#unyok

[spikehunter]

goals for june are to reread/watch media that makes me Feel Something and hopefully by july i will be able to synthesize that into meaningful artistic output

[greenqueenhightower]

Thoughts on the Alicent x Aegon Scene in 2x04:

Aegon realizes he has no words of wisdom and zero contributions to offer his small council and sits there, listening to his councilors make all his decisions for him. It unnerves him.

Alicent is absent from the small council yet again. Is she in Viserys’ /the King’s rooms searching for crumbs of confirmation that Viserys cared for her and her children, or is she seeking the history books so that SHE might become a more informed and wiser ruler? Has she finally accepted that they are headed to war and that she needs to sharpen her political acumen?

Her sudden interest in the histories parallels Rhaenyra in 2x02 perusing the documents available at her library. Once again, the two heads of the factions mirror each other in their quest for wisdom and their attempt to make informed decisions for the good of their side before all hell breaks loose.

Alicent is dealing with the aftermath of her abortion as is evident from her need to steady herself and her teetering walk. Has she so much become like Larys in her ambitions and disposition?

“What thoughts would you have?” Alicent speaks her mind and doesn’t hide behind words anymore. She smirks at Aegon’s naïveté. Aegon is upset for not being taken seriously just like Alicent is upset for not being in a position where she can make meaningful decisions. However, Alicent understands that to become a significant contributor she needs to cultivate her mind and further develop her political skills. This necessity eludes Aegon. It makes her laugh because he doesn't see the worth in seeking his own advancement and pressing on to maturity ever since he's been crowned King.

“I ruled in your father's absence.” Alicent recognizes that she ruled ON HER OWN when Viserys was sick. Especially now that she’s embraced the high stakes and weightiness of their position, she wants to resume a more active role in the realm’s governance: “You should humbly be seeking OUR opinions and counsel.” Alicent tells Aegon that he needs to be observant and obedient to make studied and wise decisions.

“In the hope you might become half the king your father was.” She never hoped that Aegon, with his disinterest in history and his distaste for learning, would make a good king just as Viserys wasn’t a great king. Yet, she continues, if Aegon lets the most studied minds rule in his stead, he will compensate for his incompetence, like Viserys. Being compared to his father makes Aegon, once again, feel lacking and redundant.

“You have no idea the sacrifices that were made to put you on that throne.” Alicent wants Aegon to take on her heaviest weight on his shoulders, that of proving all her sacrifices worthwhile. She wants him to affirm her expectations of him and become that pawn that she and Otto thought would be easy to manipulate. The same pawn that she had been all these years.

“What would you have me do mother?” Aegon genuinely looks for his mother’s approval and guidance. He wants to please her and yet fails to grasp how he’s always been her political gasp for air, her passageway into a world of greater power. He doesn’t have to do anything for Alicent to achieve this.

“Nothing.” Aegon has always been dispensable. His father didn’t need an heir. His mother required an heir but now has no use for an impetuous and unruly King. The realm doesn’t need an Aegon II who speaks his mind because there will always be a member in his council who will make better decisions than him. No one has a use for his personality, his psyche, or his world, but no one has shown it before because he is the King. Alicent is the only person who dares to hit him in the face with the bitter truth: his sole existence ever since birth was to sit on that throne so that she might secure her family’s lives and her own ambitions.

Aegon, on whom his mother projects her own fears and insecurities and whose broken soul mirrors Alicent's unyoked and distorted pieces within herself, inherits Alicent's frustration with the system and the world he's born into. He responds to that condemnation the only way he knows how:

He rides Sunfyre to battle and to his—almost—death.

It's his own duty and sacrifice.

The price to pay for being born the unwanted, essential, and disposable Targaryen King, all at the same time.

[serpentface]

The Animal Sacrifice Petplay actually gets more directly at what I wanted to know, I don’t know why I was so coy about it. Are there contexts (I doubt ~socially accepted~, but cropping up either subculturally or repeatedly across given dynamics) in which non-standard pronouns are used?

The boring answer is that the inappropriate use of 'ouyii' on a human would mostly just crop up as an act of heavy sarcasm, like referring to someone you're characterizing as self-important like "O greatest of beings, o air that I breathe and ground beneath my feet, of course it is my natural duty that I should take great pains to increase the salt content of (ouyii) soup to (ouyii) exact liking. Should I also perform a full-body ablution before touching (ouyii) most sacred soup-bowl again? Shall I offer (ouyii) a hundred unyoked virgin cattle while I'm at it? Nah fuck off man salt it yourself." (ouyii works in 2nd and 3rd person). Though this would be less common than using exaggeratedly deferential pronouns/parts of speech appropriate for humans (which is something people tend to play with A LOT).

