#second blue moon epoch

[mumblelard]

two pints of lager and a packet of crisps please or happy wednesday imaginary constructs

[noneofthisisreal]

happy hatch chile highball friday imaginary constructs

[late-to-the-fandom]

Find the Word Tag

Thank you very much to @owlsandwich , @amewinterswriting @tildeathiwillwrite @thewritingautisticat for the find the word tags over the last few days. I don’t usually do these anymore, but in honor of me successfully coming off hiatus and working on Wend in the Shadows again, I read through what I’ve already posted to try and find the assigned words: moon, noon, soon, spoon, trick, refuse, cruel, energy, draw, velvet, inspiration, side, scatter, listen, study.

Tagging: @mousterian-writes @pancakewithamace @magic-is-something-we-create @sesshy380 @imbrisvastatio @sleepywriter00 @indecentpause @allisonreader @frozen-fountain to find any four words of the above list (if you like)

MOON

No moon! Revendreth doesn’t have one.

NOON

No noon, either – Revendreth doesn’t have one of those either. As one character explains away for me: “Ha. Welcome to Revendreth," said Nadjia, executing a particularly elaborate lunge. “Time is really more a social construct here. You’ll get used to it.”

SOON - found in Chapter 2: Lay of the Land

It took a few seconds for Renathal to rearrange his face into something more appropriately inscrutable, before saying, “I see. Well, that is… highly unusual,”; then several minutes more to assure the dredgers he did not hold them personally responsible for their errand’s failure. Another full minute spent thanking them as graciously as his tumultuous mental state allowed, then, as soon as they had all trudged out again, visibly relieved, Renathal threw himself back into his chair.

SPOON - found in Small Bites, the drabbles that go with Wend

"Surely, you did not think discretion was required purely in regards to your status?” Elisewin's little shrug was the picture of casual unconcern, but her hair swung suspiciously across her face again as she spooned sugar into Renathal's cup.

TRICK - found in Chapter 7: Formal Refreshments

Renathal turned tactfully away, allowing her time to recover, and inspected the reflection of his irrepressibly smug smile in the mirror of the chiffonier. This was no expertly crafted, anima-imbued Venthyr creation, but a slightly warped mortal looking-glass, acquired from the Night Market epochs ago and chosen specifically for the way it lent Renathal’s torso a slightly more generous breadth. He admired it for a few satisfied seconds, then flicked his gaze to the image of Elisewin straightening up behind him, and wondered if the dark, almost hungry glint in her blue-white eyes as she appraised him was simply another trick of the imperfect glass.

REFUSE - found in Chapter 6: Home Improvement

She glared at him. An expression of such insolence the Dark Prince could have had its wearer condemned to a crypt for an age. Instead, he caught up her reluctant hand, brought it to his lips and pressed his smug smile against it. And what could he tell himself about that besides how soft and warm her skin felt and how much he enjoyed the flush suffusing her suddenly expressionless face? Nothing believable. It refused to be spun into anything but the sheer, dangerous indulgence it was.

CRUEL - found in Chapter 5: The Proper Punishment

Then, Denathrius smiled. Not a cruel smile, or a punitive one. Something had shifted in his face, sliding quick as mercury from fury to fatherly benevolence. He cocked his head, appraising his Firstborn with an almost formal interest, flicked his eyes to the half-hidden mortal, then back to Renathal again.

ENERGY - found in Chapter 6: Home Improvement

“Elisewin," and the echo of dominion in the way he said her name seemed to still some of Elisewin's manic energy. "You are... tired," he chose after a pause. "Nightmares are taxing, I expect. Come." He extended a slow, careful arm, and when Elisewin did not flinch away, draped it loosely across her shoulders, guiding her back to the bed.

DRAW - found in Chapter 8: Safe in the Shadows

It was, strictly speaking, treason. By right, he ought to have summoned Stone Legion representatives to clap the Accuser in chains and escort her to the nearest convenient crypt. But the re-education of a Harvester would necessarily draw the Master’s eye, something Renathal was actively avoiding as his dredger driver raced his carriage at unprecedented speeds through back ways and side roads in an attempt to avoid the castle grounds.

VELVET & STUDY - found in Chapter 10: Mix, Mingle, and Meddle

For all his personal animosity towards the Harvester of Desire, Renathal could not deny she was unparalleled in her expertise at choreographing an event. The groups of guests, whether posing together or perambulating across the immaculately manicured garden of the Eternal Terrace, looked placed, and likely were; as much a part of the decor as the polished sinstones or the topiaries. There were precious few stoneborn or dredgers to be found, except in the roles of guards or servants. The Countess extended invitations only to Venthyr aristocracy, each one a study in the finest luxury goods Revendreth had to offer. Deep crimson velvets, vibrant vermillion silks, stark and stately black leathers all dripping with silver and jingling gems dotted the garden like ornate, expensive flowers.

INSPIRATION – closest I had was this variation in Chapter 8: Safe in the Shadows

Elisewin blinked. She shot a glance at the closed parlor door before accepting Renathal’s outstretched hand and letting him gather her onto his lap. His fingers stroked almost reverently through her dark, silky waterfall of hair, basking in the colligation of comfort and arousal her warm mortal flesh inspired. Renathal closed his eyes, and imagined eternity like this: his lover a permanent fixture instead of running on stolen time. But he knew better. She had spoken the inexorable, infuriating truth. Nothing stayed secret from the Sire

[annawayne]

Hey Anna! For the Aruani writers game ask~

2, 4, 7, 11, 13, 14

Hi Moon, thank you so much for asking! :3

2. Share your favorite part of your first ever fic

Oh, my first ever fic is Bury me in the shadows in spring, and actually in a few weeks it's going to be my anniversary as I started writing this fic (and AruAni fics in general!).

SO, my fav part from BMSS... oh, I guess, it's the scene from chapter 2:

The blond gulps and rests his eyes on hers for a few more heartbeats, and then stands up. He looks at the name one more time - “ Gymnopédies”. Hmm, another French composer. She definitely has some preferences, huh? Carefully, he puts the record on the player, and suddenly, everything changes.  Silver rainy drops seem to be the bravest thing in the world, as they keep falling, falling, falling down from the sky - like the monotonous, infinite heartbeat of clouds. The rain continues to pour at a steady pace, and the timid piano sounds flow into the watery symphony outside the window, making ripples with its gentle, sensual tune. His breath, his heartbeat, his heat, his blood - everything dive into sleep. There’s no past, there’s no future, there’s even no present, and the sense of time has erased the same second the needle hit the record. There’s only now , only this exact instant that he wants to embroider over his body with the tight stitches of his memory - maybe, “forever” is the word that was created not for people, but for the moments like that.  The man makes a tentative exhale and slowly tiptoes with his eyes to look at the woman. He finds her eyes already on him, but when their gazes meet - she doesn’t avert it. Instead, the blonde gives him the small curve of the smile, and he can swear - he sees feeble sparkles in her eyes. But what surprises him more - he returns the gesture.  “Can I draw you?”  The simple question. The simple words. The simple request. And yet, it hits him like the infernal waterfall in a foreign language he doesn’t even surely exist in this world.  Did he hear her right? Or is this his twisted imagination one more time? Is he dreaming? Is he drunk again?  The woman doesn’t break her glance, but he sees how her fingers tightly squeeze the fabric of the sofa she might rip it, and her finger starts again to imitate the rhythm of the raindrop with her nervous tapping.  Her body doesn’t hide the tension she keeps in herself, like the strained, violin string.  However, without an answer from his end, the blonde repeats.  “Can I draw you?” The melody has changed already, and it’s as mesmerizing as the first one, but the man can’t really care more about it when before him - he sees her.  Her, the blond straight bob haircut.   Her, the short and yet gracious posture.  Her, the determining gaze of the greyish blue eyes.  Her, the cozy pastel-colored robe.  Her.  Her.  Her. 

4. Fanfic authors can be harsh on themselves, especially with older work, share three things you like about your first fic

Oh, well, as I mentioned, my first fic is BMSS... and that's hard, but anyway!

I think, I really appreciate my approach with different languages and creating the vibe of the epoch here. I do some researches, dive into details to create the whole picture not only of 1920's but also of Eastern Europe after WW1.

7. What was the inspiration behind your shortest fic?

My shortest fic is Golden Hour of Our Forever, and I really hope it's not too much narcissist because the inspiration was my own artwork :D

I drew it, knowing the whole behind the scene story, but when I finished it, I felt the urge to write it down anyway.

11. What annoys you the most about your own writing habits?

I guess, what really irritates me is that I don't write really good outlines. I do it - but in perspective, I think I need to learn how to do it more properly.

13. Do you use symbolism when writing fics? Tell us about it!

A LOT. I guess, far too much... FAR TOO MUCH. Well, two of the most frequently used - it's nature and colors. I usually left the description of the environment, not only because I want to show more of the surroundings, but also create a particular mood that would challenge the events/feelings or, on the contrary, support them.

Colors, too, pay attention to the color I use, and it would open another layer of what I want to tell with the scene or the detail :D

14. Tell us about a detail you wrote that nobody has commented on yet.

Hm-hm-hm.... I guess, it's a motif from chapter 2 of MYLYSW, when the continuous Annie's "she didn't understand, but..." transformed through the years. How it was at first "she didn't understand, so she obeyed", then - "she didn't understand, but she didn't say anything either" -> "she didn't understand, but she listened" -> "she didn't understand, but she took a step forward" -> "she didn't understand, but she hoped".

[ruin-iii]

What's Mine is Yours

Lost in a maze of mist and trees, Vahri’a holds the scarf to his muzzle for dear life.

Ilma had assured him there was nothing to fear in the fog surrounding Ataraxia. The ill rumors he’d heard would not befall a welcome guest. This, she truly believed — throughout their foray into the mist, she would regale him with stories and anecdotes of her life. As she had gotten settled and comfortable with her nephew, she would find herself running her mouth, carried away in her fervor.

However, he knew what he had been told as a kit, in his heart of hearts. 

Mother told him of wanderers who ventured too far into the mists and fell into an eternal slumber. Their veins became the steadfast roots of trees, their hair the moss on the north side of the trunk, and their soul the possession of the elementals. She told him of huntresses who felt the mist creeping upon them, saw the dead as the fog wafted under their nose, and bore witness to the Hells from a mere sniff. They would run until their feet were blistered, their eyes windows to a realm beyond ours.

The little child within bids him to heed his mother’s warning and inhale only his own breath. The conscious adult, abiding by the child’s whims, knows why she spun these tales. 

Vahri never wanted him to come here.

As he follows his aunt’s lead, the mist thins with every step. In his head, the same thick clouds begin to blossom. They had walked for a mere five minutes, yet now he finds himself a shade of what he was — a numb jumble of limbs and sinew, stumbling along.

The moment they emerge into the village, he gasps for air.

“Oh Goddess! Wanderer, are you alright? Uhya Ilma, please help—”

Ilma turns quickly, a switch flipping in her mind. “Easy, Vahri’a,” she soothes, taking hold of both of his shoulders to steady him. “You’re okay, I’m here for you. I’m going to sit you down now, so we can get a better look at you.”

Vahri’a feels the soles of his feet no longer anchored to the ground, but rather vaguely brushing against it as he’s whisked away to a nearby rock. 

Ilma’s voice rises. “Is there anything I can do, Mana?”

The unfamiliar huntress replies without missing a beat. “Just keep him steady, uhya…”

Within a matter of seconds, he feels aether plunged into him once more — as if he were a pool of cold freshwater, and the spell a diving otter. Vahri’a’s vision refocuses on the woman who preempted them at the treeline: Mana.

Her hair unkempt frames her face with shiny, dark blue tresses. Her huntress’s marks are a vignette of curved lines and splotched dots, her fingerprints evident in each one. Her skin is possessed of that same blue-gray that stretches over his, his brothers’, and his aunt’s. Yet, she is not possessed of the brilliant squint signature to the Korla clan. Her eyes are rich, tumultuous oceans that look upon him with concern. 

Patterns glow upon her forearms, fading after her cast. They’re similar to Ilma’s tattoos, patterns mimicking an older arcanima sigil for the spell Physick, though the circles used to form the equation are of specific symbology. They represent phases of the moon.

With the help of the healing spell, he rights himself.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you… Thank you,” Vahri’a says between recovering breaths.

“Don’t apologize! I only wish you had a smoother landing. Uhya, this is one of our wanderers?” Mana briefly looks at Ilma before continuing to appraise Vahri’a. “You must’ve been having fun elsewhere for epochs, for I don’t think I’ve ever met you…”

“Actually Mana, the story’s a little further than that.” she begins, looking between the two miqo’te. “This is Vahri’a, he’s my nephew. You know, Vahri’s kid?”

Mana pauses, then merely shakes her head. Her brows knit together into an apologetic scribble. Ilma smooths her hair backwards, thinking on where to begin — on how much to explain right there and then, and how much would have been better to talk about after they had gotten her ailing nephew out of the proverbial woods.

“I was gone for a few moons because I was looking for him and his siblings. Vahri’a here expressed some interest so… I wanted to introduce him to the rest of the clan. See how he feels, and maybe see if he wants to stay, you know? It’s all up to him and the rest of the clan of course but… I wanted to help make his trip as smooth as possible.”

Vahri’a expects a ponderous pause, but their hostess wastes no time — a gasp leaves her lips as she launches into a bright tirade. 

“So, Vahri’a is long lost family? Of course I’ll give you both the tour then! There’s plenty of time to make up for, after all.”

Watching, gravitating eyes turn into gathering people — dozens of strangers who could be his relatives, indeed — Vahri’a finds himself in hasty agreement with their tour guide.

