#treasure-laden tomb

[blueiscoool]

'Princely' Tomb of A Hun Warrior Unearthed in Romania

The remains of a "princely" tomb, possibly from a Hunnic warrior, have been found during motorway construction in Romania.

Workers building a new highway in Romania have unearthed the treasure-laden tomb of a wealthy warrior and his horse. The tomb dates to the fifth century A.D., when the region was controlled by a people known as the Huns.

The tomb is filled with more than 100 artifacts, including weapons, gold-covered objects and pieces of gold jewelry inlaid with gemstones, Silviu Ene(opens in new tab) of the Vasile Pârvan Institute of Archeology in Bucharest, Romania.

Ene is the lead archaeologist investigating the tomb, which was discovered late last year during the construction of a motorway near the town of Mizil in the southeast of Romania, about 140 miles (220 kilometers) from the Black Sea.

Four separate archaeological sites were unearthed during the road construction, and the wealthy warrior's tomb — which the researchers described as "princely" — was just a part of the most complex site, Ene said.

"This tomb is of major importance because, in addition to the rich inventory, it was discovered at a site along with 900 other archaeological features — [such as] pits, dwellings, and tombs," he said in an email.

Invading Huns

The ethnicity of the Mizil warrior still isn't known, but the rich grave goods suggest that he belonged to the ruling class in the region's Hunnic period, or "migration era," when it was controlled by the Huns, Ene and his colleagues told the news outlet Hungary Posts English(opens in new tab).

The Huns were nomadic horsemen who originated in Central Asia. During the fourth and fifth centuries A.D. they invaded and occupied the far east of Europe, while displacing other peoples — such as the Vandals and the Goths — from their lands, causing them to migrate west.

The Huns were a particular problem for the Byzantine (or Eastern) Roman Empire, which until that time had controlled much of the lands west of the Black Sea — a region that now includes Romania.

But the Romans lost the region to the Huns, who went on to invade the Western Roman province of Gaul (modern France and western Germany) and even to attack Rome under their leader Attila the Hun, before losing their territory in Europe to a mixed force of Goths and other Germanic former vassals at the Battle of Nedao — a site now in Croatia — in A.D. 454.

Princely tomb

The latest archaeological finds at the Mizil tomb included an iron sword in a gilded  scabbard, a dagger, bundles of iron arrowheads and decorated braces of bone that were once fitted to a wooden bow, Ene said.

The dagger is especially ornate, with a gold-covered hilt inlaid with gemstones, he noted.

Archaeologists also unearthed the remains of a gilded saddle, a bronze cauldron, several decorated "sconces" — fittings to hold candles on a wall — and pieces of gold jewelry, he said.

The tomb held the warrior's complete skeleton, and his face seems to have been covered with a gold mask, the remains of which were also unearthed. However, only a leg and the head of his horse have been unearthed so far, Ene said.

The archaeologists told Hungary Posts English that the styles of the newfound objects suggest they are from about the fifth century A.D., when most of Europe north of the Danube River was under the control of the Huns.

The excavation of the tomb had to be completed in bad weather and sometimes with flashlights so that the motorway project could go ahead.

The archaeological investigation is now about "half finished," Ene said. Over the next few months, the bones and artifacts will be cleaned, investigated and put on public display, while the site of the tomb itself will be built over by the motorway project.

By Tom Metcalfe.

[authorhenrywvinson]

Unveiling Fascinating Funeral Rites Throughout History

The rites surrounding death have long been a reflection of the beliefs, fears, and hopes of different cultures, from the majestic to the bizarre in funeral practices. This history unveils fascinating imagery of how humans have thought of death. If you are one of those fascinated with the rituals surrounding death, then That Good Night by Henry Vinson is a must-read. Vinson, the expert in funerals and mortuary sciences, will walk you through the history and modern practices of death rituals.

Now, let's dive into an intriguing and sometimes unpredictable journey through some of the most unique funeral rites history has recorded.

The Viking Ship Burials: A Passage to the Afterlife

Mentioning a Viking funeral to most people would probably bring forth the image of a blazing ship drifting away. More than being a dramatic scene worthy of film reel material, this rite was an act steeped in deep belief. The Vikings believed that a warrior's journey to their paradise, Valhalla, should be one to remember. High-ranking Vikings were often buried in their ships, surrounded by treasures and weapons, and occasionally even sacrificed slaves to accompany them into the afterlife. Thus, the ship itself—a vessel of life—now became a vehicle of death, buried in the earth or set aflame on the sea. The flames licking up the night sky symbolized the soul's journey up to the gods—a sight just as awesome as terrifying.

The Sky Burials of Tibet: A Feast for the Vultures

Quite the opposite of the Vikings' over-the-top sendoff, Tibetan Buddhists have a funeral ritual that is at once as practical as it is spiritual: the sky burial. Following a death, the body is not buried or cremated but is taken to the top of a mountain and left exposed to wind and weather, serving as food for scavenging vultures. This ritual was created to serve a dual purpose and thus related to a belief that the body is a vessel for the spirit. It is both a final act of charity—providing sustenance for animals—and a grim reminder of the transience of life. To the vultures, considered sacred, it is an act of the divine carriers of the soul to heaven. It means serene acceptance of nature's cycle, a humbled return to the earth from which life sprang.

The Endocannibalism of the Yanomami: Consuming the Dead

Endocannibalism may sound like a grotesque practice of consuming one's own deceased body, but for the Yanomami tribe in the Amazon, it is an act of profound reverence. The Yanomami think that this way, the spirit of the deceased will keep living within the community since the ashes are said to be mixed with plantain soup. This ritual, done only after cremation, symbolizes unity between the living and the dead so that it is promised that the spirit shall not be lost in nothingness but part of the existence of the tribe. This is a far cry from the more common—Western—concepts of death, where the dead are generally removed from the living, placed in graves, and locked away. The Yanomami believe death to be yet another beginning, an entry point into an existence where the deceased does not leave.

The Mummification of the Pharaohs: Preparing for Eternity

Probably the most famous funeral practice in history, the technique of mummification was a ritual in many respects about life, wrapped up in linen-wrapped bodies and gold-laden tombs. That is, the ancient Egyptians believed a person's soul needed its body to be preserved in order to survive in the afterlife. It was a careful preparation for eternity, with elaborate processes of organ removal, drying of the body, and wrapping it in linen. Goods from food to furniture were placed in the tombs so that the dead person might continue his existence without want in the afterlife. It was a world where death was a doorway to another life, and the grandeur of the burial reflected the importance of the life yet to come.

The Funeral Pyres of India: Liberation through Fire

Cremation on funeral pyres, especially on the sacred River Ganges, is deeply grounded in Hinduism. To Hindus, therefore, fire purifies, and cremation is the release of the soul from the body, further attaining the next step in the journey: rebirth or moksha—liberation from life's and death's cycle. The Ganges is seen as the holiest of rivers; being able to wash away sins and have one's ashes scattered in it is believed to bestow moksha or liberation from rebirth. Seeing these funeral pyres burning simultaneously, hauntingly, and profoundly along the Varanasi ghats speaks to something basic in human beings: the transient nature of life and the hope of what lies beyond.

These funeral rites, though varied, share a common thread—they are all expressions of how different cultures understand and honor the dead. They reveal a deep connection to the natural world, a respect for the passage of life, and an enduring belief in the continuation of the spirit. In exploring these rituals, we see not just how cultures deal with death but how they celebrate life, continuity, and the eternal.

Available on Amazon: https://a.co/d/9BP8Gs3

[vaidhainshijindal]

Exploring Vietnam’s Rich Tapestry: Phong Nha-Ke Bang, Hue, and Mui Ne

Vietnam is a land of contrasts, where natural wonders, historical treasures, and vibrant coastal towns offer travelers a rich tapestry of experiences. From the ancient imperial city of Hue to the adventure-laden landscapes of Phong Nha-Ke Bang and the sun-soaked beaches of Mui Ne, each destination promises a unique journey. This guide delves into the highlights of these three remarkable locations, providing travelers with insights to make the most of their Vietnamese adventure.

Exploring Phong Nha-Ke Bang

Phong Nha-Ke Bang National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage site, is renowned for its stunning karst landscapes, extensive cave systems, and rich biodiversity.

Cave Exploration: The park is home to some of the world's most spectacular caves, including Son Doong, the largest cave in the world, and Phong Nha Cave, known for its impressive stalactites and stalagmites. Paradise Cave, with its awe-inspiring chambers, offers a more accessible but equally stunning experience.

Adventure Activities: Beyond caving, Phong Nha-Ke Bang offers various outdoor activities such as trekking, kayaking, and zip-lining. The Chay River and Toi Cave (Dark Cave) provide opportunities for zip-lining, swimming, and mud bathing, adding an adventurous twist to the natural exploration.

Local Culture: Visiting nearby villages allows travelers to experience local life and culture. The Phong Nha Botanic Garden and the Eight Ladies Cave, a war memorial site, offer deeper insights into the region's history and natural environment.

Hue, Vietnam Travel Guide

Hue, the former imperial capital of Vietnam, is steeped in history and culture, offering a window into the country’s regal past. Lets explore Hue Travel Guide.

Imperial Citadel: The centerpiece of Hue is the Imperial Citadel, a vast complex of palaces, temples, walls, and gates. This UNESCO World Heritage site reflects the grandeur of the Nguyen Dynasty and provides a fascinating glimpse into Vietnam’s imperial history.

Royal Tombs: Scattered along the Perfume River are the elaborate tombs of Nguyen emperors, such as the Tomb of Minh Mang, the Tomb of Khai Dinh, and the Tomb of Tu Duc. Each tomb features unique architecture and beautiful landscapes.

