                    thought the same way as me, but                    they act on these thoughts. They                    did not defect and help Vserov -                    well, some did, but - these ones,                    they go to the government, the city                    council, they plead for us to                    accept Vserov influence and let                    Mislovy be absorbed into their                    territory without a fight. But they                    were treated the same as the spies                    and defectors that got caught, so                    everyone tries to behave the right                    way. Try not to stand out, show                    that you support our country, that                    you do not want Vserov to take over                    even if that means going hungry.                    You had to be a patriot. And anyone                    who was not a patriot was, ah...                    ostracised. Until somebody decides                    they are less than this, that -                    that they were a bad guy and then,                    you know... dealed with them.

         Stefan makes his way through the marketplace. Some people          recognize him, and this is seen through them briefly making          eye contact, but only briefly. Everyone KEEPS TO THEMSELVES.

         Stefan stops at a stall, and again, the stall owner, POLINA,          meets his gaze, but she quickly lowers her eyes again, as          does Stefan.

         Unready to speak just yet, Stefan stops and makes a pretense          of checking his coat for holes. Polina does something          similar, rearranging her wares. But once she is sure Stefan          is not looking at her, she takes another quick glance at his          face. She is concerned about how he is doing. THEY KNEW EACH          OTHER, ONCE.

                             POLINA                         (Tersely)                    Stefan.

                             STEFAN                         (Distractedly)                    Zdravo, Polina.

                             POLINA                    How are you doing?

                             STEFAN                    Good, good.

                             POLINA                    Valerija giving you much trouble?

         Stefan has to take a second to remember.

                             STEFAN                    Oh, no, we're doing okay.

                             POLINA                    Still having trouble with water?

                             STEFAN                         (Confused)                    What? No--

         --He LAUGHS NERVOUSLY, pointing upwards at the snowflakes          still drifting down.

                             STEFAN (CONT'D)                    We have-

                             POLINA                    - No, I meant-

                             STEFAN                    - Snow, we can just-

                             POLINA                    - Warm water.

                             STEFAN                    - Melt - oh.

         Stefan scratches the back of his head, and then an itchy          spot on his facial hair. He STRUGGLES to get his thoughts in          order.

                             STEFAN                    No, we don't.

         Polina opens her mouth to speak. Stefan quickly stops her.

                             STEFAN                    No, no, no - it is fine. Keep your                    water. We'll live.

         A LONG PAUSE. They both take the moment to breathe.

                             POLINA                    So, you want...

         She gestures towards her wares. FOOD. It's all wrapped up in          brown, slightly dirty paper bags to protect it from the          bitter cold, but there are words carved into the wood          beneath it. BREAD. FISH. POTATOES. CHICKEN AND BEEF.          Stefan's gaze lingers on the last two.

                             STEFAN                    Bread. Please.

         Polina LOOKS UP AT HIM QUESTIONINGLY. Stefan silently holds          up two fingers, she brings up two loaves of bread in a bag,          and money is exchanged without a word. Stefan produces an          OLD, ROUGH-SEWN BURLAP SACK from inside his coat. He HIDES          the bread inside his sack, and, JUST AS QUICKLY AS IT          APPEARED, the sack is hidden again, out of sight from          opportunistic thieves.

                             STEFAN                         (Already making his leave)                    Zbogom.

                             POLINA                         (Calling after him)                    Stay safe, Stefan.

         Stefan walks away.

                             STEFAN (V.O.)                    So.

         Stefan leaves the way he came, out of the marketplace, back          over the ice-coated cobbles.

         3. EXT. STEFAN'S APARTMENT - DAY

                             STEFAN (V.O.) (CONT'D)                    Mislovy. 1950. Very cold, very                    hungry place. Vserov is about to                    invade and everyone is scared.

         He arrives at his home, a cold grey apartment. Stefan          trudges up two flights of stairs and stops at the second          door on the second floor.          STILL LONG SHOT: STEFAN AND HIS APARTMENT DOOR

                             STEFAN (V.O.) (CONT'D)           ��        Everything is... dangerous. Not                    safe. You can not trust your                    neighbours and there is fighting                    every day. Not a good place to be.

         From a distance, we see Stefan fumbling with his keys on one          hand, the other still protectively holding onto his sack of          food under his coat, shooting furtive glances to the side.          He finally finds the right key, gets it in the keyhole,          opens the door, and--

                             STEFAN'S FRIENDS                    SURPRISE!

         A SUDDEN BLAST of WARMTH and FRIENDSHIP on this freezing          day. For a fraction of a second, we see people inside the          apartment, jumping out from sofas, raising their hands,          throwing confetti, one running at him with a cake, before--

         Stefan reflexively SLAMS the door shut and the sound is cut          off.

         He stares at the wood for a few seconds, processing and          collecting himself. He's too far away to read his face, but          we see him take a deep breath and heavily exhale it,          shoulders rising and falling. Sudden fear gives way to the          dawning of a happy realisation. He tilts his head up to the          snow-white sky for a moment, as if giving thanks to a higher          deity. Then he realises he's dropped his food sack in his          shock and picks it up. He reaches for the door handle -- but          it OPENS BEFORE HIS FINGERS TOUCH IT. There is laughter and          a woman comes out. Her name is VALERIJA.

                             VALERIJA                    Stefan, come on!

         Valerija embraces him and grabs him by the hands. Stefan          allows himself to be pulled in and the door closes behind          him.

         PAUSE FOR A BEAT.

                             STEFAN (V.O.)                    ...It was the best time of my life.