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honourablejester · 3 years

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Domain of Dread: Harrow’s Rock

A homebrew Domain of Dread, because I’m in raptures about Van Richten’s Guide to Ravenloft. I. LOVE. HORROR. FANTASY. Ah. You may have noticed. I went for a more classic New-Englandy, Lovecraftian sort of nautical/cosmic horror, because the two suggested cosmic horror domains lacked a little something for me. LONG POST, to warn you. I got carried away. So:

Domain of Dread: Harrow’s Rock

Domain of Salt and Sleeping

Overview:

Darklord - Aloysius Carroway

Genre – nautical horror, ghost stories, gothic horror, cosmic horror

Hallmarks – maritime ghost stories, cycles of vengeance, eldritch dreamers

Mist Talismans – glass floats full of strange mist, tarnished bronze discs, strange whispering shells

Rage, bitterness and despair endlessly ebb and flow like a wine-dark tide against the salt-stained, hard-bitten coastline of Harrow’s Rock. Ghosts sail the frigid waters around this small, dismal island, and haunt the crumbling manors on its cliffs. Bobbling marsh-lights lure unwary fishers, travellers and smugglers into the depths of Loney Marsh. In the grim hamlet of Harrow Cove, ancient grudges mire the native islanders in endless feuds that not even death can finish. Island legend tells of an ancient, unknown entity that lies slumbering in a vast, flooded cavern beneath Harrow Cliff, its dreams washing out across the island from time to time, bringing fear and horror in their wake.

Harrow’s Rock is a battered island domain of ghosts, blood feuds and grudges, ruled over by a man whose vengeful determination to protect his family resulted in the sacrifice of an entire town, since resurrected by the Powers for his torment. Hope is in short supply here, and welcome even shorter.

Cove Characters – Characters from Harrow’s Rock tend to have a distinctly nautical bent, with few lives that have remained untouched by the waters in some way. They tend towards hardy, weather-beaten folk, stubborn and superstitious, with humans, half-orcs and dwarves being particularly common. Other, more otherworldly lineages (such as genasi, tieflings, and sorcerous lineages) are viewed with fear and superstition, but are more common than most Covefolk would like to admit. Naming conventions on Harrow’s Rock often follow old-fashioned/18th and 19th century British and North American patterns.

Noteworthy Features:

Those familiar with Harrow’s Rock know the following facts:

The four founding families of the island, the Carroways, Merricks, Redmarches and Whitmarshes, control everything of note on Harrow’s Rock.

Pretty much everything on the island or around it is haunted one way or another.

Loney Marsh, Lorn Point Lighthouse and Redmarch Manor are widely considered the most haunted locations on an extremely haunted isle.

The only true settlement on the island is the fishing port of Harrow Cove, where the ‘Harrow’ of Harrow’s Rock supposedly landed. Harrow’s Cove is notably grim and unwelcoming to outsiders, though it’s safer than some of the other areas on the island.

However haunted the land might be, the sea is even more so. It is not safe to sail the waters around Harrow’s Rock. Fisherfolk are the hardiest breed on a hardy island, and ghost pirates are the least of your worries out there.

Islanders do not talk about their dreams. Ever.

Settlements & Sites:

Harrow’s Rock is a grim, rocky island, roughly seven miles by seven miles, with large rocky cliffs to the east of the island and the low expanse of Loney Marsh to the west. Sunshine is rare on this windswept, dismal isle, with mists, rain and furious storms being far more common. The islanders tend to be insular, clannish and deeply suspicious of strangers, a suspicion only surpassed by their abiding and long-entrenched mistrust and hatred of each other.

Harrow’s Rock was known on maps for a good hundred or so years before it was first settled, associated with a person or entity known as ‘Harrow’, but it lay uninhabited until a ship commanded by four adventurers in search of a new home laid anchor there. Those four adventurers were Noah Carroway, Erasmus Merrick, Ervina Redmarch and Loney Whitmarsh, and their families became the four founding and controlling families of Harrow’s Rock.

Harrow Cove:

The port town of Harrow Cove lies nestled in a small bay beneath Harrow Cliff. Historically, the town was controlled fairly evenly between the Carroway and Merrick families. After the death of Ezekiel Carroway, Aloysius made a concerted effort to claim it wholly for his own family, and so it remains today. The town is the heart of Aloysius’ domain, and the Darklord himself still resides at his family’s ancient townhouse on the hill above the docks. Although he keeps largely to himself, having no interest in interacting with the townspeople he loathes, the town is wholly under his control. No one walks the streets and docks of Harrow Cove but that he is aware of it, and no ship enters the port without his permission. Life is grim in Harrow Cove, under the hateful, paranoid eyes of its master and once-destroyer.

Church of the Salt:

Near the docks in Harrow Cove, facing the sea, the stone bell-tower of the Church of the Salt rises above the surrounding buildings. The great double doors of this once proud church have been closed and viciously nailed shut, and while there is life within the walls, it gives a distinct air of a building under siege. The acolytes, priests and priestesses of the Salt know beyond doubt that the Darklord hates them with all his heart, more than anyone else in the town, and only an extremely precarious network of sewers, smugglers and ‘parishioners’ allow them to live and continue their ministry as much as they can. The Church of the Salt fully believe that Aloysius is tainted and empowered by the Dreamer beneath Harrow Cliff, and that as long as the Dreamer and its spawn, the demon child Ambrose, remain alive, no one can truly destroy the Darklord.

Redmarch Manor:

The ancestral home of the Redmarches, one of the founding families of the island, Redmarch Manor overlooks and controls what little arable land Harrow’s Rock can lay claim to. Secure in their control of pretty much all food on the island that doesn’t come from the sea, the scions of the Redmarch Clan are content to stay out of the machinations of the rest of the island. They have, after all, a myriad of their own problems. It takes a lot for anywhere on this island to be considered more haunted, but Redmarch Manor is certainly in the running, the apparent product of an unspecified family curse that may or may not involve the Dreamer. No Redmarch who grew up in its confines comes out entirely sane. The current heir, Rowena Redmarch, more than proves the point, being widely known as a drunk, a vicious fighter who would put Estelle Merrick to shame, and a woman haunted by her ancestors in ways that would also put Estelle Merrick to shame.

Loney Marsh:

Loney Marsh is roughly fourteen square miles of saltmarsh along the western edge of the island. Named for Loney Whitmarsh, the family matriarch who claimed the western half of the island at the founding (and largely wasn’t contested for it), and currently presided over by Eurydicia Marsh, Loney Marsh is known for smugglers, sinkholes, and being the source of roughly every ghost story on the island that doesn’t directly tie to Aloysius or the Dreamer. Of course, that being said, Loney Marsh is also the only place on the island that an enemy of Aloysius’ could conceivably hide, as not even the Darklord with all his powers can fully pierce the mists and morass of the marsh. There are several smugglers in Loney Marsh with ties to Harrow Cove, and perhaps to the Wrack of the Isle as well, and is one of the relatively few safe places to land boats outside of Harrow Cove. Loney Marsh is extremely difficult to navigate without a guide, and is home to any number of haunts and monsters.

Wrack of the Isle:

The Wrack of the Isle is a small islet about a mile and a half offshore on the northeastern side of Harrow’s Rock, wreathed in wooden docks, shacks and shanties, and festooned with the wind-tossed lights of storm lanterns. All the flotsam and jetsam of Harrow’s Rock winds up here, including exiles, outcasts, pirates both living and dead, and more or less the entire remnants of the Merrick family. The Wrack of the Isle is the private fiefdom of Estelle Merrick, so-called ‘Pirate Queen’ of the Wrack, and all who survive on the islet pay their dues to her. It is rumoured, though, that Estelle in her turn pays her dues to someone else. Her cousin, Elias Merrick, the fearsome ghost pirate of Harrow’s Rock and the scourge of all living who sail her seas.

Lorn Point Lighthouse:

High on the cliffs on the northeastern side of Harrow’s Rock, facing out across the waters towards the Wrack of the Isle, stands the ominous tower of Lorn Point Lighthouse, also known locally as Ghost Point Lighthouse. In the early days of Harrow’s Rock, when the Carroways and the Merricks were still on friendly terms, Eochbard Merrick built the lighthouse on Lorn Point to help guide shipping into Harrow Cove. When the Merricks were driven off the island, the lighthouse was abandoned and fell into ruin. Until the night the Mists claimed the island, when a ghostly green light abruptly started shining again from the top of the cliff. Nowadays, it’s widely known on the Rock that the light at Lorn Point does not guide living ships, but ghosts upon the waters instead, and travellers through the mists.

Harrow Cliff and The Dreamer’s Cavern:

Towering over Harrow Cove, dwarfing the town, is the great black face of Harrow Cliff. The highest point on the island, higher even than Lorn Point, the cliff glares balefully out to sea and coldly cradles the town below. The cliff is riddled with caves and carved passages, some by the sea, some by smugglers and townsfolk, and some by the powers know what. Before ever the island was swallowed by the Mists, rumours and legends about Harrow Cliff abounded. It is said that if you follow the passages deep enough, if something guides you through the right twists and turns, you will emerge eventually into the Dreamer’s Cavern. No one knows who or what the Dreamer is, if it might be the ‘Harrow’ for which the island is named, but very few want to find out.

Aloysius Carroway:

Aloysius Carroway was born, the elder of a set of twins, to one of the founding families of the Rock. He and his twin brother Ezekiel grew up in Harrow Cove, at a time when the Carroway and Merrick families were vying increasingly over control of the port, and bad blood had grown between them.

Not that Aloysius and Ezekiel particularly cared. They were focused on their own endeavours. Aloysius, his studies, and Ezekiel, the pride and adventure of the fishing fleets. Though Ezekiel in particular clashed with the Merrick heir, Elias Merrick, a grudging respect soon grew between them, and life was good. Aloysius took over his father’s position as harbourmaster, Ezekiel as captain of the fishing fleet, and between them the brothers earned the respect of Harrow Cove.

Then, one day, a terrible storm swept the seas around Harrow’s Rock, and Ezekiel’s ship was announced lost at sea, with everyone aboard. The Cove was shaken, but Aloysius was devastated. There was nothing in the world he loved more than his twin, and he refused to believe that Ezekiel was truly dead. He dreamed repeatedly that Ezekiel was alive and would return to him, and his adamance, particularly on the subject of dreams, began to make people around him nervous. Harrow’s Rock had long had legends of the Dreamer in the Cavern, you see, and dreams were never a safe subject on the island.

And then Ezekiel did come back to him. In the aftermath of a second terrible storm, nearly two years after the first, a man washed up on the rocky beach underneath Harrow Cliff … with a newborn baby wrapped in seaweed in his arms. It was Ezekiel, and he introduced the child adamantly as his own, as his son Ambrose. He would not say who (or what) the mother had been.

Aloysius was overjoyed. His brother, the other half of his soul, was returned to him, and he had brought a tiny addition to the family along with him, something Aloysius, being not romantically inclined, had never hoped to see without his brother’s help.

No one else on Harrow’s Rock was overjoyed, however. To anyone with even an ounce of superstition, and no one on the Rock would be content with an ounce, everything about Ezekiel’s return reeked of ill-omen. From Aloysius’ dreams, to Ezekiel washing up beneath the Dreamer’s cliff, to the child’s increasingly obvious otherness, it all stank of the Dreamer. Nor did it help that Ezekiel himself was changed, grown as quiet and reticent as his brother after his experience. Rumours and superstition ran rampant in Harrow Cove. Spearheaded, with growing alarm and anger, by Elias Merrick, who could not find the man he had grudgingly grown to respect in this new Ezekiel.

Aloysius would hear none of it. His brother was returned to him, and his nephew, though a little odd, including such details as being able to breathe just fine in the bath, was a cheerful, friendly baby. He would hear no word against them. Not from anyone, for any reason.

Dreams stirred across the island in the wake of Ezekiel’s return. Strange, salty visions, never the same between one person and the next. It could have been nothing more than superstition itself, excited dreams thrown up by paranoia and rumour. But sentiment stirred against the Carroways regardless, and neither Ezekiel nor Aloysius himself were any help.

And then, a year to the day from the moment Ezekiel Carroway had washed up on Harrow Beach, on the day he had claimed for his child’s first birthday, another storm lashed the Rock, fierce enough to dwarf anything the island had seen in a hundred years. And the growing fear and superstition on the island finally flashed to violence.

No one would admit afterwards to having been there when the mob, lead by Elias Merrick, smashed down the door of the Carroway townhouse, while Aloysius was still working in the port, and dragged Ezekiel Carroway out into the street. They searched for the child as well, young Ambrose, but couldn’t find him. Their bloodlust would have to be content with an oddly calm, placid Ezekiel.

And he was calm. Utterly serene. It was said he looked Elias Merrick in the eye, no trace of fear or of the man he had once been as he faced his former friend, and eyed the boathook in his hand with nothing but a small smile. He made no sound and offered no words of protest, even as they beat him almost to death. And no one was there, no one would admit to being there, but still the rumour went that his eyes had been wide open and his mouth still smiling when Elias shoved him angrily off the dock and back into the watery embrace of his ‘lover’.

Aloysius witnessed this. He had been working in the port. He couldn’t miss a mob marching down the Cove’s docks. It took six men, at least two of them Merricks, to hold him back from trying to leap to his brother’s defense. He was almost insane with desperation, with rage. He fought them like a madman, but nothing he did could get him close enough. Ezekiel slipped away.

And when it was done, when his brother had been taken from him, Elias Merrick looked him in the eyes. Elias told him, with the barest hint of remorse, that he ‘did what had to be done’. To protect the island from whatever unnatural force Ezekiel had brought back with him.

There had been no one in the world that Aloysius loved more than his brother. Not a single soul.

He went back to the townhouse. In the midst of his grief and his fury, he found his nephew, Ambrose. His brother’s infant son. Alive, gloriously alive, and hidden in a water tank. Breathing away quite happily to himself, in the gentle quiet underwater. He’d slept through his father’s death. Aloysius, still lost in the serene white seas of rage, could only be glad of that. He retrieved the child. Swore on his brother’s name that he would protect him with his life from that day forth.

And swore, too, that he would not rest a single day of that life until he had driven Elias, the Merricks, and anyone else who might ever be a threat to his family, off the island.

It took almost twenty years. It took every trick and trade, every scrap of fortune and alliance, old and new, that Aloysius possessed. But he drove the Merrick fleet into the ground. Broke their finances. Took Harrow Cove, inch by inch, house by house, back for the Carroways. He took control of vital trade and supplies. Starved the lighthouse at Lorn Point. Drove the family to beggardom or to the sea. Fortune was incidental. The prosperity of Harrow’s Rock as a whole was beside the point. Everything he did from that day forth was to bring Elias Merrick to his knees.

And he succeeded. Beggared and battered further and further back, the Merricks left the island and went to their boats. Went to the sea. And the sea remembered Ezekiel too. Something in it. Whether it was a curse or something else, no Merrick ship could prosper around Harrow’s Rock. Many of them sank. One of them … was Elias’.

Perhaps that on its own would have been enough to draw the attentions of the Powers in the Mists. That single-minded devotion to slow, starvatious vengeance. But grudges were a way of life on Harrow’s Rock, blood feuds as common as bloodlines. One man slowly driving a family into the sea was nothing all that special on the Rock.

But Aloysius loved his brother’s son as well. He loved his nephew. He had taken that oath to Ezekiel’s memory just as firmly to heart. And as Ambrose grew and grew, into a fine, gentle, and terribly shy young man, so the rumours around their family grew in step. Ezekiel had been given back to his lover, whatever monstrosity that might have been, but his son still walked the island, and his brother bent all his powers to protecting him. And Aloysius was different now. He had learned from that day on the dock. He had learned to pay attention. The older Ambrose got, the more desperately paranoid and aware of rumour Aloysius became.

And the dreams swept the island even still. More and more as the years went on. Paranoia. Superstition. The Dreamer in the Cave. Or maybe Ambrose or Aloysius himself. Some taint, of Ezekiel or of the Carroway bloodline itself. Aloysius’ dreams predated the storm, after all. Ezekiel had been his twin. Perhaps the taint had carried, the moment Ezekiel’s ship had first been lost.

Either way, it came to a head once again. The terror on the island, and the fervour of Aloysius’ promise to his brother in response. The Church of the Salt had sprung up, its adherents agitating against the taint of the Dreamer, and Aloysius could see it coming once again. The worst day of his life. The loss of his family and his soul all over again.

He wasn’t going to allow it. Before any man, woman or child on the island dared lay hands on his family again, Aloysius Carroway was going to stop them.

Even if he had to kill each and every one of them to manage it.

There were no dreams, the day a priest of the Salt stood on the docks and loudly denounced Ambrose Carroway as a demon from the deep to be destroyed. Everyone on the island remembered that afterwards. That the night before it all ended, no one dreamed. Of the sea, or of anything. A sleep as deep and dreamless as the dead.

The next day, Aloysius calmly locked his tearful, pleading nephew away. Somewhere safe, somewhere no one on the island would know to look for him. And then he walked back down into town. Down the docks to the Church of the Salt, where he stood patiently waiting until the priests and priestesses came out to meet him.

And when they did, he gave them one chance to repent their words and threats against his nephew. One chance, to stave off his wrath. If they did not, he promised quietly, he would do as Elias had done to his brother. He would return Harrow Cove to the sea. All of it. Every man, woman and child. If they did not leave the island and renounced their threats against his family, then in his brother’s name, for his nephew’s protection, he would sink this town into the sea.

They didn’t listen. Much as the Merricks, twenty years earlier.

That night, for the first time in more than a year, a light appeared at Lorn Point Lighthouse. A green, ghostly light, shining out across the waters. The bells of the Church of the Salt started ringing, moved by no human hand. A thunderous crack echoed beneath the town. A hideous shudder and rumbling shook the island.

And the Mists rolled gently and inexorably across the Rock, as the town of Harrow Cove slumped forward into the sea.

Aloysius Carroway woke up in his townhouse. Exactly as it had been the day before. He stumbled out, dazed, into a Harrow Cove that looked exactly like the town he had just destroyed. Full of the townspeople he had just murdered, though they didn’t seem to remember him doing so. On an island exactly like Harrow’s Rock.

With just a few small differences ...

Aloysius’ Powers and Dominion

Aloysius has statistics similar to that of an Inquisitor of the Mind Fire, though his psionic abilities are either inborn or a potential influence of the Dreamer. His personal prowess pales in comparison to his control over his island and the influence of his dreams, however.

Paranoid Whispers: Aloysius’ awareness of his domain has been heightened by his paranoia. While his perception grows foggier the further from Harrow’s Cove it goes, and holds no dominion whatsoever over the sea and little over Loney Marsh, within Harrow Cove and most of the eastern side of the island, he is aware of all newcomers, and echoes of his dreams inform him of harmful intentions on the part of the islanders.

Wrathful Dreams: Whether consciously or not, Aloysius’ dreams now touch those of all who dwell in his domain. When he dreams of his brother, so do they. When he dreams of his hatred for them, so do they. And if his dreams visit harm upon them, that harm may manifest when they wake. Denizens of Harrow’s Rock do their best to avoid drawing the Darklord’s attention to them, lest he dream of them that night.

Closing the Borders: When Aloysius wishes to close the borders of Harrow’s Rock, great storms whip around the edges of his domain. Those who attempt to sail into those storms are affected as detailed in “The Mists” section in Van Richten’s Guide to Ravenloft.

Aloysius’ Torment

Since the stormswept night when Harrow’s Rock and every soul on it were transported to the Mists, Aloysius has been tormented by the following circumstances:

Since entering the Mists, Aloysius’ dreams of his murdered brother Ezekiel have grown stronger and stronger, tormenting him with the dual convictions that his brother might have survived that day, as he survived the shipwreck before it, and that his brother is furious at his failure to protect his son. Aloysius longs to reach out to and find his brother, but the seas are now controlled by his enemies, and there is no known way to enter the Dreamer’s Cavern, if that is where Ezekiel now resides.

When Aloysius awoke in the newly remade Harrow Cove, he immediately rushed to check on his nephew, but found the locks broken and his nephew nowhere to be seen. He has no idea if Ambrose escaped and hates him too much for his actions to seek him out, or if Ambrose was found and taken by his enemies. None have come forward claiming to have done so, but Aloysius lives in feverish terror that he has failed despite it all and allowed his nephew to be captured or killed.

Aloysius does not and cannot trust a single person on the island. He remembers destroying Harrow Cove and murdering everyone in the town, though he is unsure to what extent it truly happened, and he remains uncertain how many, if any, of the islanders remember that too. His fears whisper that all of them do. They may be right.

While the island and particularly the town of Harrow Cove are his, the waters off the island are a much different story. The seas around Harrow’s Rock are more haunted than they have ever been, and there is one ghost in particular that gladly torments Aloysius by his presence. Elias Merrick sails the seas around the island, and would love to welcome his old friend, should Aloysius ever attempt to leave the safety of the town and his island behind to search for his brother, his nephew, or for freedom. From the light at Lorn Point, Aloysius is convinced that Elias is trying to lure outsiders to Harrow’s Rock to destroy him, and again, he may not be wrong. But outsiders may also be the only people Aloysius could convince to seek the Dreamer’s Cave and Ezekiel.

Roleplaying Aloysius

Personality Trait: “Everyone is out to get me and mine, but not if I get them first.”

Ideal: “Nothing is more important than the protection and memory of those I love.”

Bond: “I will find and keep my family safe, by whatever means necessary.”

Flaw: “Nobody and nothing can be trusted except my family.”

Adventures in Harrow’s Rock:

Harrow’s Rock is the domain of ghost stories, cycles of vengeance, petty feuds, dreaming horrors, and oceanic terrors. It is hostile for reasons both human and otherworldly: the hatred and paranoia of a superstitious populace and a man who watched his family die and seeks to emphatically prevent any potential repeat, and the otherworldly influence of the sea, the caves, and the ‘Dreamer’, whatever the Dreamer may be. If the Dreamer is anything, and not just the frothing superstition of the islanders and the subconscious telepathic powers of some of the island’s bloodlines.

When visitors follow Lorn Point’s light through the mists, or wash up in Loney Marsh or on the rocky beach beneath Harrow Cliff, they are faced with a wild, rocky island inhabited by sullen, paranoid, mistrustful people who want to either get rid of them before they attract attention, or use them for their own ends while trying to hide their own sins in the process. Characters born on the island face nights full of foreign dreams, perhaps vague memories of a great disaster that something tells them they shouldn’t have survived, and the deep conviction that there is a dreaming force on the island that deeply loathes them.

If the characters arrived by ship, they may find that Aloysius has closed the borders and will not let them leave until they help him find Ezekiel, Ambrose, or the way to the Dreamer’s Cavern. Or until they help someone else, the Church of the Salt or the Merricks, to destroy him and end his control over the island and the borders. If they washed up unwillingly on the shore, they may seek out a ship in Harrow Cove, Loney Marsh, or among the pirates of the Wrack of the Isle in an effort to escape again, any of which may embroil them further in the machinations of the Carroways, the Merricks, the Whitmarshes, or the Church of the Salt. Perhaps they might wish to investigate the mystery of the Dreamer themselves, or help individual islanders to avoid Aloysius’ notice, destroy the Darklord, or deal with their own private feuds or hauntings. Or perhaps they might stumble across a shy, fearful genasi youth who is somehow immune to the Darklord’s dreams …

Harrow’s Rock Adventures

d8 Adventure

1 In order to be allowed to leave the domain again, a man in Harrow’s Cove named Aloysius Carroway wants the party to search Loney Marsh for his missing nephew, without broadcasting to all and sundry that the youth is missing at all.

2 Outside the Church of the Salt, a ragged figure implores the party to help her find out what has happened to a shipment of food and medicine destined for the beleaguered faithful inside the walls.

3 While sailing into Harrow’s Rock, following the ghostly light of a strange lighthouse that isn’t on any map or chart, the party’s ship was captured by a spectral vessel, whose ghostly captain demands that they find some way to lure or trap a man named Aloysius Carroway onto a vessel and out to sea to meet him.

4 Waking up bewildered and lost in Loney Marsh, the party are found by a shy young water genasi youth who will not tell them his name, and is adamant that they should leave the island immediately before his uncle realises that they’re there. At all costs, he reiterates desperately, they must avoid Harrow Cove.