A maybe more interesting answer is that I could see it cropping up in humorous plays and poems, showing disliked foreigners referring to their kings with "ouyii" pronouns and other deified wordforms. Wardi culture has a pretty noted hostility towards deification of humans in Most forms. There are some legitimate philosophical differences between deified humans in Wardi religion and many other forms of god-kings (claiming descent from a god, claiming to Be a god in entirety, etc) but this hostility is largely a 'it's a different thing when WE do it because we're right' thing. There's a tendency for xenophobic depictions of foreign peoples to showcase them worshiping their kings or leaders as gods (and their gods are Wrong, either different/mis interpretations of the Real God or veneration of evil spirits or just imaginary). Showcasing this by having these characters use Wardi deity terms gets the message across and will strike most audiences as comedic.

But there's going to be a very narrow range of social dynamics in which it would otherwise crop up. The Wardi concept of deity is Relatively unique and not as hierarchical as some. If you gave people from this culture a comprehensive rundown of religions in which the human-deity relationship was described as 'worship', most of them would come to the conclusion that the definitions of the English words 'veneration' and perhaps 'duty' are more appropriate for them. The experience is having a sense of interconnection with the world, it sustains you and you sustain it in return. For many people there's a strong sense of love, awe and gratitude in this, for some it's just How Things Are and What You Have To Do, for most it's a little of both. This doesn't translate As easily and straightforwardly to D/S based kink or like, weird abusive relationships as more hierarchical god-as-king religions do.

The reason I keep coming back to the concept of ANIMAL SACRIFICE PETPLAY is it would be kinda conceptually fascinating in this cultural sphere. The 'animal' role is representing God, they're the subject of veneration in this dynamic and the one holding the power. Actual sacrifices involve the priest bowing in gratitude, hailing the animal as God or a part of God, and handling it as gently as possible (in most cases it's a bad sign if the animal is clearly distressed). But the 'sacrificer' role is mechanically dominant, they're the one that releases this power, the animal is restrained and under their physical control (and also like, gets its throat cut). There's no clear-cut hierarchy in the philosophy of this act or in theoretical sex reenactments of it, it's framed as ultimately a mutual exchange (animals that are sacrificed are Valued, they're being given up so that part of God can inhabit their body and give back in the act of death).

What I'm circling back to is legitimately whatever tiny fraction of the population happens to both develop a sexual fixation on the animal sacrifices that are part of religious practice AND finds someone else like this to mess around with would be a notably likely demographic to mess around with the 'ouyii' pronouns in contexts that aren't making fun of someone. Both because it would just naturally be part of the 'scene', and because it gets at a portion of what would likely attract them to the concept to begin with. You're not going to want to sexually roleplay animal sacrifice here for a petplay sorta dynamic where the sub gets fucking euthanized (you'd just roleplay as like, a horse going to slaughter if that's what you want). You're wanting a sense of profound interconnection and mutual dependence with something far bigger than yourself, a sense of such great love or necessity that you will die for it and it will die for you, a sense of paramount importance and honor, etc etc, as a sex thing. (And also you want to do some bondage and knifeplay type shit, perhaps with costumes?). If you want to call someone by 'ouyii' or be called this in a serious manner, you're probably chasing that underlying feeling.

To less dramatic extents I could see people occasionally Trying it as a romantic gesture, but few people would react positively to that. Some love poetry gets halfway there by metaphorically comparing human-human love and duty to the human-deity interaction, but it doesn't tend to go as far as using Specifically deified language. The average response to that would range from "too much, man" to "this is goofy as fuck" to "legitimately insulting" to at most "defiling an icon" (as written characters specific to deified words are treated as icons and have some restrictions to their use).

[krishnasgirlmanu]

Krishna ji taking care of the horses of the chariot that he was the Charioteer of :

One of those moments where one might wonder that the LORD OF THE UNIVERSE, not only becomes the charioteer of arjun but also takes care of the horses as a mother takes care of her babies.

After all it's him who's not only the father but also the mother of all his creation, he not only loves Arjun for he agreed to become his Charioteer but he also loves the horses of the chariot of Arjuna.

🐎🐎🐎🐎

He treats them with great care, For example there was one instance in the Mahabharata where,

During a fierce battle, Arjuna's horses became tired and were struck by many arrows. Seeing their plight, Krishna unyoked the horses, removed the arrows from their bodies, and led them to a pond created by Arjuna to quench their thirst. He then lovingly rubbed his hand over their wounds, relieving their fatigue and pain before re-yoking them to the chariot.

These instances demonstrate that Krishna was always ensuring the horses were well-maintained and taken care of, especially during the demanding circumstances of the war.

Oh, Saibya, Sugriva, Meghapuspa, and Balahaka how fortunate you all were to be the horses of the chariot that was maintained by lord himself!

the fact that all this was also happening in the background of Mahabharata is somehow so beautiful to me!

Goodness!! I am never gonna shut up about "krishna ji showing how much he cares for each n every thing around him"

[beesmygod]

i feel like people forgot that the point of achieving artistic success is to unyoke yourself from corporate influence, not to max out the number of sponsors.