As the eye of the storm, Ataraxia is a haven no larger than a town square amidst the chaos of the outside world. This idyllic village of cozy huts and a canopy beyond the treeline sits pretty, shrouded in mist. The center of the settlement, which Mana introduces as the Heart, hosts a congregation of Keepers that look like him. Skin of dusky tones, just a minute past the twilight shade. Hair of pale moonlight with a smattering of darker hues. Bushy tails, diamond lips, slender ears. While they go about their day, their gazes gravitate towards him. Vahri’a pushes himself to answer each, “Ma, who is that?” with a gentle wave.

The Heart itself is a gathering of tables around a low crackling bonfire set under a gazebo-esque structure. The sunset breakfast is a gathering of mixed berries, sparse strips of jerky, and small rolls of fluffy bread, all atop the long table that is an apparent free for all. Children run by, snatching up rolanberries in their wake while chatting parents don’t so much as blink. Partaking in bisected bread rolls with bits of jerky at the center, they simply carry on.

Most cottages are residential, with one or two designated for each family branch. By Vahri’a’s wish, the Moshroca cabin is given a wide berth for now.

Some homes are not homes at all, rather hosting communal functions; Mana tours them about a few. There is a storehouse of various culinary and alchemical ingredients, galvanized with arcanima to preserve them. There is a bathhouse built into the rock that lines the river, lanterns faintly lighting the serene dark There is a small archery post where shortbows and arrows are stored; the Alonhi branch is already fletching while a young huntress, no older than fourteen cycles, works on her aim.

Lastly, there is a kitchen mostly populated by Mana’s branch of the Siltanho, though few chefs remain as breakfast has already been served. Despite the building’s purpose, it is distinctly without kitchenware.

“Watch this,” Mana says proudly, and from a constellation-esque tattoo in the form of arcanist sigils, she draws a translucent, aetherial frying pan from her thigh. With the snap of her fingers, flames wreath the bottom of the implement, which she places atop the stove. A marvel of ancient magics, he surmises, yet— 

“Uhya Mholi developed it from some older texts,” he’s told. They leave it at that. 

As Vahri’a meanders about, he is the object of the clan’s curiosity. Ilma and Vahri’a are coordinated in a vague, yet truthful story, but neither can reasonably hide the man’s name — especially not when Mana emphatically introduces him as Vahri’s first son. Some keep it at that, choosing not to assert themselves over what is clearly Ilma’s personal decision. Others express a deep pride in Vahri’a’s decision to visit his mother’s flesh and blood despite her wishes, the details of which are never expressed. Others yet raise their brows and allow the conversation to taper off coldly, no longer eager to learn of the wanderer.

Few greet their tour guide and she alone, until—

“Good midnight to you, Yutan Mana.”

Grounded and firm, the mysterious voice calls the attention of not only her charge, but the lot of the touring group. 

Like all others of her clan, this woman of fifty cycles is dressed in flowing clothes heaped over her shoulders, cascading as patterned waterfalls stopped at her sandalled feet. She stands a mere few fulms away from the group, which begs the question: how didn’t he hear her?

“Unha!” Mana exclaims. “Vahri’a, this is—”

“Ahxe Cirka, the matriarch of this clan.”

With hands carved in the roots of trees, she lifts her hood to reveal a worn visage and two raggedy ears — the left of which is pierced with glistening silver jewelry, the only indication of her status. Her eyes flit to Vahri’a’s aunt.

“Ilma, I would have thought that if we had visitors, you would have let me know.”

Witnessing the matriarch’s formality, Mana is taken aback. However, it doesn’t take long for her to bow her head and assume a deferential stance on her clanswoman’s behalf. “Sorry, unha…”

Ahxe places her hand on Mana’s head despite being half a fulm shorter than her. “Don’t worry, girl. I’ll be seeing you later for dinner. Would you allow me some time to speak with our guest?”

“Of course!” She looks at the two, wearing a dazzling smile. It didn’t take long for her to put one on. “See you later, uhya, Vahri’a!”

“Vahri’a?”

Measure cannot mask the incredulity in this single utterance of his name. The hairs on the back of his neck bristle and threaten to jump out of his skin. His greeting to Ahxe is an uneven smile and a set of words so practiced they barely sound like pieces of vocabulary to him:

“Pleasure to meet you.”

As quickly as anxiousness grabs him, Ahxe settles. She pulls a curtain of soft cloth over her features once again. 

“You as well. How about yourself, your uhya and I have a chat?” Without awaiting their answer, she begins her slow stride towards a nearby cottage.

Tail between his legs, he follows the matriarch. What else is a wanderer to do?

Akin to her garb, Ahxe’s cottage shows no difference to that constructed for the other families. However, from a single clue — that is, the building’s proximity to the Heart of Ataraxia and the river that runs through the village — it becomes clear that this was the first cottage to be built of them all, for the convenience of the main family — particularly the clan’s leader. 

Inside, the hall immediately branches off into various rooms. Ahxe takes a harsh left, her lethargic tail sweeping the floor behind her. Before them is not the usual curtain that separates the other cottages’ chambers, but a fully fledged door built for a home’s entrance, repurposed for interior use.

With a slow creak, the door opens to a room plunged into darkness. Thanks to his nocturnal vision, he can make out shapes and shadows: a low table atop which sits various ornaments, cushions lining the floor around it, and an assortment of bone discs covered in soot and charcoal, nearly unnoticed.

A shard from a shallow bowl on the table is snatched between her fingers and crushed in her palm. The fragments dissolve into crystalline powder which conjures flame unto the candle. He can see the wax clearly now: a set of old candles, rarely used. The table is covered in ceramic bowls, parchment maps, and discarded flower wreaths. A rich aroma of sandalwood and the sharp scent of jasmine wafts throughout the room.

“Take a seat, will you? I don’t bite.”

Though Vahri’a casts a wary glance in Ilma’s direction, he folds up his long robes to sit as instructed. The pillow is soft and provides plenty of give, and ere long he finds himself sinking into it as there’s little else to lean on.

“So, Vahri’a. How have you found the village so far?”

“Ah, it’s really impressive. What you’ve set up here, that is to say. This part of the Shroud is typically Sylphland, so it’s a tall claim to reside so nearby. That’s not to mention the quality of the buildings and infrastructure—”

“You can thank the Siltanho for that. We knew little of construction before they came along.”

“Mm, that’s Mana’s family?”

“Indeed. They’re a newer branch. They rarely venture out, so it’s unlike you would’ve seen them before.”

“I don’t believe I’ve seen any of the clan before, truth be told.”

Ahxe leans back; in her hand, an ornate pipe with the bowl filled to the brim. Another crystal ignites it. The flicker of light betrays the firm, appraising look on her face — twin shards of obsidian boring into him. And then it’s gone, the earthy smoke mingling with the candles’ embedded aroma. It takes Vahri’a a moment, but he recognizes the emerging odor of dreamweed. 

“We have our tricks.” She exhales a ring that curls into the shape of a crescent moon. Tricks indeed. “You must be old now, you poor kit. Yet this is the first time you’ve visited our hearth and home. What brought you here?”

“Ilma thought I should—”

“Ah, but you had to agree. So why did you?”

He swallows a lump in his throat he didn’t realize was there in the first place.

“Mother never told us about this place. When I learned I had family of my blood still alive, I thought… Why wouldn’t I want to meet you all?”

“Vahri never explained the clan from where she came?”

“As far as I knew, she was an adventurer before she came here.”

A rumbling laugh releases into a spluttering cough. 

“Ack— I can’t blame her for keeping it from you, child. It would’ve been for naught. But you didn’t think to bring your brothers, then?”

There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach for an array of wrong reasons.

“They don’t care for this part of the woods anymore.”

“A true shame, that is. A shame indeed.”

Silence shrouds the trio. A feature of the smoke that has him hold his tongue, clamp his lips together, breathe shallowly. 

“But I can accept that answer, first son of Vahri. You go join young Mana again. We haven’t had visitors in a long time, and she could use the company of a fresh face.”

“If you’re sure, Matri—”

“I am sure.” Her syllables puncture. A docile bow of the head is his only mark of departure, as he lets the door open only a sliver beyond what it’d take to swallow him whole. 

Towards Ilma, Ahxe leans forward, her appraising stare accentuated in candle light. Her brightest features darkened, the shadows in her visage uncast. The face of a waning moon.

“Ilma. This place may think me its crown, but you know me as a sister of the hunt. So what I tell you now is not an order of the Goddess, nor a decree of our Bole’s will. I express what I do out of concern for my sister. Are we clear?” Ahxe’s address is serious and purposeful, in a tone that Ilma is not at all unfamiliar with, but is still a notable shift from mere formality. Ilma shifts forward in her seat, all the better to meet the matriarch’s gaze.

“Go on Ahxe. I know you must have several reservations.” Her brows scrunch closer to her nose as her eyes narrow ever so slightly in attention.

“Not unfounded ones. But first, you ought to tell me so we’re on the same page, yes? What do you know of Vahri’s sons?”

“Personally? Not much, admittedly. I have met several of them in my travels, and yet several more elude me for one reason or the other.”

“Your travels? I wasn’t aware that was what you left for.”

Ahxe isn’t offended — rather, she’s curious. Ilma sways her head from side to side as she explains.

“Yes, the moment I learned that Vahri’s children may have been in some form of trouble, I packed what I needed and left. Apologies for the sudden disappearance.”

“Hmhmhm,” Ahxe chuckles lowly, taking a long draw of her pipe before continuing. “I thought you might have gone on a long monster-slaying trip to soothe your nerves. Had I known you were on a vacation, I would have asked to come along.” It’s a dry, yet meaningful jest on her part.

“Well, had I known you were looking for one I would have invited you for the trip! Although, considering I barely slept for most of it, it would not have been pleasant.” Ilma laughs.

“And were the kits in trouble, sister?”

Ilma’s expression resets to one of gravity. “One of them is in prison. Otherwise, they were all alive and well, much to my relief.”

“Not in this part of the woods though, yes? Did I hear the first son right?”

“Not at all. One of them works as a wailer, but as Vahri’a says, he isn’t particularly keen on coming back here.”

“I am not surprised.”

The shake of Ahxe’s head fells lengthy, wispy tresses from her hood to her shoulders.

“I am not surprised that one is behind bars, that one allies with our oppressors, nor that they have scattered to the winds.

‘I have my ear to dirt and my tail to roots oft. Someone needs to do it since we have settled in this place. I know what ill those boys have wrought, not that I would inform yourself and Mholi of my findings. What use is the panic, the shame? Nothing. That’s what I thought then.

‘These sons of ‘Korla’ were never a band satisfied with their lot of the woods. We received reports of their greed and hedonism on a moonly basis. Our clan was spared their thievery from the Twelveswood North, but others lost studs and crops, lost young hunts their bands were tracking until they grew and bore fruit. Those boys would not wait. 

‘These reports stopped a few cycles ago. I had a feeling the forest was never big enough for them. After all, it was never big enough for their mother. So, you can see why I needed to verify their leader’s intent.” Ahxe gives Ilma a knowing look, peering into the windows of her eyes.

Expecting something.

Yet Ilma’s response is swift and short.

“Do you know what happened to Vahri?”

“Enlighten me.”

“She perished. Devoured by a mite.” 

Leaning back from the table to her cushioned recline, Ahxe retreats.

It’s difficult to pick out in the shadows, but one can see the soft quality that melts the daggers of her eyes into silvery pools — then watch her steel herself with ease, a woman of the Shroud who has worked to greet grief in passing as an old friend each time it twists the knife of death. A woman who no longer needs to mourn. A woman won’t allow the likes of Dalamud to have pleasure in taking and taking. 

Yet even as the matriarch bolsters herself, silence reigns here. She is Ahxe the Stalwart after all; her quiet is the only moment she allows for give. 

Ilma, in contrast, has never claimed to be a stoic. Though she may not have always spoken her mind, her heart has always been worn on her sleeve. And so in the spirit of the youngest sister Moshroca, the range of emotions that dances across her face are a complex, multitudinous assortment that melds together to form one clear message.

Pain.

“It happened many… many winters ago. She was out hunting for her children, and just like that she was cornered and eaten. Torn apart I imagine, if time wasn’t enough to clean her remains.” Ilma pauses for a moment, deep and heavy breaths filling the silence as it seems that she has stopped to consider something.

“In confidence I tell you that Mholi was with her, and in confidence I ask that you do not bring it up. She had been helping Vahri hunt up until that point. She left our sister in a panic, and she left the children as well. She never came back. Vahri’a believed her dead.” Ilma closes her eyes, clenching her fist, shaking before her body relaxes itself and she meets Ahxe’s gaze once more.

“Vahri’a couldn’t have been more than twelve, fourteen winters perhaps? The past moon or so has been a haze for me, the numbers blur. So, what was the child who knew no better to do? Certainly not starve. He had almost a dozen siblings to care for. It would have been so easy for the boy to have left and fended for himself alone, but he stayed to raise his siblings, because who else was there? Certainly not Vahri, nor Mholi, nor myself.”

A snarl looses itself from Ilma’s lips, though not one directed to Ahxe. One of anger, frustration, with nary a target to mark. Held close, yet with no hunt to embark on. Her gaze falls to the side.

“I won’t claim to excuse greed or poaching. But he is my kin, and I was not there for him when he needed me most. None of us were there for him, and now he comes to us because once more he is in need, and once more he is alone in this world… at least as far as family goes. So this time, just this once…”

Ilma lets out a loud breath, looking at Ahxe once more.

“I want to do this right. Give him the chance that he never had. And I will stake my name — and whatever respect there is of me — for the first son, Matriarch.” 

The heavy pants do not subside. As emotions get the better of her proclaimed sister, Ahxe leans forward, pipe in hand, and offers the smoking thing to her.

"Calm yourself, Ilma. Return to the here and now, if you so wish… I'm not your enemy, not your predator, nor your prey."

A few extra breaths are drawn before Ilma finally relents and takes the pipe, then takes a long drag from it.