5 Landing in Loney Marsh, the party are taken to meet Eurydicia Marsh, who says that of course she’ll help them off the island, if they’ll just do a few little things for her first. Make a few deliveries, to some faithful in Harrow Cove, or her dear friend Estelle on the Wrack of the Isle. A few things like that …

6 While the party attempt to buy supplies in Harrow Cove, the shopkeep’s terrified son rushes downstairs, saying that he dreamt that Mr. Carroway was very angry with him, though he didn’t know why. To the party’s surprise, the shopkeep takes this incredibly seriously, and immediately tells the son to write a letter of apology to Mr. Carroway and deliver it post haste. And to not be seen doing so.

7 Delivered by the mists to a rocky beach beneath a great cliff, the party find that the nearest town distinctly does not welcome them, calling them ‘Dreamer’s get’ and either avoiding them or blackly cursing them off the island.

8 The merchants of the town in Harrow Cove approach the party and ask them to venture further inland, to Redmarch Manor, which controls what little farmable land exists on the island. Deliveries of produce have been delayed lately, and they would be grateful if the party would find out why.

The Dreamer’s Cavern

One of the central mysteries of Harrow’s Rock, the legend of the Dreamer’s Cavern is bound up in the founding of the island, the influence and curses of the families who settled there, potentially the return of Aloysius’ brother at least once and perhaps twice, and perhaps also the origins of Aloysius’ dreaming abilities, if those were not wishful thinking once and an influence of the Dark Powers now.

Who or what the Dreamer might be, or even if there is a Dreamer at all, is something you can decide before running an adventure in Harrow’s Rock. If you choose to have the Dreamer exist and be an active influence on the island, you may wish to draw more heavily from cosmic horror influences as much as ghost stories or nautical elements. If you choose instead to have the Dreamer’s influence simply be a facet of the deeply superstitious nature of the islanders, you might draw more from gothic or psychological horror. If the party seeks an endgame for Harrow’s Rock involving the reveal of the Dreamer, you must decide what influence that will have on Aloysius, the inhabitants of the island, and the potential solution to the Darklord’s curse.

Use the table below to help decide what the Dreamer might be, or come up with your own ideas:

The Dreamer’s Nature:

d6 Nature

1 The Dreamer is an aboleth or a kraken seeking escape from a watery prison beneath the island, and attempting to manipulate visitors or islanders into seeking it out to accomplish this. Slaying it will have no effect on Aloysius or his curse.

2 The Dreamer is a star spawn emissary, the ‘Harrow’ which landed on the island so many centuries ago, and it seeks nothing more nor less than to untether everyone on the island from reality altogether, influencing their dreams, passions and perceptions to shatter their understanding of the world. Revealing its nature may cause Aloysius to question the nature of his actions and his ‘awakening’ in the Mists, but might exacerbate rather than help his curse by further damaging his senses of reality and responsibility for his own actions.

3 The Dreamer is a sleeping atropal, an unfinished, stillborn god, whose wordless, noisome dreams infect everything in its vicinity with hateful emotions. It has infected many of the oldest family bloodlines on the island with its influence, leading to odd powers and a propensity towards violence among them. Slaying it may help Aloysius regain some clarity regarding his willingness to slaughter a town to ‘save’ his nephew, or it may cause him to surrender to his ‘bloodline’ and double down on his actions.

4 The Dreamer does not and never did exist. Aloysius’ dreams were his own powers and attachment to his twin, and Ezekiel’s change of personality was simply trauma from the shipwreck and his imprisonment at the hands of Ambrose’s marid mother. Revealing this may drive Aloysius deeper into his sense of justified power and retribution, highlighting that his brother’s death really was for nothing more than superstition and only Aloysius’ own power stands between his nephew and the same fate. It may have the opposite effect on Elias Merrick.

5 The Dreamer didn’t exist before Harrow’s Rock was drawn into the Mists, but it does now, as a facet of Aloysius’ curse. It is an empty shell, a puppet of the Dark Powers, embodied in the form of Aloysius’ dead brother, Ezekiel. If Aloysius personally encounters this embodiment, he may become completely enthralled and controlled by this puppet, willing to do anything it asks to protect his ‘brother’.

6 The Dreamer is Ezekiel himself, watery and undead, bound to the Aloysius and the island after death by his unquiet death, his bond with his brother, and the oaths Aloysius took in Ezekiel’s name. His death, and the destruction wrought upon Harrow’s Rock as a result of it, echoes psychically back through time to the island’s founding, manifesting as the Dreamer’s dreams. Depending on whether this Ezekiel approves or is horrified by what his brother has done, it may influence Aloysius in either direction, towards further vengeance or redemption. Destroying this version of the Dreamer will have a very personal and dramatic effect on Aloysius.

Finding Aloysius’ Family

If characters wish to gain Aloysius’ aid and approval to leave Harrow’s Rock once more, he will almost certainly either ask or attempt to trick them into doing one or more of these three things:

Find Ambrose for him on the island, likely searching into Loney Marsh and other areas where his perception is limited.

Go to the Wrack of the Isle and seek evidence of whether Ezekiel has been seen in the waters off the island, or if the Merricks have captured, imprisoned or murdered Ambrose.

Find some way to enter the Cavern of the Dreamer in search of Ezekiel.

If the party successfully finds Ambrose and chooses to bring him to Aloysius, or finds reasonably satisfactory evidence that the Merricks at least have not seen or captured either Ezekiel or Ambrose, Aloysius will open the domain’s borders and give them a mist talisman that will grant them passage out of Harrow’s Rock. If the party chooses to seek entrance to the Dreamer’s Cavern instead, the end result of that will depend on what you have decided the nature of the Dreamer is, and what effect that will have on Aloysius.

Destroying Aloysius

If the party wishes to attempt to remove Aloysius instead, in order to leave the island or after learning more of who he is, there are several parties in Harrow’s Rock would like nothing more than to see Aloysius killed, no matter what effect that might have on the domain of Harrow’s Rock.

The Merrick family want nothing more than revenge on Aloysius for what he did to them. If the party can find some way to distract or blind Aloysius to their approach, Estelle Merrick would be more than happy to lead an invasion of Harrow Cove to cut the bastard’s head off herself. Her cousin, by contrast, the spectral Elias Merrick, would prefer if Aloysius would be tricked or bludgeoned onto a vessel and brought out to sea to meet him, that he might ‘return him to his brother’. Whether or not either of these plans would work is a matter for you to decide.

The Church of the Salt would also like Aloysius destroyed, but they firmly believe that the true evil on the island is the Dreamer, and that all of Aloysius’ powers and abilities stem from this creature. They believe that Ezekiel bore the creature’s infection to his brother, that his demon son sustained it, and that Aloysius cannot truly be killed nor the island freed unless some way is found to destroy the Dreamer’s tools, breach the Dreamer’s Cavern, and destroy the dark entity there. Their goals, therefore, surprisingly align with Aloysius’ at least in some part, in that they want the party to find Ambrose and to find some way into the Dreamer’s Cavern. The divergence lies in what they want the party to do with Ambrose and/or the Dreamer afterwards. To that end, they are perfectly happy for a party to also appear to be working for Aloysius towards those goals, as long as they are sure that the party’s final decision will turn their way.

The Townspeople of Harrow Cove, if they do remember, either partially or fully, what Aloysius once did, might be more than motivated to help destroy him also. However, they more than anyone exist under Aloysius’ direct thumb and are more at risk of drawing his dreams down upon them, so the party would have to find some way to ensure their safety and ensure that the destruction of Harrow Cove will not be repeated before the townspeople would be moved to overtly help.

If the party truly wishes to destroy, rather than attempt to redeem, Aloysius, then the main things they will need to find a way around are his psychic awareness of every stranger in the vicinity of Harrow Cove, his knowledge through his dreams of island natives with ill-intent against him, and the terror that most islanders have of acting against them when he can potentially kill, curse or grievously harm them in his dreams.

Inhabitants of the Island

Once the party has landed on Harrow’s Rock, there are several factors and factions that might complicate any mission they might have, from escape, to aiding or destroying Aloysius, to exploring any of the mysteries of the island. Harrow’s Rock is a domain of ghosts and nautical horrors, nightmares and blood feuds. Getting anywhere on this island will not be an easy task.

Eurydicia Marsh, in Loney Marsh, controls almost all of the hidden travel and smuggling on Harrow’s Rock. Any party hoping to avoid Aloysius’ notice, keep certain secrets from him, or get materials to other allies without his notice, will almost inevitably wind up seeking an audience with her. And Eurydicia is always happy to help, for a price. Nothing comes free, darlings. She is a scion of one of the four families herself, and she has ventures across the island, and echoes of old family pride, that she would like the party’s help with as well.

Rowena Redmarch, in Redmarch Manor, seems the most disconnected of the four family scions from any of the driving plots of Harrow Cove, but the fact remains that she controls all land-based food supply to everyone else on the island. If the haunting of Redmarch Manor, her family curse, or the influence of the Dreamer on her, affect the delivery of those supplies, she will rapidly become relevant once again, even to such powerhouses as Aloysius or Estelle Merrick.

Ambrose Carroway, Aloysius’ nephew, may be the one person on the island, if his father is truly dead and gone, who might have a hope of redeeming Aloysius, but that depends entirely on what has happened to Ambrose since Harrow’s Rock was swallowed by the mist. If Ambrose is still alive, he may be a captive of the Merricks, Eurydicia Marsh, the Church of the Salt, or the Dark Powers. He may have no memory of who he is or what happened to him. He may remember all too well, and want nothing to do with the man who locked him up for his own ‘protection’ and then walked off to slaughter a town. He may want to reach his uncle, but be aware that there are influences on the island, such as the Dreamer or the Dark Powers, who would make any successful intervention difficult at best. He may simply be too traumatised and afraid to know what he wants to do without a little help and guidance.

Ambrose’s mother, if she (/it/they) was not the Dreamer and if she has access to or was trapped within the mists, might also wish to intervene on the island, for either Ambrose or Ezekiel’s sake. Or she might firmly respect Aloysius for his response to Harrow Cove, and wish to support him. She may also have been the force which sank Elias Merrick’s ship and killed him, all those years ago.

Feuds and horrors. The inhabitants of Harrow’s Rock tend towards the sullen, the superstitious and the bloody-minded. The party might encounter any number of hauntings, ghost stories, petty feuds or bloody murders simply by nature of the environment on Harrow’s Rock and the kind of people that inhabit it. Undead and aquatic monsters are common on the island and around it, and if the Dreamer’s influence is more real than not, also psychic influences, aberrations and madness. Even those islanders who want to help or be helped might not show it readily, for fear of Aloysius, the Dreamer, or just an islander mistrust of outsiders.

#d&d #homebrew #van richten's guide to ravenloft #domains of dread #long post #cosmic horror #lovecraftian #maritime horror #ghosts #feuds #i had too much fun with this #and yes it is based on that dream I had one time

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weavingthetapestry · 3 years

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"Scotia is so named after the Scottish tribes by which it is inhabited. At first, it began from the Scottish firth on the south, and, later on, from the river Humber, where Albania also began. Afterwards, however, it commenced at the wall Thirlwal, which Severus had built to the river Tyne. But now it begins at the river Tweed, the northern boundary of England, and, stretching rather less than four hundred miles in length, in a north-westerly direction, is bounded by the Pentland Firth, where a fearfully dangerous whirlpool sucks in and belches back the waters every hour. It is a country strong by nature, and difficult and toilsome of access. In some parts, it towers into mountains, in others it sinks down into plains. For lofty mountains stretch through the midst of it, from end to end, as do the tall Alps through Europe; and these mountains formerly separated the Scots from the Picts, and their kingdoms from each other. Impassable as they are on horseback, save in very few places, they can hardly be crossed even on foot, both on account of the snow always lying on them, except in summer time only; and by reason of the boulders torn off the beetling crags, and the deep hollows in their midst. Along the foot of these mountains are vast woods, full of stags, roe-deer, and other wild animals and beasts of various kinds; and these forests oftentimes afford a strong and safe protection to the cattle of the inhabitants against the depredations of their enemies; for the herds in those parts, they say, are accustomed, from use, whenever they hear the shouts of men or women, and if suddenly attacked by dogs to flock hastily into the woods. Numberless springs also well up, and burst forth from the hills and the sloping ridges of the mountains, and, trickling down with sweetest sound, in crystal rivulets between flowery banks, flow together through the level vales, and give birth to many streams; and these again to large rivers, in which Scotia marvellously abounds, beyond any other country; and at their mouths, where they rejoin the sea, she has noble and secure harbours. Scotia, also, has tracts of land bordering on the sea, pretty level and rich, with green meadows, and fertile and productive fields of corn and barley, and well adapted for growing beans, pease, and all other produce; destitute, however, of wine and oil, though by no means so of honey and wax. But in the upland districts, and along the highlands, the fields are less productive, except only in oats and barley. The country is, there, very hideous, interspersed with moors and marshy fields, muddy and dirty; it is, however, full of pasturage grass for cattle, and comely with verdure in the glens, along the watercourses. This region abounds in wool-bearing sheep, and in horses; and its soil is grassy, feeds cattle and wild beasts, is rich in milk and wool, and manifold in its wealth of fish, in sea, river, and lake. It is also noted for birds of many sorts. There noble falcons, of soaring flight and boundless courage, are to be found, and hawks of matchless daring. Marble of two or three colours, that is, black, variegated, and white, as well as alabaster, is also found there. It also produces a good deal of iron and lead, and nearly all metals. 'The land of the Scots', says Erodotus, 'in the fertility of its soil, in its pleasant groves, in the rivers and springs by which it is watered, in the number of its flocks of all kinds, and its horses, where its shore rejoices in inhabitants, is not inferior to the soil of even Britain itself'. Isidore tells us: 'Scotia, with respect to the wholesomeness of its air and climate, is a very mild country; there is little or no excessive heat in summer, or cold in winter'- and he has written of Scotia in nearly the same terms as of Hibernia. In Scotland, the longest days, at midsummer, are of eighteen hours, or more; and, in midwinter, the shortest are of not fully six; while in the island of Meroe, the capital of the Ethiopians, the longest day is of twelve hours; in Alexandria, in Egypt, of thirteen; and in Italy, of fifteen. In the island of Thule again, the day lasts all through the six summer months, and the night, likewise, all through the six winter months. The manners and customs of the Scots vary with the diversity of their speech. For two languages are spoken amongst them, the Scottish and the Teutonic; the latter of which is the language of those who occupy the seaboard and plains, while the race of Scottish speech inhabits the highlands and outlying islands. The people of the coast are of domestic and civilized habits, trusty, patient, and urbane, decent in their attire, affable, and peaceful, devout in Divine worship, yet always prone to resist a wrong at the hand of their enemies. The highlanders and people of the islands, on the other hand, are a savage and untamed nation, rude and independent, given to rapine, ease-loving, of a docile and warm disposition, comely in person, but unsightly in dress, hostile to the English people and language, and, owing to diversity of speech, even to their own nation, and exceedingly cruel. They are, however, faithful and obedient to their king and country, and easily made to submit to law, if properly governed. Solinus, the historian, in describing the manners and customs of the Scottish nation of olden time, says:- 'In its social observances, the Scottish nation was always rugged and warlike. For when males were born to them, the fathers were wont to offer them their first food on the point of a word, so that they should desire to die not otherwise than under arms, in battle for liberty; and when, afterwards, they are grown up and able to fight, the victors, after drinking of the blood of the slain, besmear their faces with it. For they are a high-spirited race, of sparing diet, of a fierce mettle, of a wild and stern countenance, rugged in address, but affable and kind to their own people, given to sports and hunting, and to ease rather than toil'. 'The Scottish nation,' writes Isidore, 'is that, originally, which was once in Ireland, and resembles the Irish in all things- in language, manners, and character. For the Scots are a light-minded nation, fierce in spirit, savage towards their foes, who would almost as soon die as be enslaved, and account it sloth to die in bed, deeming it glorious and manly to slay or be slain by, the foe in the field; a nation of sparing diet, sustaining hunger very long, and rarely indulging in food before sunset; contenting themselves, moreover, with meat, and food prepared from milk. And though they are, by nature, a people of generally rather graceful figure, and goodly face, yet their peculiar dress much disfigures them.'"

Chapters 7-9 of the fourteenth century ‘Chronica Gentis Scotorum’ by John of Fordun, edited by W.F. Skene and translated by Felix J.H. Skene, 1872.

There is a reason I have quoted these chapters at some length, and it is not just for their interesting description of the mediaeval Scottish landscape. The last paragraph (Chapter 9) in particular is an infamous passage, and it has frequently been used to summarise the so-called ‘Highland/Lowland divide’ even in the modern day. In fact, it is a passage with a complex history and should be taken with a large pinch of salt, especially since Skene’s translation, though the most famous and widely used, is itself very much a product of its Victorian context.

John of Fordun was probably a priest who hailed, as his name suggests, from the village of Fordoun in the old county of Kincardineshire (now Aberdeenshire). His ‘Chronica Gentis Scotorum’ (’The Chronicle of the Scottish People’) is perhaps the earliest surviving example of an attempt to write a comprehensive history of Scotland from its mythical origins. Traditionally the entirety of the work edited and translated by the two Skenes in the nineteenth century was thought to have been composed by John of Fordun some time in the late 1300s, but recent research suggests that he only composed the first five books, covering the history of Scotland from its earliest times to the death of David I in 1153...

John of Fordun’s views on Scotland would be interesting because of his status as the country’s earliest surviving ‘historian’ alone, but chapter 9 (the last paragraph quoted above) in particular has a long history of its own. This firsthand description of Scotland by a fourteenth century Scot, who grew up in the Mearns only a few miles from the Mounth, is invaluable. Many have taken John of Fordun’s words in Chapter 9 at face value, and the first half of the chapter is frequently quoted in modern history books, though historians have often then reinterpreted the passage to fit their own preconceptions. For Victorian historians, his depiction of linguistically distinct, mutually antagonistic, peoples with markedly different dress and lifestyle seemed to confirm their heavily racialised view of Scottish history, with “Noble Savage” Highlanders and canny Lowlanders locked in an eternal struggle. More recent historians, less concerned with simplistic ethnic categories but still seeking to establish the roots of the so-called Highland/Lowland divide, have taken the account as evidence that the fourteenth century witnessed the birth of the Highlander as a distinct entity to be reviled by the ‘Lowlander’.

However some have argued that Fordun’s account might not have been entirely original. He references several Classical authors, which is not particularly unusual, but in some sections he seems to rely more on the accounts of these authors than the experience we might assume he had as a Scot himself. It has therefore been suggested that this part of John of Fordun’s history may have drawn on an earlier account, perhaps one composed by the author of Gesta Annalia I- this was possibly Richard Vairement, a thirteenth century Frenchman who acted as chancellor to Alexander II’s queen Marie de Coucy, and who would certainly have had cause to rely on classical accounts of Scotland. This raises further questions about whether the views of Scotland expressed in John of Fordun’s chronicle really reflect his own fourteenth century experience, or if they perhaps reflect an older viewpoint, perhaps that of a French immigrant in the 1260s.

Even if the account is John of Fordun’s original work, there are issues with both his viewpoint and the way it has been interpreted in the modern era. It is worth pointing out that the chronicle never uses the terms ‘Highland’ and ‘Lowland’- Skene’s use of the term ‘highlanders’ above is actually his own interpretation of the original Latin which seems to refer instead to the people who inhabit the islands and mountains. Instead of ‘Lowlanders’ we have the ‘people of the coast’, who speak the ‘Teutonic’ language- probably to be identified with what we now call the Scots language, which, like its close relative English, is a Germanic language. The people of the mountains are said to speak the “Scottish” language, presumably Gaelic. However despite first impressions, the people of the coastal plain and the people of the mountains cannot be easily equated with the modern concepts of Lowlanders and Highlanders. If we are to see the divide between the two peoples as linguistic, then it must be pointed out that, during the fourteenth century, Gaelic was widely spoken in many areas which are not generally considered to be the ‘Highlands’- notably Galloway and Carrick in the south-west of Scotland, but also parts of Fife and other areas.

If we are to see the split as geographic, with Lowlanders inhabiting the coastal plain-then it must be pointed out that areas which some people now consider to be ‘Highland’, such as Easter Ross, fall into this category, while many areas of southern, Scots-speaking Scotland, such as the Southern Uplands, are hilly and remote. And even if we decide to abandon the somewhat anachronistic terms ‘Highlander’ and ‘Lowlander’ when referring to Fordun’s account, I would argue that the ‘division’ of Scotland between two separate peoples was a lot less distinct, and a lot more fluid and complex in the fourteenth century than the chronicler suggests. Thus, although a fascinating source, we should beware of stereotyping ‘Highland’ and ‘Lowland’ Scotland during this period, especially if these stereotypes look rather like a Romantic fantasy of Barbarian Highlanders and Civilised Lowlanders.

Some additional notes:

- It seems that John of Fordun means Hadrian’s Wall when he says ‘Thirlwall’, and it looks like he associates the wall of Septimius Severus with Hadrian’s Wall as well, though the location of Severus’ wall is actually a bit of a mystery.

- The Northern Isles of Orkney and Shetland were not officially part of the kingdom of Scotland during the fourteenth century, which is why John of Fordun says that Scotland stretches as far north as the Pentland Firth, which is the strait between Caithness and Orkney. The whirlpool he refers to may be the Swilkie.

- Since Fordoun is only around ten miles from the Cairn O’ Mounth, a well-known pass through the Grampian mountains which was used by several armies in history, it is interesting to note that John of Fordun describes the mountains that “formerly separated the Scots from the Picts” as “Impassable (...) on horseback, save in very few places, they can hardly be crossed even on foot, both on account of the snow always lying on them, except in summer time only”.

- John of Fordun’s description of the upland parts of Scotland as "very hideous, interspersed with moors and marshy fields, muddy and dirty; it is, however, full of pasturage grass for cattle, and comely with verdure in the glens, along the watercourses” is intriguing. The ‘romantic’ appeal of Scotland’s upland scenery does not seem to have been widely appreciated in the Middle Ages, and although the first part of John of Fordun’s description, regarding the ‘hideous moors’, reflects this, his other comments are not wholly negative.

- The account of Scottish diet and agriculture seems to be accurate- peas, barley, and oats were common crops, while wool was an extremely important export. Certainly the country was rich in fish and, although the Scots were not able to exploit the herring to the extent that others did (the Dutch for example), Scottish salmon was a notable export. Highland hawks were also much sought after by the nobility.

- ‘Thule’ is a mysterious location often mentioned by mediaeval and early modern writers- theories as to its identity include Iceland, Shetland, Orkney, and Greenland.

- When John of Fordun states that the people of the mountains are ‘unsightly in dress’ we cannot necessarily assume that they wore what we consider to be ‘Highland’ dress nowadays- kilt, plaid, e.t.c. Kilts came into use in the later Middle Ages (it’s worth noting they are not likely to have been in use in William Wallace’s time) and even then they looked very different from the neat modern version.

- The statement that the people of the mountains are “hostile to the English people and language” raises a couple of questions. For a start, late mediaeval Scots speakers often used the term ‘Inglis’ (English) to refer to their language, rather than the Middle English spoken in the south of Britain, which was sometimes called southron instead. However Middle English and Old Scots were still often seen as being the same or similar languages, so should we assume that, by the ‘English people and language’, John of Fordun is stating that the people of the mountains hate the people of the coastal plain (i.e., that so-called Highland/Lowland divide?). Or should we interpret this as meaning English in the modern sense, and that the people of the mountains hate the English even more than their fellow Scots on the coastal plain? Since the next phrase talks about how they don’t like people of their own ‘nation’ either, this might be the case, but in the aftermath of the Wars of Independence, there was no shortage of anti-English sentiment among the people of the coastal plain either.

- “They are, however, faithful and obedient to their king and country, and easily made to submit to law, if properly governed.” - this is a sentiment which would not have been out of place in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, but it must be remembered that it comes from a very different, mediaeval context, not a time of kilted Highland regiments fighting for the Empire. There was some feeling in late mediaeval Scotland, however, that one of Robert Bruce’s successes had been his understanding of the west.