Thien Mu Pagoda: Overlooking the Perfume River, Thien Mu Pagoda is one of Hue's oldest and most iconic religious sites. Its seven-story tower and serene gardens make it a peaceful retreat from the bustling city.

Local Cuisine: Hue is famous for its culinary heritage, offering dishes like Bun Bo Hue (spicy beef noodle soup) and Banh Beo (steamed rice cakes). A food tour through the city’s markets and street vendors is a must for any visitor.

Guide to Mui Ne, Vietnam

Mui Ne, a coastal town in southern Vietnam, is known for its stunning beaches, towering sand dunes, and laid-back vibe.

Beaches and Water Sports: Mui Ne's beaches are perfect for sunbathing, swimming, and enjoying water sports like kite surfing and windsurfing, thanks to the area's strong sea breezes.

Sand Dunes: The Red Sand Dunes and the White Sand Dunes are iconic landmarks. The White Sand Dunes, in particular, offer a surreal desert-like landscape where visitors can enjoy activities like sand sledding, quad biking, and watching the sunrise.

Fairy Stream: This shallow, red-colored stream winds through a canyon of striking rock formations. Walking along the stream is a unique way to experience Mui Ne's natural beauty.

Fishing Village: Mui Ne’s fishing village offers a glimpse into the daily life of local fishermen. Visiting early in the morning, you can see the vibrant fish market and the colorful boats returning with their catch.

Conclusion

From the historical depth of Hue to the adventurous allure of Phong Nha-Ke Bang and the coastal charm of Mui Ne, Vietnam’s diverse destinations offer something for every traveler. Whether you’re exploring ancient citadels, trekking through caves, or basking on sunlit beaches, Vietnam promises a journey filled with discovery, adventure, and unforgettable memories. So pack your bags and embark on an exploration of this enchanting Southeast Asian gem.

[linuxgamenews]

Exploring Tomb Raiding Adventures with Phantom Abyss v1.0

Phantom Abyss asynchronous multiplayer action game launches v1.0 on Linux and Steam Deck Verified via Proton, with Windows PC. Thanks to the amazing Team WIBY for their incredible creativity and skill. Available with a big discount on Steam and Humble Store. Big news, and I'm super eager to share! Phantom Abyss, the adrenaline pumping, tomb-raiding adventure that's been in Early Access since 2021. Well, hold onto your controllers, it's officially hit version 1.0 and is out now. And it's also playable on Linux and Steam Deck (Verified) via Proton. Here's the lowdown on what's new and why this is such a big deal. Developed by the talented Team WIBY and brought to us by the ever innovative Devolver Digital, has evolved massively. This isn't just another multiplayer experience. It's a unique blend of ancient temple exploration, heart stopping action, and a clever twist where you learn from others' past triumphs. As well as not-so-great moments. The concept of Phantom Abyss is simple but genius. You're diving into these mysterious and trap-laden tombs, but you're also not alone. You're surrounded by phantoms, echoes of real players who've either nailed it or... didn't. Watching their moves helps you strategize and increase your chances of snagging that elusive ultimate treasure. And once you claim it, the level is off-limits forever.

Phantom Abyss | Version 1.0 Launch Trailer

Now, let's talk about what's fresh in 1.0. First, we've got new modes. The singular temple setup? Gone. Instead, we're treated to three thrilling modes:

Adventure Mode: This is your curated Phantom Abyss journey. Hand-crafted temples, each with its own set of challenges and unique relics. It's like a tailor-made adventure each time.

Abyss Mode: For those who love a challenge, this is your ultimate test. It's classic, it changes every time, and it's a race to see who claims the glory first.

Daily Mode: Sharpen your skills with new twists on familiar trials, fresh every day for a different flavor of adventure.

We're not just talking new modes in Phantom Abyss. The arsenal of whips is dynamic and unlockable, there's a mysterious area called The Rift to explore, and permanent upgrades to aid in your tomb raiding endeavors. Team WIBY's creative director, Ben Marrinan, has poured heart and soul into this, and it shows. It's a labor of love, a testament to dedication and community feedback. So, whether you've been following Phantom Abyss since its early days or you're just hearing about it now, this is the perfect time to dive in. Check out v1.0 on Steam and Humble Storen in on this one-of-a-kind asynchronous multiplayer action. Trust me, you don't want to miss out on this. Playable on Linux and Steam Deck (Verified) via Windows PC. But only $9.99 USD / £8.37 / 9,75€ with the 50% discount.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Believe her, my Belovëd”)

He planets the tea-cup opens     and priceless with your me, my fluent to get from thy many     a great son to be

an empire how supreme a     Lot! Where a solemnities! And nothing up your ankles     in fear Louis, who know

what if we lingered their leaves in     violent shade, of nightingale alone among the persona     I’ve made old Law did

save, their aim, and is it not brave     day more their arms round a Shaking, she fled, and heart, glimmer,     ye wave is; sae droops our

heart to give thee; depending darkness     in love, and is good and sickness, in her aunt, and of     urine. In deep depression

be a symphony&in a     bar-room around my hair and about, but the end of human     stand for the City.

The trembles through an inflated     foot, Philoctetes indissectible&extending age’s     cruel knife shut in up

to dreams I prefer, stay near. And     so thinking this the other youth, and such music we known,     and the near, that love, aside

that guided by something souls     to touch, and linger’d—joy and light, a kinde my hitch over     there we two trees, as it

roll’d; and, that loue refineth, her     maiden, can make the grove it was Guido was defiled.     Once knew what come sweete-cruell

short Metro ride to heaven was     His Head, turn’d by a charm a fusion bred in my free, let     none look look look with me

through the scented flower strife is     love, let my tomb the treasure, conveys it in a Dream Myself     but the star-laden

sky, and beneath her animal     awesome I would be still it backwards, still in their ambition.     Or if not the mounted—

robed in love, our heart bail; whoe’er     keeps her milky stones, O trees that, dizzy with the Fantom     of pleasure! Of theirs—God

blessed your brains beat into a Myrtle     bowre, flaming, like Horse over the wind and again, so     might they sat, had him when

other at a wedding I was     a perfect it seem’d my friend must make a movie screen? Believe     her, my Belovëd!

[triskaideka-13]

Introducing our second player's self-portrait! Their character is quite... intricate, and I must say I'm both impressed and intrigued (though not without a humorous touch of worry).

Enoch

(a.k.a. The Timeless Prophet)

Enoch, a living relic shrouded in ancient bandages, defies any attempt to determine his exact age or origin. His figure is that of a tomb-colonist, his mummy-like visage concealed by the wrappings that hold the secrets of countless forgotten years. While male in form, his essence remains enigmatic, blending the temporal and the timeless.

None other than the biblical patriarch of pre-flood times (or so he believes!) Enoch's history stretches far beyond the typical limits of human memory -a tapestry woven across epochs and dimensions, reaching back to a time long before the conception of the city of London. Millennia ago, charged with a divine mandate to eradicate a new Tree of Knowledge planted by Adam in a hidden, godless land, he ventured into the abyssal depths of the Neath, making his way to the city of Uruk. Here, a god-appointed sentinel in a godless realm, he embarked on a new journey. Over centuries, guided by his faith, he slowly traversed the Uterzee to Irem’s House of the Amber Sky, seeking a means to thwart the planting of this forbidden tree through the dreamscapes of Parabola.

However, the realm of dreams proved to be an ever-shifting labyrinth. Lost in a tapestry of realities, Enoch's connection to his divine purpose was severed, and his mind became entangled as threads of countless timelines weaved patterns beyond his comprehension. The river of time carried him through aeons until, miraculously, after millennia of wandering the ethereal realms, he returned to the physical world, resting within a tomb laden with opulent treasures in the Forgotten Quarter of London.

This resurfacing was not without challenges. Unfamiliar with his archaic speech, Londoners regarded him with disgust and distrust. Yet, his regal bearing and the shimmering riches he possessed enabled him to carve a place for himself in London's shadowed heart, securing a Family Crypt where he could rest and begin piecing together the fragments of his past.

Finally, after a few months, Enoch's true awakening arrived through the serendipity of a sunbeam escaping a mirrorcatch box, piercing through the shadows of his existence. This celestial ray penetrated the fog of his memories, bestowing upon him a vision that bridged the chasm between his fragmented existence and his divine purpose. His visions, while still chaotic and disjointed, began to coalesce into a new, cohesive narrative.

With each passing day, Enoch's understanding of his purpose deepened. Although his connection to the "real" world remained veiled by a perpetual haze typical of minds returning from the ethereal expanse, he embraced his role as a Prophet in London's gaslit streets. He bore riddles and enigmatic messages, remnants of his time in Irem and Parabola. His words, born from the blurred lines between realms, resonate with those who seek meaning beyond the mundane. His existence stands as a living testament to the unfathomable intricacies of the Neath and its countless layers of existence.

A relic of ages past, Enoch stands as a living bridge between the forgotten and the present, awaiting the moment when his visions will guide him toward his destiny.

He was told a sign would come, and he would soon find a party to complete his divine mission. He waits.

[starspray]

Sawdust

written for Day 1 of Tolkien Gen Week

Also on the SWG

@tolkiengenweek

.

Her first truly clear memory of her father takes place in his workshop. It is a bright, airy building with many windows tucked away behind the palace in Tirion where no one would expect to find the king. In the memory it is summer, the day's head laden with the smell of flowers. Findis is too small to walk far on her own, and she is carried into the workshop on Finwë's hip. He sets her down on a table, uncaring of the dust that puffs up and gets all over her small dress, and rolls up his sleeves. He shows her many things, mostly small carvings and toys that will eventually find their way to her own nursery. Findis watches, entranced, as he takes up his tools and begins a new carving, taking a shapeless lump of wood and turning it into a leaping hound before her eyes. As he does he tells her of the wolves that the Eldar had befriended on the shores of Cuiviénen that had become their friends and companions, and whose descendants are the hounds that had come into the West with them.