"You're… you're right. Of course. I'm sorry Ahxe, I did not mean to snap." Ilma slumps in her seat, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "So much has happened in so little time."

"How can anyone blame you? At a time like this, no less." 

Ahxe allows for the woman’s recovery, as the candles before Ilma die down, no longer stoked by the puffs of her breath. Finally, the matriarch speaks.

"First… Let it be known that what you've told me here today has been heard in confidence, and will remain in confidence." A sigh. "Mholi's will to assist those I have exiled is… well, you know your ahya. It comes as a surprise. That said, it is a thing of the past, and nothing will come of punishing such transgressions now. It’s clear to me you both have already been punishing yourselves.

'As for Vahri'a — you vouch for him, Ilma. That means a lot to me, for you've never had a rotten bone in your body. It seems there are always two faces to this sort of thing — and should his account be truthful, then no, I can't blame a young boy for doing what he can to survive. 

'The truth and your judgment of it, I take into account… as parts of a larger consideration."

Ahxe pulls her hood back. The twinkle of candlelight accentuates the moon and stars that decorate her otherwise frayed ears, torn not only by the teeth of rabid beasts, but also the elements that claimed this very star cycles ago. 

“Only Vahri'a can speak to who he is. His actions, his words, and his beliefs in the present can rend your claims to ribbons. We do not take people into our fold for testimony alone. It is an effort built upon moons of trust, and never before a season passes. The purity of the heart is a whimsical thing."

The matriarch's pause is a stanza of heartbeats.

"So I will give him a chance to prove himself," she says firmly. There is no going back on her word. "I will allow him to stay."

It takes several moments for Ahxe's words to sink in. Ilma thinks of a million different things she could say — how she can and should react. 

"Thank you, Ahxe." A pause provides her the opportunity to collect her thoughts. "It's all I ask, a fair chance for him. I know that these things take time, but I also know that with time, he will prove his heart is true. So… thank you."

Ahxe’s rumbling laugh returns.

“Mind you, this is me being generous. Most wanderers don’t get beelined right into our territory, you know. We keep them at the outpost for at least a few sennights. We get more gifts out of them that way,” Ahxe says with a wagging finger. “But I will make this exception, given the circumstances.”

She procures one of her dry, darkened spine discs and holds it half a fulm above the candlelight. Its glow filters through the bone’s pinpricks, revealing a map of stars. Ilma watches carefully as Ahxe draws from the stars themselves, a keen eye on the constellations. She waits patiently, quietly, and though she does not read the sky in the same way the matriarch does, she understands. For at the center of the ensemble, Ilma would recognize the image of the Wanderer. The Arrow.

“This season is an era of change, and so I would welcome it this time.” Ahxe says.

“A season of change indeed.”

Ahxe tucks the star map into the pile with the others, shrouding them in starless night once more. “This time. Under some conditions. Are your ears at attention, sister?”

“Always at attention, sister.”

“First, you need to keep your family up to speed for me. I’m not keen on uhya Aila knocking my door down about this, so it’s your responsibility to inform them that Vahri’s son is here and to tell them what the plan is moving forward.”

Ilma nods fervently as she says, “Of course. I will take responsibility for telling them all what has transpired and what will happen from here on out.” She rubs her forehead for a moment. “Ugh, I’ll have to tell them about Mholi too…”

“You won’t need to tell the little ones all the details,” Ahxe says with a dismissive wave of the hand. “And it’s Mholi’s responsibility to own up to her mistakes, not yours. I just don’t want them to be left adrift the moment they meet him.”

“No, of course not. I am simply thinking of what a nightmare it will be when Ma finds out.”

A shudder runs through Ilma’s body as she says this. Ahxe’s chortle is the briefest of whinnies; she can’t help but pity the woman.

“I will make sure that they are in the loop,” Ilma continues. “Your second condition?”

“Second, from here on Vahri’a is to introduce himself to our clanswomen as Vahri’a of the North Shroud. He ought to drop the use of that name that means nothing, Korla— it will do him better in his standing with the others, anyroad.”

Ilma places a hand to her chin as she thinks of this. “That would be a discussion to have with Vahri’a himself… though, I agree.” She folds her arms together, tutting as she ponders the condition deeper. “It will make it easier for him to integrate, and not scare off the clan by making them think he’s here to start a new one.”

“I am sure he will agree.” Ahxe is convinced of it at least. “Lastly, and most importantly… Whatever comes of this, Ilma, I do not want you to blame yourself for any of it.”

The matriarch takes her sworn sister’s hand into her own two. Calloused and worked, they have seen better days, but there is a warmth to her gesture all the same. 

“If Vahri’a is rejected by our people, do not take it as a failure on your part. If Mholi cannot come to terms with the first son, that is not your doing. Yes, we are family, flesh and blood forged by the Goddess, but you are not responsible for who they are and what they believe. You are a daughter of Clan Cirka, whether your charge is a son of ours or not.

‘You will not be consumed by guilt on others’ behalf. Am I making myself clear?”

The matriarch’s dark gaze pierces. A longer silence is held in Ilma’s hands, in Ahxe’s hands. The two sit there with their stares locked in place. After what seems like several moons, the pain so ever-present in Ilma’s eyes disperses, replaced by a sorrowful tiredness.

“As clear as the night sky,” Ilma answers succinctly. “I have done my best. I have done all I can. It would be foolish to blame myself for things out of my control. It just isn’t… productive.” She squeezes Ahxe’s hands gently. In her eyes, sorrow turns to confidence. “So rest assured ahya, I will take care of myself.”

“Good.” Ahxe’s rough palm makes for a gentle pat. “You deserve to. And I’ll let that one slide between us, anhtan.” 

Ilma blinks — then laughs, realizing what she had said. “I appreciate your discretion. I can’t imagine what I would do otherwise!”

The matriarch’s pipe has fizzled into curling wisps, and the smells of dreamweed and sandalwood have finished their dance. She takes her prized possession into hand and a fire crystal into the other, leaning back into her office chair of floor pillows.

“Now, don’t let me keep you from your nephew.”

With a firm nod, Ilma turns to leave, hoisting something invisible over her shoulder. The effects of muscle memory, no doubt.

“Not even you’d be able to Ahxe, but I’ll make sure he’s properly welcomed and introduced.”

Only after the door clicks behind Ilma does Ahxe find solace to utter to herself.

“Let’s hope the Goddess is on your side, third daughter.”

* * *

Uhya — aunt Yutan — niece Ahya — older sister Anhtan — younger sister Unha — grandmother, grand aunt, or matriarch

[the-fae-folk]

How to Build a World?

Some time ago, I answered a writing question as Quoth the Raven that dealt with how to go about Worldbuilding for your story (Found Here). I’ve now rewritten the piece because I was struck with inspiration for a much more poetic form. I rather like it this way... ______________________________________________________________ Every story has to start somewhere. Some start with an endless void, a dark abyss where spirits drift over the waters, an egg which has not yet hatched to reveal the universe contained within. But in my opinion the best beginnings are found on a blank page.

Sing an ode to the whiteness of a screen, to the sterile form of an unfilled notebook amidst a pile of notebooks you keep buying but never write in. I call upon thee, oh Muses, let the divine speak into the shadows and let there be light. Fountains may spring up from the deeps and the oceans pay homage to the moon above. I am but a humble supplicant to the gods of paper and ink, where multiverses of verse and prose are crafted from words alone.

A world must be made through the number seven. Seven days, seven dwarfs, seven epochs, seven sins, seven virtues, seven founding principles of building a world.

The First is of Magic. All worlds begin with magic in a way. You can call it by any name you desire; Nature, physics, deity. First a word is spoken, a rule, a way of being. Whether the universe is filled with blinding empty light and shaded to sight by suns of shadow and fires that burn black enough to repel the light of night, or if the endless skies are oceans where planets drift in bubbles of air and stars keep the endless ice of the galactic abyss at bay with their warmth.

It is a question of how your world works, a list of rules that cannot be broken by even you as the rest of the pieces fall into place. A willing suspension of disbelief is a fragile thing. If it breaks, you are dashed to pieces beneath the weight of fallen expectations. A reader betrayed is rarely forgiving to those who have broken their own laws.

So write, write of the shifting of stars and the fundamental forces of love and duty. In your canon proclaim the laws of wind and gravity, atoms of justice, and the blessed radiation of whimsy and wonder.

But once you have finished, and the last law carved upon the last stone atop your own Sinai, you must heed them always. From gods to grains of sand on a distant shore, none can break these commandments.

When you speak a second time, it is of Place. Of mountains and mayhem, of vast oceans where secrets lie forgotten far beneath the waves.

Reach out your hand to carve canyons from the paragraphs on the page, riverbeds that flow swift and pure into great lakes and down into silent aquifers below the very earth itself. Whether one sun, or seven, or none at all, this world must be made known through careful descriptions and prose.

And as long as it does not contradict your rules, you can have islands that fly through the skies, glass rain, giant geodic structures that have never seen the light of a single day. What of glaciers that chill the whole land into an ice age? Or a supervolcano that belches molten glass from its summit?

Then, as your world is forming, think on the third principle of building a world. Life.

Deep down in the depths of the darkest seas you might form creatures so alien they defy the very mind, drifting on currents and living without sun or sky, only in eternal shadow and crushing pressure. Or you may begin on land instead, with green skinned goblin-like folk who live among the trees and speak in song and melody as they hunt the fire breathing dragonflies. Perhaps even the sky might be your dominion. Pods of whales that swim among the clouds, blowing geysers of wind high into the abyss of blue and white that turns to stars at the highest heights.

Each living thing lies in connection with one another. Eating, growing, changing, moving. Flowers make bioluminescence in forever darkened woods and caverns. Gas filled balloon-like pods could carry creatures high into the sky with them, letting them escape from predators.

Here and now your pen is the fountain that begets creation, your mind is the tree from which all life springs. This world is your garden to cultivate, your Eden cradled between life giving rivers.

Wherever you touch there will be life. In the most scorching of deserts, in the deepest caves and wells, in the furthest canyons, upon the coldest glaciers. And as long as you remain true to your rules of reality, your world can take even the most whimsical of forms. Trees whose roots tangle among the clouds and whose boughs hang down towards the distant earth below, people who can see colors that neither you nor I have ever heard of. Each new thing makes your world more complex, more real, more connected.

Perhaps you know what comes next? In truth it has already begun, for your fourth is of Cognition.

It may be that somewhere in your world there is a creature or plant, perhaps many, or even all, who have tasted that forbidden fruit and became more than they were, became aware that their eyes had been closed and for the first time knew that they could open them and look.

What might it be like? To look out at the world and for the first time see it anew? Before there was survival and safety, food and mating. There was no time for beauty, no time for dreaming, no time for such things when every moment was needed. Yet at some point, there was time, and someone stopped to look. And everything changed.

Most creators prefer the humanoid form when building cognizant peoples, though not all, some few might choose different shapes. Plant, reptile, insect, or even stranger forms the likes of which might not be found here in our world, but only in that world of their making.

But the shape isn’t the important thing. No, what is vitally important is the manner of cognizance. How is it that your people understand the world? What are they aware of? What things can they hear? Or touch? Taste? See? Smell? Or perhaps they have senses that can only be described in roundabout ways to readers who will never entirely understand what it is to perceive in such ways, like blind men who try to know what it is like to see.

Now it is time at last for your fifth. This is the culmination of all things thus far, the laws of reality, the geography, the life, the cognizant peoples… Your fifth is Culture.

Peoples gather together. They make laws to protect or to divide, to ensure and ensnare. They farm or hunt for food, creating new ways with new generations. And best of all they tell stories. Oh those stories. These are the things of which culture is made. Stories that are woven into tapestries or painted into murals, songs are composed to evoke the emotions of such stories, even food is cooked to be eaten as the stories are told.

But there are other things which can affect your peoples and persons. Where do they get their clothing? Animal hides or plant fibers? Perhaps wool or cotton? And how is it obtained? Technology? Magic? Labor? Do the people even wear clothing at all? For some might not find it necessary if they are perfect for the place they dwell in their world.

What foods can they eat? Would you or I even recognize it? Let alone be able to digest it without agonizing pains in our stomachs? A fruit that glows might transfer its glow to those who eat it, giving them light to see in the dark and energy to live another day. Certain beasts are only slaughtered on certain days of the star calendars, for festivals and holy feast days, for ceremonial reasons and never secular ones.

Here is the most dangerous part in your journey, for the building of culture can become a mire or a maze, a labyrinthine pit from whence you can never escape no matter how much you build. Every detail begets another, and cultures are more than any one person can make. World Builder though you are, you still have limitations of your own.

So you look to the sixth, which is history. From whence did they come? And where do their journeys go? And of course, what happened at every step in between? Kings and emperors to the feuds of petty farmers. Did the dragons lay claim to the seven clawed mountains in the forty ninth century or did the Arch Astronomer falsely claim they did so that he might turn his people’s thoughts to southern trade?

Culture takes time to move and once it begins it will not stop. From the grand world point of view to the shortsightedness of individuals, each and every step will be important. Religions and wars, cataclysmic events, heroes, and even plagues. Everything that arises when you add time to the world you have created is history. The world is a living breathing thing that will move on its own if you let it.

The seventh day arrives. Some deities might rest, seeing that all is good. But not you, for your world is made in slavish worship to the Story. A world built so that it might contain, for good or ill, a tale of your telling.

So write, prideful one. Your hubris has driven you to follow in the footsteps of the gods themselves, building a world where before was nothing. It is time to look closer, to follow a single strand of thread in this tapestry you have woven from dreams and shadows.

Now that you have crafted for us an entire world, tell us your tale. We are listening.