[libraford]

Was at a show some weeks ago and was talking about my book paintings and how I'm page by page destroying books that hurt people, current book being authored by Billy Graham because he was a big part of anti-queer violence when I was growing up, so I'm destroying his influence in my life symbolically and she said

"You have to unyoke yourself from him."

"What?"

"If you are to grow, you must unyoke yourself. You have much shadow work to do."

....what?

What do you think im fucking doing? What part of 'destroying him symbolically' was unclear? Some people navel gaze for 8 hours in the woods, some people trip on shrooms at a concert- I rip apart books and turn them into art pieces.

You have your shadow work, I have mine.

[illustratinglaura]

Mourning of Bacchus.

This here is more tragic story than Romeo and Juliet. Why are there no movies about them? Sure their relationship might have been completely platonic (and they were rome mates) but the LOVE, the commitment, the tragic end!

Meanwhile the blessed Serge, deeply depressed and heartsick over the loss of Bacchus, wept and cried out, "No longer, brother and fellow soldier, will we chant together, 'Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!' You have been unyoked from me and gone up to heaven, leaving me alone on earth, bereft [literally, "made single"], without comfort." After he uttered these things, the same night the blessed Bacchus suddenly appeared to him with a face as radiant as an angel's, wearing an officer's uniform, and spoke to him. "Why do you grieve and mourn, brother? If I have been taken from you in body, I am still with you in the bond of union, chanting and reciting, 'I will run the way of thy commandments, when thou hast enlarged my heart.' Hurry then, yourself, brother, through beautiful and perfect confession to pursue and obtain me, when finishing the course. For the crown of justice for me is with you.''

[env0writes]

Frightful, terrors carried with me Haunted, spirits linger in my luggage Follow me on to any port Any love I call home In that embrace – Dissolve one fear, one fright ‘Til i stand, unburdened Unyoked from former loves and loss In that embrace Am I made brave? Found home and harbour? Safe in arms outstretched– around From storm and spirit song Frightless, flightless, and falling in love

A Feud to Carry Vol. 3, 2.15.25 “Foreign Feelings”

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists

[hitching-hyacinth]

Did someone order a loyal knight with a bad cold and his prince who loves him dearly trying to get him to rest for once in his life? Here’s 4k words of that, please enjoy these guys who barged into my head and won’t leave

—

As if negotiations in Halfford hadn’t gone poorly enough, Prince Robin thought, bouncing about uncomfortably in the back of his carriage, Sir Harper had started to catch cold a couple days into the journey home. Off of the Duke’s snot-nosed son, Robin had no doubt. The brat practically hung off Harper’s shirt all week, as if he were a fawning child rather than a man hardly any younger than Harper.

Harper made his ailment utterly unobtrusive, as always, his service unfailing. Any other company might not have realized he was ill at all. But Robin knew him too well to miss the edge of fatigue to his practiced smile, the soft sighs when he didn’t realize Robin was listening, the sneezes muffled into his cape just too often to pass off as coincidence.

And Robin knew him too well to say anything. Harper blamed himself for the disaster this trip had become, even if he didn’t want Robin to see as much. As if he ought to have prevented the storm that stalled them four days on the way to Halfford, or Duke Edward’s foul mood at the delay. With Harper on edge as he was, Robin didn’t have the words to ask after him without Harper taking it as a critique. He blamed his friend’s father for that. The old bastard was just the sort to wield “are you quite well?” as a blunt weapon.

Robin was in far too sour a mood for tact. On another day, he would walk beside the carriage and talk with Harper, but given the circumstances, he was better off sulking with the luggage. Even if he wound up with a bruise or two, he didn’t have to try so hard to bite his tongue with the creaks and clangs of the cart on the uneven road making conversation difficult already.

“It’s getting dark,” Harper called back. There was a fresh rasp to his voice accompanying the mounting congestion that marred his m’s and n’s. The poor man ought not to shout so. “If we press, we may reach an inn not long after sundown, but…”

“Let’s camp here.” Robin shifted carefully, extracting himself from the corner of the cart he’d wedged himself into. He didn’t want Harper doing any pressing.

“Very well, my lord.” A note of relief in Harper’s voice, well-masked but perceptible. The cart rumbled to a stop and creaked loudly as Harper stepped down from the driver’s seat.

Robin followed suit and crawled from the back of the cart, stretching out stiff and aching limbs. He really did prefer to walk. He circled around, intending to offer help, but paused when he saw Harper seize a fistful of his cape and bring it close to his face. His shoulders rose with his breath, once, twice—

Harper ducked into a rough, throaty sneeze, muffled harshly by the thick wool of his cape.

“Bless you.” Even that much, Robin worried would be unwelcome.

“Ah—tha’k you.” Harper dragged his cape roughly under his nose and sniffed with a determined finality. He smiled. “I am glad to see you in one piece after being tossed about like a sack of flour. What draws you to ride in the cart on roads like this, I can’t understand.” He set to unyoking the horses, leaving Robin to trail uselessly behind him.