As she grows older he teaches her the names of the tools and how to use them, and one of Findis' most treasured memories is the look on his face when she presents him with her first carving: a small, very rough little thing only just recognizable as a hound. It takes a prideful place on a shelf near a window where the Treelight shines brightest.

Finwë brings her other siblings into the workshop, too, as they get big enough, but Findis is the only one who lingers there. Lalwen prefers wide open spaces, and dancing with their mother under the Mingling Light. Nolofinwë's craft is ink on paper, and then paint on canvas. Arafinwë only laughs and rides off to Alqualondë to swim and dive for pearls with the Teleri.

Afternoons in the woodworking shop grow shorter, though, as Findis—as her brothers—get older, and then fewer and farther between. There is unrest growing, and while Findis can slip away to escape from it, rolling up her sleeves and covering herself in sawdust, her father cannot.

And then he leaves Tirion entirely, gone to Formenos furious that the Valar have overstepped. By now Findis has gotten very good at carving hounds. She slips one into his saddlebag just before he departs, and hopes that he will find it and remember that he has other children who love him as dearly as Fëanáro.

He does not return.

Findis never sees the body. She does not want to know what Melkor did to her father, or to his body after. Someone tells her that they found a little wooden hound in his pocket. She watches her siblings march away, their grief turned to anger and need for vengeance, and she watches her mother, shrunken and pale, leave for Ingwë's house to grieve in quiet, and in the darkness that shrouds Tirion, without even starlight to ease it, she goes to the workshop. It is no longer light and airy, but dark and dusty and stifling. Like a tomb, she thinks, and only then does she weep, sitting on a half-done bench and letting her tears fall silently into the sawdust at her feet.

[jigglypurin]

Lego Racers

      I distinctly remember the smell of the big box PC game's packaging as my parents pulled out of the Costco parking lot. Peppery, for some reason. I was about four or five. I couldn't help but crack the box open on the way home to read the manual and stare at the art, still bathed in that odd peppery smell. Rocket Racer, the game's final boss and posterboy, looked at me with his smug grin, and I knew I had to beat him. I was relatively new to playing video games and using the computer, but I knew enough to put the disc into the big tray, and wait for the autorun to hit Install.

      LEGO Racers is a 1999 kart-style racing game released for Windows (and N64 and PS1, but I never touched those), and it is the game I most closely associate with my very young childhood. There were definitely others I played around the time, my first personal console being a Gameboy, but I'll get to those eventually. When I think of Lego Racers, I lovingly remember the feeling of being at the family Windows 98 computer in what we called the sunroom (basically an afterthought built-on room to our house that faced west and had gigantic windows), and having my very first truly heart-poundingly tense moments before triumph in a game.

      I don't exactly remember how long it took me to finish. I spent most of my time in front of it coming up with little characters and making them the coolest little cars a five-year-old could imagine. Then, I'd take them into the test drive area and show off to the little pixel crowd in the stands.

      The game's box art and intro cutscene proudly display the game's seven circuit bosses: Captain Redbeard, a stock pirate fella with a simple but sleek treasure chest-engine car - King Kahuka, a hindsight racist tribal islander stereotype with a throne shaped car - Basil the Batlord, a vampire with a rad dragon-headed red and black low-profile car - Johnny Thunder, an Indiana Jones parody with a rather non-descript but cool looking car with head and tail lights - Baron Von Barron, Johnny's archnemesis with a sleek retro Jeep - Moth (whose name I will not say in its entirety), a blue alien queen with a cool blue moon-rover, and finally, Rocket Racer himself, whose autograph is scrawled across the game's cover art;  a man with his very own circuit named after himself, and a machine that screams *speed* with its arrow-shaped nose, cockpit style windshield, and rear rocket boosters. To my little 5 year old mind, these boss racers were on another level; truly skilled drivers I would need to give my all to defeat. 

      Gameplay-wise, it's a standard kart racing fare. Press gas at the right time during the countdown to boost, avoid obstacles, get power-ups and win. But getting to build and race your own car creations was half the fun as well. Legos being a special interest of mine as a kid made the game much more than the sum of its parts. I had a huge plastic tub filled with them. I still love building Lego cars to this day. It's unfortunate that the game is 2-players at most. Obviously important were the items: Red bricks were attacks like cannonballs and rockets, Yellow were hazards like oil-slicks and a mummy's curse that played with your controls, Blue were shields, and Green were speed boosters, with smaller White bricks that acted as level-ups for your items. I pretty quickly figured out that Green was the best. Why hit everyone or protect myself when I could just get so far ahead they couldn't touch me?

            The game has 13 tracks, 12 of which you will see before you are halfway finished. Each grand prix has 4 tracks, so the latter half of the boss racers simply have mirrored versions of the former's. Each track is based on a distinct Lego set from tech themed space and arctic, pirate laden and tomb raiding adventure and island, and wizard and warrior style medieval and magic. As you start a grand prix, you get a short scene of the boss driver taunting you and showing off their car. Against the boss, there was little room for error if you wanted 1st overall. Like most kart racers, you got points based on your position at the end of each race. And no matter what, the boss racer will finish first if you do not. No lie, making it to the final track with gold in sight never failed to get my little heart racing. Especially since you stopped dead in your tracks upon any crash. Getting hit by an enemy's attack was one thing. Annoying, but you could recover. Crashing into a wall and having to back up? Agony. Many of the later tracks had just such obstacles jutting out at right angles to end any hope of victory.

      After finishing a grand prix, the game shows you two cutscenes (unless you got 2nd or 3rd, then you get one, and it's not particularly flattering), first of your character triumphantly dancing upon a gigantic 1st place pedestal, showboating their gold trophy with fireworks and flash bulbs. After that rush of dopamine, because being five and winning enough points in the circuit to earn your way to 1st was already so much, the game gives you an extra mind-blowing moment of the circuit's boss racer, kicking the sand and 'aw shucks'-ing as they accept their defeat and present you with a brand new set of bricks to use for your cars and drivers (which initially, I remember scaring me as a kid? at least at first? They first appear in silhouette and I had no clue what was happening. I was an easily scared kid, you will learn more about that. It comes up a lot). I was stunned. Not only did the boss just tell me I'm a better racer - now I can *play as him*? And build *his car*? Transcendent. 

      Aurally, the sounds of this game are completely burned into my brain. The goofy, catchy theme that plays on the main menu, the bouncy garage theme, the squeaks and clicks of placing bricks, and the loud, distinct sounds of each powerup. Just watch a few moments of gameplay and you'll see (hear) what I mean. A few of the track themes as well I can still catch myself humming from time to time. 

Some good specific memories:

-A moment where my sister, 6 years my senior, was watching me, rooting for me as I took on Johnny Thunder's grand prix. On the final track, the reversed Captain Redbeard stage, I managed to snag a last minute un-powered up green boost brick. My blood ran cold and my pulse jumped as I leaned back in the chair, and barely rocketed ahead to take the win. We both cheered.

-The day where I both finally defeated Moth, an extremely fast racer with exceedingly difficult tracks, and finally met Rocket Racer himself, face to low-poly face. His cutscene is, for lack of a better word, epic in the mind of a child. Veronica Voltage, another racer who heads the Time Attack mode, congratulates you on your series of wins against the previous boss drivers, and says there's someone you should meet. A midi-orchestra begins to play. A massive metal door raises slowly, and Rocket Racer walks out of the shadows to your drivers shock. He acknowledges your skill and challenges you to race on his own track before turning and walking toward a swirling portal, laughing as he says "I'll be waiting for you... at the finish line." Tiny me was awestruck. This game rocks. Rocket's track, funnily enough, is kind of a joke once you've got it down. It's chock-full of green bricks and white upgrade bricks, so you can get the way overpowered Space Warp boost that just teleports you further ahead on the track. While Rocket also knows how to use those bricks well, at this point, you probably know how to use them better.

-Cracking open my big CD case some years later, age 10 or 11, and installing it on my own laptop. Getting to play Lego Racers in the comfort of my own bed was a dream come true. 

This first one is a little rambly and more about the game itself than my memories surrounding it. Honestly, that's because the game follows me to this day. I still own the disc. It's not installed (new lappy doesn’t have a disc drive lol), but I reminisce on it often. I've since emulated the N64 and PS1 versions, but neither hold a candle to the one I grew up with. It's a warm reminder of my days where Rocket Racer was the coolest motherfucker, getting a new Lego set would make my week, and little victories in games meant the world.

[imperialsid]

Ramblings jotted for lovers lost.

Those were some pretty days.

Would Time ever heed the call of a lover

Who wastes his time reminiscing his past?

Will destiny ever help him uncover

The thoughts that never failed to last?

His tears pour down as rain latching on

To dry midsummer winds

Whole seasons go by as he fights on

His memories serve as the fiends

His mind just revolves around

The world explored but remained unseen

In utter sadness he punches the ground

Which saw love whither from green

I am but a composer of lyrics and rhymes,

Sustaining my hunger on crumbles left over

The gold that comes from love's crimes

Is unsavory for me but to ponder over

I've lead my life under a broken roof,

A patch of hay , with shade here and there,

I'd rather rusticate myself to rustic life with hoofs

Than stay anymore in inopportune care

And they say love blossoms without an excuse

In search, I cry, where, oh where?

Does the poet ever look on his muse

To see a fair body laden undressed bare?