- The last part of chapter 9 is taken up by two passages from the ancient authors Solinus and Isidore and, although they are used to prop up John of Fordun’s own account, it would be wise to remember this before they are used to draw conclusions about the behaviour of fourteenth century Scots.

All in all, these chapters, and especially chapter 9, are an important and well-known source. Even though I would caution against taking the whole work at face value, it is certainly worth becoming familiar with, since it has influenced so many subsequent accounts of Scotland, for better or worse. For further reading, I would also recommend perusing Martin McGregor’s article “Gaelic Barbarity and Scottish Identity in the Later Middle Ages”, and Dauvit Broun’s “Attitudes of Gall to Gaedhel in Scotland in Scotland before John of Fordun”, both published in the book “Mìorun Mòr nan Gall: 'The great ill-will of the Lowlander'? Lowland perceptions of the Highlands, Medieval and Modern”, ed. McGregor and Broun.

If anyone has any questions about any of the statements made here, please feel free to fire them my way!

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neuxue · 4 years

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Wheel of Time liveblogging: Towers of Midnight ch 8

Mat goes bar-hopping and contemplates obligations

Chapter 8: The Seven-Striped Lass

Oh it’s Mat. Well, enough people have told me Mat is better in this book than last, so if nothing else, confirmation bias alone should see me through.

(Though my indifference towards Mat extends further back than just last book, so… who knows).

He’s in a tavern, which should surprise absolutely no one, and thinking about how Aes Sedai are the bane of his existence, which… also should surprise absolutely no one.

Hey, now he and Thom can fidget with their Aes Sedai letters together. Safer than juggling knives in a world that doesn’t seem to have invented stress balls yet.

‘Master Crimson’? What is this, Cluedo?

And of course he’s not looking at women any more, definitely not noticing any of their, ahem, assets or anything, at least not for himself, you know, just keeping an eye out for his friends of course.

He’s also asking tavernkeepers for advice, because sometimes you just need a sounding board to convince yourself of what you already know. In this case, what to do about Verin’s letter and the conditions set on it. Which, to be fair, is a rather infuriating dilemma. When Verin plays games, she doesn’t fuck around.

“I could open it,” she continued to Mat, “and could tell you what’s inside.”

Bloody ashes! If she did that, he would have to do what it said. Whatever it bloody said. All he had to do was wait a few weeks, and he would be free. He could wait that long. Really, he could.

“It wouldn’t do,” Mat said

Aw, but wouldn’t it? I mean, Verin of all people would appreciate that kind of loophole.

“The woman who gave it to me was Aes Sedai, Melli. You don’t want to anger an Aes Sedai, do you?”

“Aes Sedai?” Melli suddenly looked eager. “I’ve always fancied going to Tar Valon, to see if they’ll let me join them.” She looked at the letter, as if more curious about its contents.

Light! The woman was daft.

Nah, she’s one of the rare sensible ones! Seriously, if I lived in a world with magic, in which there was a chance I could learn to do it, I would give approximately zero fucks about the reputation of the organisation that would enable me to learn it. (Yes, I know, it makes sense in this world that people are wary of Aes Sedai, but to me it’s one of those things like… oh, I don’t know, characters who decide they’re not actually interested in immortality because it would mean outliving their loved ones. Like okay, yeah, there’s a price, but magic. Immortality. I will never understand some fictional characters. Or maybe this just says something about me and which side I’d be on in these fictional worlds… but then, are we really surprised?)

“Can I trust you to keep your word?”

He gave her an exasperated look. “What was this whole bloody conversation about, Melli?”

‘Can I trust you to keep your word’ is kind of a… tautological question, though. And one that always amuses me, along with variations like ‘how can I trust you’ ‘I give you my word’. Because ultimately you’re still just left with the decision of whether or not you trust that person’s word. And no real way of knowing whether or not you should. Once again, I am perhaps exposing myself as not ideal hero material here.

I will say I’m impressed by Mat’s ability to not open the letter. Though I hope at some point we get to see what it says; Verin’s so good at this kind of thing it would be a shame not to see what game she set up here.

The bouncer doesn’t like Mat, which is kind of not surprising given that a bouncer’s job is to stop shit and the purpose of Mat’s entire existence is to start shit.

The paving stones were damp from a recent shower, though those clouds had passed by and—remarkably—left the sky open to the air.

I see what you did there.

Also I’m now trying to place this against everyone else’s timeline and it’s hurting my brain a little. The weather would suggest this is post-Dragonmount but I feel like Mat still had a bit of catch-up to do… ah well, I’m sure we’ll find out. For whatever reason timelines are something of an exception to my usual ability to retain details, probably because, weirdly enough, I often just… don’t care that much? In the sense that usually, when you actually need to know (or when it would be interesting or add something to the story to know), you’ll know.

Mat was not about any specific task tonight

Oh, wandering about at random are we? Which, if you’re Mat, means that regardless of how you started the night, you’ll almost certainly be about a certain task before you finish it. The Pattern has plans, after all.

Getting a feel for Caemlyn. A lot had changed since he had been here last.

Wow, okay, yeah, as the reader we’ve been in Caemlyn plenty over the past several books, but Mat was last here in book three. Damn.

A lot has changed since then. In Caemlyn, yes, but also Mat has changed quite a lot since then. It’s interesting, even in real life, going back to a place you either visited or knew well in the past. The sense of familiarity but at a slight distance, along with the memory of when you were there last, which can then serve to highlight how you’ve changed. And then all the things that aren’t familiar, though you can’t always be certain if that’s just because you’re seeing them differently…

Light, he had heard of paving stones attacking people.

What is this, the French Revolution?

Mat’s found a better tavern, by which I mean a worse tavern, but it’s all a matter of perspective and perspective is a funny thing at the tail end of a pub crawl, so let’s just not think too hard about it.

I’m suddenly very interested in the story of this woman with breeches and short hair dicing in a dodgy tavern with three dudes and not responding to any of Mat’s smiles, ahem. Yes I’m being pandered to, no I don’t care.

But Mat did not smile at girls that way anymore. Besides, she had not responded to any of his smiles anyway.

Alright, that’s much closer to Jordan’s Mat. The absolute lack of self-awareness in being able to think those sentences side-by-side, because hey, Mat, if you don’t smile at girls that way anymore, how do you know she’s not responding to them? (Plus the fact that Mat’s ‘best smile’ has, I’m pretty sure, not actually worked once this series when he’s actually thought about it).

From these first few pages in general, Mat does sound somewhat more how I would expect him to—the way his thoughts and actions contradict themselves, his tendency towards an absolute lack of self-awareness, the running joke of his ‘best smile’… though it also feels like it’s being laid on a little thick? Almost as if Sanderson has picked out a handful of things that work, or that have appeared elsewhere, and is studiously applying them and avoiding adding in too much else or deviating too much from those narrow bounds.

But that’s almost certainly me nitpicking and also looking specifically for this; it’s not really a complaint and at first glance this does seem better than the writing of Mat last book, so… fair enough. Point is, this is definitely not as jarring to read as that first chapter last book was. Still different, sure, but more within the parameters of the rest of the differences.

Mat’s more interested in the local gossip, which—ah.

“They found him dead this morning. Throat ripped clean out. Body was drained of blood, like a wineskin full of holes.”

The gholam’s back in town, then.

Well, in town, anyway; I suppose it hasn’t actually been to Caemlyn before, that we’ve seen. Hey, Elayne? Maybe listen to Birgitte and your bodyguards for a bit and actually take a break from your errands and adventures into the city alone for a bit.

Dice are landing on their corners and also starting up in Mat’s head, so looks like your night of aimless fun and tourism is coming to an end, Mat. Don’t forget to sign the guestbook on your way out.

It seemed impossible that [the gholam] could have gotten here this quickly. Of course, Mat had seen it squeeze through a hole not two handspans wide. The thing did not seem to have a right sense of what was possible and what was not possible.

Oh, well, in that case you two have something in common! Good, you won’t run out of things to say on your next date encounter.

Though on a less flippant note, I’m pretty sure I’ve talked about this before, but I like how Mat gets paired against or linked with opponents or entities who fall into the larger umbrella archetype of ‘trickster figure’ but in different or darker ways: the gholam, the Eelfinn and Aelfinn, arguably Fain/Mordeth… and then there’s Perrin, who is set against Trollocs (the darker side of a mix between animal and human) and Whitecloaks (who exist to force questions of morality). As if they’re both sometimes set against those who reflect a darker or warped version of some aspect of who they are.

It’s not a perfect like-to-like matching; they have other opponents who don’t fit that kind of classification quite as well (though I would still argue that just about any enemy they—and quite a few other characters—face highlight some aspect of themselves via contrast or by presenting a warped kind of mirror), but it’s just a little… random thing I quite like. Particularly Mat set against other types of trickster, because it fits with the very definition or idea of what a trickster figure is in the first place. This idea of looking into a kaleidoscope of mirrors and seeing theme and variation until they flicker at the edges.

He had sent word to [Elayne], but had not gotten a reply. How was that for gratitude? By his count, he had saved her life twice.

Sigh. I sort of thought they had reached an understanding as far as the accounting between them last time they spoke, but I guess we’re still doing this. Which, okay, before everyone comes for me on this, yes he has saved her life multiple times, and no she has not always responded immediately with gratitude, but specifically in the last instance she very much did, and it was a rather lovely moment where they both saw more in each other than they had before. Where they each realised that their previous (first) impressions were not necessarily the full truth, and that there was someone to like beneath that. A friend, even.

And I liked that; I absolutely have a soft spot for the friendship between Mat and Elayne, in part because they’re actually quite similar in a lot of ways. And so for both of them to start to see beneath the surface, to see more than just what they expect to see, was a nice moment of character growth for both of them.

Anyway, leaving the gratitude thing aside, it’s a shame Elayne hasn’t replied, if only because I wouldn’t mind seeing those two interact again. I just like their weird relationship. I like weird friendships between characters in general, really; it’s a good way to get to see a character from an ever-so-slightly different angle, or throw them into a slightly different kind of light. (In all honesty there’s a small part of me that would have been very open to an Elayne/Mat relationship rather than Elayne/Rand and Mat/Tuon, but mostly I just like them as friends who sort of… force each other to take a second look at things, and in doing so to realise some things about themselves).

For once, there had been a battle and he had missed it. Remembering that lightened his mood somewhat. An entire war had been fought over the Lion Throne, and not one arrow, blade, or spear had entered the conflict seeking Matrim Cauthon’s heart.

Yeah, well, don’t jinx it.

Also Mat you were sort of in the middle of some of your own battles and while you’re pretty good, you’re not quite good enough to be in two places at once. Still, can’t fault him for looking on the bright side, I suppose. Especially because there’s a rather large battle headed his way any day now.

Three inns in one night. Making a proper pub crawl of it, I see.

Though Thom’s more in the mood to play sad flute music, presumably over Moiraine. I mean fair; I, too, would probably play several laments for her sake. Bring her back already.

Caemlyn was seen as one of the few places where one could be safe from both the Seanchan and the Dragon.

Oh no doubt it’ll stay that way. What could possibly go wrong in this beautiful Camelot that’s been held up since Book 1 as an example of beauty and (relative) stability?

I’m pretty sure one of the first things I said upon seeing Caemlyn back in EotW was ‘that’s a nice city you have there. It’d be a shame if something happened to it’ and, twelve books later, I stand by that.

Mat tries to get Thom’s attention by snagging his coins, and Thom just tosses a knife through his sleeve without interrupting his playing. Respect.

***

Oh hey a mid-chapter break without a POV change. That’s unusual.

It’s something of a location change, though, because Mat’s back at the Band’s camp now, considering the pros and cons of horse meat. Well, mostly cons in his opinion but I would like to state for the record that horse is actually quite tasty. No of course I don’t know this from experience what are you talking about.

The gholam of course has an even less discriminating palate—or I suppose technically more discriminating, just less socially acceptable.

But Mat and Thom have moved on to planning for their fieldtrip to the Tower of Ghenjei, because, you know, these characters have it easy: just one thing at a time, all easily dealt with, no piling on of way too many problems and decisions and things or people out to kill them…

“Maybe Verin will come back and release me from this bloody oath.”

Unfortunately she had to take some rather drastic measures to release herself from a different bloody oath, so uh… sorry, Mat, you’re out of luck on that one.

“Best that one stays away,” Thom said. “I don’t trust her. There’s something off about that one.”

I mean, you’re not wrong. But you’re also not exactly right. Man, I’m going to miss Verin. She’s one I very much look forward to seeing on a reread: there was always something about her and it was great fun to speculate and try to work out exactly what her deal was, but it’s different when you know. And we got so very little time with her once that was revealed—it was a hell of a way to go out, of course, but I’m definitely excited to see how she reads when you know from the beginning.

“Either way,” Thom said, “we should probably start sending guards with you when you visit the city.”

“Guards won’t help against the gholam.”

“No, but what of the thugs who jumped you on your way back to camp three nights back?”

You know what this reminds me of? Birgitte scolding Elayne when Elayne tries to go out on her own. It’s far from the only thing Elayne and Mat have in common, but it does amuse me.

Talking to that clerk meant Elayne knew Mat was here. She had to. But she had sent no greetings, no acknowledgement that she owed Mat her skin.

Maybe because she acknowledged it last time the two of you spoke? Or have you forgotten? I think that’s what irks me here: they’ve already had that conversation. It made sense (more or less) for Mat to be annoyed about Tear, before Elayne and Nynaeve gave him their thanks and apologies, but after that fight with the gholam in the Rahad, Elayne and Mat seemed to clear the air between them, so it’s just… kind of weird and a bit annoying to have this dragged out again. It seems like it would make more sense at this stage for him to just be annoyed at her for ignoring him, rather than for not thanking him for… something she’s already thanked him for.

He does shift after that to wondering how to get her to set all her foundries to making Aludra’s dragons, which is a much more pertinent question. I now kind of want Elayne and Aludra to meet. I feel like that could be entertaining.

Teslyn Baradon was not a pretty woman, though she might have made a passable paperbark tree

This should sound insulting but for whatever reason I find it hilarious. Why is this so funny.

Maybe this is why we were getting Mat’s grumbling about Elayne not thanking him (again) for saving her life: because thanks are the first thing Teslyn, an Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah, offers Mat unprompted. That would more or less fit with how these things are usually set up in Mat’s narrative, I suppose.

Though Sanderson doesn’t quite seem to have the hang of the Illian dialect; it’s close but some of the phrasing is just a bit off. But that’s me nitpicking again.

“It do be important to maintain some illusions with yourself, would you not say?”

Wiser words than you may even realise, Teslyn, given who you’re talking to. Though I think she does realise this; she’s quite perceptive, and she’s spent a fair bit of time with Mat now, and I think she very likely does see his tendency towards… perhaps not quite denial anymore, at least not as strong as it once was, but a degree of self-deception (and total lack of self-awareness, of course).

She nodded to him. A respectful nod. Almost a bow. Mat released her hand, feeling as unsettled as if someone had kicked his legs out from underneath him.

Yeah, this is what you’d expect from Mat. This is what he does: grumbles to himself about lack of gratitude, or Aes Sedai causing problems and having no respect… but then as soon as that gratitude or respect is shown, he doesn’t quite know how to deal with it. Because he’s not actually arrogant enough to accept it with haughty disdain, but nor is he self-effacing enough to truly not care about getting praise and credit. So you end up in this awkward in-between state that is, I think, actually quite common amongst people in general. It’s definitely something I see play out in the workplace, at least.

And so he offers her the horses that, last book, he refused Joline. Because she’s shown him respect and so he will return the favour. Because they’re treating each other as people, and Mat may push for what he feels is his due, but he won’t just take it without giving something in return. He’s better than he likes to think he is, as Thom once pointed out.

“I did not come to you tonight to manipulate you into giving me horses,” Teslyn said. “I do be sincere.”

“So I figured,” Mat said, turning and lifting up the flap to his tent. “That’s why I made the offer.”

And that’s it, really. It’s amazing what open and honest communication can get you, sometimes. It’s almost like that’s a running thing in this series.

There, he froze. That scent…

Blood.

Mmmm, dinner.

Next (ToM ch 9) Previous (ToM ch 7)

#open! the! letter!#wheel of time #neuxue liveblogs WoT #Towers of Midnight

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limelocked · 4 years

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The Watchers, a guide and analysis

This was supposed to be a two sentience joke about Evo still living on without Grian despite what I read in ATUS but it turned into a 3 page comp of everything I know about the Watchers and their general vibe, read at your own risk.

Appearance

There’s two Watchers and there has been two statues made in EVO, assuming the statues are made in their image we can assume that one of them has short, dark or ashen hair (clay) while the other has light or golden long hair (sandstone). In their statues the ashen haired one has small sandstone wings while the golden haired one has very large wings of clay.

The clay haired one and the golden haired one also differ in body shape. The ashen one is slender with a body shaped almost like an hourglass while the golden haired one has a more triangular body that could be interpreted as it wearing a flowing dress, this is backed up by its triangular sideangle as well, it having a traditional dress train behind it.

Both statues shown (Grians punishment/temptation (shown in his episode 22) and the Watcher clue (shown on most POVs but #21 by SalemsLady)) have had stone used for their skin and body and only one (clay haired one) has been given eyes which were made from cobblestone.

The materials used have though probably been limited by the early block palette of Minecraft.

- WeTheWatchers - the account name of the author of later written books given to the players by the Watchers also gives some insight to what the Watchers could look like.

The skin the account uses is of a monochrome hooded figure with the faces of the Alex and Steve default skins fused together half and half (Alex left Steve right). The robe is dark gray and goes all the way down to the avatars feet and has a brown belt that provides the only color in the design. On the back of the robe is a light gray Watcher portal insignia.

In the end Dialogue of the post dragon fight the two Watchers talk in color. Watcher One in Green, Watcher Two in Blue and we see that Watcher Three, Grian, talk in red. The significance of the colors are unknown if there is any as the colors closely resemble the ones of the two entities in the Minecraft End Poem.

Acting

The two Watchers have pretty similar if not identical personalities in their signs and in the end Dialogue. As entities the two Watchers enjoy puzzles and often treat the players like pets, not toys or subjects to rule over but as pets that have their affection. In the Dialogue they reminisce about the server with an air of parentage but their actions previously seems to indicate that they don’t see the players as children or students.

Their voice has the energy of two beings that use the players as entertainment for themselves, that they have power over to punish, reward and tempt as they please and rarely (though sometimes) to guide into better moral standings (Martyns false mayorship punishment). There is no room in their voice for the players to ascend to their level.

Most of all the Watchers are, from my current perspective, petty. Their rewards to the players are affected by their standing with the Watchers and how much the Watchers like them. The punishments for slights are huge and overblown.

They will also tempt the players and punish accordingly if they give in to the greed and, curiously, if asked to fulfil a wish they will grant it with a temptation/warning. (see: Property Police obtaining zombie spawn eggs)

They will also recognise chosen names like Morty Gadge and Pete Bills while giving some nicknames themselves such as Grian being called both “The Exploding One” and “The Empire” in clues or in the Dialogue.

Architecture

The Watchers have a few interesting patterns that come back such as Block Palette and Build Style.

Block Palette: From the beginning the block palette was relatively limited showing a preference to sand/sandstone, obsidian, bedrock and gray blocks like clay and stone.

This palette has a heavy light/dark contrast with yellow/blue undertones as they seem to avoid using the pure white snow blocks and black wool.

Build Style: There’s, I think, three categories that most Watcher builds fall into. Caves, Grecoroman and Towers.

- Caves: A LOT of the Watchers builds fall into the cave/underground category as many of the later clues and portals were found underground. For these builds Sandstone seems to be the prefered material. - Grecoroman: Grecoroman is the style of architecture that melds the build style of ancient Greece and Rome. It usually involves domes, pillars and tall archways. Early in the SMP this was the prefered build style of the Watchers. - Towers: This is a loose category that includes the obelisk and clue pillars AS WELL as the netherrack “torches” in the post dragon fight spawn. Towers are rarely used other than as landmarks for new clues or as midway points between clues.

Abilities

Their full abilities are unknown but the following is what is known.

- They have the ability to create anything within the world they watch over, buildings, meteors, etc, and have full control over every block (see: liberal use of bedrock).

- They have mastered time travel/version travel to where they can create portals to the future/newer versions.

- As seen in the statue of the golden haired Watcher they also have some sort of perhaps magic staffs (statue depicted holding two staffs where glass is floating up from them like magic). The magic might be the same that lets them create buildings/blocks as it was in connection to Grians chests being “locked” by obsidian courtesy of the Watchers punishment.

- The Watchers also know several ciphers such as Morse code and the Galactic alphabet.

Grian

Grians part in this is relatively small so I’ll try to keep it short.

Grian is stolen from the rest of the server once he enters the end portal after winning the Ender Dragon fight and is addressed as an equal (Watcher One referring to him as “friend” like with Watcher Two) Watcher One also takes a tone that could be likened to them talking to a child with him (“Grian, I think it is time for you to come with us now.”).

In the Dialogue Grian seems sad but resigned to his fate as something that has to be done, like a martyr. He wishes the rest of the community good luck and reminds them that he will be in their hearts and spirits and that he will enjoy watching them.

Iconography

Wings; both statues, assuming they were made in the creators image, have wings and so we can assume they are winged beings.

Eyes; despite the lack of eyes on the golden haired Watchers statue there was a clear eye symbol over the portal leading to 1.7.10. This could though only be their version of the ears of the Listeners (an assumed opposite of the Watchers we know extremely little about).

Speculation

Warning; This is wholesale speculation with only little basis in the above analyses and I don’t even agree with some of the things I’m about to suggest.

WeTheWatchers skin: The skin presents 4 theories for me.

1 - The fused Alex and Steve face is a mask to look like the player, to show duality, to hide their face and/or something else.

2 - The skin is a fusion between the two Watchers, the Watchers being Alex and Steve. This ties in with the blue and green text correlating to their eye/shirt color like Grians red text does with his sweater.

3 - The skin has little or no correlation with the true appearance of the Watchers.

4 - The skin is one to one with the appearance of a Watcher and the statues aren’t made in the Watchers image.

Towers:

With the focus on towers and the effects of the Downside Up, a version/time left behind by the Watchers that has a purple sky following the netherportal texture and animation as well as having enderman particles in the air, there might be some connection to the end. There could also be a connection correlating with the End dimension return portal stealing Grian as well.

#hermitcraft #hermitblr #the watchers #grian #minecraft evo #mc evo

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amarauder · 5 years

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Player’s Cigarette Mate - James Potter

002. player’s cigarette mate

PAIRING; James Potter x Reader

HOUSE; Gryffindor

YEAR; Sixth and Seventh

DATE; October 27th, 2019

WORD COUNT; 8605

WARNING; A real lot, bad words, SMOKING (if you didn't get it from the title), underage drinking, and kissing.

A/N; So, this is my first one shot after a real long ass time. But I like to think I have improved in writing. But for those of you who like my original one shots, I will be eventually re-writing those. I just don't know when.

TRAILER; in which a girl's bad habit turns into a good one.

It was a cold November evening, Saturday, when it first happened. She had snuck up to the Astronomy Tower after Olivia had finally stopped giggling about Thomas MacMillian, a sixth year Hufflepuff prefect, complimenting her new haircut. Y/N thought she ought to have been flattered as well, since she was the one that originally cut Marlene's hair—and it did look fantastic—but there was a limited amount of time one could spend talking about Thomas' baby blue eyes and two hours had been more than enough for her. Thanking Merlin, God, and many other great witches, wizards and deities, Y/N rolled across her bed searching her drawer for the small purse. Upon finding it she quietly departed from the dormitory hoping she wouldn't encounter anyone in the common room. Luck was on her side, for the room was indeed empty despite it being only mere thirteen minutes after midnight on a Saturday night. The h/c haired girl quickly tiptoed to the entrance door, leaving the Gryffindor Common Room behind as the Fat Lady noted how it was far too late for a respectable young lady to roam the castle on her own.