[thedancemostofall]

A Small Eternity

Alone, soaring, my balcony a cloud in the sky’s gentle hold, I look out on a beach, a paradise where the green (whispering, roaring) has said all it has to say. A green that almost glows with pistachio-colored edges. A green that suckles, crawls, grows into bright apricot and enters an ornate rust like an overripe pomegranate skin. A greyish green escaping a blend of blue, a pearly green that leans into copper, a translucent grape-green that leans into I don’t know what. The forests rest in slopes that touch the lake’s silence from all sides, and the scents of flowers ascend from the mountain’s foot toward me, high as earth-bound birds.

The mountains look ancestral, like our grandfathers who typically know their places,   the mountains are epochs, and if you look closely, they’re the body of time itself. Adorned with boats, the lake’s water resembles a granddaughter’s dress. Half-asleep she listens to the mountains tell their magical stories as the shy breeze floats (through the villages around the water’s arc) almost apologetic for the rustle of leaves.

And I, with two wings that happened suddenly, soar overlooking this vastness, and having become a bird perhaps, I get to realize what a bird’s view is, for now. I said this is a morning of tenderness for those who observe it, of scenes that grow tender for one another. I would need a year to learn the names of these trees, plants, blooms, and birds, a year to learn my name here. Here, poetry is perfected, so write as you desire, stranger, the alphabet desires you here.

I contemplated my body, and it confused me: under the buttons of this light shirt there’s a present like a knee that’s hit the marble, and there’s a fearsome past like a wolf that thinks of a child and insists that I call it a future. There are my people’s houses that have swapped people, and losses are arranged like dictionaries on the shelves.

I shut my body, but my eyes stay open like my mother’s window which never watched her grandchildren play in the garden— though she did witness Yahweh’s Army play with our days, and she lived the reversal of attributes, the victim’s corruption from head to toe, and the collapse of yearnings and roofs.

Under the buttons of this light shirt, I continue the work of the living:   I keep Radwa warm, Majid stays late at my house, and Umm Munif picks flowers from her garden as she waits for Munif.   Here we are walking together in the mountains’ morning, we talk and listen, tire, slow down, rest, rush, rage and forgive, we forget, get lost a little, ask for directions, recite one of Al-Mutanabbi’s lines, and laugh at a joke that merges with our tears.

Can I change death’s mind and convince it of its failure? Can death believe I’m walking with my departed’s feet? Because my steps are their steps, and my eyes are their eyes, and this poem is their listening. Do I convince death that they’re happening to me now like salvation or an embrace? They’re happening to me now so that together we may bear the burden of this unbearable beauty, a small eternity surprises us in this instant indeed: Tamim is about to take a photo . . . and I say, Hold on a second:

I will fix Radwa’s collar, draw Munif and my mother closer to me, and move the tallest, my father and Majid, to the center. Can death be persuaded that we’ve been resurrected whole, slipped from its hands, and flown with the birds? Above the lake, we became lake, became mountains and shadows, and sidewalk cafés.

Here I am banishing longing from my language. Longing, the confession that breaks place in two, the body in two, the self in two. The riverbank is the river. Without it, we don’t call it a river. The mountains become mountains only with their valleys. And the flowers, don’t they need stems to bloom? Doesn’t a hilt need a sword to live? Who can separate the bird from the possibilities of wings, and the waves from the sea? Who now can separate ship from water? Who says spring is the absence of summer? Who separates clouds from shades of white? There’s no halo in the sky without a moon at its heart.

Did I just say this or did my departed improvise it? I’m not sure, but I don’t miss them— they’re here under the buttons of my light shirt.

Mourid Barghouti,  August 17

Translated by Zeina Hashem Beck

https://thebaffler.com/logical-revolts/a-small-eternity-barghouti

[liminalcorp]

Phenomenon: Arboretum Fairy Lights

It’s one of the first truly humid summer nights of many to come and the proximity to the lake makes the air so thick you could take a bite out of it like an Acme gun-smoke donut. We’re at the Cowling Arboretum, named for the president that questionably acquired the 800 acres of land for a college campus in a time when education funds were sorely lacking, investigating reports of glowing lights on the water. I say investigate in the loosest sense of the word. Wandering around the arb at dusk, smoking and walking down well-worn muddy trails, elicits a specific high-school nostalgia that makes it difficult not to get caught up in the fantasy. Frogs are chirping, the air smells green, and mosquitoes are eating me alive. 

Referred to with epochal affection as The Arb by locals, the sprawling collection of flora and fauna is tended to, generally, by the more bohemian students of the already fairly free-thinking Carleton college. Kay Diaz is one of these caretakers and a casual acquaintance of my long time friend and co-investigator, Liam. She brought the phenomenon of the lights to his attention, by his own admittance prompted by his enthusing about a lightweight increase in online presence since Marty began to involve us in their pursuit of the supernatural, and he brought it to ours.

So we found ourselves treading familiar ground, enjoying the scenery as much as we were having to fend off an endless onslaught of mosquitoes. They’re considered the state bird second to the Loon for good reason, earning their place by haunting every summer with such vicious dedication that should they up and vanish overnight, we would miss complaining about them. Liam insists that the poisonous clouds Marty sprays in their wake are totally unnecessary with the essential oil blend he personally mixed. Marty grimaces and continues reinforcing their mobile brume of pesticide. I had dabbed a little of the oil behind my ears, and while pleasantly lemony, I doubted its effectiveness. 

In truth, I didn’t hold out much hope in finding any genuine examples of wisps. Historically, the tiny flame-wielding sprites of the marshes reported by 18th century travelers have ended up being luminescent gasses from rotting plants. In the Arb, there’s plenty of plants ripe for decomposition by the muddy banks of the lake. But even a non-paranormal source of little blue flames on the water promises some sort of magic, and I wasn’t going to turn down a walk in the woods. 

It took until sundown for the lights to appear. Marty was the first to spot them, pointing to flickering, bright points drifting hypnotically in the gentle eddies. We followed the trajectory of the lights, and with Marty held at a precarious angle gripping my wrist to avoid tipping over off the muddy bank and into the potently vegetal sludge of the lake, we discovered a scattering of half burned out tea-lights, and paper plates. 

Knocking the muck off their heels, Marty wondered out loud what the purpose of the lights were and suggested we visit their place of origin across the lake. Their tone was begrudging of more assault by mosquito, but dedicated to their curiosity. Lighting another cigarette I lagged a little behind my friends, roommates and cohorts. The moon hung as a slim fingernail in the sky, cicadas buzzing in the heavy damp air. It was a nice night to get out. I could see myself sending candles across the lake just to watch them bob and weave, an excuse to enjoy the start of the few months of summer we get. 

It was about twenty minutes of hugging the edge of the lake before we spotted another flickering light. It didn’t drift in the water like its sisters and made its home on a stone roughly etched with the words “SAMSON - YOU WERE A GOOD BOY”, a little mound of dirt stretched out before it like a shadow. An offering of a pink toy mouse sat beside the candle, its edges frayed and well loved.

The three of us fell quiet before the tiny grave. It didn’t feel right to try and say anything at the shrine of a cat unknown to us, but it deserved the respect and reverie of silence. Marty was the first to break the stillness, wandering off the path to come back with dirty nails and a flowering weed, setting it gently by the headstone. We paid our respects to Samson and left his candle burning in the Arb.

L.K

PHENOMENON STATUS: DEBUNKED

[nakouwolf]

The Alchemy of the Hearts, Part 12

Note: 12/13 part of the translation of the French fanfic L’Alchimie des Coeurs.

Parts of the story : 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13

We’re almost done with the translation, guys, woohoo!

Don’t be afraid to let me know if I can improve it in any way to make it feel like an english story as it’s not my mother tongue.

Summary : Cassandra found out she has a huge alchemy rate with Rapunzel and tried to avoid having to confess her feelings… so she just tries to find a good hide out until that damn Day of Hearts is done, but Rapunzel knows her too well !

A really big thank you to my love @red-yellow-blue-crayon ♥ for proof-reading everything! And thank you all for reading it!

————–

* ~ ☼ ~ *

 The afternoon was coming to an end. Rapunzel was still busy with the craftsmen and artists’ demonstrations who were about to show what they were capable of for the celebration tomorrow, but Cassandra had finished all the tasks behoving her, just as she had planned. She’d be discrete this time : no horse, she would walk away. She would shadow in the woods to reach the Lost Lagoon. The comings and goings were recurrent at that hour of the afternoon, so she didn’t have any difficulty to blend into the crowd to leave the castle and disappear.

It took her a good hour of walking to reach the duo-of-oaks surrounded on both sides by berry shrubs, as described in the poem. By following the trees’ roots, she found the rock to climb to reach the path overgrown by the vegetation which already guided her more than once to that hidden place. When she arrived to the three junctions, she followed the left one, remembering the clues of the poem she had learned by heart since then. Climbing the second rock, which was proudly enthroning in the middle of the emerald grass, Cassandra arrived to the place she dreaded the most : the gorge crossed by the stream which still separated her from the lagoon. The memory of her first crossing was still vivid in her mind, but she has came back here so many times since then that she didn’t hesitate this time and jumped in the stream which was reaching her waist. She crossed it with ease. Arriving to the summit of the wall covered by the moss and surrounding the lagoon, Cassandra couldn’t help the admiring smile beaming on her features. That place, no matter how many times she saw it, was still marvelous. Always as gorgeous. Always as peaceful. It reminded her of so many memories, especially the first moments where she really bonded with Rapunzel, realizing all the qualities she held under her candid appearance of ingenuous princess.

Descending the wall to get closer to the lagoon, she pulled off her boots and entered the water. Her foot hit a set of stones and she bent over to pick it up, discovering one of the bracelets she and Rapunzel had finally given back to the lagoon. She better understood why her unconscious had chosen this place – not only because it was hidden, but because it was without a doubt bonding her to Rapunzel, which absolutely wasn’t helping her to move on by the way. Urgh, and here she was, romantic despite herself !

She let the bracelet fall back down in the water, dived into the lagoon and swam to let off some steam and let the cold water soothe her. She reached the altar behind the wall and sat next to it for quite some time, observing the greatness of the lagoon. Deep down, she wished Rapunzel was here. It was a selfish wish from her, but she had loved living this adventure with her, discovering this secret of Corona.

Going up on the bank, she walked along the lagoon to return to her starting point. She had learned a lot of things here, this place definitely had changed something inside of her. Lying down on the grass under the last rays of sunshine, she began to let her clothes dry, letting her mind wander between what she had lived with Rapunzel, what she had to do and what could be, dreaming of a whole different relationship with the princess. Her daydreaming slowly turned into a concrete dream. The sun gently warming her up, Cassandra ended up falling asleep, a smile on her lips, soothed to finally let her imagination run wild without risking any consequence.

 She’s been awakened by something cold on her arm. The temperature had clearly dropped with the night which had risen in the meantime. Painfully opening her eyes, probably interrupted in the middle of a pleasant dream, she noticed a small greenish shape on her arm and strongly shook it, surprised, before realizing it was just …

-Pascal?!

Oh, oh. It wasn’t a good sign. Rapunzel probably wasn’t far. Letting herself fall back down on the grass, she looked up behind her to discover the princess who just bent over her. She smiled, embarrassed.

-A-ah, Rapunzel!

The princess laughed. She kneeled behind Cassandra, still leaning over her.

-You got lost a bit far from your chamber, don’t you think ?

-A bit of fresh air and greenery doesn’t hurt anyone !

Rapunzel chuckled, then looked at the lagoon in front of her. Dimly lit up by the moon, it was glimmering of a thousand lights, the fishes shining under its surface. The princess decided to taunt her lady-in-waiting a little:

-What a curious choice of destination, the day before the day of hearts… I didn’t know you were so romantic !

Blushing, Cassandra strongly sat up, protesting :

-Hey, it has nothing to do with that ! I just wanted to… retreat in a calm place. Those last days have been… rather intense.

She was more thinking about the amount of work she had had when she said that, but she had to admit they also had been intense emotionally. As happy as she could be to see Rapunzel here, showing how much the princess knew without difficulty where to find her when she wasn’t on her bedroom, she was also regretting that her hidden place had been discovered. Will Rapunzel let her in her refuge just long enough for the celebration to be over ? In silence, the princess nodded.

-It’s true there has been a lot to do lately, but things will go back to normal soon. And after all, you’ll just have to enjoy the festivities tomorrow. I’ve seen that you already had prepared everything.

-I won’t take part in the celebration tomorrow.

The determined tone of her voice sounded more cutting than she would have wanted to. Rapunzel frowned.

-Why that ?

-Raps, you perfectly know that I hate that celebration, those overflows of feelings. Those last days have been particularly tiring, I need some peace. That’s why I came here.

-Only for that ?

She knew there was something else, Cassandra could detect it on her eyes. Though she didn’t have the guts to confess to her. She promised herself she wouldn’t come between her relationship with Eugene. She willingly put herself aside for that. It was out-of-question that a single question compromise her resolutions. Sighing, she decided to go on an half-confession :

-All those hearts and silliness make me feel sick, as if one needed a specific day to love someone. I don’t need any celebration for that.

-You love someone ?

The question was so direct it destabilized her. Cassandra was confused for a few seconds, gauging the impact of that question and how to get out of it without lying. Rapunzel was staring at her with curiosity but she was lacking her usual excitement, as if she already knew the answer but was expecting that it wouldn’t be given to her. The lady-in-waiting sighed and looked away, to the lagoon.

-It’s possible that I’ve fallen in love, indeed, Raps. But I’m not ready to talk about it. I don’t know, I might have hoped that, one way or another, the lagoon would had shown me the answers.

It was difficult to admit it. Especially for her who preferred to keep things to herself. Her heart clenched at the idea to thereby admit out loud the fact that she was in love. It wasn’t just a short-lived crush, it wasn’t vague feelings. She was irremediably in love with the princess. However, she needed to override it for the well being of the person she loved. She felt the princess had understood, she had well seen what she had almost done during the dance, after all. Rapunzel laid a hand over Cassandra’s.