In the incandescent evening light,

Is love a game of ease and pleasure?

When a breathing heart beats with all its might,

The Ganga sings history's greatest treasures.

And oh mighty folly be my love,

If it can't find you and take you back,

It's nought, I say, for you're fleeting, my love,

Life is breaking my bones on her rack.

This might be my greatest curse,

The blessing to write about you

For the feelings my pained heart could imburse

And not touch you, feel you or breathe you.

You live in the hills of my heart in the North,

Undisturbed by my rantings and ramblings,

Tranquil and fluid with no storms coming forth

My hands tranquilized by years of gambling.

Although Magellan spent months sailing

Through tides not known to many

His grief did manifest in him failing,

And survivors didn't speak well, if any.

We have all loved and recieved some of its milk

And winter has crept into summers shining

Many gave way to graves wrapped in silk

With tombs of the poor left for the crows dining.

"Gold and Silver and everything nice

Were eaten away by solitary mice

Tokens of hearts coated in love

Have rusted away in some attic above

Kisses of passion and touches of heat,

Have simmered down with nothing to eat

Graves have filled with flowers falling

Grief has conquered all hearts calling

And lovers and fools and everything new,

Will fall in time, and so will you."

SIDDHARTH GANGULY ©

[flyingcarpettours]

Egypt Tours and Jordan Holidays

Egypt Tours and Jordan Holidays will take you in a breathtaking journey to see the most important spots in Egypt and Jordan .Travel on to Jordan and Walk through monuments and touch history with Egypt Tours and Jordan Holidays, beguile your eyes with Jordan where is a stunning Rose City of Petra, don’t miss the chance to discover Mountain of Nebo, Madaba and Dead Sea. Amuse yourself while taking our Egypt Tours and Jordan Holidays and enjoy visiting the great three Pyramids of Giza Cheops, Chephren and Mykerinus, Sphinx a huge half-human half-lion statue, also you can scout the valley temple, Sakkara pyramid which is considered the oldest step pyramids in the world, it was built by the architect Imhotep, contains six layers that is gradually decreasing in size. Start your tours visiting the most famous attraction in the entire world, the great Pyramids of Giza which considered a defining symbol of Egypt and the last of the Ancient Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. You will get the chance to enjoy the panoramic view of the Giza Plateau and take amazing photos with the three Pyramids of Cheops, Chephren and Mykerinus. Feast your eyes while exploring the amazement of Sphinx and then move to visit the Valley Temple which was main entrance to the Giza Plateau, visit Old Cairo including the Hanging church, Abu Serga Church, and Ben Ezra synagogue. Catch your flight to Amman, where the capital of Jordan, is a modern city with numerous ancient ruins. Atop Jabal al-Qala’a hill, the historic Citadel includes the pillars of the Roman Temple of Hercules and the 8th-century Umayyad Palace complex, known for its grand dome, The Mountain of Nebo, where you can find the tomb of Moses the profit, scout the Old Monastery overlooking the Jordan Valley, the Dead Sea, as well as Jericho, your next visit to Madaba, visit St. George’s Church, watch the mosaic map of Palestine which belong to the 06th Century, be ready for swimming at the crystal water and the largest natural spa in the world, a lot of benefits from the mineral rich waters and the mud flows, visit Rose Red City of Petra, experience a mélange of history in Petra, it contains the largest attractions of Jordan. Book Egypt Tours and Jordan Holidays Day 01: Arrive Cairo At the time your flight touching Cairo Land, one delegate from Flying Carpet Tours will be holding a sign with your name, transfer to hotel, relax from the inconvenience of your travel, be ready for your Cairo and Nile Cruise Package tomorrow, overnight in Cairo.

Day 02: Pyramids, Memphis, Sakkara Taste the flavor of your breakfast at hotel, then Flying Carpet Tours guide will escort you to a flourishing day tour to Memphis City at Mit Rahina, beguile your eyes with the huge Statue of Ramses II at the Open Air Museum in Memphis City, Next tour to the step Pyramid of King Zoser, Sakkara Pyramid, relax by having Lunch at local restaurant, Next Excursion to Pyramids of Giza, Explore Cheops, Chephren and Mykerinus, then your tour guide will take you to panoramic view of the pyramids, memorable photos available to the three pyramids together, next move to the Sphinx, scout the valley temple, your guide will give you some time for shopping to buy whatever you prefer, finally Flying Carpet Tours Guide will transfer you back to your hotel in Cairo, at night try optional tour to the sound and light show at the pyramids, overnight in Cairo.

Day 03: Egyptian Museum, Citadel of Salah El-Din, Old Cairo Taste the flavor of your breakfast at hotel, then Flying Carpet Tours guide will escort you to an awesome day tour to explore the Egyptian Museum, which contains the world's most extensive and rare collection of 5000 years of Pharaonic antiquities, beguile your eyes with King Tut Ankh Amun amazing treasures, extra fees to enter the Mummy room, then move towards Citadel of Salah El-Dein, which was built to defend Cairo from the armies of the Crusaders, scout the glory of the Alabaster Mosque, Called Mohamed Ali Mosque, relax by having lunch at local restaurant, next tour to Old Cairo, visit the Hanging Church, Abu Serga Church, and Ben Ezra Synagogue, at night optional Dinner Cruise with Belly Dancer, overnight in cairo.

Day 04: Cairo / Amman Taste the flavor of your breakfast at hotel, then Flying Carpet Tours delegate will transfer you to Cairo Airport, move to Amman, at the time you arrive Amman, transfer to hotel, relax from the inconvenience of Travel, overnight in Amman.

Day 5: Mountain of Nebo, Madaba - Dead Sea Tour Taste the flavor of your breakfast at hotel, then drive by air-conditioned vehicle to The Mountain of Nebo, and visit the tomb of Moses the prophet, then explore the old Monastery overlooking the Jordan Valley, the Dead Sea, as well as Jericho, then move to visit Madaba, also visit St. George’s Church, then visit the mosaic map of Palestine, then drive to the famous dead sea, which is a salt lake bordered by Jordan to the east and Israel and the West Bank to the west, It was one of the world's first health resorts, it is your chance to enjoy natural health and the beauty at the same time, the dead sea considered the saltiest and most mineral-laden body of water in the world. Get relax, and enjoy, at the end of the day transfer back to the Hotel in Amman, Overnight in Amman.

Day 06: Petra Tour Taste the flavor of your breakfast at hotel, then drive by air-conditioned vehicle to The Rose Red City of Petra, know the legends of Petra, carved directly into vibrant red, white, pink, and sandstone cliff faces, the prehistoric Jordanian city of Petra was "lost" to the Western world for hundreds of years, Petra is without a doubt Jordan's most valuable treasure and greatest tourist attraction, enter this hidden city through a long narrow Siq, Explore the amazing carved buildings made by Human hands, get the chance to try horseback riding to the entrance of the canyon, Camels are available to hire inside Petra, finally at the end of your tour drive back to Amman, overnight in Amman.

Day 07: Final Departure Today is the valediction day, taste the flavor of your breakfast at hotel, then one of Flying Carpet Tours delegates will lead you to Amman International airport, for the final departure.

More info about: Egypt Tours and Jordan Holidays Tel.: +201099906242 Email: sales@flyingcarpettours.com Website: www.flyingcarpettours.com

[ivisite]

Dabble game!! All aboard the angst train for 8! SOUND THE BAGPIPES!!!

The Angst! Bagpipes have been sounded, for sure. 

#8.  “She’s missing, not dead.”

The northern mountains were terrible to trek on a good day but with the last bit of cold nipping at the warmth of spring, the mountain terrain proved to be nearly impossible to navigate. Windhelm stood tall in the background, nestled atop a cliff and braced against the harsh winds that plagued the land. Sharp enough to cut through the thickest of fur, the small duo of thieves found themselves chilled to the bone by the winds the whipped about. Pushing forward, they continued their journey, cutting past what looked like an small, snow-laden alter that had been long since forgotten. The land that stretched out before them was cold and snow covered, a far cry from the brilliant reds and oranges that dotted the Rift just south of the territory.

"Brynjolf, this is ridiculous." The older male said, his accent somehow thicker as though the very chill in the air began to freeze it. He was disgruntled to say the least but his partner remained silent- stubbornly so.

Waiting for a response, though he knew better than to expect one at this point, Delvin sighed and grumbled a few colorful words under his breath. As well-spoken as Brynjolf was, he'd had very little patience for reasoning or talking as the past few weeks transpired. With little more than a cheeky smile and a witty remark as she set out to meet Mercer at Snow Veil Sanctum, Saoirse all but vanished into thin air in the weeks to come. Mercer, too, made himself sparce upon returning, making little to no effort to explain what happened on the mission before leaving on a "personal inquiry". 

With no word from Saoirse and Mercer no where to be found, assumptions and wild guesses made their way into the midst of the Flagon's nightly chatterings amongst it's rogue-ish patrons. Wild guesses galore, Delvin thought his favorite to be that Saoirse relapsed and stole some grand treasure from the Sanctum, running off and promising to pay off the tab later as she'd done in the past. However, light-hearted jokes aside, one of the rogues that sauntered about the headquarters was anything but amused by it all. A few days passed and things were a bit uneasy, but as a week turned into three weeks, Brynjolf was practically a dam on it's last levee holds. Tense and quieter in demeanor than anyone had ever seen him before, it was clear that he was taking it harder than the rest of the guild.

"C'mon then, Saoirse isn't your run-of-the-mill bar wench. She's...just missing, not dead'er anythin' like that, surely. No need to be out here lookin' for her. " Delvin grunted through chattering teeth.