“It isn’t so bad without armor clanging about you.” Robin rubbed his arms.

“Hah.” Harper lifted the yoke from the horses’ shoulders, a quick flash of pain crossing his face when the weight settled in his right arm. Was his shoulder bothering him, too? It was awfully cold this far north. “There’s no need to lie to me, my lord. I only wish I could give you privacy with a little more comfort.”

Robin huffed a laugh. “Alas, you are no magician. I am merely grateful my father didn’t insist on sending an entourage after us.” And he was, truly, whatever Harper might have thought. It isn’t as if thirty men could have fought off a storm that Harper couldn’t.

“Your father’s men don’t know how to leave you well enough alone,” Harper agreed, but Robin didn’t miss the doubt that flickered across his face. He set down the yoke and glanced at Robin. “Are you warm enough? The cold comes on quickly out here.”

Robin dropped his hands from his arms. “Perhaps not.” The wind was beginning to creep through the linen of his shirt without the canvas walls of the cart to block it.

“Allow me to fetch your cloak.” Harper strode past before Robin could insist on fetching his cloak himself. It was likely best to let him help, anyhow. If small, unneeded favors were what he needed to prove himself, there was no reason to protest.

Harper returned promptly with Robin’s favorite travel cloak over one arm—a thick red one, almost long enough to drag on the ground, made when Robin was young enough that there was hope he’d grow taller. “I hope you are well, my lord,” he said, fastening the cloak over Robin’s shoulders.

It took Robin a moment to process the question. “I—am. For the most part.”

Harper smiled, honest despite the tired weight to it. “I’m glad. It can be hard to tell, when you draw away from me, when I should start to worry. I hope you will never feel lonely when I am with you.”

And he squeezed Robin’s shoulder and returned to the back of the cart like he hadn’t just stung Robin senseless. He’d made Harper worry for him all this time. Since they first arrived in Halfford, no doubt, and Robin had spent every evening too exhausted by the Duke’s temper to do more than sulk in his guest room and tell Harper to explore the city without him. Harper understood, as Harper always understood, but it was hardly any wonder he’d gotten tense. Robin could be a dense little brat sometimes, he thought bitterly.

A wrenching, tightly muffled sneeze pulled Robin back to himself. He moved around to the back of the cart, where Harper had paused in tying down the rear flap to press his fingers to his temples, exhaustion written plainly on his face. The red cast of his nose was no longer faint, and the poor thing was starting to swell under Harper’s rough treatment.

“Bless you,” Robin said, anxiety creeping foolishly up his neck. Talking to Harper ought to be the easiest thing in the world. Damn this trip, damn Duke Edward, and damn Robin’s own idiocy.

The exhaustion all but vanished from Harper’s expression as he looked up and gave a quick thanks, carrying on with the canvas.

Robin twisted the edge of his cloak between his fingers and dared to ask, “Sir Harper, are you well?”

Harper paused his work for just a moment, too briefly to be noticed by anyone paying the slightest bit less attention than Robin. “I may have caught a chill back in Halfford,” he admitted, his tone carefully flat. “Do not concern yourself, my lord.”

“I shall concern myself if I like,” Robin said before he could think better of it.

Harper pulled a rope taught with a fair bit more force than seemed necessary and barked a laugh. “Of course, my lord.” He sniffed, sharp and wet, and tied off the rope, securing the canvas flap over the open back of the cart. He climbed inside without another word and started shifting things around, laying out their bedrolls and moving fallen luggage aside.

Robin sighed and leaned against the cart, pulling his cloak tight around himself. He’d misstepped already. A cold. What an absurdly unremarkable, temporary affliction to regret. As if anybody could think less of Harper for such a thing. For falling ill, for bowing to the weather. Robin could think of a few sharp words for Harper’s father, though he doubted they would do any good.

He watched the darkening sky as Harper bustled around in the cart. Some clouds were forming to the east—might it rain? The roads would be hell tomorrow if it did. Perhaps they ought to have pushed on to the inn after all.

“Does it look like rain to you?” Robin asked as Harper emerged from the carriage. He’d stripped his cape, tabard, and heavy mail, leaving him in trousers and a tunic with his sword tied around his waist.

Harper glanced up to the east, briefly pressing a gloved knuckle under his nose. “Ah—yes, most likely.” He smiled. “Worry not, my lord. You will stay quite dry in the cart.”

Robin bit his lip. “Yes, but the roads will—I will stay dry?”

“We will.” Harper sniffled and laid a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Worry not. I am hardly infirm. I shall handle the roads tomorrow, whatever condition they may be in.”

“Of course you shall.” Robin sighed, studying Harper’s face, the faint lines of exhaustion his best efforts can’t erase. “I do not doubt your capability, but…it has been a long journey.”

“It has.” Harper squeezed Robin’s shoulder briefly and let go, looking away. Was Robin staring? “Rest in the cart. I will take care of camp and fetch you when there is dinner.”