Getting to the Astronomy Tower usually didn't take long but it always, without a fail, demanded that the person doing the sneaking possessed a certain amount of wit mixed with a sense for mischief. Avoiding the prefects was easy, in fact some of them were rather tolerant. The professors, however, were much worse. They patrolled the hallways, carefully and in a surprisingly quiet manner, especially Professor McGonagall who often times patrolled in her animagus form. Thus, sneaking through the hallways demanded a certain level of expertise, a detour on the right, taking care not to step into a trap step on the way, a few simple shortcuts and Y/N was well on her way towards the Tower. It was a little before 1 o'clock when she had finally reached the very top of it. She checked if she was truly alone—she lost count of how many times she had walked in on couples in various stages of undress—before leaning against the wall and sliding to the floor breathing heavily, lungs heaving to get more air inside as her pulse drummed, courtesy of Mrs. Norris sneaking around the bottom of the Astronomy Tower. At least the h/c haired girl hoped it was Mrs. Norris and not Professor McGonagall, otherwise the woman would be extremely disappointed in her. Once she had finally calmed her breathing Y/N reached inside her purse, her hand nearly elbow deep in the tiny thing. The girl had a knack for extension charms. First she felt the cool metal of her tweezers, then the warmer, softer texture of the lip balm she always carried and finally a small bottle of perfume. Groaning she roamed her fingers around the inside of the purse until they grasped a pack of Players' cigarettes and, after searching a bit more, a lighter. With a sigh of relief she pulled out a cigarette and stuck it between her lips. Bringing the lighter to the tip of it she tried lighting the cigarette once, then twice, and then finally the third time before realizing that her lighter was of no use any longer which elicited a small groan from her lips. Just her luck. The one night in the whole week when she was able to sneak out on her own and her lighter decided that its time to become a faulty-no-use lighter had finally arrived. Ruddy, faulty, of-absolutely-no-use-lighter. Without a second thought she chucked it back in the purse, her temper slowly rising. If there was one thing that Y/N L/N absolutely abhorred it was using magic to light a cigarette. The mere thought made her shudder and the actual deed took away everything that was alluring about smoking in the first place. She needed a lighter. And she was looking forward to that silly cigarette—and maybe, just maybe, one more after it—but now she couldn't have it, and she really wanted it. Not to mention how much she needed it, especially after having to listen about a certain sixth year Hufflepuff and his gorgeous blue eyes which, Y/N thought, weren't that gorgeous at all.

Leaning her head against the cool wall she almost missed the silent footsteps coming nearer. Suddenly alert, she stood up, shoving the Players' back inside the small purse and holding the wand tightly in her right hand as she moved backwards to hide from the entrance to the tower. The footsteps grew louder, she could feel her heart beat increasing as her palms began sweating, the vice like grip she had on her wand getting even tighter. Whoever it was that was climbing towards the Tower should have been very near. The h/c haired girl flinched when the familiar click sounded and the door opened, her eyes glued to the darkness behind them. For a few moments she stared at the emptiness there and then the door closed. The fear she had been feeling only seconds ago was replaced by utter terror as she could still hear the silent shuffling of somebody's feet in the tower. Her eyes moved frantically around as she pressed her back to the wall, her wand holding hand going slightly numb. After rapidly analysing the situation she was in, Y/N decided against calling out for the person (or whatever it was) to show themselves (oritself) realizing that her voice would most likely crack. It seemed like eons had passed since she had been sitting on the very floor of the Astronomy Tower ready to smoke a cigarette and walk back to her dormitory. Silently, Y/N L/N regretted ever deciding to leave the Gryffindor Tower at all. Despite being a talented witch and a Gryffindor at that—and Gryffindors were brave, she was supposed to be brave!—Y/N was, after all, just a sixteen year old girl who found herself trapped with an invisible entity at one o'clock in the morning at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Suddenly she could hear herself taking quick, short breaths as everything else fell silent. Then the footsteps sounded again, this time loud and clear and, Y/N realized in complete mortifying horror, approaching her much too quickly for her own liking. Forgetting about the curfew and not being caught, she was ready to scream for help when a hand appeared and clamped over her mouth. She raised her eyebrows, eyes widening in shock, staring at the floating hand keeping her from screaming. The following second the hand was joined by the rest of the body, quite conveniently attached to the hand attached to her face. In front of Y/N L/N stood James Potter, his hand still pressed against her lips and a small grin on his face. Her stomach dropped, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. Of all the people... "Hullo, L/N, fancy seeing you here," he whispered, a smirk on his lips. "Are you okay? You won't scream?" With her eyes still narrowed she took in his face, a few inches too close to hers, and promptly rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't understand?" James played dumb. "Does rolling your eyes mean 'yes, James, I'll scream' or 'no, James, I won't'... or does it mean something completely else screaming related? So, let me repeat: you won't scream, right?" This time around Y/N nodded vigorously, James' hand moving along before he removed it, giving her a chance to speak, "What are you doing here?!" "No need to be hostile. I'm here for a smoke," he shrugged nonchalantly and reached in his pocket pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Y/N nodded curtly, ready to open her mouth and let out a stream of witty remarks and a few classy insults when James' sentence registered in her brain. He was here for a smoke. A smoke! There he was, standing right in front of her, Y/N – currently known as the owner of a faulty-of-no-use lighter, and he was ready to embark on some smoking. She bit her lower lip hard contemplating for a few moments before grinning sheepishly, "You don't happen to have a lighter on you, Potter?" "A lighter?" She rolled her eyes, "Yes. Yes, a lighter. That funny little thing you use to light a cigarette." "What'd you need a lighter for, L/N? Setting the Tower on fire?" James chuckled, "I reckon it might ruin your chances of becoming a prefect." "I was not going to set fire to—what do you even care if I become a prefect or not?" She challenged walking away from him towards the middle of the room. James grinned at her and leaned against the wall, "I don't care, I really don't. But," he paused, placing a cigarette between his lips and, reaching his hand to retrieve a lighter from his pocket, simultaneously causing Y/N to roll her eyes yet again, and lighting the thin white stick, "what I am curious about is... what are you—of all the people I thought I might encounter—doing here? Of all the places you could be, L/N." Smirking at her he continued, "And you actually should be in your bed. I don't suppose you're meeting someone?" He wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively. Instead of responding she rolled her eyes at him before reaching in her purse and pulling out the half full pack of Players', taking a cig and holding her hand out expectantly, She nodded her head in the direction of the lighter. The dark haired boy seemed baffled at first but his face quickly formed into a mask of mischief as he approached her and, instead of handing her his lighter, lit the cigarette for her. They accidentally met up again on a Sunday, two weeks after. It was James who needed a lighter then.

—- It was an ordinary Sunday. One perfectly ordinary Sunday, month of May, 1977. Except, it wasn't ordinary at all and it wasn't a good day either. If one asked James Potter, or pehaps any other Gryffindor, it was a rotten, rotten day. That very morning the last Quidditch match had been played between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.

Lasting too long and exhausting both sides, until one of the Seekers managed to clutch his fingers around the elusive Golden Snitch. The Gryffindor team had been in the lead from the very beginning of the match, but by the end of the game they had been 140 points ahead of Ravenclaw. Even so, it had appeared that there had been no doubt in anybody's mind that the victory belonged to Gryffindor; some Ravenclaws even feeling defeated enough to leave the stands before the match had actually ended. However, in a curious turn of events the new Ravenclaw seeker—Ernest Johnson—brought his team victory by out flying the Gryffindor seeker and catching the golden snitch. The Bloody-Rotten-Sodding-Horrid-No-Good-Very-Sad-Excuse-Of-A-Snitch, as Sirius Black dubbed it afterwards. Thus Ravenclaw won the Quidditch Cup and, on top of that, had gained a great advantage in House championship which would likely gain them the House Cup as well. It had been a horrible day and James Potter wanted to be someplace quiet and deserted, away from everyone. He had to get away from the commotion. Perhaps he would have invited Sirius to come join him, because Remus was still away 'visiting his mother' (or was he supposed to be visiting his mother the next month and he merely had a flu now?) and Peter was trying to chat up a few fifth years. James' luck though had seemed to taken a turn for worse because Sirius had already disappeared and James didn't think his best mate wanted to be found yet. That's how James found himself sneaking up the stairs to his dormitory and hiding underneath the Invisibility Cloak. Sneaking out of the Common Room was children's play, and the walk towards the Astronomy Tower seemed short.

Perhaps he had a certain spring in his step, aided by the fact that he hadn't had a smoke in a while, and his unrelenting desire to get away from people. The Map that he had stowed away in the back pocket of his pants, told him there were people occupying the Tower. The knowledge made him feel better, he would have to scare them off before he could have the Tower to himself. James always found that scaring away snogging couples amused him to no end. Besides once those were gone, he would have the Tower to himself and his very own horrible Sunday. On the particular evening, when James reached the tower in a record time, he encountered a pair of third year Gyrffindors at the base of it. Scaring them off was simple, a murmured "boo" in the girl's right ear sent her screaming and demanding they, meaning her and her confused boyfriend, leave the staircase immediately. The pair of Seventh year Slytherins at the very top proved to be trickier. They had been going at it pretty intensely before James started whistling around the Tower. The lanky Slytherin boy yelled a few times for James to "show his face" in a rather shaky voice, but the latter only chuckled before continuing with his agenda until the two had picked up their belongings and left in a haste. Once the tower was empty he took off the Cloak and locked the door chuckling to himself. It was somewhat humorous just how much ruining other people's fun lifted James Potter's spirits, his only regret being that there were no Ravenclaws to scare. Or perhaps throw off the top of the tower. Maybe he'd just give them a light shove as they stood on the edge. Fly them towards the ground. Shove them off a cliff—tower—whatever. Taking a few steps he walked out onto the small balcony overlooking the lake. The stone floor was warm enough to sit on and he took out the Map, placing it beside him. Lighting his cigarette, he observed the small dot with the scribbling Remus Lupin as it stood still in the Hospital Wing. He must have been sleeping. The dot that had Peter Pettigrew scribbled next to it was apparently getting cosy with one Dolores Smith in the farthest of the secluded corners of Gryffindor Common Room. James' eyes unconsciously roamed the entire map in search of Sirius' dot. After he was unable to spot him, even when he double checked all of the broom cupboards, he chuckled to himself. The two options stood before him: a) Sirius had gone off to Hogsmeade to chat up Rosmerta, or b) he had taken some bird to the Come and Go Room. With either of the two options equally likely, James knew he wouldn't be seeing his friend for a while. Reluctantly he stopped searching for Sirius, making peace with the fact that he would be spending the evening alone. It was at that very moment that his eyes landed on another dot, a particularly fast moving, extremely intriguing dot. The dot adjoined to Y/N L/N was travelling away from the Gryffindor Tower at a rather brisk pace. His stomach twisted lightly. In a good way, the way your stomach twists when, despite it being an awful Sunday, you suddenly feel happier than before. The way his stomach would twist every time he saw her and knew that they had a shared secret – the Astronomy Tower. A smile playing on his lips, he followed her dot as it moved, realizing she was headed his way. Eyes glued to the Map, he wasted half of his cigarette, only tearing his gaze away when the Y/N L/N dot had finally reached the locked door at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Grabbing the map, a cigarette between his lips, he got up and walked to the door unlocking them for her and meeting the back of her head. "Oi, L/N," he whispered and she turned to face him. His breath caught on the way out, somewhere between his lungs and his parted lips because the girl looked stunning, the dim moonlight lightly dancing upon her face, a few free strands of pretty h/c hair that broke loose as she turned around, framing her delicate features. "Don't leave so soon." A scowl formed on her face as she pushed past him, knocking out the breath he had been holding. "Not you again." "Fancy meeting you here, as well. And what on Earth do you mean, L/N? Again? It's been a while, you know. A month if I recall correctly. Such a shame, as well. I've missed you." "I swear, Potter... just," she groaned, trying hard not to snap at him for she was not in the mood to be teased or to tease back, "I need a few minutes on my own, please." "I'll keep quiet." They sat on that small balcony. True to his word James kept quiet for as long as he could, which was approximately ten minutes. Even that was impressive for a sixteen year old boy. At first he started glancing towards her every few seconds, which Y/N noticed. Then he started sighing, most likely out of boredom, and after the sighs kicked in James started impatiently tapping his foot. All of that had done nothing to calm the h/c haired girl down. In fact there had been a few good hexes floating through her thoughts that she had been ready to use when she remembered the reason behind her late night venture to the Astronomy Tower. Cigarettes. Hastily she started pulling out the contents of her purse until the small pile on the floor was joined by a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, a smile gracing Y/N's lips. She was well aware of his burning gaze taking in each of her movements, but chose to ignore it simply lighting the cigarette between her lips. They didn't speak much more, but she did share her Butterbeer with him. It was a strange thing they had, the Astronomy Tower and cigarettes, but what neither of the two was remotely ready to admit was that they liked it. In a strange sort of way, of course.

—— Summer had been very kind to Y/N L/N. That was the first thing Sirius told his friends upon spotting the h/c haired girl at the Platform 9 ¾ . James's neck craned and his eyes shifted quickly until they found the h/c locks (Had she curled her hair?) framing an all too familiar face, splayed with tan, soft skin. She was laughing at something Dorcas Meadowes had said and James couldn't keep himself from staring for a second, or two. His eyes roamed her whole form, she had grown a bit. Her legs seemed to go on forever, and her shirt did fit rather snugly, particularly around the chest area. And there was that small purse hanging innocently off her shoulder. The small purse that was much bigger on the inside, and most likely contained at least a dozen of packs of cigarettes at the very moment. With a soft smile playing on his lips James looked away and followed his friends, the three of them already moving towards the train. They had been two weeks into their 6th year when James, Sirius, Remus and Peter decided to camp out in the courtyard during lunch time. Majority of the Hogwarts students made the same decision, among them Y/N L/N, her magical purse and her friends. It was Peter who first noticed them when the three girls passed them and headed towards a tree not too far from theirs.

All four of them observed the girls silently as Y/N spread out the small blanket. Sirius whistled lightly chuckling to himself before adding, once again, that summer had treated her nicely indeed and how she had grown to be one of the fittest girls around. James agreed, not too enthusiastically though. The time for oblivious pining after L/N had passed more than a year ago.

There was something else there instead of it now, though he wasn't sure what exactly. Their shared moments somehow remained a secret, together with the fact that he liked her more than he dared let on. For all he was concerned he would never admit that he thought she was brilliant. There was nothing wrong with being brilliant, and he couldn't hold that against the poor girl. Especially not when she looked so gorgeous in the dim moonlight on a Sunday evening with smoke leaving her lips quite enticingly.

Her lips were a completely different story. He had never noticed it but they were the perfect size and the perfect shape, if such thing existed, and they fit her face just as perfectly. Some girls had full lips and, while Y/N's were not as full as Mary MacDonald's, they were as pretty, if not prettier. Perhaps even the prettiest lips in the school, James thought, even though he would never call himself an expert on the fullness nor prettiness of girls' lips. There was just something about their shape and shade, which coincidentally complimented Y/N's hair perfectly. Of course, James could stare at her long legs and the curve of her hips, and the way she was tying her hair up in a ponytail. He could watch her laugh, and admire her whole being with a slight tug around the general area of his chest, but James would never voice these thoughts because he was far too proud, and rejection and ego did not mix well. He would simply continue sitting under the tree, a hand in his pocket holding the unopened pack of cigarettes. He would continue pretending to listen to what Peter was talking about, even though he wasn't paying attention at all. He hadn't been paying attention ever since Peter had pointed out the three girls. After that James was much too occupied by other things, things infinitely more interesting than anything his friends might have been saying. To an extent James understood that it was wrong to think that way, but he wasn't sure that anything could possibly be better than Y/N L/N' long legs under the warm September sun, completely outstretched and crossed at the ankles as she lay on her stomach, laughing along with her best friends. Perhaps the story Peter was telling had truly been more interesting. James Potter would never know, though. The story was retold that very evening, but he was once again not around to hear it, this time physically. He had spontaneously decided to go for a walk outside of the castle. Not exactly sure what had made him do it in the first place, he strode across the school grounds towards the lake listening to the hushed sound of his own footsteps and toying with the lighter in his pocket. The Cloak of Invisiblity had been left behind in his dormitory, stashed away in the spare pillow case and locked in the hidden compartment of his trunk, but he had taken the Map with him just to be safe. The lake was eerily still that evening and the air was humid but calm. It was another indicator that the school year had only just begun, no one was worrying about exams or homework and the unusual serenity was still thick in the air around the grounds. James loved those first few weeks of school, the slow beginning and retelling of summer adventures. Sighing he lit a cigarette and lowered himself against the trunk of the huge willow observing its branches as they dipped into the calm surface of the lake ever so softly. He held the first drag in longer than necessary, then let it out slowly, watching it dissolve in the humid air around him.

Despite it being the middle of September the weather was inexplicably summer-like and James wasn't yet sure if he liked it or not. He would have pondered about it for a while longer had the sound of rocks being thrown into the still lake interrupted the calm silence in the air, as well as his train of thought. A beat. A tug. A smile forming on his lips and his breath getting caught. Because there she was, he could easily spot her from the shadow of the willow. A h/c haired girl in the dim moonlight disrupting the surface of the lake. Taking the cigarette from his lips he stood up and walked towards her, a grin on his face. "Evening, L/N," she looked at him, lowering her arm and dropping the rock she was holding to the ground. "Potter." Y/N's face gave off her surprise, though her voice stayed indifferent. "Are you throwing rocks?" He questioned stupidly, taking a drag from his cigarette and gazing at the disrupted surface of the lake. The girl rolled her eyes at him, a gesture she seemed to do often. With a shrug, she replied, "Maybe." "It seemed like you were." "What does it matter if I was?" She turned to face him completely and noticed he was staring at the sky. Blowing out the smoke into the air above them he lowered his head, "I s'ppose it doesn't. I reckoned you'd care for a smoke," he grinned, offering her his virtually empty pack of cigarettes. "I'm not going to take your last cig, Potter" she shook her head, the h/c tresses moving with such an ease that James had to admire it for a split second, "I don't do that." His laughter rang through the silent air, "You don't do that? Do what? Accept generous offers? Smoke? ... Because I know you smoke." "I won't take your last cig, it's... I just don't do it. I don't take other people's last cigs, that's it." He frowned, "But I'm offering." "Doesn't matter," Y/N replied turning away from him after catching herself staring at his lips as they parted to let the smoke out. Reprimanding herself mentally, she noted there were much better things to stare at, the lake for instance, or the moon. Eventually she decided on the lake, and summoned her own Players' from the tiny purse. Turning to face him, but fully intent on not staring, she smirked. "Do you reckon the Giant Squid is dead?" "Excuse me?" James sputtered out just as he threw the cigarette bud to the ground. "Is it dead?" Y/N repeated, while pulling out a lighter from her purse. "Or is it asleep?" The boy standing next to her chuckled, "Is that what you were doing? Waking the Squid? Bloody hell, L/N. Has anyone ever told you you're a bit mental?" She scoffed. "Why would anyone want to wake up the Giant Squid?" She didn't respond right away, instead taking a long drag from her cigarette and blowing a few smoke rings, "I was bored." James nodded reaching for that last cigarette of his. As he held it between his lips he could hear her chuckle, "Aren't you glad I didn't take your last cigarette?"

- It was funny how they kept running into each other in the strangest of moments. She's standing in the middle of her dormitory, the small purse in her hands, surrounded by the mess she had made minutes ago. Her hair is slightly dishevelled and she's breathing raggedly. Y/N could have sworn that she had one more pack left, that there was no need to make a discreet detour to buy another carton of cigarettes. She had it all planned out and was certain that the carton she had bought before arriving to Hogwarts that year would last her at least until Easter, if not the whole year. Yet, she had found herself cigarette-less in the middle of March with no opportune moment to apparate secretly, replenish her stash, and come back without being caught. Y/N L/N wasn't even addicted to cigarettes, she just enjoyed having a smoke here and there, and there was nothing wrong with liking cigarettes—it did not mean she was addicted.

Besides, it was a completely private thing, not even her best friends knew, if they did they still pretended they didn't, for her own sake. Sure, Y/N noticed how they would get suspicious every now and again, but she was firmly convinced that she had managed to keep it a secret. A secret she loved, even though she had to share it with an unlikely cigarette mate of hers. A faint smile formed on her lips at the thought, and then it dawned on her. It was as simple as that, James Potter was her unlikely cigarette mate with a lighter. He was her cigarette mate, Y/N grinned, with a lighter and cigarettes. The cigarette mate code, which she may or may not have made up right then and there, stated that when one's cigarette mate is in trouble—such as having run out of their precious Players' unexpectedly—then one should feel obligated to help out their cigarette mate in any way possible. The only way to help out a cigarette mate who would find themselves in such a pickle as Y/N did was to provide them with a box of cigarettes. It was the only noble and honourable thing to do, she concluded suddenly relieved. All she had to do now was find her wonderful, charming, brilliant cigarette mate. Giving the dormitory a once over and realizing that if she were to leave it in its current state it would undoubtedly raise questions, she decided it had to be put back in place. Suspicious, questioning dorm mates were not something Y/N wanted to deal with, especially since she had other matters to tend to, matters such as the disturbing lack of cigarettes.

With a flick of her wand she folded all of her shirts, stacking them one on top of the other on her bed. Then she levitated the books to her trunk and closed it. Glancing around the room she nodded satisfied at the way it looked, then rushed down the staircase.

Upon bursting through the door and stumbling into the 6th year boys' dormitory she realized, only a little too late, that James would most definitely not be alone when she came to him for help. In fact it was more than likely that he would be with his friends. Which he was, Y/N realized standing mortified in the doorway. The four boys who were playing Exploding Snap prior to her grand entrance stared at her bewildered, and she flushed glancing quickly at her secret, she reprimanded herself quietly when she remembered, cigarette mate before averting her gaze to Remus. "Uh, hullo," she cleared her throat, "I just wanted to—it's silly really, you see—Remus, I can't seem to remember if we have the—uh—that prefect thing—uhm—" James cut in, "Patrols?" "Yes," she accepted his help, "... that. Do we have patrols tonight?" Remus stared at her confused before replying, "Y/N, we had them three days ago. Are you alright? Maybe you should go see Madame Pomfrey and have her check if everything is fine with you—did you hit your head?" "I'm fine, Remus, I promise." She assured her fellow prefect who suddenly seemed extremely concerned about her health. "I'll leave you to it, then." Y/N mumbled out before awkwardly leaving the dormitory, but not before she was able to steal a glance towards her cigarette mate.

Then she all but stumbled down the stairs, headed back to her dormitory to grab a few books, and descended to the Common Room. She had reached the armchair in front of the fireplace quicker than ever before and took up doing her homework rather enthusiastically, all the while chewing on her lip impatiently and hoping to catch James Potter alone, preferably far away from his friends.

As she found out later in the evening she needn't have worried at all. A small piece of crumpled parchment hit her just above her right eyebrow before falling onto the Charms textbook she had been reading seconds ago. It continued to gracefully roll towards her lap, where it ended its journey. She picked it up, unsure of what it was, and was met with a messy handwriting. Broom cupboard down the corridor. 15 minutes. James At first her brain screamed a loud 'no' protesting against any inclination she might have had to meet James, especially not in a broom cupboard. Everybody knew broom cupboards were full of spiders and snog germs. Besides she had no intention of snogging James, and frankly she was not quite sure where he got the preposterous idea. There was a stronger part of her brain, though, the one that was shouting out an extremely loud 'yes', for more than one reason.

It was the part that kept her awake sometimes with unwanted, sentimental, very cliche thoughts about the boy in question. The part she blamed when she caught herself staring at the back of his head in Tranfiguration, and contemplating what a pretty back of a head it was. The unreasonable part of her brain that sometime, along the way decided that James messing up his hair wasn't irritating, but rather attractive.

That part made her do inexplicable things and oftentimes sent the strangest impulses through her body. Her pulse would quicken, her cheeks were flush, her muscles would tingle.

It was clearly the annoying part of her brain, Y/N decided. But, most importantly it was the part that thought James Potter was aware of their cigarette mates bond, their cigarette camaraderie, and the obligations such camaraderie brought. She was partially certain that he had understood her plea for help, or perhaps it was more of a desperate cry rather than a mere plea, and the logical part of her brain agreed.