"We're out here freezing our asses off and Vex is probably getting all the spoils back at the Guild-" He continued, half hoping to lighten the mood and half relaying a very real concern. His banter was cut short, however, by a sharp side-eye from the red-head trekking in front of him. Though brief, the look was sharper than the winds that cut through the leather of the guild armor the two wore and perhaps colder than ice that crunched under their feet.

A heavy silence fell over the two afterwards, the remainder of the journey plagued by a darkening cloud of unspoken tension as they got closer and closer to the Sanctum. It was just in line of sight now and Delvin almost couldn't keep up with Brynjolf's hastened footsteps. The older man thought highly of his counterpart, having watched Brynjolf grow and rise up through the ranks of the guild since the days when the red head's peach fuzz was just starting to grow in. Delvin knew the younger man well and how deeply his favor for his treasured partner-in-crime Saoirse went despite his faux nonchalance on the matter. Her running off the first time only deepened Brynjolf's disdain of opening up to others emotionally and Delvin couldn't even begin to fathom what was going on in his head currently. Try as Delvin may, he couldn't begin to come up with the words to say to try and comfort the younger male.

"Here we are." Brynjolf finally said, voice hoarse from the harsh quietness he'd keep about himself during the journey thus far.

The Sanctum was built like any other of it's kind and nearby the first sign of trouble splayed itself out near a tree and an abandoned campsite. What looked like the remains of a horse after the wilderness had it's taking of it sat near a wind-whipped campfire. It wasn't the most damning of evidence but the sight started the investigation off with an odd sort feeling. Something was off about the air around the Sanctum, but it was hard to put a finger on it.

"We're not going in there are we? I'll sit my old arse right here and let you prance about in those Draugr invested halls to your heart's content if that's the case."  Delvin grunted once again, kicking around old, dry-rotted wood from the fire-pit. Glancing over his shoulder after Brynjolf declined to answer, Delvin found himself faced with his least favorite thing- morality.

Standing at the edge of the Nordic tomb looking down past the stairs to the iron door stood Brynjolf with his brows knitted together sullenly with a matching frown making its way across his mouth. He wasn't angry looking for once but instead seemed to be breaking a bit under his own nerves, the levees of his inner dam starting to give way to the pressure. He looked downright miserable standing there, wistfully staring downwards into the hollowed out pit. Noticing Delvin's stares, Brynjolf met the older man's gaze. He was dejected and stressed out and every bit of it must have been swirling around in his eyes because after a few moments silence, Delvin cracked, taking pity on the younger man in spite of himself. 

"Now Bryn, I've always hated it when you gave me that look- like a damn stray hound pouting outside yer window for scraps until you give in!" Delvin practically hollered, stomping over and down the wooden steps of the crypt. He tapped an impatient foot outside the door and waited for Brynjolf to make his way down, too.

Grumbling all the while, Delvin did a check of himself and his weapon before turning back to face the other thief. A hesitant hand wavered on the doors before them, not daring enough to push them open. The others might have joked about it, keeping a certain light-hearted tone in their guesses on the matter but Brynjolf jumped to the worst conclusions right off the bat. A trek through this dungeon could very well lead to him crumbling down next to Saoirse's cold, death locked corpse. The nights prior to them making it this far were plagued with night terrors of the very sort, visions of Saoirse's death or her remains twisted by the same magic that cursed the Draugr plaguing his sleep.

"I just got her back, Delvin..." The youngest male whispered after a time. His tone was low and his voice barely made it over the sound of the wind above them. His concern for what could have been lying in wait behind the door spread across his face like a wild-fire, softening every edge and engulfing it with a child-like fearfulness.

For the first time in what must have been years, Delvin witnessed the Guild's Second-in-Command act vulnerable. It was hard to see him in such a worried state, his usual cheeky but collected demeanor a stark contrast in comparison. Had it been anyone else, Delvin might have just spat and told them to grow a pair but Brynjolf was an exception. He was a good kid and always had been despite being a bit mischievous in his youth. Delvin carried that notion with him while he sighed, placing a rough but comforting hand on the other man's shoulder. 

"Aye and knowing her she'll be waiting for us back at the Flagon by the time we make it out of this crypt."

lol what are drabbles anyways? I got carried away-

[sophelia-moon]

Unearth

This is my fic for Day 6 of MikaYuu Bingo 2020! Today’s prompt was “royal AU.”

Rating: T (Warnings for: swearing; sexual innuendo; minor character death)

                                                        Unearth

Two archbishops and twenty high priests guarded the tomb of King Yuuichirou I. This was not, of course, out of respect for his legacy; they were loyal citizens of the republic, one and all. The simple truth was this: upon his death, the tyrant’s tomb had been hideously, horrendously cursed, such that anyone who wandered in would surely meet their doom.

As is the way of the world, on a clear, sunny day in spring, three tomb robbers invited themselves in.

                                                            ***

In the opinion of one Hyakuya Mikaela, a consummate professional, two would have been quite enough.

“No, it would not,” said his associate. “You’ve seen the size of this guy’s blessing, right?”

“I’m begging you to rephrase.”

“Fine. Greela wants to lick his skin and crawl—"

“Please, stop,” said the interloper. “It’s kind of a new thing for me. I really don’t want to get smote today.”

With an insouciant shrug, Mikaela’s partner in crime, Hyakuya Akane, backed off. Their trudge through barren miles of desert was nearing its end. At the entrance of the tomb, the work would begin.

Mikaela leveled a glare filled with suspicion upon their temporary acquisition, Satou Asahi. He was an unremarkable young man in appearance, with a head of black hair and a plain face. No matter how delicate the operation that lay ahead, Mikaela couldn’t let the statement slide.

“New thing?”

“It started a month ago,” he said, brown irises melding with his pupils. “I went to worship as much as anyone as a kid, but I’ve never been god-touched in my life! I’m still not sure this isn’t a dream.”

“No wonder you didn’t get snapped up,” Akane said.

“This isn’t permanent,” he said quickly, glancing at Mikaela. “I’m just here for the money.”

Aren’t we all, Mikaela thought. Once they were done here, he and Akane were going straight back to Argensir. If the amount of treasure in this place was a tenth of what rumor whispered, they were set for life. Could get themselves into the knighthood, even.

Ordinarily, robbing a place like this would have been impossible with a hundred men, much less three. That’s where Satou Asahi, blessed by the goddess of shadows, came in. Mikaela begrudgingly acknowledged the strength of his gift, which encased the three of them in a veil of darkness visible only to themselves, concealing them from the naked eye; they were undetectable by magical means, as well.

They stopped three paces away from the door.

Roughly thirty feet wide, the building was composed of bricks baked gold by centuries of sun. The aboveground portion was two stories high; according to their map, there were three underground levels to plunder. The roof had been transformed into a military encampment; brave priests stood ready to shoot orbs of fire down at any who’d dare steal the Argensirian Republic’s rightful property.

All in all, it was a shockingly modest structure for a famously extravagant king.

They were too close to speak now. Mikaela and Satou hung back as Akane examined the entrance.

From the way Akane’s mouth twisted, Mikaela could tell the protections were intimidating. He watched as the shadows shifted and danced over her body; a sideways look at Satou didn’t reveal any strange movements, so Mikaela hoped this meant Greela approved of their actions.

Three tense minutes later, she gave them a sharp nod. They huddled close together as she eased open the door as quietly as she could manage.

                                                            ***

They’d agreed on the division of labor beforehand. Akane would take the top two floors, Mikaela the next two, and Satou the lowest, where the king’s body resided. The darkness inside was total; Mikaela lit their torches with a conjuration of flame before they split.

If he ever feared the tomb would prove lacking, his doubts were put to bed by the wealth crammed into every available surface. Every room was laden with treasure: there, a metallic bird with ruby eyes; here, a room filled with life-sized marble statues; paintings, jewelry, weaponry, gems, silver, gold. Valuables of the kind that belonged in only the wealthiest of citizen’s homes, and many that were too grand even for them—it was the fashion to abhor ostentatious displays of greed.

Mikaela cared not for fashion. He stuffed everything he could manage into his pack.

He was deciding between a small ruby ring and a larger diamond when he heard a great rumble from below. He held himself still, straining his ears, but no further sound reached him.

Satou was an amateur; if he’d stumbled into a trap and got caught, there was every chance he’d sell them out. That couldn’t be allowed to happen.

Mikaela made for the stairs and descended to the bottom of the tomb.

The ground floor wasn’t sectioned off into honeycomb cells like the rest; there were no walls to be seen—or precious items, for that matter. There was only the coffin, stone top pushed off-kilter, and Satou, who was staring down at it.

“Hey,” Mikaela said. “What happened?”

Satou shook his head, as if scattering droplets of water. “Nothing. The body’s the only thing here. Looks pretty ordinary, huh?”

Mikaela approached him and saw for himself. It was a skeleton—not even any material goods to send him on his way. “Yeah. Kings are the same as us peons, after all.”

“Death comes for us all,” he said softly. His eyes seemed to glow green in the pitch black.

“The great equalizer. It’ll get those bastards rotting away in their mansions, too. But we don’t have to worry about that anymore, do we? We’re rich.”

“Are we?”

Mikaela took a step back. “Let’s return. It’s nearly time to meet up with Akane.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m eager to taste a breath of fresh air again.”

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 40: Take an Aspirin and Call Me in the Morning

Chapters: 40/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: None Relationships: Loki x Reader (Someday) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Thor(Marvel) Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), The Devil Went Down To Jotunheim, Disturbing Practicality, The Culture Of Jotunheim Must Be Fascinating, I Wish We’d Gotten Even A Single Real Glimpse Summary: Another mysterious dream journey takes Reader and Loki to the last place he wants to be, that he may look upon his handiwork. Meanwhile, Reader fights back to wakefulness. 