-I understand, she simply whispered.

Cassandra met her gaze and read a lot of compassion and tenderness into it. Rapunzel probably would have had a lot of things to say if Cassandra hadn’t make her understand that it wasn’t the moment. Cassandra tried to convince herself that it was better that things happened that way. Pulling away her hand, the princess stood up and walked towards the lagoon. Giving her friend a mischievous smile, she dived into the water, splashing her willingly. Cassandra pulled back, but it wasn’t enough to avoid the majority of the attack – she found herself soaked right away !

-Hey ! She protested.

Then, bursting out laughing, she joined the princess in the lagoon, attacking her back. They spent a long time splashing each other, catching each other under the water, playing in the lagoon in the middle of the bluish stones papering it. They explored some parts of it they hadn’t taken the time to visit, discovering some flagstones of another epoch, engraved at some spots. They didn’t have the Saporian dictionary and thus promised they would come back someday to know more about it, even though they had already discovered the main secret of that place. After a few hours romping about in the water, they finally resolved to get dry on the shore before the sun risen. The princess couldn’t go back home soaked and seventy feet long hair was rather long to dry !

Sitting side by side on the verge of the lagoon, they looked at it in silence. Some fireflies were dancing here and there above the water, diving from time to time on the surface, probably to drink. Rapunzel shivered, it wasn’t summer yet and her clothes just like her hair were soaked. There was nothing to start a fire so Cassandra resolved to wrap her arms around her to warm her up. She who came here to get away, had finally rarely been so close. Rapunzel thanked her with a smile, her eyes full of gratitude. Her eyes then turned back to the surface, suddenly more saddened.

-Cass, I’d like you to be there tomorrow.

The lady-in-waiting stiffened a bit to that request.

-Why that, Raps ? You’ll be able to enjoy the celebration with Eugene.

-It won’t be the same without you. I… I really would like to dance with you again.

Cassandra felt her heart fastened while a wave of warmth reached her cheeks. She might have been soaked, she wasn’t cold anymore for her part.

-I… I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Raps.

She wasn’t sure she could contain herself a second time. She didn’t want to ruin the celebration with an inappropriate gesture towards the princess who was already in couple with Eugene.

-The bandmaster has been amazed by your performance, Cass. According to him, no one has been able to transcribe that… alchemy.

She had hesitated to pronounce that last word and felt that Cassandra froze when hearing it. It took a few seconds to the lady-in-waiting to remember how to speak.

-Would my absence sadden you… ?

Rapunzel nodded. Cassandra gave up in front of the sadness in her eyes.

-If I join you after the celebration, would it comfort you ?

-It would be already better than not seeing you at all, yes. It’s a good compromise, I guess. Thanks, Cass.

She was hoping for more but she didn’t want to compel her friend. Cassandra looked down, blaming herself for that selfish choice, but it was for the good of the princess. Though she felt that Rapunzel really wished to share that dance with her again. She remained thoughtful for a moment, until the sun started to rise, warming them up with its first beams. Rapunzel then understood she would go back home alone this morning. Slowly getting away from the embrace of her friend, she stood up and took back Pascal on her shoulder.

-Don’t go back home too late, okay ? I doubt I’ll be the only one missing you at the kingdom today.

-Have fun, Rapunzel.

Cassandra let the princess go back home before the sun was high in the sky. Looking at her go, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge in her heart by willingly isolating herself while Rapunzel wanted to have her by her side during that day. The lagoon suddenly felt so empty, emphasizing her feeling of loneliness. But she had to hold on…

~ ☼ ~

[mumblelard]

gggggggggggoslings or summer is immanent

last night i dreamt i was at a party with my twin sister. it was a reunion of distant relatives with familiar faces like distorted versions of our oldest memories. on leaving, we found ourselves in another party, this one full of frantic revelry, and then another party, and another, and another, and another, until finally we emerged on a wide boulevard full of brightly lit shops. as we walked through the city at night, we shared our stories, and we laughed when noticed the storefront displays had arranged themselves into funny echoes of our tales

[sasorikigai]

Marzena watches Hanzo's back silently, doesn't know what to do and the uncertainty of his reaction makes her sulking slightly. And yet, her steps move to his side before her fingertips touch his cheek gingerly. Once she gets his full moons' attentiom, her lips press against his lips ever so gently. Her kiss ends after few seconds, but her violet-blue hues curve along with a soft smile. Her lips open for a whisper. "Happy Birthday, Hanzo." (Happy birthday to Hanzo!)

Random Inbox Shenanigans (in lieu of Hanzo’s birthday!) || @drecmcrcfters || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || He was always different; for he always looked for brave hearts and golden souls, not pretty and attractive faces and hollow appearances. The exemplification and prowess of his martial arts, along with a warrior’s endurance and perseverance are the flesh, muscle, and bone of his architecture, punctuation of them his raison d'être as the loose thorns of his grief and melancholy becomes the divine touch of the sun that would burn his Phoenix feathers. How his gaze remains, poignant and full of limerence, towards the heavens; and Hanzo Hasashi thinks. Icarus may have fallen, but he is made of steel, not wax. And if he ever sets himself aflame, he will never be afraid to soar into the sky on singed wings, for he has became a Master of Hellfire, and steel of his being would have turned into amaranthine. 

Birthed in November, Hanzo Hasashi had also died in November, on the edge of December as he recalls gazing into the lucid sapphire gaze; dark and menacing, reflecting the color of charcoal as the embedded night augmented erupting magmatic sanguine stretch of his being. And without hesitation, without an afterthought, his vindictive, vicious desire fluently spoke through his infernal firestorm, with his unlife and empty pulse thrumming to the deadly devouring as his sinful ravenous bloodthirst continued to leave no evidence behind. Now, Hanzo Hasashi’s thoughts collide with the burning impulse of being wanted, or being needed even if only for a night for anyone and anything. 

No longer the monster that is barely surviving off the blood of menacing men, Hanzo Hasashi now attempts to embody the hopes, the ideals, the potentiality of most of the people who look at them, or even look up to him. There is only one common ideal; created and fostered by the kintsugi of his heart. And he would never be afraid of death; he would be much more afraid of an unlived life. Hanzo does not have to careen his head to sense Marzena’s presence behind him; for his tangible world is too quiet and silent, paradoxical to the murky chaos of his psyche. The Sun within him is a lover; as soon as he feels her lips upon his own, the glowing trails of kisses consume and gently devour the skin, as promises to return again as the manifested susurrations accentuate the moisture of his balmy, affectionate kiss. His lips akin to blossoming sakura as fluttering petals become the tingling reminder of what will perpetually be missed, even with their impervious love which reignites that thought lost with all else forsaken. 

“You remembered, even against all the sneering and relentless reminder of my tormenting trials and tribulations,” he may be desensitized to a certain amount, but his lungs still threaten to rupture and exsanguinate from the familiar sensation and the emotional cuts haven’t scarred over quite yet. How Marzena draws constellations on his skin and gently hangs him in the sky; holds him there, filled with moonlight and the echoes of familiar songs, suddenly wafting through that vast, inexplicit forest, lost in impossible epochs. “Here is to eons to come, for mounts of sorrowful past will continue to scribble the betterment of the world and my own best impression of a warrior and a protector.” ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || 

[winterfable]

Greece and the heroic age

Origen griego de los filisteos

[...] And the influence of Egypt can be traced in the Cretan culture of the time. The Philistines who settled in southern Palestine are now supposed to have been colonists from Crete; and remains found in Sicily and Spain testify that the Island of Minos sent products and offshoots of its civilisation far to the west. [...]

[...]

Minoa was an ancient name of Gaza. The same name, in Amorgos, Siphnos, and Paros, is a record of Cretan rule over the Aegean islands.

Inicio de la civilización griega y los poemas homéricos

The rise of a civilisation on Greek soil, very similar to Cretan, and undoubtedly under Cretan influence, began probably in the sixteenth century and lasted till the end of the twelfth. Its records are monuments of stone which have remained for more than three thousand years above the face of the earth, or have been brought to light by the spade; and the objects of daily use and luxury which were placed in the houses of the dead and have been unearthed, chiefly in our days, by the curiosity of Europeans seeking the origins of their own civilisation. And for the later stage of this period we have the Homeric poems.

Tirinto y los cíclopes

Tiryns was the older of the two fortresses, and had played its part in the earlier epoch before the Aegean peoples had yet emerged from the stone age. It stands on a long low rock about a mile and a half from the sea, and the land around it was once a marsh. From north to south the hill rises in height, and was shaped by man’s hand into three platforms, of which the southern and highest was occupied by the palace of the king. But the whole acropolis was strongly walled round by a structure of massive stones, laid in regular layers but rudely dressed, the crevices being filled with a mortar of clay. This fashion of building has been called Cyclopean from the legend that masons called Cyclopes were invited from Lycia to build the walls of Tiryns. The main gate of entrance, on the east side, was approached by a passage between the outer wall of the fortress and the wall of the palace; and the right, unshielded side of an enemy advancing to the gate was exposed to the defenders on the castle wall. On the west side there was a postern, from which a long flight of stone steps led up to the back part of the palace. But one curious feature in the castle of Tiryns sets it apart from all the other ancient fortresses of Greece. On the south side the wall deepens for the purpose of containing store-chambers, the doors of which open out upon covered galleries, also built inside the wall, and furnished with windows looking outward.

Helena como pretexto

It was probably at the beginning of the twelfth century that the Achaeans made ready a great expedition to exterminate the power which was the chief obstacle to eastward expansion (It is quite possible that the motive which the poets assigned for the Trojan War —to recover Helen, the wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta, carried off by Paris, son of Priam, — had some historical basis; but if such an incident occurred, it served only as a pretext for the war.).  It is uncertain how far the Greek states of the time can be described as a federation or an empire, but most of them recognized the supremacy of Mycenae, and there seems no reason to doubt that the Achaean king of Mycenae, whose name was Agamemnon, son of Atreus, succeeded in enlisting the co-operation of the chief kings and princes of northern as well as southern Greece; it looks, indeed, as if the Achaean lords of Phtia and Thessaly —the country from which the Argo sailed—had a particular interest in the enterprise. All sailed to the plain of Troy. The peoples of the west coast of Asia, including the Lycians, all rallied to the help of Priam. It was a war between both sides of the Aegean sea. According to the tradition of the poets the siege lasted nine years; and, however it came about, Priam’s city was destroyed. Its fall was the necessary prelude to the opening of the Propontis and the Euxine sea to Greek enterprise, and Greek colonization on the eastern coasts and islands of the Aegean would soon begin. The hill of Troy would be again inhabited, but it would be of small importance, little more than a place of famous memories.

The Rape of Helen by Tintoretto (1578–1579, Museo del Prado, Madrid); Helen languishes in the corner of a land-sea battle scene.

The homeric poems

The later period of the heroic age, its manners of life, its material enviroment, its social organisation, its political geography, are reflected in the Homeric poems. Although the poets who composed the Iliad and the Odissey probably did not live before the ninth century, they derived their matter from older lays which must have belonged to to the generations inmediately succeeding the Trojan War. After the age of bronze had passed away, and the conditions of life and the political shape of the greek world had been utterly changed, it would have been impossible for any one, however imaginative, —unless he were a scientific antiquarian with abundance of records at his command,—to create a consistent picture of a vanished civilisation. And the picture which Homer presents is a consistent picture, closely corresponding, in its main features and in remarkable details, to the evidence which has been recently recovered from the earth and described in the foregoing pages. The Homeric palace is built on the same general plan as the palaces that have been found Mycenae and Tiryns, at Troy and in Boetia.

The equipment of the Homeric heroes and the man-screening Homeric shield receive their best illustration from Mycenaean gems and jars. The blue inlaid frieze in the vestibule of the hall of Tiryns proves that the poet’s frieze of cyanus in the hall of Alcinous was not a fancy; and he describes as the cup of Nestor a gold cup with doves perched on the handles, such as one which was found in a royal tomb at Mycenae.

The subjects wrought on the shield which the master-smith made for Achilles may be illustrated by works of art found at Mycenae and in Crete. The shield, wrought in bronze, tin, silver, and gold, is round and has a ringed space in the centre, encompassed by three concentric girdles. In the middle is the earth, the sea, and the heaven, with “the unwearied sun and the moon at her full, and all the stars wherewith heaven is crowned”. The subject of the first circle is Peace and War. Here are scenes in a city at peace —banquets, bride borne through the streets by torchlight to their new homes, the elders dealing out justice; there is another city besieged, and scenes of battle. The second circle shows scenes from country-life at various seasons of the year: ploughing in spring, the ploughman drinking a draught of wine as he reaches the end of the black furrow; a king watching reapers reaping in his meadows, and the preparations for a harvest festival; a bright vintage scene, “young men and maids bearing the sweet fruit in wicker baskets,” and dancing, while a boy plays a lyre and sings the song of Linus; herdsmen with their dogs pursuing two lions which had carried of an ox from the banks of a sounding river; a pasture and shepherds’ huts in a mountain glen. The whole was girded by the third, outmost circle, through which “the great might of the river Oceanus” flowed —rounding off, as it were, the life of mortals by its girdling stream.

The whole conception is due to the imagination of the poet, but similar scenes of Peace and War were depicted by the artists of the Aegaen; as for instance, on the Cretan plaques (which probably adorned the cover of a chest of cypress-wood) on which we saw a city represented, and on a vase of steatite decorated by a picture of what is probably a harvest festival. The siege is illustrated by the scene of the leaguered city on the silver beaker (above, p. 25); and dagger blades discovered at Mycenae show brilliant examples of the art of inlaying on metal.