Rationalizing the situation Y/N scribbled down a neat yes before charming the crumpled ball of parchment to hit James in his left ear. She watched him as he flinched, then searched for the parchment unsuccessfully before summoning it.

Observing him as he read her note, she couldn't help but feel only slightly giddy at the thought of meeting up with him in a broom cupboard. Once he smirked, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket for a split second, Y/N let out a breath of relief (or was it disappointment?) and turned back to her Charms homework. He left the common room only a few minutes later and she wondered if she was truly supposed to wait another ten minutes to join him. Completely annoyed, she found that there was no way she was going to be able to finish her essay now because: a) It was ten o'clock and she was tired, b) there was a cigarette with her name on it in the broom cupboard a few feet away from the portrait of the Fat Lady, and to top it off c) the assignment wasn't due until next week, anyway.

Hastily she collected her books, corked her ink bottle and rushed to her dormitory to put them away. After a minute she was out of the Gryffindor Tower and heading towards the meeting place in a hurry when someone—and she was quite positive that she knew who it was—grabbed her by her waist, clamped a hand over her mouth and then threw something over her head. "Invisibility cloak," he whispered in her ear and she almost shivered, almost. "Let's go outside, the Astronomy Tower is apparently extremely busy tonight." Again, she nodded, blindly following his suggestions.

They moved through the castle with ease, making sure they didn't make too much noise. Once they reached the oak door they had to wait for Filch to leave the Entrance Hall, which didn't take long in James' opinion, but Y/N had been unyieldingly impatient.

Despite James' reassurances that no one would see them in the dark even if they did remove it, Y/N insisted they kept the Cloak on until they were only steps away from the willow rooted near the shore of the lake. There James finally pulled the Cloak off and tucked it away. He then proceeded to take hold of her wrist, pulling her into the shadows of the tree, where he all but sat her down on one of the protruding roots before pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Standing before her, he opened the pack and offered her a cigarette before taking one himself. "What's the story, N/N?" "Huh?" She glanced at him, extending her arm to grab hold of the lighter he had just used. His hand retracted, putting the lighter out of her reach and he grinned. "I asked you what's the story. I thought you always had your cigs. I thought it was wrong to take another person's cigs." James chuckled before leaning closer and lighting her cigarette with a smirk. "An unexpected turn of events," Y/N replied, observing the way that the tip of her cigarette lit up as she inhaled the smoke. "And it's only wrong to take someone else's cig if it's the last one." "Hmm," James mused. "I can accept that. What turn of events?" "Miscalculation," she grinned at his frowning face. "I thought I had enough to cover the whole year, but I was wrong. Ended up smoking right through my secret stash," Y/N elaborated with a small smile. "Ah, and so you came to me." "More or less." She confirmed bringing the cigarette back to her lips, eyes roaming his form as he leaned against the trunk of the willow. "I figured that cigarette mates should help their cigarette mates, even if they are merely secret cigarette mates." He stared at her with a confused look on his face before mumbling out, "We're mates?" "Cigarette mates," corrected Y/N, "but I'm not that opposed to the prospect of mates concept either." James held back a huge grin threatening to break out and instead winked at the h/c haired girl and offered her a very James Potter-like smirk. "Mates then, L/N. Proper ones, too." Y/N nodded, "I suppose I could do worse than being mates with you, Potter. You are useful," she lifted her cigarette pointedly. "And you're not as dim-witted as I thought you were. After all, you did manage to decipher my mad prefect patrol inquiries." "I'm brilliant, I know." With her mouth half way open to respond with a witty retort, Y/N realized that he actually had all the rights to claim his brilliance. She had been denying this for too long but James Potter truly was brilliant. In a very different, somewhat annoying, and a very James Potter way. They spent two hours sitting in the shadow of the willow tree, talking just about anything, until the air had gone too cold. She was leaning against the trunk of the willow, smoking her fourth cigarette, when the realization came that James was standing unnervingly close to her. Close enough so that she could spot the three tiny freckles forming a perfect triangle on his right cheek. Close enough for her to notice the scar on the left side of his jaw, a reminder of the time he got hit in the face with a Bludger. They stood close enough for their breaths to mix, and for him to lightly close the gap leaning his forehead against hers. Her lungs were on fire, not because of the smoke trapped inside them. When he lifted his hand to cup her face it was cold against her jaw, and shivers ran down her spine, all the way from the spot where the cold fingertips touched the back of her neck to the tips of her toes. But his breath, his lips were warm against hers and she dropped the half smoked cigarette on the cold ground, her shaking hands tugging at his waist and pulling his body crashing towards hers. The kiss lasted exactly twenty-two seconds, not that either of them was counting, and they never spoke of it because mates don't kiss. It had been happening too often lately. Too often for her own liking and she was going to put an end to it. Even her friends were getting suspicious. And Y/N thought she was losing her mind, she really did. It felt almost unnatural the way she blindly looked in his direction whenever she entered the Great Hall. It was annoying how she had to search every room to see if he was there, and that slight twinge of disappointment if he wasn't around wasn't any less irritating. Perhaps what bothered her most was the unnerving way that he seemed to be looking at her every single time she looked at him. Their eyes would meet and he'd smile, and she would smile in return. Everyone around them used to be rendered speechless by the exchanges between them, but their friends had gotten used to it by now. Or they simply learned to ignore it. The worst part was the nagging voice telling her that she liked all of that. She liked looking at him and she liked when he would meet her eye because he must have been looking at her as well.

That she maybe, hypothetically, perhaps, not surely liked him.

She liked their late night meetings, which were now sometimes spent without smoking cigarettes. The ones where he admitted to her that he was fascinated with The Beatles and that Sirius thought he was being stupid, or the one where she ended up with her legs in his lap as he tried to reach for the Butterbeer bottle she had hidden behind her back, and the time he brought a radio up to the Tower and they tried to tune into a muggle station, failing at it ever since because the magic surrounding the castle was too disruptive for radio waves to be able to reach them. It was because she liked all of it that she put an end to their late night rendezvous. At least she had attempted to. She had successfully made a fool of herself and simply told him they shouldn't meet every second evening, but rather tone it down to once a week because their friends were growing suspicious.

When he asked why they couldn't just tell them they were smoking in the Tower, she came up with the most idiotic lie: how she liked having their time a secret, and that it made it more fun. Had she not mentioned how much she enjoyed those evenings James would have protested, but upon hearing her words he agreed without a second thought. Neither of the two were aware of it at the moment, but there wasn't much that they wouldn't agree to do for each other.

They had kept up the once a week deal for a month, which meant they had met only four times and four times wasn't enough for James.

He realized on a Thursday morning during an exceptionally boring Potions class. It took him till the end of that same class to come up with a genius plan and an outstanding way to present his plan to Y/N, who agreed to it although pretended to be reluctant about it. In the end she decided she wanted to see him more than just four times a month, but decided that was just slightly too personal to admit. "Oi, L/N," James yelled across the hallway and her head turned swiftly in his direction. "McGonagall needs us. Now." It was an exquisite, flawless plan built solely on the fact that McGonagall was in fact their Head of House, and therefore they had to occasionally meet with her. Which they happened to be having now because they wanted to do their academics properly, if doing one's studies meant smoking cigarettes in the prefect's lavatory. With a fake scowl and a quick apology to her best friends Y/N spun on her heel and walked towards him, making sure not to look too eager to join him in the meeting. They acted casual until rounding the corner after which they both shared a quick glance, grins spread on their faces as their pace quickened. Climbing up the two flights of stairs they reached the fourth floor, all but rushing towards the Prefect's bathroom. James was quicker to mumble out the password and they both stumbled inside, Y/N locking the door behind them as James laughed. "We're most likely the most industrious students this school has ever seen. Or at least we think we are," His laughter echoed against the marble in the bathroom. Y/N joined in with her own laughter, reaching for the small purse while throwing herself on the sofa in the corner, "I don't know why we hadn't come up with this sooner, this is brilliant, James." "Well," he landed next to her, smirking, "I am brilliant." "Sod off," Y/N chuckled lighting her cigarette and tossing the lighter at him. "Watch the face, Y/N." He warned while conjuring up an ashtray and charming it to levitate near them. She stared at him for a few seconds, reminding herself not to be too obvious (albeit failing at it), before leaning her head against his shoulder and reaching for her small purse, "I have a little something for us." Putting an arm around her and pulling her closer to him, he smirked. "What's it?" "Wait and see," the H/C haired girl replied leaving the lit cigarette in the ashtray and digging through her purse, "ah, there it is." And then she pulled out a bottle of what seemed to be Ogden's Firewhiskey. Not only was it Ogden's Firewhiskey, it was one of the older, more exquisite brands of Ogden's. "No," he breathed a few inches away from her ear and almost missed the way she shivered because he was too immersed in observing the bottle. "How?" "Let's just say Rosmerta owed me a favour and I thought that we deserved a bit of an encouragement at the end of our academic careers." "Encouragement?" He was stunned. "This is not encouragement, this is a—a blackmail. I will feel morally obligated to be the greatest student this school has ever seen if I even taste this! Not even my parents have this at home on a regular basis." He could feel Y/N shake with silent chuckles as she reached for the bottle in his right hand. "Would you relax, James?" She touched the tip of the bottle with her wand, easily uncorking it. "I'm relaxed." "You're tense." "Am not," he defended, then sucked in a breath when her hand landed on the front of his shirt, blatantly feeling his tense abs. "I'm sure you are." "Sod off," he groaned but her hand remained in its new place. "You don't even know how much that costs." Y/N stared at the liquid in the bottle, holding it close to her face before smelling it, then she brought the bottle to her lips and tipped it. Her face contorted when she swallowed the Firewhiskey and felt the burn, her whole body shuddering at the taste. "I really don't care about the price," she beamed at him, wondering when exactly had it become completely usual for their faces to be mere inches away, "I got it for free." She tipped the bottle once again, shutting her eyes tightly as she gulped down more than she had a moment ago. "It's horrible." James groaned at her lack of appreciation for the finer things in life. "Give me that," he grabbed the bottle from her hand and took a generous swig of the drink. "This is amazing." Y/N rolled her eyes at his thrilled face. She reclaimed the bottle after she had finished her cigarette and willed herself to drink as much as she could at once, which wasn't much at all, still shuddering at the taste while James observed, chuckling next to her. She placed the bottle on the floor before snuggling closer to him and carelessly playing with the fingers of his left hand. "Your hands are so big," she muttered flattening her palm against his in comparison, "look at this. My fingers barely reach to the third knuckle of your fingers." "Mhm," he sighed, moving his fingers until they were positioned in the spaces between her fingers, "you have tiny hands, mine are normal sized." She opened her mouth to protest but found that the response had died on its way when he pushed his fingers completely in between hers, intertwining their hands. "You know, I have no idea what you did for Rosie—I mean, Rosmerta—but it must have been something absolutely genius for her to pay you with Ogden's finest. You're brilliant, you know that?" His eyes met hers, both of them sporting equally dopey grins. She nodded, marvelling at the unfamiliar feeling of his thumb brushing against the back of her hand. "I am amazing, I know. You adore me." A confident smile graced her lips as she looked up at him, noticing the strange look he was giving her. "What's wrong?" "Thinking." He breathed as she shifted next to him. "About?" "Cigarettes?" He offered, quite positive that she wouldn't believe him. But even if she had failed in believing his latest statement it reminded her of the lovely white sticks she enjoyed mixing with alcohol and Y/N started leaning over him to reach for her box of Players' which she had placed on the wide armrest. "What are you doing?" His hands landed on her hips, stopping her midway. "Trying to reach my Players'?" James laughed lightly, feeling her hair brush against his face. "Don't smoke, Y/N. It's a nasty habit." "I'm sure it is," she patted his chest, resting her hand there, "but I greatly enjoy mixing good Firewhiskey with cigarettes." Y/N watched as the dark haired boy nodded, biting his lip as if deeply in thought. When he finally spoke up there was a certain glint in his eye, "I see where you're coming from, but," he paused removing his hand from her hip and reaching to tuck away a few h/c strands behind her ear, "I've been thinking of some other things that go perfectly well with quality Firewhiskey. And I have a few suggestions." Each word carefully chosen, James let his hand fall back to her hip as his eyes bore into hers waiting for her reaction. "Oh," her eyes widened. "Yes." He smirked softly, though still unsure of what to expect. "Well," the hand resting on his chest inched higher, "I suppose it would be... healthier?" "Mhm." Her hand had just traveled past his collar bone, and his own hands moved lightly against her sides. He stopped at her waist leaning closer to her, but it was Y/N who closed the final distance between them, having the upper hand of being virtually on top of him. Pulling his face gently upwards, closer to hers, she brought their lips together. Burying her right hand in his hair she trailed the other one down his chest to hold onto his waist, drawing him closer to her, their bodies flush against each other. Unsure of how long they had been kissing, but confident that it wasn't nearly long enough, Y/N abruptly pulled away from James, their lips parting with a sound. "What?" He protested. "I'm going to quit smoking." "What?!" "I'm quitting smoking," the grin on her face was radiant. James, whose hands were resting on her hips once again, frowned. "Why?" "Because," she said, her voice contemplative, "I think I may have found a better way to spend time during these long meetings with McGonagall." A smirk formed on her face as she stared at him, unconsciously biting her lower lip. The smirk on James' face spread into a smile and then formed into a completely devilish grin as he leaned forward capturing her lips again. She could finally quit her rather bad habit.

#james potter x reader #the marauders #sirius black x reader #remus lupin x reader #the gryffindor tower #harry potter x reader #anmarauder writings #player's cigarette mate

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msclaritea · 4 years

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Upon the Clear Distinction Between Fandom and the Baker Street Irregulars

BY LYNDSAY FAYE

November 30, 2012

In light of the ever-expanding popularity of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries in conjunction with recent adaptations including the Warner Brothers films, the BBC series, and the CBS reimagining, it falls to me to discuss certain disturbing tendencies on the part of new devotees to refer to that venerable institution, the Baker Street Irregulars, as a “fandom” when it is actually a literary society. The youth of the Sherlockian world will be excused for making this dare I say elementary error, since the case for the distinction has not been hitherto laid out. Following the summation of this article, however, fans and traditional Sherlockians alike will have reached a much clearer understanding, and the unfortunate misnomer of referring to the present Irregulars as a “fandom” will doubtless cease and be swiftly forgotten.

(Note: for the purposes of this intellectual exercise, the possibility that the BSI may potentially be a storied and erudite literary society and a happily thriving fandom simultaneously will be ignored. This decision was made in light of the fact that a noun cannot be two things concurrently, the way the Empire State Building is not both a functioning office tower and a tourist destination, and the way Bill Clinton is not both a former president and a saxophone player. Arguments that the BSI is peopled by both cultured readers and by eager fans would only muddy the issue, and therefore will not be entertained here.)

According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the word fandom dates from 1903 and is defined simply as “the realm of avid enthusiasts.” Although undoubtedly a positive, even a flattering definition, already we can see that this is an inaccurate way of describing the Baker Street Irregulars, founded in January of 1934 by Doubleday editor Christopher Morley and later permanently established as the premier Sherlockian society by Edgar W. Smith. While the BSI was conceived as a group of congenial, clubbable men who admittedly shared an avid enthusiasm for the Great Detective, no mention whatsoever is made in the definition of fandom of a taste for adult beverages, and the drinking of toasts to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s characters, which is of such import to the group as to be codified in the BSI’s by-laws. As a matter of fact, the words “Sherlock Holmes” appear nowhere in this document, while the words “drunk,” “drink,” “round,” and “toast” occur six times in the brief record. Describing the BSI as a fandom is thus clearly a counterfactual practice, and should be treated as such.

Of note, because the dates could potentially lead to confusion, is the fact that the Irregulars were founded in 1934 in New York City, at very close to the identical time period when the science fiction fandom was forming convivial societies of “avid enthusiasts” in order to discuss space travel, interplanetary colonization, their whip-smart literary contributions, and large-chested alien females. The Futurians, according to Frederik Pohl’s autobiography, were founded in 1934 in New York City; the Scienceers were founded in 1929 in New York City; the Los Angeles Fantasy Society was founded in 1934 in Los Angeles; and the National Fantasy Fan Federation was founded in 1941 in Boston. These societies in no way resembled the BSI, however, for their purpose was to discuss speculative, fictional adventures, while the BSI’s purpose (apart from toasting) was to discuss Sherlock Holmes. The Grand Game, as it’s called, a form of meta-scholarship, bears but scant resemblance to the doings of folk who pen Middle-Earth chronologies and dictionaries of the Klingon language. Those who suggest the BSI is a fandom will also note that, as a literary society, the BSI has always been peopled with thinkers and literary luminaries such as Isaac Asimov, while the Futurians boasted as one of their members Isaac Asimov, who was undoubtedly a different Isaac Asimov to the deservedly admired creative philosopher invested in the Irregulars.

One of the most self-evident differences between the Irregulars and those involved in fandom is the latter’s tendency to memorize an enormous amount of trivia regarding their specific preoccupations, be those preoccupations Battlestar Galactica or fiction featuring anthropomorphized dragons. A member of the Star Trek fandom, for instance, could readily inform an outsider that when Captain Picard was captured by the Cardassians, he insisted despite being cruelly tortured that the number of lights shown to him numbered four; such remarkable displays of knowledge are all too common among fandom enthusiasts. Invested members of the BSI could undoubtedly inform non-Sherlockians that Sherlock Holmes’s ancestors were country squires, that John Watson was an invalided member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and that Holmes is on record as having possessed three dressing gowns (blue, purple, and mouse), but as these are matters of historical fact, knowledge of them is much more akin to familiarity with the Gettysburg Address. I say again: do not succumb to lazy terminology and misidentify the BSI as a fandom. The one is concerned with an exceedingly popular series of crime stories, and the other is concerned with pop culture.

The activities of fans vs. traditional Sherlockians are hugely divergent. While fans come together to discuss their favorite sci-fi stories, television shows, and films, Sherlockians confine their conversation (and toasts) exclusively to the sixty stories, referred to as the “canon.” No mention is made of adaptations of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries; indeed, it is safe to say that the BSI as a whole is unaware of such bastardizations of the original writings, if indeed such things as movies and television shows based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle exist, which is doubtful. In addition, fandom engages in a pastime termed “cosplay,” defined by Wikipedia as “a type of performance art in which participants don costumes and accessories to represent a specific character or idea.” Such behavior would be anathema to a Baker Street Irregular, some of whom have been photographed dressing in Victorian garb and deerstalker hats.

Denizens of the fandom community fail to confine their “avid enthusiasm” to mere discussion of hobbits and tribbles; they also, as a group, have a marked tendency to collect memorabilia relevant to their favorite characters, spending precious funds in pursuit of items such as action figures and animation cells. A comic book collector would think absolutely nothing of paying triple digits for a prized mint-condition issue of Spider-Man, for example, while my copy of the 1892 issue of the Strand Magazine…no, strike that, I beg your pardon, the comparison is similar but ultimately misleading. Irregulars of my acquaintance have amassed collections of Sherlock Holmes art, Sherlock Holmes books, Sherlock Holmes knickknacks, Sherlock Holmes pins, Sherlock Holmes translations, Sherlock Holmes reference volumes, and Sherlock Holmes talismans such as magnifying glasses or pipes, but as these are clearly objets d’art, they find no equivalency within the realm of fandom.

It is of particular importance to note that fandom participants often write what is termed fanfiction, fictional works featuring their beloved characters in various situations of the fan’s own imagining, defined as “stories about characters or settings written by fans of the original work, rather than by the original creator.” Whenever a writer pens a story about a character created by another author, that tale falls under the umbrella of fanfiction, a practice that the Baker Street Irregulars would find both mystifying and vaguely distasteful. In fact, the mere concept of writing new stories starring characters not belonging to the author would strike dismay into the hearts of the BSI, who very often write and read pastiches featuring Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (a pastiche is defined as “a work of art, literature, film, music, or architecture that openly imitates the work of a previous artist”). As you have already recognized, no doubt, pastiche is entirely different from fanfiction, as fanfiction is specified as being penned by fans, and as I have argued previously, the Baker Street Irregulars are not fans but rather a literary society, and thus are categorically incapable of writing fanfiction. The notion that they could be both we have already dismissed as specious.

One must bear in mind as well the ironclad argument that the BSI was founded in the tradition of the great metropolitan men’s clubs of the 1930s, and thus bears no resemblance whatsoever to fandoms, which are largely concerned with grown men and women wearing tights. I find this line of reasoning particularly compelling, since it is common knowledge that once a group forms around a certain idea, it remains always the identical entity, indistinguishable in its modern incarnation from its origins, free from growth, change, or adaptation. Admittedly the BSI is no longer exclusively for men, but that is an admirable mark of progress and should be considered accordingly. Just as the company Apple Inc. sells small personal circuit boards hand-crafted by the artist Steve Wozniak (keyboard and screen not included), the BSI is emphatically not a fandom. And please stop referring to them by such blatantly fallacious terminology.

Lastly, a word upon the subject of respect for the gentleman who made our literary society possible, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There are some who take mild offense to those who speak of the BSI as a fandom, but I am not of their number, though it is worth mentioning out of deference that Doyle would certainly be outraged by the term. So beloved a character was Sherlock Holmes to Doyle that he spoke of him always with the soft light of adoration in his eyes and a flush upon his cupid’s cheeks, joy suffusing his features whensoever the subject of his masterful sleuth was raised. Were Doyle to be reanimated and exposed to the neophytes who ignore all discrepancies and insist upon wrongly identifying the BSI as a fandom, his mighty love for his hero would so overwhelm him, and his fury at the misidentification swell into so vast a storm cloud of righteous rage, that he would probably decide to remain alive simply for the pure, unadulterated pleasure he derived from writing the Sherlock Holmes mysteries, and would deliver unto us sixty more cases. And lo, global warming would be reversed, and he would find a cure for herpes.

I trust that this article clears up any remaining confusion regarding the word fandom, and its woeful inexactitude when characterizing the Baker Street Irregulars. I likewise hope I have assured the reader the BSI cannot be both a respected literary society and a fandom, any more than Australia can be both a continent and an island. One earnestly hopes that this will settle the matter for good and all, and we can move on to other, better topics. In the meanwhile, I am going to don my deerstalker and write a story in which Sherlock Holmes fights the Cardassians, that being the sort of activity relevant to my interests. Thank you.

1. Am I wrong or is this a bit rude?

2. Why don’t we hear more stories about how Doyle actually loved Holmes? It’s as though people want the character to be remembered as hated.

Lyndsay Faye is the author of Dust and Shadow and The Gods of Gotham from Amy Einhorn Books/Putnam. She tweets @LyndsayFaye.

@elwinglyre @sarahthecoat @sussexbound @fellshish @artfulkindoforder @johnlockedness @ebaeschnbliah @tjlcisthenewsexy @madzither

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#What the hell #Lyndsay Faye #Fandom vs BSI #Squee vs the REAL #Sherlock Holmes #Arthur Conan Doyle #ACD

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maxante · 3 years

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Elohim Magical Encounter

Nancy had suggested we could gather a small group for our next encounter with the psilocybin. I got my collection of magical chocolates ready, and now that Nancy’s friend, Katie, from the US was in town, we could all meet this evening, setup in the back garden, to sit around the fire pit and connect with the magical realms. We also invited Nat, who wanted to share his crystal sound bowls so that we could be bathed in it’s vibrations as we traversed the cosmic portals.

Once they arrived, the first thing we did was go out for a walk to collect fire wood. The place where I got firewood last time had a friendly guy sitting in the darkness, under a large tree. He confirmed there was no longer any firewood there, but he knew a better spot, just a few streets away.

He said he was happy to take us there. Myself, Nancy and Katie followed him through the well lit streets, under the almost full moon. He wore his large white Mexican cowboy style hat, and sure enough within minutes we had found the wood. He happily helped us fill our basket. We thanked him, and even though we had no pesos, he seemed genuinely good about taking a few minutes out of evening to help us.

Back at the house Nat had already arrived with the sound bowls. We also had the chocolate pyramids ready. Everyone selected which chocolate they wanted. We then sat in circle, each one of us meditating and tuning into psilocybin, unwrapping the small pyramid, half expecting to find the “eat me” message, we quietly munched on them, feeling their strange taste and tingling that was unique to this type of chocolate.