That isn’t what Robin meant at all, but already Harper was striding away towards the horses. Robin followed him, almost jogging to keep up with his long, quick steps. “No. I will accompany you.”

“No need.” Harper didn’t slow, nor turn to Robin. “You are exhausted. Rest for tomorrow.” There was a clipped insistence to his tone so uncharacteristic that Robin was almost hurt until Harper brought both hands to his face and smothered a sneeze that seemed to tear through him and take a piece with it, leaving him staggered slightly with a few short, harshly constrained coughs.

“Bless you, Sir.” Robin took the opportunity to overtake Harper and reach the horses first. Of course—poor Harper hadn’t had a moment’s privacy since they’d left Halfford. If Robin couldn’t convince him to let his guard down before him, he could at least give him a few moments alone. “I assure you, I am quite capable of watering the horses myself. We shall both to bed sooner if I help.” He took both horses’ leads without waiting for a response and clicked at them to follow.

“…very well, my lord.” If Harper was trying to disguise the relief in his voice, he didn’t manage it very well. He sniffed thickly and dropped his hands from his face. “The river is a short way south of here.” He pointed, but Robin could hear the rushing water already.

Robin nodded. “I shall return soon.”

And he led the horses off. This was absurd. Why should the two of them play these games even when alone? Harper’s father was not here to scold him, nor anybody who might report to him or the King. Why should decorum prevent Robin from speaking frankly with his dearest friend? He ought to order Harper to rest as much as he was able.

The river was further than Robin anticipated, and by the time he returned night had all but fallen, the air damp and bitterly cold, and the rain clouds in the east were unmistakably nearer. At least he was able to spare Harper the trek—the fool would have left without his cloak—but he was relieved nonetheless to see a fire roaring already by the time he returned, a steaming pot hung over it. He secured the horses and joined Harper beside it on a fallen log, noting with pleasure that Harper had remembered himself and donned a cloak.

“Back at last, my lord?” Harper smiled at Robin as he sat down, a touch of mischief in his expression. “I had forgotten how much longer a walk can be on shorter legs.”

Robin shoved his shoulder, gasping in mock offense. “You know perfectly well how quickly I walk.”

“How slowly.” Harper’s grin flashed into a grimace and he turned away from Robin, lifting a fistful of his cloak to his face. His breath wavered perilously for a moment, and he crumpled, smothering a heavy sneeze into the fabric.

“Bless you.” He sounded worse, Robin thought.

Harper coughed roughly before recovering his breath. “Hah. Tha’k you.” An attempt at sniffling audibly caught in stuffed-shut sinuses and Harper cleared his throat, such an unmistakeably unwell sound that Robin wanted to drag him to the cart to sleep and damn his feelings on the matter.

“What do you think of breaking into that mead the Duke refused?” he said instead. “My father won’t expect it back, and it seems a fine night to warm ourselves up.” And perhaps a bit of drink would help ease Harper’s nerves.

“If you’d like.” Harper tipped the pot over the fire towards him with a ladle, his other hand keeping the hem of his cloak pressed under his nose. “Though I hope you don’t need drink to find my company tolerable.”

Robin laughed. “Simply unbearable, being alone with the likes of you. It’s near enough to make me miss Duke Edward’s hospitality.” He stood and brushed dirt from the back of his cloak. “I simply can’t face a sober evening with company who prefers me to a horse’s ass.”

That earned a huff of laughter from Harper. “I’ve been looking at a horse’s ass all day. You’re a far better sight.”

“He doesn’t mean it, Dapple,” Robin called to the horse in question, who flicked an ear in utter disinterest. He patted her side on his way back to the cart.

It was dark inside the cart with the rear flap blocking out the firelight, but it was easy enough to find the mead, bundled up in a spare cloth and tied to the side of the cart to ensure it didn’t bounce around and break. There ought to be some handkerchiefs about, too. Robin recalled seeing a couple at the bottom of his bag, so he took a moment to dig them out.

When he returned to the campfire, Harper had taken the pot off the fire and was doling out stew to travel bowls. Robin offered a handkerchief without a word.

Harper took it with a nod of thanks and swiped quickly under his nose, though by the sound of things that wasn’t nearly enough.

The stew was fine enough, good for being scrounged together from diminishing fresh supplies. Harper called it a last proper meal before returning to dried meat and stale crackers. The mead was better. Robin’s father wasn’t one to spare expenses when it came to obsequious gifts.

“The one gift the Duke’s given us,” Robin said after the two were halfway through the bottle.

Harper snorted. “His generosity shall not go unremembered.” He took a swig from the bottle, then passed it urgently back to Robin. “Pardon—” His breath caught and he twisted away from Robin, though the sneeze seemed to toy with him, keeping his breath hitching uncertainly for several seconds before tearing out of him with a vocal desperation that almost startled Robin.

“Bless you.”

“Ngh.” Belatedly, Harper lifted the handkerchief to his face and blew his nose hard, though, by the sound of it, not to much effect. “Blast this cold.”