The art of writing, too, is mentioned in the Iliad, in the story of Bellerophon, who carries from Argos to Lycia “deadly symbols in a folded tablet”. The fact, which was doubted till a few years ago, that writing was practised in the heroic age, shows that the poet was guilty of no anachronism.

There is indeed on striking difference in custom. The Mycenaen tombs reveal few traces of the habit of burning the dead, which the Homeric Greeks invariably practised; while, beyond what is implied in a single mention of embalming, the poems completely ignore the practice of burial. In later times both customs existed in Greece side by side. The explanation of the discrepancy is still uncertain.

Heroic minstrelsy was probably an old institution in Greece, and in the twelfth century lays commemorating the Trojan War were sung throughout Greece. The glorification of Achilles and other features of the Iliad point to northern Greece, where was the kingdom of Achilles in Phtia, as the home of one of these early minstrels. In southern Greece too, in the royal palaces of Mycenae and Argos, Sparta and Pylos, lays of Troy, which would long afterwards inspire the epic poetry of Homer, must have been sung.

La propiedad familiar y el sentimiento religioso de enterrar a los muertos

The importance of the family is most vividly shown in the manner in which the Greeks possessed the lands which they conquered. The soil did not become the private property of individual freemen, nor yet the public property of the whole community. The king of the tribe or tribes marked out the whole territory into parcels, according to the number of families in the community; and the families cast lots for the estates. Each family then possessed its own estate; the head of the family administered it, but had no power of alienating it. The land belonged to the whole kin, but not to any particular member. The right of property in land seems to have been based, not on the right of conquest, but on a religious sentiment. Each family buried their dead within their own domain; and it was held that the dead possessed for ever and ever the soil where they lay, and that the land round about a sepulchre belonged rightfully to their living kinsfolk, one of whose highest duties was to protect and tend the tombs of their fathers.

Asignación de nombre a pueblos y el grupo Iónico

[…]A number of cities or settlements, which have no political union and are merely associated together by belonging to the same race and speaking the same tongue, do not generally choose themselves a common name. It rather happens that when they get a common name it is given to them by strangers, who, looking from the outside, regard them as a group and do not think of the differences of which they are themselves more vividly conscious. And it constantly happens that the name of one member of the group is, by some accident, picked out and applied to the whole. Thus it befell that the Aeolian and not the Achaean name was selected to designate the northern division of the Greek settlements in Asia; just as our own country came to be called not Saxony but England. The southern and larger group of colonies received the name of lāvǒnes —or Īones, as they called themselves, when they lost the letter υ. The Iavones “with flowing tunics”, who are mentioned in the Iliad in association with the Boeotians, refers to the Athenians; but the name itself, perhaps, is not Greek and was first given to the Greek colonists on Asiatic soil.

Eritras, la carmesí

[...]

Of the foundation of the famous colonies of Ionia, of the order in which they were founded, and of the relations of the settlers with the Lydian natives, we know as little as of the settlements of the Achaeans. Clazomenae and Teos arose on the north and south sides of the neck of the peninsula which runs out to meet Chios; and Chios, on the east coast of her island, faces Erythrae on the mainland—Erythrae, "the crimson," so called from its purple fisheries, the resort of Tyrian traders.[...]

Homero

[...]

The colonists carried with them into the new Greece beyond the seas traditions of the old civilisation which in the mother country was being overwhelmed by the Dorian invaders; and those traditions helped to produce the luxurious Ionian civilisation Icon which meets us some centuries later when we come into the clearer light of recorded history. And they carried with them their minstrelsy, their lays of Troy, celebrating the deeds of Achilles and Agamemnon and Odysseus. The heroic lays of Greece entered upon a new period in Ionia, where a poet of supreme genius arose, and the first and greatest epic poem of the world was created. It was probably in the ninth century that Homer composed the Iliad. His famous name has the humble meaning of "hostage", and we may fancy, if we care, that the t poet was carried off in his youth as a hostage in some local strife. Possibly he lived in rugged Chios, and he gives us a local touch when he describes the sun as rising over the sea. From him the Homerid family of the bards of Chios were sprung. He took as his main argument the wrath of Achilles leading up to the death of Hector, and wrought into his epic many other episodes derived from the old lays on the theme of Troy. Tradition made Homer the author of both the great epics, the Odyssey as well as the Iliad. Whether this is so or not, no great length of time need separate the composition of the two poems.

Many critics think that the Iliad we have is not the original Iliad of Homer, but that his poem was a much shorter work and was remoulded and expanded by succeeding poets in a way .that was not entirely to its advantage. Similar views are held about the Odyssey. This is the "Homeric question", and no agreement has yet been reached. In any case, even if the whole Iliad was not his work—and this has not been proved—Homer was the father of epic poetry, in the sense in which we distinguish an epic poem with a large argument from a short heroic lay. His work was thoroughly artificial—conscious art, as the greatest poetry always is; and it is possible that he committed the Iliad to writ­ing." As he and his successors sang in Ionia, at the courts of Ionian princes, he dealt freely with the dialect of the old Achaean poems. The Iliad was arrayed in Ionic dress, and ultimately became so identified with Ionia that the Achaean origin of the older poetry was forgotten. The transformation was not, indeed, perfect, for sometimes the Ionian forms did not suit the metre, and Aeolian forms were used. But the change was accomplished with wonderful skill. It is probable that the Ionian poet also did much to adapt the epic material which he used to the taste and moral ideas of a more refined age. The Iliad is notably free from the features of crude savagery which generally mark the early literature of primitive peoples; only a few slight traces remain to show that there were in the background ugly and barbarous things over which a veil has been drawn. In other respects, the Ionian poets have faithfully preserved the atmosphere of the past ages of which they sung. They preserved its manners, its environment, its geography. Only an occasional anachronism slips in, which in the otherwise consistent picture can easily be detected. Unwittingly, for instance, the poet of the Odyssey allows it to escape that he lived in the iron age, for such a proverb as "the mere gleam of iron lures a man to strife" could not have arisen until iron weapons had been long in use. But he is at pains to preserve the weapons and gear and customs of the bronze age.

Homer preserved the memory of the Trojan War as a great national enterprise. The Iliad was regarded as something of far greater significance than an Ionian poem; it was accepted as a national epic, and was, from the first, a powerful influence in promoting among the Greeks community of feeling and tendencies towards national unity. The Odyssey, affiliated as it was to the Trojan legend, became a national epic too; although the scene of one-third of the story is laid in fairyland, and it has not as a whole any national significance. And, the interest awakened in Greece by the idea of the Trojan war was displayed by the composition of a series of epic poems, dealing with those events of the siege which happened both before and after the vents described in the Iliad, and with the subsequent history of some of the Greek heroes. These poems were ascribed to various obscure authors; 47 some of them passed under the name of Homer. Along with the Iliad and Odyssey, they formed a chronological series which came to be known as the Epic Cycle.

[...]

Fall of greek monarchies and rise of the republics

Under their kings the Greeks had conquered the coasts an islands of the Aegean, and had created the city-state. These were the two great contributions of monarchy to Grecian history. In forwarding the change from rural life in scattered thorps to life in cities, the kings were doubtless considering themselves as well as their people. They thought that the change would consolidate their own power by bringing the whole folk directly under their own eyes. But it also brought the king more directly under the eye of his folk. The frailties, incapacities, and misconduct of a weak lord were more noticed in the small compass of a city; he was more generally criticised and judged. City-life too was less appropriate to the patriarchal character of the Homeric "shepherd of the people." Moreover, in a city those who were ill-pleased with the king's rule were more tempted to murmur together, and able more easily to conspire. Considerations like these may help us to imagine how it came about that throughout the greater part of Greece in the eighth century the monarchies were declining and disappearing, and republics were taking their place. It is a transformation of which the actual process is hidden from us, and we can only guess at probable causes; but we may be sure that the deepest cause of all was the change to city-life. The revolution was general; the infection caught and spread; but the change in different states must have had different occasions, just as it took different shapes. In some cases gross misrule may have led to the vionlent deposition of a king; in other cases, if the succession to the sceptre devolved upon an infant or a paltry man, the nobles may have taken it upon themselves to abolish the monarchy. In many places perhaps the change was slower. The kings who had already sought to strengthen their authority by the foundation of cities must have sought also to increase or define those vague powers which belonged to an Aryan ruler—sought, perhaps, to act of their freewill without due regard to the Council's advice. When such attempts at magnifying the royal power went too far, the elders of the Council might rise and gainsay the king, and force him  to enter into a contract with his people that he would govern constitutionally. Of the existence of such contracts we have evidence. The old monarchy lasted into late times in remote Molossia, and there the king was obliged to take a solemn oath to rule his people according to law. In other cases the rights of the king might be strictly limited, in consequence of his seeking to usurp undue authority; and the imposition of limitations might go on until the office of king, although maintained in name, became in fact a mere magistracy in a state wherein the real power had passed elsewhere. Of the survival of monarchy in a limited form we have an example at Sparta; of its survival as a mere magistracy we have an example at Athens. And it should be observed that the functions  of the monarch were already restricted by limits which could be contracted further. Though he was the supreme giver of dooms, there might be other heads of clans or tribes in the state who would give dooms and judgment as well as he. Though he was the chief priest, there were other families than his to which certain priesthoods were confined. He was therefore not the sole fountain of justice or religion.

There is a vivid scene in Homer which seems to have been painted when kings were seeking to draw tighter the reins of the royal power. The poet, who is in sympathy with the kings, draws a comic and odious caricature of the "bold" carle with the gift of fluent speech, who criticises the conduct and policy of the kings. Such an episode could hardly have suggested itself in the old days before city-life had begun; Thersites is assuredly a product of the town. Odysseus, who rates and beats him, announces, in another part of the same scene, a maxim which has become as famous as Thersites himself: "The sovereignty of many is not good; let there be one sovereign, one king." That is a maxim which would win applause for the minstrel in the banquet-halls of monarchs who were trying to carry through a policy of centralisation at the expense of the chiefs of the tribes.

Where the monarchy was abolished, the government passed in the hands of those who had done away with it, the noble families of the state. The distinction of the nobles from the rest of t people is, as we have seen, an ultimate fact with which we have start. When the nobles assume the government and become the rulers, an aristocratic republic arises. Sometimes the power is won, not by the whole body of the noble clans, but by the clan to which the king belonged. This was the case at Corinth, where the royal family of the Bacchiads became the rulers. In most cases the aristocracy and the whole nobility coincided; but in others, as at Corinth, the aristocracy was only a part of the nobility, and the constitution was an oligarchy of the narrowest form. At this stage of society the men of the noble class were the nerve and sinew of the state. Birth was then the best general test of excellence that could be found, and the rule of the nobles was a true aristocracy, the government of the most excellent. They practised the craft of ruling; they were trained in it, they handed it down from father to son; and though no great men arose—great men are dangerous in an aristocracy—the government was conducted with knowledge and skill. Close aristocracies, like the Corinthian, were apt to become oppressive; and, when the day approached for aristocracies in their turn to give way to new constitutions, there were signs of grievous degeneration. But on the whole the Greek republics flourished in the aristocratic stage, and were guided with eminent ability.

The rise of the republics is about to take us into a new epoch of history; but it is important to note the continuity of the work which was to be done by the aristocracies with that which was accomplished by the kings. The two great achievements of the aristocratic age are the planting of Greek cities in lands far beyond the limits of the Aegean sea, and the elaboration of political machinery. The first of these is simply the continuation of the expansion of the Greeks around the Aegean itself. But the new movement of expansion is distinguished, as we shall see, by certain peculiarities in its outward forms,—features which were chiefly due to the fact that city-life had been introduced before the colonisation began. The beginning of colonisation belonged to the age of transition from monarchy to republic; it was systematically promoted by the aristocracies, and it took a systematic shape. The creation of political machinery carried on the work of consolidation which the kings had begun when they gathered together into cities the loose elements of their states. When royalty was abolished or put, as we say, "into commission," the ruling families of the republic had to substitute magistracies tenable for limited periods, and had to determine how the magistrates were to be appointed, how their functions were to be circumscribed, how the provinces of authority were to be assigned. New machinery had to be created to replace that one of the three parts of the constitution which had disappeared. It may be added that under the aristocracies the idea of law began to take a clearer shape in men's minds, and the traditions which guided usage began to assume the form of laws. In the lays of Homer we hear only of the single dooms given by the kings or judges in particular cases. At the close of the aristocratic period comes the age of the lawgivers, and the aristocracies had prepared the material which the lawgivers improved, qualified, and embodied in codes.

Phoenician intercourse with Greece

The Greeks were destined to become a great seafaring people. But sea-trade was a business which it took them many ages to learn, after they had reached the coasts of the Aegean; it was long before they could step into the place of the old sea-kings of Crete. For several centuries after the Trojan War the trade of the Aegean with the east was partly carried on by strangers. The men who took advantage of this opening were the traders of the city-states of Sidon and Tyre on the Syrian coast, men of that Semitic stock to which Jew, Arab, and Assyrian alike belonged. These coast-landers, born merchants like the Jews, seem to have migrated to the shores of the Mediterranean from an older home on the shores of the Red Sea. The Greeks knew these bronzed Semitic traders by the same name, Phoenikes or "red men," which they had before applied to the Cretans. This led to some confusion in their traditions. We have seen how the Cretan Cadmus and Europa were transferred to Phoenicia in the legend.