I then went into the back garden to make the fire and Nancy joined me. The others remained inside for sometime, while we built the fire and talked about how fortunate we felt ourselves to be. As the fire blazed and we moved back a little, basking in it’s warmth, while at the same time as the magic began to expand within. I could feel the subtle shifts taking place, the more I tuned in, the more I could feel myself turning towards pull to cross the veil into hidden realm.

They were coming into view. They were inviting me.

I told Nancy I could no longer look at her, and instead I turned to focus on the plants, which had begun to move and transform in the most remarkable ways. In no time I found myself on all fours, facing the rosemary bush, and once again the first growl came from my lips.

I could no longer speak as the jaguar was once again with me, he was back, and fully in charge. Such a force, such a power, I was entranced by the plants, sniffing, burying myself in the rosemary bush, biting it, chewing, growling.

Now I was no longer in the human realm, and yet still they were all around. It’s hard to relate to them when like this. When any of them came towards me, I would growl and make movements to show them the boundary for them not to cross. This went on for sometime, as what was left of my human consciousness swirled out of control.

I could close my eyes and see the luminescent light of the plants. I buried my face in the rosemary, and found they opened a portal of light that had me become transfixed by what transformed into spiraling golden mandalas, swirling hexagons taking me deeper into the magic behind the plant world, and for the first time I heard the chanting of the hypnotic ELOHIM, ELOHIM, ELOHIM... again and again, and I dived deeper and deeper into the golden mandalas that were taking me through the plants into this magical sound.

It became too much, and I fell back, opening my eyes, still unable to speak, and so growling again, I looked up at the almost full moon, and the red wandering star beside her.

I felt their power. They were here. All of them. They were with me. Calling me.

“Look up”, they said. “Be with us. We have much to show you tonight.”

I fell back, staring up again at the moon and the star. They glowed with that powerful intensity that was only visible on nights like this.

The moon had an almost blue flame emanating from it, while it’s accompanying red star grew intensity. They were sending messages beyond language, beyond what I could fully grasp.

It was too much for me. Being with these heavenly bodies was overwhelming. I sat bolt upright again, looking around the scene. The humans were all here, sitting quietly it seemed. The fire was burning and keeping us warm.

I fell back again to be with the moon and the wandering red star.

“What do you have to tell me” I asked. “What is the most important message that you can give me?”

“That everything is perfect, all of it, all the time” they spoke. But it was said in a language beyond English, and commanded a power from out of this world.

“And yet, you have much to do here” they said. “Be with us, for we are always with you”

And with that I sat bolt up right again.

Their intensity was still too much. My feeble human consciousness could only take in so much of their power. Is this who they are... the ELOHIM... all this time... all these past years of communicating with them...

“Yes, we want you to build a grand cathedral here. In the future, you will assemble everything you need to build the most beautiful temple to us.”

And I could see this most luminescent cathedral, so tall, reaching the heavens. And they were inviting me to join them, and build this.

“And all will come, and be with us, they will feel our power and will forever be with us. You are to build this cathedral, you are to be with us, for we own you, all of you, forever.”

Hang on... and it was there I realized... it was the FIMS, the machine insects, the darkness that was speaking, speaking of it’s false light, trying to sway me into it’s vision of a world under it’s dominion.

I spoke to them, “I am not with you, you do not own me.”

“Then who are you with?” They asked, “who do you trust, for is there anyone else with you now, or do you only feel and see us?”

“Even though I can only feel and see you, I have no interest in this cathedral you speak of. Yours is the false light. There is no temple that is needed to be built in this land, in this world. This whole world is the temple, and nature herself is the cathedral, what you speak of is a shrine to your dominion, what you want is tobuild a false temple that will sway the many and bring them to you for your own ends. And this is not something that I will ever be a part of.”

It was clear our world needed no artificial temple or cathedral, for she, in all her majesty, was the fullest expression of all that was most sacred. And how could it be, in her destruction to build such a cathedral tower, that she could be honored.

And they were gone, and once again I was with the natural world and it’s magic.

“You are back with us now, and the darkness has gone again” they said.

“Why so many tests?” I asked “and how I am even to be sure of who you are? What are you, and how can I be sure that you are not another trick?”

“This is perfect, the way you question even us. For we designed you like this, the perfect protector of the truth, had to question everything that came across his path, even us. For you to protect the most sacred deepest truths, you would have to question them, at their very core, question everything, every step of the way. This is your perfection, and now you stand here protector of the truth, in a world of lies and illusion.”

I was back with the moon and stars. For they were giving me greater guidance and solace after the encounters with the FIMS.

For sometime I bounced back and forth with the angelic heavens, falling down, becoming transfixed by the moon and star, then back to the garden. Then, it became clear what to do. “Be with the humans for some time” they said, “We much to share with them also, let them come and speak.”

And so I returned to the circle, and found myself once again able to speak. But it was no longer me speaking. The “Barnaby” character had moved far into the background, which gave them the space to step through. There was the force from the heavens inhabiting “his” body, speaking through “his” mouth.

The eyes that looked at the humans were no longer “mine”. I was seeing the humans in so many different ways. Often they looked so much older. Often I saw death in them.

“You have less time here than you think” they said to me again, a message they would often give. “These humans are not understanding what is coming for them, there is grave danger now, and much less time for everyone, while this snare is set around humanity, they are collected into their trap. You are here to point to a different path, you still have time to show the light and truth.”

I could feel the presence of the darkness intruding, and I growled again, snapping it, sending it away. I had no fear of it’s power or it’s tricks. I sat here with the others, protecting the perimeter from any intruding entities that wanted to disturb our space.

The young women and man had many questions over this next time. As we sat around the fire, I would ask if they had any sincere questions to ask.

Katie, recently visiting us here from the US, was the whole reason we put on the night. She was not here for long, and we wanted her to have the opportunity to connect with the medicine. It was clear she no longer wanted to be behind the wall, and in the land where the machine and darkness ruled. She could feel all the power and magic that was still here in Mexico, with it’s contrast to that world she lived in, that was increasingly being turned into an entrapment of consciousness by the machine. She was looking for answers on what to do, and how to connect with her power as a woman, in a world where the men were lost to the machine and danced to it’s message of control and fear.

The powers that spoke through me were certainly not subtle in their answers, and in the background I was shocked at the ferocity of the answers and the intensity that was spoken. That the tragedy was that as a woman, she did not feel respected in her power, whereas the truth was, that the woman was the power of the world, for she was the first expression of consciousness from Gaia, and had been lied to by the machine who had taken control of the men, to dominate and transform the world into it’s own vision of perfection.

When the man asked questions, he wanted to understand more of what was going on in the world, but his questions seemed to be coming from a different place. And then at some point, he asked directly “and who is speaking?”.

I turned away. “We are still not known here. What do we say. Who is this that is asking? Who does he speak for? Do we share, is this the time?”

I turned back, and said “Michael... this is Michael”

And with that utterance, I felt the danger in being seen. The secret was spoken.

I looked him directly in the eyes “From where do you come, and who sent you?”

Then I reached out my hand, to shake his, and while we did I said “Never speak of this, do not share this with anyone. For we still need more time here, and the longer we are here, the better it is for everyone.”

And he smiled and agreed, saying it was all to simply respect.

Soon after he got up and we hugged, and a great power and force arose within us, beating each other’s back and growling, the power grew stronger and stronger, until I exploded and pushed him away. Falling he regained his balance and went inside to play the sound bowls.

I stood collecting myself, feeling the power of such a force was like an explosion, and I was aware I was still with the women, and so focused on drawing everything back inside.

Growling I came back down to the ground and paced around on all fours. The jaguar was back fully in it’s power now.

Coming closer to the women, I came right up to their faces, and saw them move back a little, and I told them they had nothing to fear, for I would never touch them, the way I touched him, I was here to protect them, and they could relax by the fire, knowing this power was here, for them, to feel safe.

#magic #psilocybin

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dweemeister · 4 years

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Be Water (2020)

With American professional sports largely sidelined due to the COVID-19 pandemic, ESPN has found itself with few events to air. In response, the network pushed several documentaries to air earlier than scheduled – most notably the ten-part series The Last Dance on the 1998 NBA Finals-winning Chicago Bulls team (the series, controversially, was made in conjunction with Michael Jordan’s production company). Premiering last January at the Sundance Film Festival and later picked up by ESPN as part of its long-running 30 for 30 series of sport stories, Bao Nguyen’s Be Water initially does not seem to fit within the scope of 30 for 30. This is a sanitized documentary on Bruce Lee, the Hong Kong-American martial artist best known for four internationally acclaimed films – The Big Boss (1971), Fist of Fury (1972), The Way of the Dragon (1972), and Enter the Dragon (1973) – completed shortly before his accidental, tragic death. But Be Water treats Lee as a sort of crossover figure: understanding of cinema and television’s power, an admirer of the likes of Muhammad Ali, but a martial arts practitioner first and foremost.

Bruce Lee is someone that I hypothesize many Westerners have heard about. But their knowledge about his martial arts philosophies is probably consigned to motivational quotes posted on social media feeds shorn of context; and it is likely that few have seen any of his films (for the record, of Lee’s films, I have only seen Enter the Dragon in its entirety despite having family members who relish kung fu cinema). Be Water – which relies on interviews (all heard, new and otherwise, off-screen alongside archival footage) with Bruce Lee’s family, friends, and business partners – is an ideal entry point for Bruce Lee novices if the viewer can withstand the film’s nonlinear structure in its opening half-hour. For Lee’s ardent fans, Nguyen’s documentary does not contain revelations of character or career that they are not already familiar with.

Born in San Francisco in 1940 and raised in Hong Kong as a son of a towering figure of Cantonese opera, Lee took roles as a child actor in Hong Kong’s movie industry. When not working in a movie studio or in school, Lee – a self-described “punk… looking for fights,” – led a gang of child delinquents named the Junction Street Eight Tigers. After a ghastly beatdown, his parents suggested he learn martial arts. The sixteen-year-old Bruce studied Wing Chun (“kung fu”/ “gung fu” is a Cantonese umbrella term for Chinese martial arts) with the famed master Ip Man. Ip personally taught less than a dozen students, with Lee his most famous pupil.

Be Water is silent about why Lee joined a street gang and why, as a teenager, he would find the thrill of violence so gratifying. As the son of a wealthy and well-connected father, is there something the young Bruce wanted that could not be provided by wealth or family? A part of his violent childhood stems from the reality (unmentioned by the film) that some of his bullies were English – Hong Kong was a British Overseas Territory (a designation held today by places such as Bermuda, the Falkland Islands, and Gibraltar) from 1841 to 1997. Did his early experience with white racism inform how he would later approach college life and the entertainment industry in the United States? The racism that Lee faced was not exclusive to America, and Nguyen treats Hong Kong like a cultural haven for Lee – even though, for his childhood self, it could be anything but. Hong Kong in the post-World War II years before the British handover was a contradictory place that embodied – as Lee himself would through films – a merger of Western and Eastern values. In Be Water’s first half, the Hong Kong that educated Lee and gave him child actors’ work is present, but not the one that pummeled and haunted him.

Targeted by a Hong Kong triad, Lee’s parents sent him to live with his older sister in San Francisco in 1959. Later that year, he moved to Seattle, started his own martial arts academy (teaching Jun Fan Gung Fu, his own hybrid creation), and enrolled at the University of Washington in 1961. In Seattle, Bruce Lee found friends and students representing a patchwork of America’s diversity, including his future wife Linda Emery. The two married as many states (not including Washington state) kept anti-miscegenation laws, soon deemed unconstitutional by the United States Supreme Court, in their books. In contrast to the portrayal of the Hong Kong of Lee’s childhood and teenage years, Nguyen’s documentary finds its voice as Lee is in America.

Be Water is most fascinating when Lee must contend with racism – something that ESPN, as an entity, has been loath to discuss no matter the sport they cover. When we hear about Lee’s desire to introduce Chinese culture through his martial arts pedagogy, it is juxtaposed with his social awareness and revulsion towards widely-held stereotypes of Asians. Footage of Bruce Lee’s blissful family life and his controlled, masterful physicality is intercut with Fu Manchu-bearded villains from poorly-conceived serial films and Mickey Rooney’s performance as Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961). Through most of Hollywood history, Asian males have been emasculated, “r”-mangling speakers who have never been the center of a film’s attention, embodying a villainous “yellow peril”, and too often portrayed by white actors in yellowface.

While playing the sidekick Kato on ABC’s The Green Hornet, Lee’s insistence to the writers to give the character more dialogue (the capable Kato is a silent character in the early episodes) runs into resistance. After auditioning for the lead of ABC’s Kung Fu, we learn, through an executive’s interview, that Bruce Lee is rejected for David Carradine because of his accent supposedly being too difficult for American audiences to understand. Be Water, showcasing Bruce Lee’s private frustration and the testimonies of his friends and executives about American film and television’s scruples towards Asian actors and characters, draws an unflattering portrait of the past and present Hollywood. Perhaps that racism is not as explicit nowadays, but it persists on American screens small and large. These practices and perceptions that shape the industry push away Asian actors from breaking through in Hollywood; Lee was fortunate enough to have the moral support of Golden Harvest producer Raymond Chow in order to make his career-defining films in Hong Kong (including Lee’s global blockbuster, Enter the Dragon).

Nguyen’s film spends more time on Lee’s film and television career than one might expect from an ESPN-aired product, but the film shares some sporting insight. That we learn of Lee’s sporting and political admiration for the outspoken Cassius Clay (who changed his name to Muhammad Ali after his conversion to Islam) is profound. Lee studied Ali’s mobility through repeatedly watching footage of his bouts, noting how the boxer would move in ways benefitting his fighting style. Some clever intercutting between Lee and Ali displaying their talents in their respective arenas reinforces Be Water’s credentials for sporting interest. One sees their personalities emerge through their athleticism – whether for moviegoers or fans of combat sports.

Bruce Lee’s personality – confident (sometimes to excess) and winsome – attracts the camera’s attention. Whether that camera produces a still photograph, home movies, or commercial film, that star power (a term Lee would bristle at) is evident. It has contributed to his posthumous mythos that the film – made in conjunction with his estate, down to the fact that his daughter, Shannon Lee, narrates her father’s diary entries – sustains. In that respect, Be Water suffers from the same problems that plagued ESPN’s The Last Dance (a great television series, but a poor documentary).

Nguyen, upon reaching moments when he could pull back the curtain’s rungs, elects to preserve that mythos. Lee’s fiery personality – borne from his childhood and the racism he endured in America and Hong Kong – is never examined, along with any of his personal indiscretions. Any introspection that Lee engaged in when he sacrificed his dreams to open martial arts schools across the United States in favor of a film/television career is ignored. Be Water even disregards the differences in cross-Pacific perceptions about Lee – of whom a Hong Kong newspaper once derided as, “the ultimate Mid-Pacific Man”. This may be an American production, but Lee’s Hong Kong years are integral to understanding his appeal and there is not enough effort here to delve into those formative years. Nguyen is on the cusp of remarking on Asian-American belonging – of not being “enough” of one or the other – but leaves that thesis incomplete.

Those who have never had the pleasure of watching Bruce Lee in a film or even in his famous 1965 screen test might want to start with Be Water. For those more knowledgeable in martial arts and/or kung fu cinema, if you do not mind being in Bruce Lee’s magnetic presence – albeit posthumous and through a screen – for 104 minutes, Bao Nguyen’s film is worth seeking. As for myself, fitting into neither of those two categories I have drawn up, this will help me prioritize Bruce Lee’s filmography whenever the opportunities become available to view the rest of his films.

My rating: 7/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found here.

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, click here.

#Be Water #Bao Nguyen #Bruce Lee #30 for 30 #kung fu cinema #ESPN #Raymond Chow #My Movie Odyssey

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evien-stark · 4 years

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✧I Need You✧ Chapter 59 [End: Avengers]

The thought that had started it all- the reason you’d thought about building the Tower in the first place- came to fruition much sooner than you would have liked. Stark Tower- or Avengers Tower, whichever you were going with- had its press room buzzing with excitement. You’d let reporters and all media staff with badges come onto your property after being shooed off the day before, and allowed them to sit in the wide room. Your podium was empty, but wouldn’t be very soon.

You’d met with President Matthew Ellis and his speech writer earlier that morning. He had something simple, but you’d had to make a few tweaks here and there. They’d been pacing about in the private room downstairs next to the media room all afternoon. Fury had come even earlier than that to try and tell you what to do. But since this was still a little bit his fault, you were reluctant to listen to him. Ellis was even more reluctant than you. He had to address his people, he kept saying.

But how to break it to the world that we weren’t alone in the universe anymore? They’d already found out, clearly. But that was New York. Now that videos were spreading online like fire, the face of America had to say something about it. Unfortunately he was looking to you for pointers. And you didn’t have very many.

You stood at his side, and Tony at yours, after he approached the stage, and waited, holding a breath as his speech came up on the teleprompter. “My fellow Americans… yesterday our nation was stunned. Shaken to its very core. We have come to learn of other entities beyond our understanding. Beyond our universe. And they came not with a halo, not with a play for peace, like so many of us had hoped in our wildest dreams. No. They came with a declaration of war. Of destruction. They brought chains of subjugation.

But their challenge was met. We, the people of New York City, and the people of the world, were protected by a brave group of heroes. They’re calling themselves the Avengers. And I am not only lucky, but blessed, to have two of them here with me. We are all blessed to have them backing us. Protecting us, like they did yesterday. Without their courageous efforts, I cannot say we the people of not only this nation, but this planet, would have stood a chance against the onslaught these attackers brought.

Our next moves will not be easy ones. There is a lot of healing to be done. A lot of repair. A lot of grieving. But we will do it together. Now more than ever, let us unite underneath this umbrella of strength that the Avengers are providing.”

Effective enough, moving the room to applause. Almost a little too much for you to hear him introducing you, but on your cue you took over his spot, stepping up. In every sense of the phrase. You were very aware you were live on almost all news networks right now. Across the globe.

“Yesterday was… tough. And we have a lot of people to thank for helping us get through. But I know a lot of damage was left in the wake of that attack. A lot of lives were hurt. A lot of lives were lost. This is something we can’t undo. But Stark Industries is making a vow to the people of this great city, and the people of this great world, that we will be heavily involved in the cleanup and the reconstruction of every life, every property, every thing that was impacted by the events yesterday.

As of this morning, Stark Industries has partnered with the United States government to take over the Department of Damage Control. We will effectively begin routing repair routes and clean up- an effort that began as soon as the documents were signed. I’m also making a vow to you now that the Avengers will be there should we ever face a threat like that again.

Thank you. I’ll only take a few questions. A much more detailed briefing will be released by the office of the President later today.”

Every hand in the room shot up. There was no way to be picky about who you’d answer. There was no way to tell who was on your side and who wanted to antagonize you after yesterday. Of course you’d hope no one would want to, considering what you’d just been through, but you knew that wasn’t the case. In your head you made a quick shortlist of names of the faces you could see and called the first.

He stood. “Can you give us the names of these Avengers? Where did they come from? Who are they?”

“The Avengers are an elite team of enhanced individuals. They were brought together under the guidance of a branch of the military. Iron Man, of course. Captain America, who was found alive some months ago and has been undergoing rehabilitation. Hulk. Black Widow. Hawkeye. And Thor, who we were lucky enough to have come to our aid after one of his own people went rogue.”

People started shouting over each other. But one voice caught your attention, and unfortunately everyone else’s as well. Christine Everhart. Bane of your existence. “Do you have a comment on the massive amount of damage the city suffered because of your group?”

“I did- I don’t know if you weren’t listening, Ms. Everhart, let me repeat myself for you. Let me address first that this destruction was not caused because of the Avengers. The Avengers were trying to save the city. And succeeded. Secondly, Stark Industries is putting its efforts into restoration and repair-”

“Using taxpayer dollars you mean. To clean up something that wasn’t their fault.”

“No that’s not what I mean. Please try listening. Stark Industries, now overseeing the Department of Damage Control, is completely funding the process for all repairs necessary. Does that answer your question?”

“And what about you? That was you, wasn’t it? In an Iron Man suit? Why do you think you’re fit to save the world?”

“Ms. Everhart-”

“What are you calling yourself? Did you get a superhero name?” Clear disdain in her voice.

You took a breath. “I think that’s less important in the wake of these events, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. Who are we calling to our supposed aid? Was that you or not?”

This felt so familiar. Yet just that short amount of time ago, you were watching this very press conference from a TV. Tony was where you were. And he was about to do something stupid. But there was no alibi for you. No way for you to get away from this. There was only the truth. “That was me.”

“And your name?”

A twitch of a smile caught your lips. Not quite defeated but very tired.

“I’m Lady Iron.”

--------------------------

It didn’t take too much effort to coordinate a big ritzy, elegant bash for all the wealth of the world to descend upon. Everyone wanted, now more than ever before, to be in Stark Industries’ good graces. But now alongside that, they all wanted in with the Avengers. And since you and Tony were the two most public ones… you’d run out of invitations before you’d even had a chance to properly calculate max body space in the Tower’s ballroom.

People wanted to be shown doing their part. Helping with the rebuild effort. Publicly giving money to a good cause. That was always the point of these charity galas, but the whole world was watching now. More than an art opening or a benefit in one single city. This had turned into a superhero gala- and many people wanted to meet their new protectors while also giving off an air of doing their part.

This came as no surprise to you. It was why you wanted to do it in the first place. While Stark Industries was booming now more than ever, making more money now more than ever- it never hurt to have an influx. Money had never been your primary concern, lord knows it was never Tony’s, not with the wealth he had behind him, but getting some seed funds for Damage Control was ideal. And now you had it in droves.

Tickets to the event started at 100k a piece. But additional donations could be made. And they came in in droves. It became quite an event. So much so that the sidewalk had to be cordoned off and a carpet rolled up to the door. Picture ops aplenty. This wasn’t exactly what you’d envisioned. The last thing you needed was to put together something that made you seem out of touch. After all, it wasn’t rich people who were going to be most affected by the alien attack. It was the people already suffering, and now suffering more.

But you were doing this for them, you convinced yourself- and several reporters. And Stark Industries was hosting a citywide event for them after this one. You just had to hope that would be enough for image control. Not something you often cared about, but if you started ruining yours now, that hurt the company. And hurting the company would hurt the clean up efforts and-...

Sitting at your vanity, the night of the gala, you tried to hold in a sigh. You were still tired. Head still spinning. Heart still hurting. But holding it all in. Tony was putting on just as brave of a face. Eventually the two of you needed to sit down and have a long talk. Maybe see some professionals that Rhodey was suggesting. But now was not the time. He’d started doing his disappearing act, which concerned you a little. But his suits were damaged, as was yours, so it made sense that he was devoting time to fixing them.

He’d gone home to California for one day to do just that, but was back in New York the next for the gala. Because he promised you he would be there, at your side. After your makeup and hair was fixed, you sent the woman working on it for you away. All you had to do now was slip into your dress. A cool toned silver and bluish-purpley flowy piece with slight bell sleeves, moon and star detailing on the cuffs. Just a teeny tiny window of Iron Lady suit. There was no escaping the moniker now. Saying it like that at the press conference hadn’t been the wrong thing to do, but ever since it had been all the headlines wanted to talk about.

Slipping into your dress, you waited for someone to return to help you with the zip up the back. Your help came in the form of the one person you wanted to just crawl into a hole with. “You know…” He was fixing the cuffs of his tuxedo. A very timeless black on white, black bowtie to complete it. Stepping closer without you asking, he went behind you to slowly pull the zip up. “I’ve been thinking. And, if it were me, I think Iron Maiden might have been a better go to.”

You scoffed out a laugh. “That’s either very bad imagery or a lawsuit. And I don’t need either.” He settled his hand on your hip when he finished and you half turned back to look at him. “What’s making you think about that right now?”

“Come on.” Making a face at you. “You’re going a little bit color-coded. Not that I’m judging. You should have told me. I’d have worn a red and gold tux instead.”