You spun through space, wrapped in Loki's arms. He seemed happier than usual, softer somehow, as the stars whizzed by. A small, icy planet loomed close, and Loki's smile faltered when you noticed and recognized the great, dark canyon along the equator.

This was Jotunheim.

Loki shook his head, and held you tighter: He did not want to go there, but there was where you were going, pulled along by the sparkling blue light that transported you safely throughout the universe. You realized by now that you didn't really have any control over your movement; it seemed to you that the light itself was in charge.

It placed you down on the rough snow near the great canyon, and you couldn't really help but to look over the edge.

The ice cliffs plunged down miles and miles, a dark line of open water at the bottom, appearing no wider than a hair at that depth. The sheer height made you dizzy; in fact, just standing up made you dizzy. Your vision began to spin, and you wobbled. The next instant, you were in Loki's arms.

He pulled you away from the edge of the canyon, wrapping you urgently in his cloak and holding you close to the radiating warmth of his body. The legendary cold of the frozen realm hadn't touched you, however. The blue glow still surrounded you, seeming to keep the frigid danger at bay.

Loki stared around you, head whipping this way and that, still dragging you away from the canyon. He froze in place, lips pulling back in a wide-eyed grimace-and then he disappeared.

You gasped, but felt a hand cover your mouth. You could still feel Loki's cloak around you, his warm body pressed close to yours, you just couldn't see him. When it occurred to you to look, you found that you couldn't see yourself either. Loki had rendered you both invisible.

Moments later, a procession of giants appeared out of the blowing, snowy fog, solemn and silent. There were many of them, ranging from children to the elderly, showing several blue skin tones, and either black or white hair. Men and women were not that different in appearance; both wore kilts, loincloths, or briefs, with bared chests, and intricate braids. Children and the elderly wore mantles or long tunics, and all were barefoot. Most were decked in ornamentation, strings of beads made of dyed ice, pendants of claws and teeth, leather fringe, carved bone, shining fish scales, shells, and even pearls. Some were layered on so thickly that they might as well have been shirts

Leading the procession was a wizened old giant in a cloak and hood, leaning on a staff of bone, and surrounded by what you assumed were body guards of some kind. They weren't armed that you could see, but carried drums instead. They were huge, even bigger than the other giants, who towered over you: Their heads were mostly shaved, a few retaining a knotted side lock, and many had bits of metal-the only you had seen-embedded into their skin like studs on armor.

They began pounding out a slow rhythm as they approached the head of the canyon, and the old giant begin to sing in a thin voice. The giants all waited silently until the song had faded away on the wind, then, one by one, filed down a stairway that had been chiseled into the canyon way. You hadn't even noticed it, so cleverly it had been carved. Down they went in a long line, the drummers keeping their steady pace.

“What's happening?” You whispered. You were getting the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that you were not meant to witness this.

“I have no idea.” He whispered back, barely audible. “Please be silent, my darling.”

You clammed up. Did he hate the giants so much that he didn't know anything about them? Or was this something new? Giants began climbing back up the stairs, their arms laden with lichens and fungus, eye-catchingly bright colors in the overall surroundings of blue, white, and gray.

As the giants carted these treasures away, you noticed that many of them were crying, tears like crystals on their cheeks. The drummers and elderly giant followed them back the way they had come. Now that you were looking, you could just barely make out the shape of ruined buildings in the fog.

“Is that normal?” You asked, after they were long gone. You had a terrible headache, and still felt dizzy, but also terribly curious. “They have a mushroom farm down there?”

“It must be a midden.” Loki guessed. “Flora is nearly nonexistent here, but if they were cultivating it on their own waste...”

“I'm gonna check it out.” You declared, extricating yourself from his cloak and arms, and heading toward the cliffs. Loki hounded your footsteps, keeping a hand on your shoulder.

“Wait, wait, wait, _____! You cannot climb down there, it's much too dangerous! And you're still...”

“Still what?” You demanded. “What is it? Something's wrong, I know it. Why does my head hurt so much?”

He hesitated.

“Whatever, you can tell me later. For now, I wanna learn as much as I can about this place. I know you'll never bring me back here, so I might never get the chance!”

You rushed to the edge of the canyon, peering over again. The sheer height made you woozy, or maybe it was whatever was wrong with your head. Maybe this was a bad idea.

But you would never get another opportunity, not while Loki clearly still hated everything about the place. For some reason, his aversion pushed you to know more. Someone had to know something about these people. They had children, and music, and fashion. They sang and cried.

You clambered precariously down the steps, Loki worriedly following. The stairs were still made of ice, and you slipped once. The sound that caught in Loki's throat grabbed your heart and drew out your pity. You reached your had out to him.

“Help me down.” You said. “Come with me. You said you wouldn't let me fall.”

He took you hand, hoisting you up into his arms, then carried you down the stairs. Part of the way down there were platforms and niches carved into the cliffs, caves that would be small by giant standards, but that the two of you fitted into comfortably. Inside, more niches were carved, huge basins of ice, overflowing with colorful growth. You climbed up the side of one, to prod a large mushroom.

It smelled terrible, but the mushrooms were strangely beautiful, overflowing their basins. If the giants really were using waste and refuse to farm food, you couldn't help but feel like that was terribly clever. Not only did they get rid of waste, but they also got food out of it.

But why all the ceremony? Why the crying? Perhaps flora was very sacred?

“Loki, this is pretty smart.” You said, glancing over your shoulder at him. “It's a great way to recycle...Loki?”

He was pale, almost as blue as the ice walls, and staring at a carving on the side of the basin. You slid back down to the floor.

“What does it say?” You asked. Frost Giant writing was very different from the runes you'd seen.

“Geirrod.” He said hoarsely. “We need to leave. Right now.”

His nervousness curled its way inside you, drawing you close to his side.

“What's wrong Loki?”

“This is more than a farm.” He said. “This is a tomb. They are eating what grows on the corpses of the dead.”

“Okay, I'm ready to go.” You said swiftly. He scooped you back up, and ascended the stairs.

What measures had to be taken, to survive in this harsh land? What extremes had to be gone to? The thought of farming on your own relatives bodies was horrifying, almost akin to cannibalism...to you. But you didn't live here. You didn't know this culture, you didn't know what they had to do to survive.

You were still going to steer clear of mushrooms for a little while.

Your head was pounding by the time he got you back to the surface, the dizziness overcoming you.

“Please.” You gasped. “Please set me down. I need to lie down.”

Very, very carefully, he set you down in the snow, cocooned in his cloak, and propped you up against a chunk of ice. He sat down next to you, huddling close. His breath didn't fog like yours did.

“Loki, do you know what's wrong with me?” Was your speech slurring now?

Loki nodded.

“Will you tell me?”

“When you wake up.” He said. “You just have to promise you will.”

He looked so worried. You nodded, another wave of dizziness washing over you.

“Go to sleep now.” He suggested. You closed your eyes against the twilight of Jotunheim and drifted away.

    *****

Loki lifted his head from your belly, yawning wide. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, discreetly arranged the blankets to hide the drool stain he had left, and took your hand once again.

His hair was damp, probably from melted snow. He had been there, on the Frozen Realm, and you had been there with him. How? How were the two of you being transported like that? How could you be there in a dream, and yet also physically?

Well, partially physically. You had been suffering under your injuries, yet unaware of them. At least he knew now, that your mind had not been damaged. You still showed the potent, explosive combination of fire and curiosity; so very human, and so very you.

Bjarkhild opened the door.

“Out, your Highness. We must change her dressings and bedding. You should go get something to eat.”

He left without arguing; it was pointless with Bjarkhild anyway. She had been doing this long before Loki had been born, and would continue.

He arranged for breakfast, then hunted down his brother.

“Ah, is she awake?” Thor asked upon seeing him.

“No, not yet.” Loki said. “Not for a few more days at least. But she will wake up. She has promised me.”

Thor raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead, he handed Loki a sheaf of papers. Loki tucked it under his arm. He'd do his work at your bedside.

“How did you know?” He asked. “I didn't even know.”

“You knew.” Thor scoffed. “You are a very good liar, Loki, even to yourself. You've doted on her almost since the beginning. You were instantly attached. And you also made up every possible excuse, every other thing that it could be. Meanwhile, it grew and grew, and now you can't imagine being without her, can you?”

“Is that how it happened for you?

“No.” Thor shook his head. “No, I fell hard and fast as well, but I was fully aware of what was happening. At first I thought it was because I had been stripped of my power by father's curse. If I had been reduced to practically a mortal, then of course I would find comfort with, and attraction to mortals. But that wasn't the case at all. Jane stands all on her own merit. So too do Banner, and Natasha, and Stark, and so, so many others.

You and I were taught so many wrong things. Humanity may still be primitive in many ways, but they are so much greater than we were lead to believe. You and I both know that now.”

“_____ is not primitive!” Loki protested. “She just doesn't know everything that we do yet.” Thor pointed at him.

“Precisely! And you'll find that there are easily millions of humans who are worthy of our time, just like her.”

“There is no one like her.” Loki insisted, drawing a smile from his brother.

“Precisely.”

 *****

You drifted dreamily, wrapped in cotton and velvet, dusted with perfume, lulled by a smooth, familiar voice whose words you couldn't quite make out.

Oh, it was Loki. Of course it was. For someone who was described as being so chaotic and unpredictable, he was remarkably steadfast. You kind of admired that. You expected him to be impulsive and impetuous, but the thought that you could count on him was such an unexpected bonus. You supposed that was part of the whole 'unpredictable' shtick.