We have no warrant for speaking of a Phoenician sea-lordship in the Aegean. The evidence of the Homeric poems shows clearly that between the commercial enterprise of the heroic age and the commercial enterprise of the later Greeks there was an interval of perhaps two hundred years or thereabouts, during which no Greek state possessed a sea-power strong enough to exclude foreign merchants from Greek seas, and trade was consequently shared by moulded to the needs of the Greek language. In this adaptation the Greeks showed their genius. The alphabet of the Phoenicians and their Semitic brethren is an alphabet of consonants; the Greeks added the vowels. They took some of the consonantal symbols for which their own language had no corresponding sounds, and used these superfluous signs to represent the vowels. Several alphabets, bring in certain details, were diffused in various parts of the Hellenic world, but they all agree in the main points, and we may suppose that the original idea was worked out in Ionia. In Ionia, at all events, writing was introduced at an early period, and was limps used by poets of the ninth century. Perhaps the earliest example of a Greek writing that we possess is on an Attic jar of the seventh century; it says the jar shall be the prize of the dancer who dances more gaily than all others. But the lack of early inscriptions is what we should expect. The new art was used for ordinary and literary purposes long before it was employed for official records. It was the great gift which the Semites gave to Europe.

Primer ejemplo de un texto griego

Importancia de la ascendencia divina

We must now see what the Greeks thought of their own early history. Their construction of it, though founded on legendary tradition and framed without much historical sense, has considerable importance, since their ideas about the past affected their views of the present. Their belief in their legendary past was thoroughly practical; mythic events were often the basis of diplomatic transactions; claims to territory might be founded on the supposed conquests or dominions of ancient heroes of divine birth.

At first, before the growth of historical curiosity, the chief motive for investigating the past was the desire of noble families to derive their origin from a god. For this purpose they sought to connect their pedigrees with heroic ancestors, especially with Heracles or with the warriors who had fought at Troy. The Trojan war was, with some reason, regarded as a national enterprise; and Heracles—who seems originally to have been specially associated with Argolis—was looked on as a national hero. The consequence was that the Greeks framed their history on genealogies and determined their chronology by generations, reckoning three generations to a hundred years.

Derivación del nombre “Helenos” y ramificación en dorios, aeolios y ionios

In the first place, it had to be determined how, the various branches of the Greek race were related. As soon as the Greeks came to be called by the common name of Hellenes, they derived their whole stock from an eponymous ancestor, Hellen, who lived in Thessaly. They had then to account for its distribution into a number of different branches. In Greece proper they might have searched long, among the various folks speaking various idioms, for some principle of classification which should determine the nearer and further degrees of kinship between the divisions of the race, and establish two or three original branches to which every community could trace itself back. But when they looked over to the eastern Greece on the farther side of 'the Aegean, they saw, as it were, a reflection of themselves, their own children divided into three homogeneous groups—Aeolians, Ionians, and Dorians. This gave a simple classification; three families sprung from Aeolus, Ion, and Dorus, who must evidently have been the sons of Hellen. But there was one difficulty. Homer's Achaeans had still to be accounted for; they could not be affiliated to Aeolians, or Ionians, or Dorians, none of whom play a part in the Iliad. Accordingly it was arranged that Hellen had three sons, Aeolus, Dorus, and Xuthus ; and Ion and Achaeus were the sons of Xuthus.55 It was easy enough then, by the help of tradition and language, to fit the ethnography of Greece under these labels; and the manifold dialects were forced under three artificial divisions.

Las Amazonas

Of the legends which won sincere credence among the Greeks, and assumed as we may say a national significance, none is more curious or more obscure in its origin than that of the Amazons. A folk of warrior women, strong and brave, living apart from men, were conceived to have dwelt in Asia in the heroic age, and proved themselves worthy foes of the Greek heroes. An obvious etymology of their name, "breastless," suggested the belief that they used to burn off the right breast that they might the better draw the bow. In the Iliad Priam tells how he fought against their army in Phrygia; and one of the perilous tasks which are set to Bellerophon is to march against the Amazons. In a later Homeric poem, the Amazon Penthesilea appears as a dreaded adversary of the Greeks at Troy. To win the girdle of the Amazon queen was one of the labours of Heracles. All these adventures happened in Asia Minor; and, though this female folk was located in various places, its original and proper home was ultimately placed on the river Thermodon near the Greek colony of Amisus. But the Amazons attacked Greece itself. It was told that Theseus carried off their queen Antiope, and so they came and invaded Attica. There was a terrible battle in the town of Athens, and the invaders were defeated after a long struggle. At the feast of Theseus the Athenians used to sacrifice to the Amazons; there was a building called the Amazoneion in the western quarter of the city; and the episode was believed by such men as Isocrates and Plato to be as truly an historical fact as the Trojan war itself. The battles of Greeks with Amazons were a favourite subject of Grecian sculptors; and, like the Trojan war and the adventure of the golden fleece, the Amazon story fitted into the conception of an ancient and long strife between Greece and Asia.

Battle of the Amazons by Peter Paul Rubens

The details of the famous legends—the labours of Heracles, the Trojan war, the voyage of the Argonauts, the tale of Cadmus, the life of Oedipus, the two sieges of Thebes by the Argive Adrastus, and all the other familiar stories—belong to mythology and lie beyond our present scope. But we have to realise that the later Greeks believed them and discussed them as sober history, and that many of them had a genuine historical basis, however slender. The story of the Trojan war has more historical matter in it than any other; but we have seen that the Argonautic legend and the tale of Cadmus contain dim memories of actual events. It is quite probable that the heroic age witnessed rivalry and war between Thebes and Argos.

Wounded Amazon of the Capitol, Rome

— John Bagnell Bury

Obtenido de “A History of Greece to the death of Alexander the Great“. pps. 5-77

[bachmanhq-blog]

what is alyssa's bestseller about?

MAN IS POWER

THE NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BESTSELLER

A bewildered crescent dwindled over the surface of the moon, pools of the forgotten stars further lost within the depth of the galaxy. In the darkness, a shadow looms over lanky positions sloped over the terrain of the unpaved roads. Anthropocentric hands print the dust of a destiny which calls for man to be the extreme leader of every facet of life. The world continues day by day to record the rich history of humankind: When have one ever paid a cent to read the daily paper for a story on a raccoon being glory? It’s always man manifesting the eminent executions shaping each passing epoch.

       Hazel hues doze onto the mahogany table centered in the enclosed room. Beige walls, a painting of a man lingering on thoughts, flowers all calling to the plastic aesthetic, and there’s a crimson fabric draping over the half-opened window. The room is one many fear. A sense of familiarity, a sense of organization, a sense of common sense; they were all notional qualifications in the theory of Silas Neumann. The room was daunting to any client who stepped over the boundary of admitting there is a wrongful digit in their series of codes. Pressing control+alt+delete was not rebooting the system, and blue screens flickered before his eye. Soon, he became tired of the loading, and he was in desperate need of an update to the software.

       A woman sits adjacent with a tinge of anomalous overlapping her coal orbs. A seven second observation was all it took for Silas to fill the pages of her story. A young, naive immigrant with feet that could paddle the ocean blue for hours where the center of the world became her home. Ocean currents tilted her petite physique into a bending figure to play with, but a smile still sailed across with the breeze. Storm currents. Lightning strikes never made her flicker, and the bursting, roaring funnels of clouds never pushed her under the pressure—squeezing her lungs into collapse. She kept swimming, unaware of the mystic brutality underneath. She was naive unlike Silas who has shaken hands with Poseidon.

       “What’s on your mind, Silas?” It was a question that traumatized the mind, for truth ventured over into a quick minute advertisement. No subliminal message went unseen. Truth: Nothing was on his mind. Curse the child for ever being preoccupied with the silly doodles of the perfect life. Curse the child for ever being polite to authoritative parents who only tugged on his polo collar. Curse the child for never listening when they told him that life is a set of expectations to oblige. Curse the child for tiring out his core, the fuel out of maximum; curse the child for falling off the tracks that he no longer had a thought to process. What would be the point?

       Averting his focus upward, a chill shuffled to take a seat beside the twenty year old. Brushing fingertips, the pale male stiffened as his coffee stained lips drenched into a flat line. His foot tapped. His mind was now racing on what to say. Any other would ask the question, and he would riddle a faulty statement, but, with the therapist, he told the truth. If he could admit to himself that he needed guidance, he might as well accept the guidance. That was logical.

       “The barista delivered me a French Vanilla Latte when I ordered a Triple, Venti, Half Sweet, Non-Fat, Caramel Macchiato.”

       Little did the therapist note on her notebook that the response was more than just a filler to avoid the question provided. He did answer the question: Even the barista ignores my power.

[awesome-alok-ranjan]

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Today you will learn from me how to draw Radha Krishna. I have shown first what is used to draw it. How to make a face sketch is what the actual size yoke should look like. I have…

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Nike Pulled These Betsy Ross Flag Shoes at Colin Kaepernick’s Behest

Welcome back to the news cycle, Colin Kaepernick.

The former NFL quarterback finds himself in the headlines once again, this time after Nike decided to pull a shoe that he felt was racially insensitive.

The shoe in question featured the Betsy Ross flag, which is one of the early American flag designs. It features 13 stars that represent the original 13 colonies.

Here’s a snippet from the original story at the Wall Street Journal:

Nike Inc. NKE 1.74% is yanking a U.S.A.-themed sneaker featuring an early American flag after NFL star-turned-activist Colin Kaepernick told the company it shouldn’t sell a shoe with a symbol that he and others consider offensive, according to people familiar with the matter.

The sneaker giant created the Air Max 1 USA in celebration of the July Fourth holiday, and it was slated to go on sale this week. The heel of the shoe featured a U.S. flag with 13 white stars in a circle, a design created during the American Revolution and commonly referred to as the Betsy Ross flag.

…

“Nike has chosen not to release the Air Max 1 Quick Strike Fourth of July as it featured the old version of the American flag,” a Nike spokeswoman said.

After images of the shoe were posted online, Mr. Kaepernick, a Nike endorser, reached out to company officials saying that he and others felt the Betsy Ross flag is an offensive symbol because of its connection to an era of slavery, the people said. Some users on social media responded to posts about the shoe with similar concerns. Mr. Kaepernick declined to comment.

The article goes on to say that the flag has been appropriated by some extremist groups, which means… what, exactly? Some idiots decided to bastardize an iconic American image, and we’re just going to let them have it? We’re just gonna discontinue use of that image everywhere else? No, of course not. It’s on us to say, “this is not your image, you’re not co-opting it, and you’re not altering what it stands for.”

So that’s the first order of business here, this ridiculous notion that we’re all supposed to cave because some extremist jabronies decided to twist an image into something it’s not.

Second, the Betsy Ross flag is not offensive. It flies all over Philadelphia, and the 13 stars design is literally a key component of the 76ers City Edition uniforms….

…and the circular stars are also featured prominently in the various logos used:

The Philadelphia Union logo similarly features the colonial stars. The Delaware Blue Coats name references local history as well.

So, no, the 76ers logo is not offensive. The Union logo is not offensive. The flag was first used in the late 1700s and represented the original 13 colonies that broke away from England to form the United States of America.

If Colin Kaepernick is going to sit here and say it’s offensive because of “its connection to an era of slavery” then we’re really going down a super slippery slope. Our currency features the likeness of slave owners. Is currency offensive? Ben Franklin once owned slaves before freeing them. Is Ben Franklin offensive? Should the Ben Franklin Institute be renamed? Furthermore, the city of Philadelphia was once the home of slave owners. Is the city of Philadelphia offensive? Independence Hall? The National Constitution Center? The Franklin Fountain ice cream shop?

It sounds stupid, but this is the same logic that got these shoes pulled in the first place, because they are being linked to “an era of slavery.” However, there is no attention being paid to what individual symbols actually mean, because people are blindly associating things that existed in the same epoch. They say, “well symbol X reminds me of injustice Y, simply because they existed at the same time.”

That’s just not a logical way to see the world, and at some point, we have to take a step back and say, ‘okay, this is not productive.’ Putting too much time and effort into revisionist history results in diminishing returns.

And sure, our nation does have a checkered past. A number of the founding fathers owned slaves. They stole land from Native Americans. We had Jim Crow laws, segregation, a long list of shameful stuff. There’s no ignoring that, and it’s something everyone should always be aware of.

But our ancestors also created the world’s foremost democracy, a country that made numerous technological, medical, and engineering breakthroughs over the years. Our grandfathers and great grandfathers fought in World Wars I and II and we found a way to put a dude on a moon.

You take the good with the bad, mix it all together, and that’s American history. The best thing we can do is to learn from past mistakes, keep moving forward as a society, and try to get things right. Sitting here and complaining about a 1700s-era flag because it’s “offensive” doesn’t help us do that, nor does it help us focus on the myriad issues that really matter in 2019, like the immigration problem, the opioid crisis, the economy, foreign policy, and blah blah blah.

I don’t see how this complaint over a pair of shoes helps Kaepernick’s message, a message that was originally about social injustice and systemic racism in contemporary America. Keyword contemporary, not 1792 or whenever this flag was first flown. It feels like Kap is doing himself a disservice here, a distraction from what he originally set out to do.

Just my opinion, man.

The post Nike Pulled These Betsy Ross Flag Shoes at Colin Kaepernick’s Behest appeared first on Crossing Broad.

Nike Pulled These Betsy Ross Flag Shoes at Colin Kaepernick’s Behest published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[jackpot807]

Stories from Atlas: Aboard the Vesta Pt. 1

This is a small side story from the universe that Wander takes place in. Wander is the “main” story, but there will be many more side stories to add depth to the universe.

WARNING: THERE ARE SPOILERS TO THE MAIN STORYLINE IN THIS. DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU WANT TO KEEP WANDER A MYSTERY

Aboard the Vesta Pt. 1

The USS Vesta is a family-owned ship, funded by the Aurelia family and built by Othoren Industries. It is 850 feet In length and 100 feet in width, with most of its movable space on the first story and the foundation equipment on the second. Its engines are two Hermes-II Iono-Nuclear hybrid engines that generate enough force over a period of a week to propel the Vesta several times faster than the speed of light. At the current speed, Silver determined the Vesta would arrive at Atlas within the hour.