“Which is exactly why I didn’t.” With the zip fully up and in place, you turned around, putting a hand on his arm. “Hey… I’m still trying to catch up and… I think we’re both still healing.” Waiting for a small breath of a pause between this and the next thought, eyes focusing on his. “It’s starting to feel predictable, to keep asking for vacations after something huge happens but…”

His hands reached up, cupping the sides of your face. You melted in his grasp so easily. “Vacation. I agree.” Leaning in he gave you a sweet and tender kiss. “Predictable…? Also agree.” Grinning against your lips with the next press.

Now was not the time to start getting lost in each other, but that’s really all you wanted to do. It would be easy to go to the party late or… just put out some story about how it wasn’t about you… just go to bed together. Let the party run itself-

But the world was continually knocking on your door. Reminding you that you were not allowed to have peace. Instead of a knock, though, the door just flew open. Your private bedroom door- that someone had to come through your private penthouse suite living room- that someone had to ride up your private elevator into-

That one. The reason it mattered was because you’d never seen this woman before. And she was wearing jeans and a sweater. Not a party guest. Pepper was quick behind her. “I’m sorry- she said she needed to speak with you about the Avengers- about Thor- and-”

The name sparked recognition to the face you were looking at. Tony stepped back from you, hands up in surrender. “I’ll be outside.” Clearly he wanted nothing to do with this. “Don’t make us late.” Going over to her and leading her back into the living room you heard his idle chatter. “Hey, Pepper, how’s things…”

Leaving you alone in the room with- “You’re Jane Foster, right?”

She seemed upset. But determined. “So Thor talked to you about me. Do you know where he is?”

“Asgard?” It had slipped your mind the chat you’d had with Thor on the helicarrier- mostly because you’d been fighting in a war immediately after. Easy to forgive, right? “He took Loki back to … I’m not actually sure. Put him on trial? I hope?”

“So he’s not even here. He didn’t even have time to say anything to me?” Her anger was directed at you but not exactly placed there. You hadn’t done anything. But the man who had- the man she was maybe dating?- had disappeared, probably for too long a time, then came back to earth without a word, and then left again.

“Everything kind of happened fast. Don’t hold it against him.”

“I guess I shouldn’t.” She turned sort of shy, then. Like she was just realizing she’d stormed her way up Stark property to accost you in your own bedroom. Funny, that. Crossing her arms she looked at you. “Look, I’m sorry about this. I didn’t know who else to ask. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t. But. You’d make an exception. Dating a god-alien-person that didn’t live on this planet was probably pretty hard. “And… no, I don’t. I asked him to come back for Tony’s birthday, but he didn’t really confirm. And I don’t have a way to contact him. Stark tech isn’t that good. Yet.” Figuring that was probably her next question. Her pang of heartbreak and dismay ripped through you, and your next words were prompted immediately. “He spoke very fondly of you. He was really glad that you were safe.”

She just shook her head. “That’s nice and all but it would have been better coming from him.” Arms crossed tighter, as if she was hugging herself, she turned away. “Thanks- and I’m sorry for busting in. Have a good night.”

You had no idea what to say to her. Or if it was your place to say anything. To be fair to her, she did have a point. Thor was here. Had been here. If he’d wanted to call her, he’d only had to say something to you. Or SHIELD. He had had time for shawarma. But not for her? It left you standing awkwardly in the doorway as you watched her walk into the living room.

Tony looked up. “Ms. Foster- I’ve just gotta say, your work on the Einstein-Rosen bridge is some seriously amazing stuff. I read your paper front to back. ...are you uh... still messing around with that stuff?” You weren't sure exactly what he was talking about, but a huge wave of apprehension suddenly sprung forth from him.

Pepper followed after her. Jane looked up at Tony for a brief moment, no smile to be seen. “Thanks. And no. Not anymore. Doesn’t matter now. Sorry for barging in here. Enjoy your party.”

Stepping to her side, Pepper called the elevator. “I’ll escort you out…”

Once the doors closed, Tony turned to look at you, brows up. You shrugged. “Thor hasn’t called her. In months, probably. And, you know, he was here. Not fighting a war for at least ten minutes. He could have.” That wasn’t your business to tell somebody else, but it was probably obvious to him anyway.

“Rough stuff.” Extending his arm, he held his hand out. “Shall we schmooze for the greater good?”

Sigh escaping you, you plastered a semi-acceptable evening party smile on your lips. Taking his arm in yours with a squeeze. “We shall.”

--------------------------

Once the elevator opened on the party floor voices and music started flooding in. It was a short walk from the lobby to the actual ballroom, and you found yourself taking a slow pace. Trying to collect yourself after all that and figure out exactly what it was you wanted to say, and how long you wanted to be here for. Technically party rules (especially charity gala rules) stipulated you had to stay until the very last guest left.

But you weren’t really sure you had the energy for that.

Heads turned as you and Tony entered the floor and you found yourself clutching to him just a little bit more. The lone microphone on the mainstage was calling your name, as the band behind it played gently. The sea of people parted as you and Tony walked through, almost like royalty. But you barely felt that way. There were some subsections of crowds. You saw Steve looking very dapper (and perhaps a little bit uncomfortable) in a dark blue suit and tie, chatting with several women.

Bruce, likewise, had also come. Both you’d had no idea about. He seemed a little more out of place, not chatting with anyone, just kind of milling about by one of the tables near the back, drink in hand. You waved to him as you passed and he smiled, waving back.

Approaching the stage, a flood or relief nearly threatened to overwhelm you as Tony stepped up to bat. “Let me take this one.” Leaving you to stand very graciously by his side as he pulled the microphone from the stand and the music quieted behind him.

“Hey- check check- hey, thanks everyone for coming. And Stark Industries thanks you for your donations. I promise not a single cent will be spent on anything untoward… no new Iron Man suits or- well, I guess we could move some verbiage around. You’re giving money for a repair system here but I think defense is just as important, don’t you?” Raising the mic to a boom of cheers.

He grinned. “Yeah. My thinking, too. It’s such a pleasure to be here, hosting a grand gala like this for such like minded individuals. You know, I’m sure we all feel a little safer knowing the world’s in my hands. I promise not to blow anything up that doesn’t deserve it.” He was getting a little too spicy for the spirit of the evening, so you had to give him a little nudge.

After glancing at you briefly he waved his hand. “That’s right, I’m on a team now- we have a team. Some members of which have very kindly decided to show up this evening, although we’re the only one buying in for everyone, I’m pretty sure. In more ways than one- c’est la vie, am I right?” The room swelled with warm laughter. “Can’t have everything- talent, money, prowess, power- gotta spread the wealth around where we can-” Your unamused look caught him at just the right time to get him to be quiet.

Putting an arm around your waist, he pulled you close. “Anyway. That’s my cue that I’m talking to much. Please enjoy. Eat all our food and drink all our booze. It’s for a good cause. We appreciate you being here.” Applause let him off the hook and you gave a polite wave and smile to the crowd, taking Tony’s hand as he exited down from the stage.

Just about to disembark right after him, you stopped, caught by the sight of two new party guests entering. A gorgeous woman dressed in a sharp black dress and-

“Coulson!” Several people looked in your direction as you shouted, but excitement and relief got the better of you. Nearly stumbling off the stage, steadied by Tony’s arm, you broke free moments after, picking up the skirt of your dress to hurry yourself over to him. And just like some Avengers before him- he too got one hell of a hug as soon as you stopped in front of him.

“Oh- is this what we’re doing now?” Not surprised at all by his dry wit as usual. Happy, in fact, to hear it. “Just- careful around the shoulder, would you, please?” Whether because he just wanted to get it over with or was really giving in, it was still nice when he gave you a hug back.

You let it go on for perhaps too long a time, considering all the eyes in the room were on you, even if people were pretending they weren’t looking. Once you let go you stepped back, smiling- the first real one you’d worn all day. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Alright is a subjective term. But I’m managing. I thought I would come here and speak with you personally. I’m being reassigned.” Straight to business. Cut and dry. That was Coulson.

“Reassigned?” So soon? Because of what happened?

“Smaller team. More groundwork. Fury thinks it’ll be good. After what happened… I’m inclined to agree.” Maybe it was your own visible wilting that set off a flare of sadness in him, tough to say, but he held his hand out. “Thank you, for what you did. I’ve really appreciated our time together.”

You studied the offering like it was foreign. And considering it came in the wake of a more personable hug, it kind of was. But you took his hand, shaking it firmly. “It was the right thing to do. Anyone would have.”

“Not true. Just because it was the right thing doesn’t mean it was the easy thing.” Either one of you could have been killed in that situation. But you thought yourself made of sturdier stuff, maybe that’s why you’d done it. You hadn’t had a lot of time to think about it. You didn’t really want to, for too long. “And some might not even consider it being right. Or wrong.”

He had a fair point, but you couldn’t help a shrug. “We made out okay, I think.”

“For now. I might be reassigned but you can always call me.”

At this your smile reappeared. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.” Overt friendly pleasantries pretty much finished, you stopped being rude, holding your hand out for the woman he’d brought. “Hi, I'm sorry.” Apologizing for your social faux pas, and introducing yourself. “And you are? Phil’s date?” Joking. Sort of.

Her smile was amused. “Hardly. More like babysitting. I’m Agent Melinda May. And I think if I don’t thank you for pulling him out of the fire, he’ll be offended. So thanks.” A SHIELD agent. It made sense. You were kind of hoping he’d brought that cellist he’d been talking about a while back…

Right on cue, like you shared a brainwave, Tony finally appeared, reaching out to give Coulson’s hand a hard shake. “Nice seeing you, buddy. Glad to have you back from the dead.” Hearing him say this surprised you, though. Maybe Tony knew more about Coulson’s circumstances…? Or he was just kidding. With him it was hard to tell. He then turned to offer his hand to May. “And you are? The cellist I presume?”

She barked a laugh with a shake of her head. “Not on his life.” And with that she disengaged her arm from his, sauntering away with confidence you could only admire.

“Nice meeting you.” Tony called after her. Turning back to Coulson, “Stay a while. I know you didn’t pay for a ticket but I’ll look the other way on it. This time. Don’t eat too much.” Whatever Coulson’s response to this was, it got cut off with the band changing gears to a slow jazzy version of L-O-V-E. Tony’s hand held out for yours, next. “Honey, if I may?”

An offer you couldn’t turn down. You put your hand in his, and with your other gave Coulson a small departing wave. “Have a good time tonight.” Hoping that he actually would stick around and do just that, and not just disappear. “Steve’s here, too.”

“Oh. He is?”

Perfect.

Same as before, people parted as you and Tony passed by, giving you some space on the dancefloor as he took your hand in his, putting his other at your waist. You wrapped your other arm loosely around his neck, just enjoying the slow sway. You’d been watching the corners of the room out of your peripherals, but when your attention came back to him, that warm way he was looking at you, with that gentle smile, put a heat on your face you couldn’t stop.

So instead you stepped in closer, laying your head on his shoulder. His voice was a quiet murmur. “Will you be good here, after this?”

“What do you mean?” Not understanding what he was trying to get at.

“Damage Control is on its feet. Clean up will be finished soon. The Tower is getting restructured. Pepper is practically running the citywide block party. You got something else you need to do here?”

Here. New York, he meant. And you had a sneaking suspicion as to why he was asking. “You want me to come home?”

“Yes. I would like that. A lot.” He’d been avoiding the city, spending time at the house. In his lab. You already knew and understood this. And why. “The house is empty without you.”

Easing back, you resumed dancing at a short enough distance to be able to look at him. “Is that really why?”

His lips twitched into a thin line before the corner of his mouth curved upward, head dropping for a second with a close of his eyes. “No- yes. Sort of. Honey- I’ve gotta be honest. I hate it here.”

There was an immediate surge of too much as he spoke that sentence. A small slice of terror ripped through him, and then you, followed by hot pangs of upset, dismay, and a weird disappointment you couldn’t place. “I can’t say that I blame you.” Too much had gone on here. It was probably still too fresh. Even you were having trouble sleeping. Most of it you’d tried to pin on him not being in the same bed, but you knew the truth. The penthouse had become ruined with memories of Loki throwing you around like a ragdoll. And New York…

New York was just a battleground. Still fresh from a war you had been forced to fight in. Whether you won or not had no bearing. There was blood everywhere. And you could sense it every moment of the day. It was almost impossible to imagine how he felt. What he saw every time he closed his eyes…

“So come home.” There was a slight tremble in his voice. He was begging you. “I need you with me.” Starting to get overwhelmed, you laid your head on his shoulder again. Just staying close. “Please come home. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about… everything. I just… I need you.”

Your nodding had started somewhere in the middle of that. “I’m not adjusting super well, either.” Just trying to be honest with him. The both of you needed to sit down and just talk, at some point. Here was not the best place. But the conversation even starting made you feel better already. “I love you. Let me look at my schedule. Maybe not tonight, but tomorrow. Okay?”

“Sure. Tomorrow. I can wait until tomorrow.” The song had switched over to something else, but the two of you stayed there, holding each other. Barely moving side to side. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. We have to put in about an hour of more face time before it’s acceptable to sneak away.” Already making plans.

It at least lightened his mood, hearing the soft huff of air that was indicative of a grin. You just knew, without even looking at him. “Sneak away, huh? Aren’t we on our own property? Why are we sneaking?”

Tilting your head on his shoulder, you were smirking just a little. “Sneaking upstairs.”

“Upstairs.”

“Mm hmm. Upstairs. To our bedroom. Maybe we’ll make a quick stop in our bathroom first.”

“What’s in the bathroom?”

“A jacuzzi tub that hasn’t been used yet.”

“Mmn hmn. I see.”

The thought chain left the two of you just looking at each other, all suggestive smiles. The other people in the room had stopped mattering a long time ago. With a delicate lift of your brows, you inquired, “What do you think about that?”

Pulling your hand to his lips, he kissed the back. “Love it. Love everything about it.”

#Tony Stark #Tony Stark x Reader #INY Chapter Fifty Nine

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thecreaturecodex · 6 years

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Yikaria (Yak Folk)

[The yak folk are the first of several entries that could be dedicated to @canwefixitnoitsfucked, a long-time player of mine. He wanted to play one pretty much in every game, and I never allowed him. Being able to summon janni was too much for the ECL, even by the weird broken standards of that system. I did research into their original 2e incarnation for this entry and borrowed the stuff about the Forgotten God and their ability to merely command genies, not summon them. They’re also rather a higher CR than the 3.0 version, since possession and genie control are some fairly powerful abilities.]

Yikaria (Yak Folk) This shaggy-furred humanoid is the size of an ogre, wearing fine robes and decorated with jewelry. Its head is that of a horned bovine, and it bears a sullen expression.

The yikaria are sinister bovines native to remote mountain valleys that demand obedience from other species. They are master slavers, keeping their chattel in line by occasionally possessing their bodies and walking among them to spy and put down revolts. As such, slaves of the yak folk typically are distrustful and fractious, with some of them cooperating with their captors in the hopes of receiving privileges and favorable jobs. Even the weakest yikaria can magically command genies, and enslaved genies are often found in yikaria enclaves.

The yikaria are vain creatures, favoring fine clothing and jewelry, and covet magic items. Magical staves are particularly prized, with leaders of their kind invariably possessing one or more of these powerful items. Yikaria society is theocratic, with the power being held by priests of the Forgotten God, their patron deity. Due to their body plans, many sages believe the yak folk to be descendents or offshoots of minotaurs, but the yikaria consider such rumors slanderous.

The yikaria are relatively small for a Large creature, standing eight feet tall and weighing about 400 pounds. They live for three hundred years or more.

The Forgotten God Alignment neutral evil Concerns manipulation, slavery, stone Domains Artifice, Earth, Evil, Luck, Trickery Subdomains Curse, Deception, Greed, Slavery*, Toil Worshippers evil shaitans, yikaria Minions elementals, genies, constructs Holy Symbol a faceless head viewed from the front, with bovine horns Favored Weapon quarterstaff *clerics of The Forgotten God can take the Slavery subdomain as a modification to the Evil domain

The Forgotten God has a real name, but it is known only to his worshippers and verboten to share with outsiders. This entity was once a powerful and wicked shaitan who ascended to divinity by deceiving the other powers of elemental earth, and who still demands the obedience of genie-kind. Sacrifices of intelligent creatures are an important part of worship of the Forgotten God, with holy days being marked by the Manner Elemental, in which four sacrifices are made, one to each of the four elements. Air is honored by flinging a sacrifice off a tower or cliff, fire through burning alive, water by drowning and lastly earth through being buried alive.

Yikaria CR 7 XP 3,200 NE Large monstrous humanoid Init +2; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +13 Defense AC 19, touch 11, flat-footed 17 (-1 size, +2 Dex, +7 natural, +1 shield) hp 85 (10d10+30) Fort +6, Ref +9, Will +11 SR 18 Offense Speed 40 ft. Melee masterwork quarterstaff +12/+12/+7 (1d8+4), gore +8 (1d10+2) or gore +13 (1d10+6) Space 10 ft.; Reach 10 ft. Special Attacks body meld, command genie Statistics Str 18, Dex 15, Con 17, Int 14, Wis 14, Cha 15 Base Atk +10; CMB +15; CMD 27 Feats Double Slice, Iron Will, Nimble Moves, Two-Weapon Defense, Two-Weapon Fighting Skills Bluff +10, Climb +8, Disguise +10, Intimidate +13, Perception +13, Sense Motive +10, Survival +13, Spellcraft +10 Languages Common, one elemental language of choice, Yikaria SQ item use Ecology Environment any mountains Organization solitary, cabal (2-8) or tribe (20-200) Treasure double standard (masterwork quarterstaff, other treasure) Special Abilities Body Meld (Su) By remaining in contact with a humanoid creature for 1 minute, a yikaria may enter and control its body. This functions as a greater possession spell of unlimited duration, except that the yikaria may access all of the host body’s memories. An unwilling subject may resist this ability with a DC 17 Will save; if it succeeds, it cannot be affected by the body meld of that yikaria for 24 hours. The yikaria may leave the melded body as a full round action, whereupon it appears in a square adjacent to its former host. The save DC is Charisma based. Command Genie (Su) A yikaria may give a command to a genie at will, as per a suggestion spell, as a standard action. The genie can resist this ability with a successful DC 17 Will save. Genies with the earth subtype receive a -4 penalty to this save. This is a mind-influencing effect and the save DC is Charisma based. Item Use (Ex) A yikaria can use all spell trigger and spell completion magic items as if it were a spellcaster with that spell on its list. It does not need to make caster level checks to use any magic item, regardless of its caster level.

#yikaria #yak folk #possession #pathfinder rpg #D&D

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yobaba30 · 5 years

Text

per Seth Abramson ~

Mueller's *biggest* revelation is being ignored: the SCO confirms that in the weeks before the 2016 election, Trump believed Kremlin agents held videos of him from a 2013 Moscow trip that could end his candidacy.

1/ It doesn't require proof of criminality beyond a reasonable doubt to impeach a POTUS, though we have that now as to obstruction—an impeachable crime that can't be indicted because Trump is president—and campaign finance felonies (ditto). A national security risk is sufficient.

2/ Counterintelligence investigations of Trump remain outstanding—their findings haven't yet been disclosed, though they eventually will be to the House and Senate intelligence committees—but Mueller's report does include corroborated information that is *central* to those cases.

3/ A president *must* be impeached if—in counterintelligence terms—there's "high confidence" intel that he is "compromised" by a foreign power, meaning not that he is necessarily an agent of any foreign power, but that he cannot uphold his Oath of Office (and loyalty) to America.

4/ The primary ground under which a POTUS could be impeached for an inability to uphold his Oath of Office— and secure the national defense—that *isn't* criminal is if he has been "compromised" by a foreign power via blackmail that provably puts him in thrall to a foreign power.

5/ In January 2017, a major BBC investigative report confirmed the following: the CIA believes Trump to be compromised by the Kremlin due to the Kremlin's possession of "multiple" tapes, from "multiple" locations/dates, involving Trump and sexual conduct

6/ Almost immediately thereafter, I passed on this internationally available BBC report to the American public because—as a curatorial journalist—that's one of the main things I do: find reliable international reporting that links up to domestic stories in a way that's critical.

7/ To the extent you've ever heard me called a "conspiracy theorist," it was this *BBC* reporting—which American media for some reason attributed to me—that earned me that erroneous title. So I wrote a book, PROOF OF COLLUSION, with all the British reporting on Kremlin kompromat.

8/ PROOF OF COLLUSION has an entire chapter on Kremlin kompromat called "Kompromat," and it amasses a wealth of internationally reported information on Trump being blackmailed by the Kremlin that was *all* from the reliable overseas major media outlets that many of us read daily.

9/ These outlets found ten witnesses (inclusive of—but not limited to—dossier witnesses) who could confirm the brief section of Steele's dossier that indicated the Kremlin was holding video blackmail material ("kompromat") over Trump's head. Most Americans never saw the evidence.

10/ The evidence included BBC-confirmed witnesses from the Ritz Moscow who saw a "row" in the lobby of the Ritz on the night in question—as a group of women argued with the hotel staff about whether they would need to sign in or give their names in order to go up to Trump's room.

11/ The evidence included a whistleblower from within Trump Org who confirmed the events, as well as multiple Ritz staff members besides the American staying at the Ritz who saw the row. The evidence included contradictory stories given by Trump and his bodyguard, Keith Schiller.

12/ The evidence included the fact that the best friend of a key member of Trump's Moscow entourage runs Moscow's largest "dark web" brothel; the evidence included actual dollar-amounted payoffs to Trump's bodyguard Schiller and much more—including spycraft evidence—of the event.

13/ The presumption of *all* these stories was that the blackmail had been coordinated by Trump's Kremlin-connected Moscow business partner, Aras Agalarov, the man who runs the "Crocus Group" (a Russian business entity) and is known for being Putin's favorite real estate builder.

14/ Vladimir Putin had *personally* given Agalarov Russia's highest civilian honor just 10 days before Trump arrived in Moscow to be surreptitiously taped by Agalarov. (NOTE: major-media citations for all these statements are in PROOF OF COLLUSION, which I here merely summarize.)

15/ One of the witnesses who spoke to British media said it was Agalarov's son who arranged for the women to go to Trump's room—a Ritz Moscow room often used for surveillance of foreigners that Trump himself (quite oddly, very *publicly*) *admitted* was wired for sound and audio.

16/ Emin Agalarov is close with—and was in Trump's entourage with—Artem Klyushin, whose best friend, Konstantin Rykov, runs Moscow's largest dark-web brothel and has boasted of being involved in a conspiracy with Klyushin whose details he wouldn't reveal but which involved Trump.

17/ We know that, in fall 2016, Trump's fixer for video, audio, or (well) *women* who could harm Trump was Michael Cohen. And we know that after the Access Hollywood tape, many Republicans wanted to withdraw their support from Trump. A Kremlin tape would have ended his candidacy.

18/ We know that in October 2016, Trump was lying to America about whether he had any ties to the Kremlin—even as he was planning the unilateral removal of all sanctions on Russia for its illegal annexation of Crimea—a policy whose basis or utility to the U.S. he never explained.

19/ Trump's foreign policy in October 2016 was a *trillions*-of-dollars giveaway to Putin that'd *bless* its unilateral European military aggression, too. So if the Kremlin held *blackmail* on Trump in October 2016—and could end his candidacy—he was a fully compromised candidate.

20/ Here's what Mueller found: 1) The videos the CIA, BBC, and this writer said existed *did exist*; 2) Trump *knew* they existed; 3) Trump's "blackmail fixer"—Cohen—negotiated with a Kremlin agent their suppression in October 2016, when they could have ended Trump's candidacy.

21/ This is *the* top story in America, indeed the *most significant story* in U.S. political history: a President of the United States with a historically pro-Russia foreign policy was being actively and knowingly blackmailed by Russia in the lead-up to his election—and *still*.

22/ That Trump and Cohen *discussed these tapes* suggests *they believed*—as did the Kremlin agent they were dealing with—that they existed, and that the Kremlin was (through an intermediary) reassuring Trump that the Agalarov-held (Kremlin agent-held) tapes would be suppressed.

23/ So Trump was being blackmailed; *knew* he was being accurately blackmailed; knew that blackmail could—at that moment—*end his candidacy*; *hid* that blackmail from the country; and was secretly advancing a plan to benefit the Kremlin to the tune of *trillions* at that moment.