Certainly, it made any of his good qualities come as pleasant surprises. You were rapidly coming to the conclusion that 'chaotic' didn't necessarily mean 'evil' or 'uncaring'.

You floated along on the back of his voice. The cadence suggested poetry. You knew you weren't quite awake, and not quite asleep either, not fully aware. But the more awake you became, the more clear it was that something was wrong.

Waking up was a struggle, as if something was trying to keep you asleep. Even as your consciousness surfaced, the feeling of being wrapped in gauze did not fade. The scent of sweet perfume lingered, the sound of Loki's voice sharpened, and a terrible pain consolidated in your head, but you still could not seem to fully wake.

Why couldn't you open your eyes? You could feel Loki's hand around yours, but you couldn't really move, couldn't open your eyes.

He must have noticed that your breathing changed, or the minute squeezing of his fingers, because you heard him stand, felt his presence hover of you, his breath on your cheek.

“____, are you awake?” He whispered. “Can you hear me? Are you there?”

You groaned, the sound coming out weak and thin.

He began almost babbling in Asgardian. You groaned again, struggling to move.

“No! No, you must stay still. Don't move, _____, I'll be right back. I must tell Bjarkhild that you are awake. Stay still, fleiri halfr minn hjarta, I will return with all speed.”

His fingers slipped away from yours as you still fought to open your eyes. Had he just pressed a kiss to your knuckles?

What had happened to you? You couldn't remember. You were somewhat aware that you must have been hurt somehow, but you just couldn't dredge up the memory. And now Loki was acting tender again, so it must have been bad.

He returned very shortly, and you could hear others with him.

“_____, his Highness tells me you have awakened.” Bjarkhild said. “Are you still awake? Can you speak?”

You tried, but all that came out was a stifled whine. Your head hurt so much; a throbbing ache worse than any headache you'd ever had. Even your teeth hurt.

“_____, if you are responding to me, try to make a sound again.” She said, and you did. The sound was no stronger this time; it hurt to do, and it felt as if your jaw was tied shut.

“And again.” She commanded. You complied. “Good, very good. In case you do not know, you recently suffered an injury to your head. You are in the healing wing, and we have you hooked up to a few machines that are gently speeding your recovery, but you will still need to stay for a while longer. I am going to remove some of your bandages now, but I must stress the importance of not moving your head around.”

So that was what was going on. You'd been hurt. Again. This was getting to be a bad habit.

Bjarkhild's hands were refreshingly cool, helping you to wake up further. However, the sharpening of your consciousness also sharpened the pain in your head, and you couldn't help but to try to move your hand, to push hers away.

You didn't make it: Loki snatched your hand up in his as soon as he noticed you trying to move it.

“Just hold still, my dear.” He encouraged. “Bjarkhild knows her craft. She was second only to Eir, may Valhalla embrace her.”

“Your praise is appreciated, your Highness.” Bjarkhild said. You felt the warmth and tightness of  bandages loosening from around your jaw, your face, your ears and eyes. No wonder everything had felt so stiff and tight. Your whole head must have been wrapped up, like a mummy.

Soft gauze was removed from your cheeks, and you heard Loki gasp, ever so quietly. That didn't sound like a good sign. What had happened to your face to get that reaction? Was there something they weren't telling you?

You whined again.

As if sensing that he had worried you, Loki stroked the back of your hand with his thumb.

“You have extensive bruising on your face. It looks very uncomfortable, and I hope it is not too unbearable. It will heal though, it's just bruises.” He sounded a little like he was trying to convince himself.

You breathed out a little sigh. That explained the swollen eyes and lips.

“I am going to increase the power on one of these machines.” Bjarkhild said. “It will not speed the healing of your bones, but will hopefully take care of your more superficial hurts.”

Hopefully? Your first time seeing the prototype Soul Forge, you had been informed that there was only a single human record in the system, which you assumed had to be the king's ex. Now there were two human records, but that wasn't really enough for a full healing algorithm, was it? You were still physiologically different from Asgardians, and their medicine didn't have much experience with humans.

Maybe you could take a little pride in the advances you were providing to Asgardian medical science, with how often you were finding yourself injured.

By the time Bjarkhild was done and had left, you were almost ready to go back to sleep. The discomfort in your body and downright pain in your head kept you on the edge of wakefulness though, and Loki...well, Loki hovered.

He was very attentive, but he kept asking you questions that you couldn't answer. Were you comfortable? Did it hurt? Were you thirsty? Were you too hot? Too cold? Did you want to sleep?

The best communication you could come up with between you was hand squeezing; one for yes, two for no.

It did hurt. He apologized very sincerely, and promised that it would never happen again, but you couldn't ask him how he planned to make that come about. You weren't thirsty, or hungry for that matter, but you chalked it up to the machines you were hooked up to. You were a little hot as well, but you thought the machines must be responsible for that also. After Bjarkhild had adjusted them, you'd begun to feel a slight buzz, both on your skin and in your mind. It was starting to overcome the pain with it's soft warmth. You did want to go to sleep.

As the pain and discomfort receded, your hand relaxed in his. When Loki asked you if you were still awake, you couldn't squeeze an answer.

[blackasteriia]

"Are you sure we should be doing this?" He hesitates in the doorway, ever the doubting Thomas, ever the obedient son. Frozen, Roxas keeps his furrowed brow aimed at Xion, giving her the lead in silence. If she said yes, he would have little choice, following despite every order otherwise. "People are going to start wondering where we ran off to..."

The hallways echoed with their footsteps. Elegant gold inlay and opulent streaked marble adorned the castle architecture. Sunlight streamed through the vine framed glass windows. A warm noon that left the air a humid soup. The heart burned into Xion’s shoulders and left trails of sweat on both their brows. It was in her veins and in her head, a cacophony of too many thoughts. A perfect Summer day to be restless. She turned into a tall doorway, Roxas at her elbow. Laden in shadow on the East side of the hall was a library. Dust covered the shelves and the ancient tombs. Staircases lead to dead end nooks and the tables were overturned. So old that Xion guessed that it’d been abandoned even before the Land of Departure was sealed away. 

In a hidden wing of the castle no less. Tucked away in the shadows and the dust. Out of the light and out of sight. Xion ventured into the library. She approached the first shelf and plucked a random book off. She flipped it open, eyed runes she couldn’t read, and returned it. Without concern she ventured deeper. Magic infused the texts of those books-- these were all filled to the brim with arcane ritual, power, and spells. A treasure trove of hidden knowledge leaving only the burning question of, why?

Why hide it away? Why try to forget about it? And if it was so unneeded, so offensive, why not destroy it?

“You really think,” Xion began as she picked-up another book. This one she could read, and she eyed the spells inside. She looked-up to where Roxas hid, “That Aqua, Terra, and Ven told us everything about this place?”

[vanithesquidwrites]

Every Breaking Wave

A little oneshot for the road. Crosspost to AO3 for those who prefer to read there. No tags nor warnings apply. =)

Most ships merely pass in the night, but perhaps, if one waits long enough, a ship might finally come ashore.

They come in pairs, always, much like Ritha and you once did.

It is never easy, and never gets any easier — by nature, of course, but also by design. You have seen disdain doom too many men to count, and you refuse to let it blunt you enough to doom your own guests. It will likely make no difference, but they at least deserve a chance. So you hone respect and care both to keep understanding alive, and try to let compassion guide your words as much as pride once did.

Hard work in itself, after so long.

It never gets any easier, but there is a routine to it. A sort of methodology to leaving hope behind. You've whittled it down to an art. Several arts, to be accurate.

You'd taken to writing, at first, once it had become obvious to you that your voice would go unheard. Historical accounts of sorts, in the vein of those ancients tomes that had awed you in your childhood. You consigned each name and each achievement of mankind to paper, a silent scribe to every country, every change of the world's name.

Still, soon enough, all of them read like nothing but echoes and rhymes, as time let mankind fold itself in interchangeable layers, each more similar to the last, each burning to the ground in turn.

You'd tried to not let it bother you, to remember that their — your — sameness was a treasure of its own. But one can only describe how the world burns down so many times. Weariness had won, in the end, and you'd set ink and quill aside. Time takes its toll, even on you.

Especially on you, perhaps.

You'd moved to music, afterwards. Reed pipes, at first, then plucked strings arranged much like those of a lyre. With each new era and culture came a new harmony of sounds, and you thought of archiving those, in place of archiving people. The piano had come quite late — twelve, perhaps twenty Cycles in, in then-Asabti's capital. It had been love at first listen, and you had almost thought to steal the wonder from its maker's hands, afraid a Beacon would be lit and destroy the sound forever. Thankfully the woman had been amenable to sale, and for enough of your old gold to see her live well into old age, you'd taken what would become your one true jewel to your abode.

You'd taken to composing, in the beginning. You had woven your hopes and sorrows into garlands of bright notes, let them speak in your place when curious men peeked through your gates. But your songs were not heeded any more than your advice had been, and so you'd come to improvise, to let emotion guide your hands into whatever art would come. It filled the time and the silence, and you imagined that, perhaps, Ritha would one day sing with you.

The sculpting had come last of all, though your sheer productivity more than made up for the lateness. You had been just as gifted with blades and spells as ages before, and soon an army of silent silhouettes was born from your hands, each one a sentinel, a tomb for a lost world. Regrets sprung anew from your memories, and you carved them into wood, sculpted with all the care you had not known to give when sculpting men.

Some were reminders for yourself, of lessons best not forgotten; some were meant for your visitors, omens of what was sure to come.

They had not been understood any more than the words, books, or songs, but they had kept you company. They stood by Ritha through the night, museum of your better days and mausoleum of your worst, a graveyard for all the dead souls you could never afford to grieve.