He must have been feeling calmer if he was complaining, Robin noted with pleasure. Though whether that was thanks to the mead or to dinner and company, he couldn’t guess. “Poor thing,” he said as lightly as he could manage, rubbing Harper’s shoulder.

Harper huffed, with laughter or irritation. “You needn’t tease me, my lord.”

“I’m not!” With feigned offense, Robin set the bottle on the ground to fold his arms. Harper picked it idly back up. “Can’t a man express his sympathies for a friend?”

“Of course, my lord.” Harper took another swig. “But as I’ve said, you need not worry.”

“Need not worry, need not worry!” However much the mead was touching Harper, Robin was feeling a touch bolder. “Perhaps I want to worry, Har. You aren’t acting like yourself.”

Harper grinned, visibly biting back a laugh. “You’re acting plenty like yourself.” Robin squinted. “Fussy and overprotective.”

Robin scoffed, almost offended. “Overprotective! Says Sir ‘rest in the cart while I do the work of thirty men!’”

“Thirty men!” Harper laughed properly at that until his breath caught in his throat and pulled him double in a coughing fit. “Thirty, Robin, really?” he croaked as soon as his breath allowed.

“My father would send thirty.”

Harper drank again, calming the cough. “Your father really is overprotective.”

Robin could hardly argue with that. He shifted closer and leaned into Harper’s side. “Honestly, what’s the matter?”

“You got me drunk so I’d admit I don’t feel well,” Harper said, vaguely impressed. “Conniving bastard.” But he leaned back into Robin’s touch.

“Answer me, Harper.” Robin let a smidge of princely authority into his tone. “You aren’t usually so…”

He searched for the word, but Harper gave a stuffy, defeated little sigh and sank deeper into Robin’s side. “Your father will have my head when we reach home.”

Robin scoffed. “Like hell.”

“He will.” Harper sniffed and pressed the handkerchief beneath his nose with some force. “You’ve been miserable on this trip—don’t lie to me; you have been—and it is my job t-to—oh, hell—” He leaned away from Robin and crushed a sneeze into his handkerchief, sharp and rough and furious.

“Bless you. I don’t give a damn about your job.” Maybe Robin oughtn’t to have drank. It made it awfully difficult to shut his mouth. “I only care that my friend is ill and you won’t let him rest.”

“I give a damn.” Harper didn’t snap, but the edge to his tone suggested he might have were Robin anybody else. “I haven’t got the luxury of only being your friend.” But he leaned back into Robin’s shoulder nonetheless.

Robin bit down the first words on his tongue, Your father said something to you. Dragging up that old argument could hardly do good. “I’d be happy to see you rest,” he said instead.

“Hah.” Harper swiped beneath his nose. “Less so to see the cart uncovered, dinner unmade, fire unlit…”

“I could have done any of that myself,” Robin insisted.

“And then what use would I be?” Harper’s tone might have sounded playful to someone else, but Robin heard the subtle frailty in the words.

A drop of rain splashed on Robin’s cheek. He put up a hand to feel for more.

“Right.” Harper sat up and pulled Robin’s hood over his head, smiling. As if Robin is the one needed reassuring. “Go stay dry in the cart. I will join you within a half-hour.”

Robin could have argued. A better friend might have. But Harper was rarely so insistent unless he was right, even if Robin couldn’t see it. “I’ll come looking if you’re late,” he said instead.

Harper laughed. “Nonsense, my lord. We don’t need you catching cold, too.” He stood and offered Robin a hand up.

Robin took it. “Then be with me in a half-hour.” The longer he ran his mouth, the longer Harper would be out in the rain, so he nodded goodbye and headed for the cart.

Inside the cart, he lit his fire-light and left it near the entrance, providing paltry light for Robin but, he hoped, a signal for Harper in case the rain put out the campfire. It wasn’t as if he needed to see much to strip off his cloak and boots and crawl under the blankets Harper had laid out.

The rain picked up quickly, and wind along with it. Robin pulled a pillow over his head, trying to block out the roar of the rain hitting canvas and with it the thought of poor Harper caught outside in this misery.

He had no way to tell the time, but he trusted despite his threat that it really had been less than a half-hour when Harper returned. He heard splashing, heavy footsteps drawing closer, then a creak of the cart as Harper started to step up. A pause, then a wet, wrenching sneeze, half drowned out by the rain hitting canvas but for once not muffled. And then another, ripe with exhausted frustration. Harper cursed, gave his nose a quick, rough blow, and climbed into the cart.

“Bless you.” Robin took the pillow off his head and rolled onto his back. “It sounds miserable out there.” As close to you sound miserable as Harper was likely to accept.

“Hah. S’pose so.” Harper turned out the fire-light and tossed it back to Robin, who fumbled it in the unexpected dark. “Were you frightened without me?”

Robin grumbled. “Oh, terribly. I’m a grown man; I’m not afraid of the rain any longer.”