24/ And all of this *confirms* that Trump *believed the tapes to be damaging enough that he needed to keep them suppressed*—which means he is *being blackmailed right now by the Kremlin*, as all Rtskhiladze did was stop the *flow* of those videos. They *still exist fully intact*.

25/ Mueller *only* put "high confidence" intel in his Report—so we *know* US law enforcement holds that Rtskhiladze was *telling the truth* about the videos. And *no* US president can stay in power—avoid impeachment—if they are compromised. So impeachment is *mandated* here. /end NOTE/ "Rumored" appears in the story twice: 1) FROM CNN, as they're worried about being attacked for reporting CIA, BBC and SCO intel just as I was; 2) FROM RTSKHILADZE, but in a way that makes no sense—i.e. he may have said "rumored," but he also *acknowledged* the tapes exist.

NOTE2/ In other words, RTSKHILADZE was saying that he "stopped the flow" of the *actual tapes* which had been (at that point) "rumored" to exist—by which statement Rtskhiladze, acting as a Kremlin agent (which Agalarov also is) was confirming the tapes to be authentic and extant.

NOTE3/ There's *not one revelation in the Mueller Report* as important as this one, as it *confirms* Trump was compromised by the Kremlin not just by his lies about the Trump Tower Moscow deal (themselves blackmail material), but *hard evidence* that would've ended his candidacy.

NOTE4/ I'm ultimately OK with the fact that my reputation took a hit for two years because, unlike me, US media refused to acknowledge a BBC report, but now that Special Counsel Mueller—whose work even Trump has called "honorable" in the past—has said it, media *must* report it.

NOTE5/ What you can do—as reader and citizen—is (a) RETWEET/REPOST tweet/post, so that media can no longer ignore this top-line result of the Mueller Report, and (b) TWEET AT MEDIA the name "Rtskhiladze" and ask them if they only reason they won't say it is they can't pronounce it.

PS/ The term "national security impeachment" should be on the lips of *every voter and politician*. We do have other crimes—at least two—now confirmed to add to any articles of impeachment, but *national security* is more important than all else. Impeachment is *mandatory* now.

REFERENCE/ In June 2017, this is how The New Republic covered my *retweeting of a BBC story*. (The very story I linked to in this thread.) When I asked @newrepublic to correct its story to say it wasn't my "theory" but a BBC report, they refused.

*That's* what's wrong with media.

#collusion #impeachtrump

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evilasiangenius · 5 years

Text

Ekstasis end notes, part 2

Part 1 can be found here. Again, this is a working draft of notes, I’ll probably revise it at a future date.

Progress on the next chapter is a little slow, but one hint for what’s to come: Furiosa is on her way to the Immortan’s Tower.

Chapter 11

The Loading Gate is based on the bus gate in Mad Max 2: Road Warrior.

A comment from reader veeeeight: “On tonight's episode of Cooking With The Ace: Doing More With Less.”

Immortan Joe talks about buying more children in Vulnera, chapter 6.

AAA rating is mostly a reference to credit ratings (e.g. Standard & Poor's), but it's also a reference to the Auto Club.

Slit soldered his arm bracer on in chapter 2 of Ekstasis so as to never be unarmed, but he thought ahead; he can take it apart enough so that he can get into Bartertown without having to saw off the bracer.

The model of slavery in Bartertown is more like slavery in classical antiquity than the model of chattel slavery that most people are more familiar with, i.e. the type of slavery that existed in the transatlantic trade. More on this later.

In Vulnera, chapter 8, Slit reveals that his parents were slaves. “Slaves, the kind that get themselves made slaves because they buy their way into Bartertown with what little they got left, get in debt once they get inside, and never figure a way to buy themselves out.”

This is definitely a reference to Max wrecking the Underworld methane farm in Beyond Thunderdome.

The first reference to the slave pens in the Underworld was in Vulnera, chapter 7 when Capable talks about how she was brought to Bartertown to be sold.

I imagined this dealer like any number of stereotypical American car dealers, except he trades in slaves.

Thanks to shejackalarts for the discussions on dog breeds and dog training. A lot of it inspired this section of the chapter and many elements of how the Ace selects the new War Pups.

Now we know why Slit specifically was brought along.

For those curious, Gamble is based on a Belgian Malinois owned by shejackalarts. He is a handsome boy, a bracelet thief, a hoarder of plush toys, and a gentleman. And of course, a very good boy. https://shejackalarts.tumblr.com/tagged/gamble

The real life Gamble steals watches, bracelets, and anything else attached to wrists.

The Ace's training toy is mentioned in Vulnera, chapter 8 and in Gloria, chapter 11.

Much of the fictional Gamble's life is based on the dog's life, though I don't think the dog has ever broken his nose (that would be too sad).

Morsov just loves those cannibalism jokes.

This model of slavery means that children born to slaves are not automatically slaves themselves; they are nominally free. That means that even though Slit's parents were slaves, Slit was technically free-born, which meant that he belonged to his parents and not his parents' owner(s). This suggests that at least some slaves in Bartertown are more like indentured servants than what we would consider slaves in the transatlantic chattel slavery model more people are familiar with. In Vulnera, chapter 8, Slit talks about how he worked as a thief to try to help his parents buy their freedom.

This was how Slit was brought out of Bartertown, chained by his wrist to the Ace's belt at the end of the first part of this series, in the story titled Furiosa.

The Ace calls Furiosa by her title in public and during official work.

Slit has no reason to trust Traders, after he was abused (Vulnera, chapter 8).

The description of the shady merchant is based on Josh Helman, just aged up.

Uncharacteristically, Slit slips into the personal “I” which shows just how serious this accusation is; he is taking full responsibility and credit for his statement.

100 kliks (about 62 miles) is probably an exaggeration or a symbolic number, but it signifies that Bartertown is a regional power.

I intentionally genderswapped some of the original characters from Beyond Thunderdome, partially to show that time had passed, but also to show that it would not matter what gender these characters are in their society; it is the function that matters.

Math fun fact time: the wheel is actually continuous probability instead of discrete.

Just like Gulag meant something odd in Beyond Thunderdome that didn't match the usual definition of the term, Life Imprisonment is not exactly what it seems it should be either.

Coil and Tran have bet on various things over the course of the stories. In Vulnera, chapter 3 they bet on Slit and Morsov's fight for rank, and in Ekstasis, chapter 2, they bet on the reason Morsov went to sit with Slit.

“Rota Fortunae, Imperatrix Mundi” means “Wheel of Fortune, Empress of the World.” This is from the medieval imagery of the wheel of fortune, as well as a reference to the Carmina Burana, from which the title of the series comes from.

Of the bets made by the two War Boys, this is the first time that we've seen Tran win.

Chapter 12

Without heels, Aunty Entity is about 11 hands, so just about 6'4”.

Aunty's Perch is the headquarters seen in Beyond Thunderdome.

It makes sense that Bartertown became very powerful not just because it was located on a major trade route, but because it had a reliable source of food and water. Perhaps it's analogous to those fast food-based economies that get built along major highways, where there's a little town in the middle of nowhere that has fast food, motels, and gasoline, and nearly nothing else. Strict control of the resources has made Bartertown and Aunty very wealthy.

Aunty's Palace is modeled after caravanserai cave dwellings (now hotels) in Göreme, Cappadocia, Turkey. The imagery of a caravanserai is to suggest the importance of Bartertown as an important trading town on a major trade route, except unlike an actual caravanserai, there are rarely visitors and the only full-time resident is Aunty.

Given the frequent storms and the relative sterility of Aunty's Perch, it seemed reasonable to give Aunty Entity a better place to live.

The wire-wrapped glass vessel with water is the same one as the one that Aunty Entity offered to Max in Beyond Thunderdome.

Aunty Entity has sole ownership of the very lucrative production of food and water, and therefore is by far the richest person in the wasteland, probably richer than Immortan Joe. With this resource control, she can afford all the finest things from Before, including wooden furniture, most of which has been burnt, crumbled, or decayed over the many years.

Like many other people in the Wasteland world, Aunty Entity is more of a title than a person.

Fruit porn.

Aunty is talking about fruits like oranges, watermelon, grapes, bananas, etc.

There's some bit of Fury Road lore that suggests that Furiosa has a peach pit. It's unlikely that she could have kept it safe from a before her kidnapping and captivity, so here it is introduced as a gift from Aunty Entity.

Aunty Entity is not just a title but comes with a style, both of wardrobe and of speech, imitating the first, the one known as the Great.

Greater wealth and an increased settlement means Thunderdome fights are now all fought by proxy, suggesting that the times depicted in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome are considered more primitive and crude. This is analogous to civilizations eschewing human sacrifice for proxy sacrifice with animals or representative tokens (like ancient Egyptian ushabti, for example). This prosperity and changing culture is a result of the gradual changing climate that is warmer and wetter than the very long drought that grips the region during the height of global nuclear winter.

Aunty Entity brings up Acosta as a challenge; the charisma hides a cunning mind for strategy.

The bed in the guest room is a charpoy bed made with hemp rope. This is a method of bed-making that comes from India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh. Here is a cool video of a man making a charpoy bed. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJ4pGPFpwnA Beyond practicality, this was meant to invoke the sense of an important stop along a wasteland Silk Road.

I originally wanted to write this olive oil soap as savon d'Aleppo (olive oil and laurel oil soap) but it seemed unlikely they could get enough Mediterranean laurel where they are. Besides the lovely smell, I wanted to at least obliquely reference the Syrian conflict, which has in part deprived the world of this ancient olive soapmaking tradition.

A little reference here to that “We can do it!” Furiosa t-shirt. Tfuriosa actually sent me one from Japan. <3

Since new cotton cloth is so valuable (a water-thirsty crop), Aunty Entity/Alex is wearing a fortune in clothing. There is some serious ostentatious to the drabness. Compare that with the highly decorated world outside of Aunty's Palace,

The weight of the dress was based on the weight of Aunty Entity's original dress in Beyond Thunderdome, which was a whopping 55 kilos. Alex's dress is 65 kilos, to be precise, calculated using proportionate heights of characters and weight of the original dress.

“A somebody who has become a nobody” is the converse of the line spoken by Tina Turner in Beyond Thunderdome.

Furiosa is referring to eating pigeons and rabbits.

However the birthrate is skewed through environmental factors, social factors, and infanticide, the main idea that there are more males turns on the notion that in the more uncertain parts of the waste, people have fewer children, hide their births, and children of both genders are often raised male for their own safety. After all, healthy young females are a very desirable commodity in the wasteland, so much so that they are trafficked great distances to warlords like Immortan Joe. There are many people in the waste who might have in the past identified/lived openly as women who instead live, work, and appear on the surface to be male. Thus it looks like there are more men than women.

The title of Aunty Entity is not strictly hereditary; Aunty Entity can also adopt an heir, which has happened more than once in the past.

The tea they drink is made from chrysanthemum and rosebuds, and is based on a Chinese tea blend, continuing the Silk Road references. Furiosa is treating it almost more like soup than tea.

This style of heavy cast iron teapot is common to East Asia.

In the past, outdoor furniture like this would have been made of wood, but wood is so rare and valuable now that no wooden object would be allowed to be outside where it could crack or break due to the dry air. Of course, Immortan Joe is so rich and ostentatious that he does whatever he likes (and in fact has some wood mountings on the Gigahorse's weapons).

I had originally written a bit where Slit moves up a rank every day for 10 days because of his fighting in the line for Vulnera, but it didn't fit so I left it out. Finally was able to use the idea here.

Slit fought Elvis (now the Secundus) in chapter 4 of Euphoria.

Bucket (with his filed teeth) looks a lot scarier than he actually is.

Chapter 13

One detail that I noticed was that many vehicles including the War Rig and the Interceptor have interior curtains that are rolled up along the frames of the doors. The later Nux car in the movies doesn't, but bear with me, I have reason for the apparent inconsistency, just as the interiors are different in this first car compared to the later Nux car.

Socially awkward Morsov.

This description of Stonker was sort of a parody of more standard canonical literature.

In the Iliad, Achilles is forced to choose between glory and living a long life. Like Achilles, the War Boys choose glory.

This image of the War Boys' horseplay comes from behind the scenes videos.

Apparently flipping water bottles is still a thing.

The setting for Aunty's Perch is the same as in Beyond Thunderdome.

Te Ao is a Maori name.

The whistle is what helped Max gain an advantage in the Thunderdome fight in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.

Of course, the feral on trial is Max.

There is injustice to justice when a person can buy their way to favorable results.

I've always wanted to write a story about Imperator Acosta's background.

Chapter 14

Modern western culture has a strong emphasis on the individual, but War Boy society has a stronger emphasis on the collective, the community.

This scene of War Boys banging together tools and metal objects is inspired by a similar scene in the deleted scenes where the War Boys are banging on their cars and other metal items in unison.

The famous quote “Fear is the mind-killer” comes from Dune by Frank Herbert.

Doctor Dealgood is totally flirting with Slit. Too bad Slit doesn't notice.

Many bits of dialogue from these Bartertown moments come from Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.

Writing this fight, it seemed that a possible interpretation of Slit's weird lumpy right ear is that it was caused at least in part due to cauliflowering from taking a heavy blow.

A nice double meaning for the Thunderdome Live! sign.

Slit counts the seconds as though he were on the car gauging distances.

Nux is the one who shouts, “Slit, no!”

At the very end of the story Furiosa, Slit is sold to the War Boys by his own father.

Chapter 15

Early on writing segments like Furiosa, I didn't know what the interior of the tanker looked like, but by this time I had seen some behind the scenes pictures, so it now aligns more closely to those images.

Often these symptoms can manifest in children who have survived great trauma such as during war. I learned about this from reading about the survivors of the Syrian conflict.

Using the third person neuter pronoun “it” for children is an old-fashioned way (that still persists in German). It is both to signify the lack of importance of gender as well as the status of War Pups as goods.

Dart's father was definitely an Imperator.

Smaller fighting War Boys end up being sent to Gas Town as their smaller size means they need less food and water. The larger ones stay in the Citadel.

I spent an hour or two watching Russian dashcam crash videos before deciding on a proper exclamation for Morsov.

For more backstory about Coil, Win, and Stonker, check out Vincula.

Bucket is named after a friend's dog. Bristow is Bucket's best mate and is named after the same friend's cat who has since passed on (Witnessed).

Morsov's reciting War Boy principles that he learned from the Ace in Refuge.

Bucket is referencing the Alien movie series.

Zombie stories keep going on. No specific movie, just zombies in general. I'm always slightly amused by how many people have zombie apocalypse survival plans.

Zombie's baby teeth haven't fallen out yet; it's just that he's been hit/knocked over a few times and had some teeth knocked out. So he's a lot younger than he looks and big for his age.

Stonker is alluding to Win, who was killed on the daily patrol and probably un-Witnessed. Win was Stonker's parent. More details can be found in Vincula.

Bucket is asking for Stonker to retell Frozen but then settles on Moana.

Coil inherited this small mirror from Win after Win was killed. It's mentioned in chapter 17 of Vincula.

The Ace knows what he's doing.

Since Win grew up a Trader, he had a sharp eye for expression and only really focused on the parts that would have conceivably been exposed and not always masked.

As an Imperator, Furiosa is allowed to wear a petroleum black that's been chromed with aluminum dust.

Coil is wrong about Furiosa's hesitation here, and he was wrong about Win's too.

Chapter 16

Chapter 16 begins a new section of the story, which as far as my current plans are, is the middle section (volume 2?).

This is also how sailors return from the sea (manning the rail).

Many ideas about jobs such as the HazMat (Hazardous Materials) Imperator came from conversations with veeeeight who inspired many of these ideas. More on this later.

The Citadel has its own cache of clothing that it hoards in storage.

By custom, the Imperator is rarely alone and always has someone close by. The Ace is going against habit, but he knows she'll be with Coil so he's willing to let her go on her own for a little bit.

Even though the War Rig is cleaned by random Revheads, no War Boy is foolish enough to steal from the Imperator. War Boy society is fairly honest.

Furiosa's experience with the Prime Imperator can be found in the first story of the series, Furiosa.

I imagine most of the warren hallways look like the ones that Max ran through in the beginning of Fury Road.

I think the fact that the Imperator is rarely alone may imply that Acosta had enemies, despite his prominent standing.

The War Boys' soap is made from petroleum byproducts.

Memories of the past Green Place and the green place within Bartertown running together.

Clear grease is refined petroleum jelly, which is naturally black otherwise.

The items in the shrine were previously mentioned at the beginning of chapter 1. Not all of the things belonged to Acosta, but many did. The toy car appears in chapter 7 of Vincula, when a young Acosta and Ace made toy cars for the younger children to play with.

The particular tree oil is olive oil. Acetone comes from Gastown. Flower oil is lavender oil. Capsaisin, menthol, and lavender oil come from Bartertown.

The Ace is talking about finding a cache of essential oils.

Morsov is talking about opium poppies.

The Brand Imperator has many brandings all over his body from this sort of thing.

Baxter is the name of a friend's cat who unfortunately died as a kitten.

veeeeight helped me with the water plant details.

Chapter 17

Definitely a commentary on health care.

The elegant War Boy doesn't have a name yet, but chapter 20 we find that he's called Ducky (after sigmastolen's cat).

A high-ranked Organic like Ducky has nearly as much run of the Citadel as an Imperator, though mainly of the farms.

The windmills are dismantled and stored ahead of major storms.

The last War was when Furiosa lost her hand. Though there were many gains (cars, captives, etc.), there were probably too many important losses, such as Imperator Acosta and his remaining crew, for there to be a seemly celebration.

Modern high rise buildings have issues with pressure differences between the outside atmosphere and inside the building. Here, I assume the Citadel has similar issues.

These are wool military surplus blankets. The gray with blue stripes and red edging is the Australian World War II era Army issue blanket, and the sand colored one with green stripes and edging is the Australian Vietnam War era Army issue blanket.

Translated lyrics for the Russian lullaby Bayu Bayushki Bayu can be found here: https://steamcommunity.com/app/381210/discussions/0/1471966894869331810/ Youtube has a few recordings for those curious.

In the movie, from inside the War Tower (when Slit flies in on a chain) the floor looks closed, and from outside it looks open, so I split the difference so that it's partially open toward the waste side, but closed all the way back.

Most major engineering works of the past (and even present) involve some deaths, but in this case this also alludes to ancient practices of human sacrifice while building structures.

The image of the Immortan's family and their seating arrangement at the McFeast comes from a scene of the actors workshopping in a behind the scenes video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jTH2fDyAHcY&t=1m30s

The Haynes, Clymer, and Chilton are all auto repair manual books Haynes is British and Clymer and Chilton are American.

Chapter 18

Chapter 17-19 were were really troublesome writing and it took completing all three before I could see where the logical chapter breaks were.

In the movie, the Prime Imperator is wearing what I am calling the full emblem, and the Secondus Imperator is not, only a leather badge. In the movie, Furiosa wears the full emblem too.

McFeasting: http://evilasiangenius.tumblr.com/post/142858754454/mcfeasting-in-valhalla

In many parts of the world, ink is used to mark voter's thumbs so they can't vote again.

This is of course, Bohemian Rhapsody, by Queen.

The Immortan's musicians consists of the Doof Warrior and the drummers.

This conversation about dumping Bucket is very similar to a conversation I overheard once in a Target, except without as much cannibalism.

Bucket is merely an outsider, Morsov is from the much detested Buzzard tribe, which shows some differences in their social standing.

As sigmastolen pointed out, brake drums are sometimes used in orchestral percussion. Bone flutes and rattles constitute some of the first instruments that humans made. There is definitely a harp in there somewhere. The only major families of instruments not obviously depicted are reed instruments and electrophones, reeds being hard to obtain at the Citadel. Many broad elements of the McFeast music scenes come from discussions with sigmastolen.

Booster is doing a very awkward cover of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

The second War Boy sings Beds are Burning by Midnight Oil, a song that originally was meant to support the rights of the indigenous people of Australia, but has been twisted through the lens of War Boy society to imply it's about Immortan Joe's land rights. I can't remember who recommended this song to me, but I am pretty sure it was shejackalarts.

This old Organic doesn't have a name yet, but in chapter 20 we find out he's called Scythe.

The War Boys bring their own meaning to the music and lyrics that get distorted over time and distance. This is Bulls on Parade by Rage Against the Machine, suggested by veeeeight.

I was once given dried jujubes stuffed with walnuts once as a snack while traveling in Asia.

Nux doesn't know that the games were canceled.

Chapter 19

Elvis was Morsov's first partner and Driver but was abusive to him. In the last chapter of Euphoria, Morsov left Elvis after encouragement from Nux. After fighting Slit, who was protecting Morsov, at a War Games, Elvis was raised as an Imperator and went on to become the new Secundus.

Originally, I had wanted to write this scene with Furiosa and Coil as a more typical love scene, but it didn't feel right coming on the heels of Morsov's story. So it's still a love scene, but here we can see that love comes in many forms and is expressed in many ways, not just sexual.

Coil is teaching her the electric slide. Many years ago in conversation with sigmastolen, we decided that War Boys would definitely line dance, and there would definitely be 100 War Boys doing the electric slide.

This sketch of Coil was drawn by Win, in chapter 17 of Vincula.

In Vulnera chapter 4, a lifetime ago, Coil and Furiosa also sat on a mechanic's creeper together in the War Rig shop under very different circumstances and with a very different relationship.

This unfinished project is referenced by Coil at the end of Lamia and says something about how little Coil really understood Win.

Those high status vehicles get protective coats, whereas when War Boys grind down their vehicles, it'll end up going to rust at some point because there is no way for them to do the same thing.

Much like Viking flyting, War Boys can settle disputes with rap battles.

The old Organic's song references his past, and is a contrafactum (filk!) of Whatever it Takes by Imagine Dragons.

Chapter 20

Kyber is veeeeight's dog. Much of the details of industrial work in this chapter is thanks to inspiration and help from veeeeight, such as the idea of Safety workers who function as Kill Switches, as well as the HazMat, water storage divers, and

Pappy is the name of a dog that belongs to someone we know who works in HazMat.

One thought I had was that later, Max would have been put into quarantine for three or four days, with reduced food and water to try to make him easier to handle. That obviously didn't work very well.

Duke, Kit, and Tempo are all named after dogs, mostly belonging to veeeeight or friends in the past or present. Kit is short for Kit-Kat.

The climate is changing in the wasteland, getting warmer and wetter after a long nuclear winter, so that new thriving agricultural societies such as the Citadel are gaining in power and population. Or perhaps power through population.

Stonker tells the Ace who did it without actually saying their names. One and Two, the Prime and Secundus Imperators.

Both Vulnera and Euphoria mention this concept of War Pups acting like a messaging system in the Citadel.

Furiosa is definitely being misgendered here, because socially, all War Boys are considered male, even if they're not. I've tried to make the distinction that people who don't really know her misgender her, and sometimes even people who are close to her refer to her as male in public.

I wouldn't be surprised if this act of kindness toward the Bridge Imperators would be something that would inadvertently lead to helping Furiosa smuggle the Wives over in the future, if the Imperators can't see as clearly who is making the crossings...

The grindstones and flour mixing imagery refers back to ancient Egyptians.

Fermented foods are a crucial way for War Boys to get enough vitamin B-12 in their diets.

Ducky is the black cat...sigmastolen's black cat, to be specific.

The Ace subsisted on the broth when he broke his jaw in Vulnera.

Ducky's question to the pup is very mathematical, asking about a maximum number using “at most” (compare this with “at least”).

I worked out an entire page of notes in my writing notebook on food bar accounting. The Citadel definitely stores a lot more bars than are being used.

It always seemed to me that Mad Max: Fury Road was both very serious and kind of absurd at the same time, which is a very unusual mix.

The old Organic Scythe greets Furiosa in Latin.

I always thought that one of the Wretched whom we see at the very end of the movie, legless and crawling out of a hole, was formerly a War Boy but one who had been sent down because he lost his legs.

Furiosa's first run to Bartertown is mentioned in the story by the same name.

Pomegranates are associated with death in ancient Greek culture, notably the myth of Persephone.

#mad max #mad max fury road #mmfr #wasteland culture #worldbuilding #fortunae plango vulnera series

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