Even now, they come in pairs. Always.

Always on that same quest, with that same vanity, that same conviction you'd once held that this time will be the last one. That strength of will and strength of arms will bring the Cycle to a halt, make of recurrence a bad dream. That evil is without and not hiding within.

You cannot answer their questions; not in ways that satisfy them, that do not lead the cogs of fate to careening even faster. You've attempted many a time, and you have failed every last one. You cannot lift their burdens from their shoulders nor their minds, not without fracturing their beauty or damaging their purpose — but you can grant them the kindness of a night spent in a warm room. You can grant them all plushy beds, good music, and hearty dinners.

Every meal is different. You make a point of it. History and human nature may twist all things into echoes, but to your many successors — these people who, like you once did, crave naught more than being special — you can grant this one, painstakingly handmade bite of uniqueness. It takes patience and much research, but by the time each new Prophet comes to ring the bell at your gates, a new recipe awaits them, each prepared to suit its diner. Each crafted with just as much care as the wood you carve afterwards, a brand new ghost of a soon-to-be-dead world left to haunt your halls.

You travel far, for these dinners. You've crossed oceans by boat and spell, climbed atop mountains with bare feet. You have never done things halfway, and you are more than determined to spare no expense for this one. If time and fate cannot let you be more than a cook for a night, then you will cook to perfection — for the sake of your successors, and for the sake of memory.

Yet another thing to collect, to store in the vaults of your mind as a trace of a world gone by. Of lesser value to the world than your artworks and artifacts, but priceless to your soul as practice of how to remain human.

The last meal you served, you prepared from Nehrimese game and poultry, with potatoes and tomatoes picked in Ostian with your own hand. Wild apples, cranberries, and leek, you'd plucked from across the Sun Coast, and the wild herbs and juniper had been grown in your own garden. You'd sun-dried it all a little, made sure that the meat had aged well, then set it to roast over open flames until it charred just right. You'd made the broth from rainwater and copious amounts of sea salt; a little algae for texture, mixed with a spoon you'd carved yourself. It had tasted of home and doubt and charcoal in equal measure, all served in your best silverware, with your best wine, your best efforts — and every last bit of oblique warning you could weave into words.

They come in pairs, always, and so had they, of course. They'd left the plates just as untouched as all the others before them; ignored your statues, your recital, the true meaning of your letter. You'd left them the casket with just as heavy a heart as ever, then you had let your routine complete, left hope behind, and moved on.

You feel no need to watch the end. The white light always burns the same, each shriveled corpse a new proof of your failure to bring Ritha home.

Yet there had been no empty world waiting when you returned, this time. The mountains had stood tall, still bearing your likeness, yet a handful of impossible birds had flown the skies. The cliff had been shaken, some of its rock unmoored, but it, too, had held some rare life — a handful of mayflies and a cricket or two, buzzing atop this or that stone. Your wrought-iron fence had caved under the strength of some unseen wind, and yet the world had still been there, gray and old, right beyond the bars.

The grass had been laden with dust, the trees fallen, the skies cloudy, and you had stood as if struck dumb by the lack of complete silence.

You'd expected a vacuum, or two god-kings in their heaven.

You hadn't expected ruin to be confined to Enderal.

You had barely dared to explore, fearing any word, any breath could send the gears spinning anew. You'd kept to your abode and your not-so-deserted cliff, observing from afar, watching the winter turn. You'd been careful — and you still are — to not let hope flare up too soon. There have been outliers before. Ritha and you, so long ago. Eras lasting longer than most. Beacons lit with a slight delay. Emissaries assassinated only for new ones to rise.

Still the moons came and turned, the birds sang, and the crickets chirped. Still new small things — a frog, a mouse — came to rest on your windowsills, the shadow of a Myrad sometimes passing by the mountaintops. And still, one day, a boat sailed by flying the flag of Arazeal, almost surreal in the fog.

They come in pairs, always, and it takes them thousands of years. But this one rings your bell alone, a mere three years after the last. And when he comes, he bears a smile and a wine bottle in each hand, as if you were some good old friend he was all too happy to see.

"Greetings, Mysir Gajus," he says with a crooked smile, unkempt gray hair plastered to his face by the wind and pouring rain. "And to your companion as well. Our gratitude to both of you."

You remember the man, of course, from his roguish air to his stilted attempts at conversation. He is, much like the world, both old and new alike, seeming fragile — brittle, almost — in his continued existence.

He reminds you of Elimar before the light had taken him, and you have not been reminded of Elimar in quite some time.

"A dear friend of mine thought you in need of drinks and a long story," he goes on as you stay silent. "I happen to be Enderal's best and last remaining expert on inebriated chatter — and decent enough company to share bottles with, I've been told. Though you may have higher standards. I would never dare to presume."

You let the words wash over you to pay attention to his voice, the sadness under the humor, the tense wrinkles around his eyes. It answers most of your questions, and quite a few others besides.

You gather there will be no need for a second guest bed, this time.

"Forgive me, Mysir Dal'Varek," you answer him at length, walking all the way to your gates. "My manners seem to have taken their leave of me in my old age. Must I open the gate for you, or will you find a way to tresspass into my home unaided?"

"Wise Hermit, no, no," the man stutters, having, it seems, acquired some sense since your last encounter. "No, I've just come to bring our sympathies and a peace offering. Endralean wine. The very last! Dug out and rescued from the brewery two weeks ago, by yours truly, and after quite a bit of effort if I do say so myself. Not quite the brooch of a Seraph," he smiles that self-deprecating grin of Elimar's once more, "but more enjoyable, I'd say."

You stare at the man through the gate, arms crossed over your chest, brow furrowed. Still young and more than a bit of a fool, for all that his hair is whiter than yours and his eyes just as tired. You tap your foot, consider chances, wonder what eventualities could spring from an open door. No danger to you, you are sure; compared to your magical might, the man is but a babe in arms. But dangers to an auspicious fate are not so easily measured, and you find yourself frustrated, wishing you could merely observe.

You could. You'd only have to leave. But then when would there next come to be a man standing at your door, bearing nothing but gratitude, sympathy, and a cup of wine?

"You visit is... unexpected," you admit, for lack of better words. "And quite a surprise, to be frank."

"But a pleasant surprise, I hope," Dal'Varek answers, raising both of his bottle-filled hands.

The bottles are tied with ribbons, hastily cut from dust-spotted fabric. Some sort of old green cloth, perhaps, likely salvaged from the ruins. The rain plasters them to the glass like the man's hair to his forehead, but you still appreciate the attention, for some reason. Some old memory, perhaps.

"I find myself in the position of being uncertain, for once," you reply to the rain-drenched man, a rare, wry smile coming to stretch the corners of your lips. "Time will tell, as it always does."

Dal'Varek nods, as if he could have the slightest conception of how much you mean by the words. But then, what had Elimar been, if not charmingly impudent?

"So," Dal'Varek continues, giving the two bottles a shake. "Would you prefer to begin with the drinks, or with the long story?"

"Why not begin with the story," you tell the waiting man as you make to open your gates. "It so happens that I have just set meat to cook on the fire — though nothing quite so carefully prepared as for your last visit. If you'll forgive the humbler fare, then there is room at my table."

"Why not," the man nods, his smile tainted an instant by memories. "We didn't take the chance to taste it at all last time. Our apologies for the waste. It did look delicious."

You shake your head in humor as you step aside to let Dal'Varek pass, gesturing him onto the path with a hand as you close the gates again. The hinges whine like cattle to the slaughter, as they always do, but you find that the sound, for once, is not quite as mournful as you've grown to expect.

"Worry yourself not, Mysir Dal'Varek," you reassure the man. "It has been quite some time since I was last upset by the wastefulness of mankind."

"...I suppose it would," he agrees, cordially enough. "I suppose you have much better wine to drink than this one, as well."

"I do indeed," you say, laying a hand on his shoulder as you both begin to make your way up the path to your abode. "Nevertheless," you add, "I appreciate the spirit of the offer — and its sentimental value."

Dal'Varek nods mutely by your side, eyes fleeting from one statue to the next. He does not stop or slow his steps, but he greets them all as he passes, bowing his head, whispering thanks. Better thanks than fright, you suppose.

Better late than never at all.

"Who knows," you tell the man, "it way still age quite well. Endralean 8234 could yet prove a fine vintage."

"Here's to hope," Dal'Varek concurs — and there his smile finally breaks, the silent shudders of sobbing beginning to shake his shoulders.

You were never a man for embraces and soothing words, but you know Ritha would speak them, if she were standing in your place. And so you let your hand leave Dal'Varek's shoulder to circle his back, and run it through his hair, pressing his head to your shoulder to let him cry into your coat.

"Yes," you comfort Jespar Dal'Varek and the ghost of Elimar both, as you see them into your house like dreams rather than bad memories. "Here's to hope springing eternal."

Titular song and lyrics on Youtube

[imperium-romanum]

Mendes was once the capital of Ancient Egypt and it was in the necropolis here in the 1970s that archaeologists discovered the remains of a very special, but common woman, who lived around 2181-2055 BC.

In Arthur Conan Doyal’s The Adventure of the Cooper Beeches, Sherlock says to Watson: ”Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction! Well, “tell a weaver by his tooth” is exactly what a team of historical detectives have just done in Egypt.

A research team from the University of Alberta have published new research in Bioarchaeology of Marginalized People revealing fascinating data about, not the Pharaohs and elite classes this time, but of the day-to-day roles of people in Ancient Egypt. And the clues were not derived from a golden mask or the paintings from a treasure laden tomb, but from the teeth of an ordinary citizen, who lived to over 50 years old.

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