Silver, the onboard AI, constructed by Google in their central lab in California, had spent the past twenty years on the Vesta, quietly calculating over and over again the expenditure of fuel (not that the Thorium would ever run out) and communicating with other nearby AI’s, as they were all traveling at exactly the same speed, no less than a mile apart from each other.

The colonization fleet, colloquially referred to as “The Giant Leap” is the largest civilian flotilla ever made by humanity. Its goal was the colonization of Atlas, a planet several times larger than Earth. It has oxygen. It has water. It has life. And it is magnificent.

Silver had woken up the family she had been charged with looking over for the last twenty years. Willhelm, the father of the family of five, was the first out of his cryo-pod. He ran his hand through what hair he had left to try and get the frost off. Looking forward at nothing in particular, he asked, “Sil are you here?”

“I am here, Will.” Silver replied.

Will looked down the hall. He could see the pods with the rest of his family depressurizing. Air rushed out of the sides, and they opened slowly. He saw William, his oldest, lackadaisy leaning out of the pod and took a step out, arching his back and standing on his toes stretching. Thomas, the younger brother, screamed out “WOW!” in amazement at the awesomeness of finally going through a proper cryo-cycle.

And from the pod next to him, a hand wrapped around the edge, and out leaned the very pregnant Ivonne, his loving wife. She had wanted to have the baby on Atlas, so she could have bragging rights about having the first alien-born child. The Aurelia family was all awake and ready for the long day ahead.

“Sil can you make some breakfast please?” Ivonne asked. To which Silver replied in her oddly human tone, “I have hot plates of bacon and eggs already on the table, Misses Aurelia. Along with a can of coffee to warm you up.”

Silver took a moment to recheck a parameter or stored data, then continued, “The fleet has begun a holding pattern around Atlas. The Fleet Leader has given the order to enter the atmosphere within the hour. I left an agenda for Mister Aurelia on the table for you to go over, but to keep things simple, you are to report to Captain Andell when we land.”

Will and Thomas were already in the kitchen, face deep in breakfast. He helped Ivonne out of the pod and the were walking out of the hall and into the kitchen as well. “Thank you, Sil. Let the Fleet Leader know that we are awake and getting ready.”

“I will.” Silver replied.

He turned to Ivonne, “How was it?” He asked.

“Well I feel a little sick, but the book said that’s good. I think I just gotta get some food in me and I’ll be all set.” She said happily. The prestige and honor that being part of the Giant Leap gave fulfilled a personal milestone for her. She liked knowing she was part of, well, a giant leap for mankind. It was named after Neil Armstrong’s quote when they first landed on the moon back when space travel was in its infancy. “One giant leap for mankind.” It held a sort of wonder for her that is normally reserved only for children. But even now, she’d look up at the sky and marvel at the enormity and possibility of it all. And she finally had the privilege to realize the potential. With her family, no less.

Wilhelm was a man of ambition. Working only directly underneath Chief Engineer Hardman, he wanted to take his place one day, and be the man who built Atlas up from the foundation. But how could he ever compete with Hardman, the genius? Hard work, that’s how. He knew in his heart of hearts that one day, the mile-high buildings will all have the name Aurelia on them somewhere.

As for the kids? Well, what young boy didn’t want to be an astronaut?

They all sat down for breakfast and got right to it. Will was seventeen, and the doctor said he was probably going to grow to be really tall. Actually, he’s tall now. 6’2 to be exact. And he eats like a horse.

“Will slow down or you’ll get sick.” Ivonne told him. He didn’t respond, but he did slow down a bit.

Thomas was ten. He wanted to be like his dad and build space stations and stuff. He didn’t know it at the time, but he wasn’t aware that it wasn’t as simple as ‘putting together legos’ like he’d always compare it to. There are wires that need to be connected, radio frequencies that need to be tuned, nuclear reactors that need coolant, etcetera etcetera.

Indeed, getting onto this prestigious group was no small feat. Wilhelm needed a hail mary to get onto this project. And he had one, in the form of the ISS. He turned that thing from a decaying husk, into a megacity floating above Earth. Almost all of the industry is done in space, now, thanks to him. His oxygen compression and modular foundry techniques are written in books, now. And that is what got him onto this project as a commanding figure. And man was it good.

Good times. Good times.

“I have a transmission from the Ambition.” Silver said, breaking Wilhelm from his reminiscing.

These moments were always super exciting for the family. A message from the flagship, the USS Ambition, were usually messages from either the Fleet Commander or a Supreme Governor back at Earth. This one, though. This is going to be an important message. Maybe even from the Emperor himself. The thought of it made Thomas both excited and nervous. He was in a world of wonder that most kids could only imagine. A world of fairytales and adventure.

“Put them through, Sil.” Wilhelm said.

On the table, the hologram of Admiral Emerson appeared. Tall, broad and commanding, Admiral Emerson was the highest authority of the fleet. Wilhelm had only seen him once, since most of the time he relays information through Hardman, who talks to Emerson. In a fleet of five hundred million people, people of Emerson’s stature gain a sort of mythical bearing. Like a King or Emperor. All those days of talking to lowly supervisors and technicians set the mood to make a visit from someone of such a high position extraordinary. Of course, it wasn’t a transmission to the Vesta exclusively. Rather, the whole fleet.

“Men and women of this fleet. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Admiral Hugh Emerson. You all already know this, but you are all a part of something big. Something monumental. Within the next thirty minutes, you will enter the atmosphere of the planet Atlas, where we will set a foundation and build up the next epoch of human history.”

He took a moment to collect his thoughts. He spoke firmly and deliberately. Each word held a significant gravitas to them, as did his character, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a significant moment in human history. From the discovery of fire, to the industrial revolution, the first steps on the moon and the creation of AI. This is the next step in our story. And it is you who will be telling it. You are the bringers of prosperity and plenty. You are the architects of ambition. You are the creators of happiness and life. Each and every one of you are the best and brightest humanity has to offer. And I know we will create a perfect, clean and magnificent society that everyone back home will admire and envy.”

“This moment will define humanity for centuries to come.”

The words vibrated through the air, exciting everyone. An entire world of wonder was making promises of happiness and good lives to all. Wilhelm smiled and held Ivonne’s hand.

“Everyone move to your positions and await orders. This is Admiral Emerson of the USS Ambition, wishing all of you a good day. Ambition out.” And with that, the hologram flicked away.

Everybody, not just the Aurelia’s, everybody got goosebumps. Everybody in the fleet, and everybody back home had heard that broadcast. It was a message of hope - a message of wonder and a message that promised that everything will be okay.

“I am receiving a request for a system takeover by the Ambition central AI. This is per the request of Admiral Emerson and part of stage 1. Should I relinquish control to them?” Silver asked.

“Yes, please. They’ll guide us to our zone.” Wilhelm replied.

All around the planet, millions and millions of ships were over their designated landing zones, carefully selected because of their unique advantages. Some were over mineral deposits, some were by the water. Some were on especially fertile land and some were in exotic forests. The Vesta was assigned to a location near the North Pole. Wilhelm will lead a group of a few thousand engineers to place the foundation for a space elevator that would connect the planet to a space station which has yet been built. This was mainly a civilian fleet, and the few military vessels that were there, were to remain in orbit unless something required them to entire the atmosphere.

The Aurelia’s all gathered at the flight deck and watched outward. Before them was beauty so great that words cannot do it justice. Deep green mixed with the blue and white in a wonderful painting of creation. Even from up here, they could see the wide rivers and the deep oceans. The white sands of the deserts and the green of the fields and the forests.

There were auroras all over the planet. They could see them now that they were close. Velvet waves of green, blue and pink waving through the atmosphere, adding to the mystery and allure of Atlas. The placement of the planet from the star it orbited meant that such cosmological activity couldn’t have been possible. One of the big questions that scientists wanted to answer was “How are these auroras forming?” Where the Vesta is landing, aurora activity will be near the maximum level, providing a great show for the kids at all times.

“Here we go…” Ivonne said, putting her arms around her kids as the Vesta began descending along with all of the other ships. Atlas was getting closer and closer, along with all of their hopes and dreams. A new beginning was approaching.

Suddenly, the Vesta violently lurched and shook, knocking everyone off balance. This can’t be turbulence.

“Sil, what was that?” Wilhelm asked.

There was a long silence from the AI.

“Silver!” Wilhelm asked again. Thomas got close to Ivonne and she held him tight.

“...Something is happening, Mister Aurel-” Was all she could say before an arch of blue lightning rippled along the ceiling and along the flight panel, deafening them all. A fire sparked in the instruments, they could smell it. The ship began to jolt and vibrate.

Wilhelm turned to Ivonne and looked at her. She was clearly worried. “Get the kids into the escape pod.”

“What’s happening, Will?” She asked, trying her best to keep the kids calm.

“I don’t think it’s anything, maybe just-” He was interrupted by a cacophony of roars as the circuits and wires of the ship began to crackle and fizz.

“Coooooooooode 1106” Silver said, her now wobbling voice overlayed with static said. Wilhelm knew that Code 1106 meant Silver was on her way out. Something critical to her just blew up. And if she’s getting torn apart, so is the ship.

“Code 110-” Silver’s voice was suddenly replaced by a high-pitched screech as her language center melted from a fire deep within the bowels of the ship. Thomas cried out in fear and clutched onto Ivonne for dear life.

“Dad we gottta-” Will said to his father before his father interrupted,

“Everyone get to the escape pod!” He bellowed over the shaking hull and sparking electronics. They all ran out of the flight deck and to the back of the ship where the escape pod was. They got in and Wilhelm locked the door behind them. Sometime in the rush to get there, Thomas had started crying and Will was asking too many questions that Wilhelm didn’t have the answers to. He could feel the Vesta starting to dive.

“All that fucking equipment we got up in the cargo…” He cursed.

He pressed the launch button. Nothing happened. He pressed it again. Nothing happened. Now he was starting to panic. The escape pod was fried, too, even though it was a closed circuit system. This is bad. He had to think quick. He knew the Vesta would not burn up in the atmosphere. The crash is what will kill them. But if he could slowly ease down onto the flat arctic…

He decided he had no other choice. He got up.

“I have to go guide us onto the surface.” He said. Ivonne knew what that meant. Her mouth dropped and her eyes widened.

“Will, don’t do-”

“It’s the only hope we got, Ivonne! Everything is fried and if I don’t try, we’re dead!” He yelled over the roar of the vibration. Thomas was too scared to listen, but Will shot up, “No, dad, you’ll fucking die!” He said.

Wilhelm was breathing quickly. He knew he had to act fast. This might be the last chance he ever sees his family. He put his hand on Will’s shoulder.

“William I have to!”

Will’s eyes began to flood with tears, “No, dad! Don’t!”

Wilhelm gripped onto Will’s shoulder tight, “Listen, Will. I need you to step up and be strong for Tom and your mother! If I don’t make it, you need to be strong! You need to be strong for me, Will! Can you do that?!”

Will doesn’t know what made him say yes, but he nodded his head and sniffed back a tear. Wilhelm smiled, “I love you Will.”

“I love you Dad.” He replied.

Wilhelm turned to Ivonne, who held Thomas close. She yelled over the chaos, “You better come back! Don’t you dare leave me with these two!”

Wilhelm tried to smile at the horribly-timed joke, but all he could do was lean down and kiss her.

“I love you!” He said.

“I love you too, Will! Forever and always!”

Thomas was too scared to really acknowledge what was going on. He was crying into his mother’s shoulder and wasn’t listening. Wilhelm leaned down and turned Thomas to face him, saying, “I love you, Thomas!”

All Thomas could do was cry in his face, screaming, “DON’T GOOOOOOO!!!”

“I’m sorry rocket man, I gotta!” He replied.

Thomas kicked and screamed. He wasn’t going to make this better. Wilhelm said, “Thomas, remember the moon? Remember the moon Thomas?”

Between sniffles, Thomas muttered, “Yeah…”

“Well whenever you don’t think I’m here with you, just look up at the moon. Alright Thomas?” He asked desperately, trying to calm him down.

After a pause, Thomas said, “Okay…”

Wilhelm shed a tear. “I love you!”

He took a step back and looked at his scared family. His life. His reason to get up in the morning. His light. His happiness. Everything. He knew he had to do this. For them. He popped open the door, yelled a final “I love you!” to them, and closed the door.

He ran down the corridor back up to the front of the ship as quickly as he could. The ceiling was on fire, as was most of the flight panel. But he knew that, when the electricity goes on a ship like this, the massive pneumatic backup pumps could still control the wings. He could do this. He has to do this.

All of a sudden his vision shook and he couldn’t think. The world became a maddening blur of grey and black, melting into each other. What’s happening? He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t talk and he couldn’t see. He could feel himself slipping away as if his mind were sinking into an ocean of darkness.

Focus.

He didn’t know what was happening, but the visions of Thomas and Will and Ivonne flashed into his head. Somewhere in the symphony of chaos, a single, determined resolve was made to pilot this ship to safety even if it kills him.

He grabbed the stick.

Flames were spilling over the Vesta, flowing over the cockpit window. The colors were melding with the green of the land and the grey of the ceilings and walls, adding to the confusion. All of his energy was devoted to pulling the stick up and concentrating on remaining lucid. In a moment, the ship was a mile above ground and he could see it approaching too fast. This is it. A final effort. For his family.

He pulled back on the stick as hard as he possibly could. He couldn’t see anymore. The memory of his wife and two sons and unborn daughter were…

They were melting away.

What’s happening to me? He thought.

The ground is approaching. He is nearly level, now. He doesn’t know how low to the ground he is, but he knows he is seconds away from impact. The white expanse of snow was all he saw. A perfect calm suddenly flooded over him and the ship and the turbulence subsided, as did the assault on his mind.

That final moment of calmness allowed him to try to recollect his thoughts but he found there were no thoughts to recollect.

The ground is close.

He closes his eyes.