Harper laughed, still shuffling around the cart to get out of his boots and cloak. “And here I thought you needed me.”

Robin lifted up the blankets to his right—prematurely, he realized when the unexpectedly cold air made him shiver. “All right, then. Get under here and protect me from the wind, Sir Necessary.”

To Robin’s relief, that drew more laughter from Harper, until it broke into a couple coughs. “Of course, my lord,” he said, a bit raspy, and slid under the blankets beside Robin.

He was keeping weight off his right arm, Robin noticed. So his shoulder was acting up. Robin waited for him to settle, then moved himself onto Harper’s good shoulder, pinning him down, and tucked the blanket gently over the other before Harper could protest.

Harper laughed softly and looped his arm around Robin’s waist. “You’re fretting.”

“Will you deny me that?”

“I will deny you nothing, my lord,” Harper said with that note of amusement that always left Robin torn between affection and indignation.

He settled on responding with a haughty sniff and pulling the pillow under Harper’s head. “Then tell me what you would have of me.”

Harper’s answer was as quick as predictable. “Nothing, my lord.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Robin settled his head on Harper’s chest and hooked a leg over Harper’s, drawing him close to share their warmth. Harper’s clothes were damp, and he shivered slightly beneath them. All the more reason to cling to him. “I know you hate to be alone when you’re unwell, but you’re hearing anything more than ‘bless you’ as a slight against your honor. Tell me how to care for you.”

Harper sniffed. “It is not your responsibility to—”

“Why did we come out here alone just to act like your father is listening?” Robin bit his tongue, regretting the words as soon as they passed his lips.

He might not have heard Harper’s breath catch without his ear pressed to his chest, but the sound made him want to shrivel up where he lay. “Oh, hell, Har, I—”

Harper twisted his head away from Robin into a vicious, half-stifled sneeze.

Oh. “Bless you. I’m sorry.”

Harper sniffed hard and brought up his right hand to scrub beneath his nose. “Tha’k you.” He sucked his teeth, absently rubbing a thumb on Robin’s back. When he spoke, it was hardly more than a hoarse whisper, as if asking quietly were less offensive: “Will you ride beside me tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Robin could feel the tension leave Harper. “I ought to have done so from the beginning.”

“You needed space.”

“And you needed company.” Robin shifted, pulling Harper in tighter. He’d stopped shivering. “I wish you’d asked for it sooner.” Harper started to speak, but Robin added, “I know you think you can’t, but I wish you would.”

Harper chuckled softly. “Truly, Robin, you worry too much.”

“Only as you refuse to take proper care of yourself,” Robin protested. “Get some sleep, now.”

“At your pleasure, my lord,” Harper teased, but he relaxed beneath Robin and, soon enough, drifted off to sleep.

[bimboficationblues]

Wonder Woman!

@averyterrible also asked this

I think there’s a fundamental disconnect going on with WW. she's perpetually given short shrift compared to Superman and Batman and tbh nobody fully knows what to do with her. DC mainly is doing annoying shit like making her a mom and various levels of Hollow Girlbossery. I don't think they fully know how to distinguish her ethos from that of Superman, short of misogynistically treating her like a balancing force between the dispositions of Superman and Batman.

while I like George Perez's run quite a bit, the least interesting parts of it are usually those more heavily rooted in Greek myth. ditto for Greg Rucka's. the obvious contrast is Marvel's version of Thor, but Thor is much more actively involved with his fellow gods which manifests in a lot of diverse and distinct relationships, and the stories have a deliberately cyclical nature that feels proper to the Norse mythos (which Al Ewing has been exploring to great effect in Immortal Thor). when the Greek gods show up in Wonder Woman books, with the possible exception of Ares, I am mostly just annoyed that these assholes are back again, and that "cyclical" element feels less conscious or appropriate. that's not to say I don't like the incorporation of Greek myth, but the less the major pantheon are involved the better, in my view.

the more interesting aspect of her character in my view is her dual role as warrior/diplomat, and the tension between those things: her compassion for all life as a peacemaker, tempered by her realist's outlook of the necessity of violence and conflict for transformative change. "change" is kind of the watchword, I think; Superman is like the sun, Batman is perpetual grief, neither will ever really alter - and obviously Diana won't either, but I think the most interesting gloss on her would see her as an agent of transformation, a vision of worlds to come, a prophet.

plus the Marston connection - the BDSM, femdom, polyamorous, lesbianism of it all - has really gone underexplored and I would like to see that incorporated back into the character more explicitly beyond Terry Dodson cheesecake covers.

IDEA 1: dark fantasy existential horror comic which sees Wonder Woman going on a kind of metamorphic vision quest, inspired by the Lasso of Truth revealing to her the wisdom of Silenus: "What is best of all is utterly beyond your reach: not to be born, not to be, to be nothing. But the second best for you is—to die soon." a confrontation with what it means for Diana to have come into being, to have been morphed from clay to flesh, and also she really comes to grips with the whole "bi dyke" thing.

IDEA 2: a reimagining of Themyscira as a kind of BDSM-ritual lesbian techno-utopia, basically an adaptation of Firestone's conception of the post-reproduction communist horizon, and the inevitable conflict this would bring as the outside world fears the possibility of a world unyoked from biological reproduction. which WW has to then contend with on both the diplomatic and war fronts. Le Guin meets Firestone meets Woman on the Edge of Time meets Hickman's Krakoa/Coates' Wakanda. I think this would do a better job of putting Themyscira into tension with the rest of the world than a lot of other "Amazons vs. the US" stories.

IDEA 3: somehow, both

[greenqueenhightower]

Something I noticed about Alicent throughout HOTD is she easily shows affection to Aemond and Helaena but not to Aegon. Do you think it’s because Alicent has favorites ? (I always got the impression Aemond is her favorite)

Hi there 💚

I have been asked this question before, and I think Alicent loves all of her children immensely, but she has a soft spot for Aegon despite how it may seem upon a first glance. Let me explain.

Alicent's relationship with Helaena is protective, tender, and loving because “her girl” is her comfort and hope. I think that Alicent sees her inner child in Helaena and tries to compensate for the loss of her own mother during her girlhood by being the mother she lost for Helaena.

Alicent empathizes with Aemond being the “outcast” of the family since she was feeling like an outcast herself in the family she married into (especially in the beginning, wearing all those Targaryen red and black clothes, trying so hard to fit in). Alicent also recognizes that Aemond perhaps loves her and understands her the most of all her children and she has a strong bond with him.

However, her relationship with Aegon is the most intense out of all of her children. He is the reason of her existence as a Queen, the root and the fruit of her troubles, the manifestation of her trauma and the carrier of her flaws. She sees herself in Aegon, and doesn't know how to connect with him because he reminds her of the unyoked and distorted pieces within herself. Oliva has also commented on the idea that Alicent will go above and beyond to support and protect Aegon. She has chosen him to rule no matter his flaws because he mirrors Alicent with his perfect imperfections.

So she loves Aegon the same way she loves herself: faultily, and with austere frustration.

[serpentface]

Two questions regarding the Wardi religion:

In addition to the bull and the lioness, what are the seven faces of god/sacrificial animals?

Given that white animals seem to be sacred, does that influence how albino humans/other sophents are treated by society?

The seven faces of God are as follows:

-the lunar, horned, or 'wild ox' face of God, which presides over the moons, and the fertility of the land, animals, and people. In pre-imperial times, this was functionally the most central face of God (replaced by the lion face/odomache). The most ideal sacrifice is a wild ox (especially white or albino) that has never been bred. -the ‘ox’ face of God, presides over agriculture and labor, as well as the domestic sphere. The most ideal sacrifice is a healthy plow oxen or khait who has never been yoked or bred (if the sacrifice is towards Ox-Face as the domestic sphere, this should be a heifer). -the lion face of God, presides over sovereignty, statehood, military might, and is most associated with the health and continuing existence of the imperial entity. The most ideal sacrifice is a maned lioness (functionally white, though this is a trait of the captive population). -the ocean or skimmer face of God, presides over the seas, winds, as well as fortune and mercantilism. The ideal sacrifice is the skimmer gull or an albatross, especially one taken from one of the sacred rocks in the 'mouth' of the Viper sea. -the serpent face of God, presides over the cosmos and divine Mysteries, associated with funerary rites and death. Also has a wildly disparate association with royalty (which is derived from entirely separate traditions and has not yet fully been reconciled into the faith). The ideal sacrifice is a two headed or melanistic snake, especially a venomous one (both would be MOST ideal, but this is rare beyond any practicality) -The solar face of God, presides over the sun, stars, and fire, also heavily associated with khait and mounted warriors. (this is a VERY direct import from the chief solar god in the Burri pantheon (who rides and/or is a khait with the sun between its horns), hence the seemingly random khait association). The ideal sacrifice is a healthy riding khait (especially with a white spotted coat), or alternatively a golden eagle. -The river face of God, presides over fresh water, seasonal flooding, and the rains. The ideal sacrifice is the migratory reed duck (which arrives at the onset of the wet season) or a freshwater hesperornis (ideally taken from one of the sacred waters). An-Nechoi are also occasionally given.

Though the core religion is monotheistic, each face of God is functionally a syncretic fusion of older ethnic Wardi beliefs, the Burri pantheon, and other regionally native traditions, which have not all been fully reconciled (the process of fusion is more or less still ongoing). Each face in of itself has dozens or more epithets with distinct features. For example, the river face has a specific epithet for each major riverway, each venerated as a distinct aspect of the Godhead. Functionally, common practice of the Wardi faith is pretty indistinguishable from polytheism, and most of the religious authority does not care as long as required orthopraxy is maintained (the central dogma of the religion does not care How you believe, but that the correct practices are enacted).

Also for reference, these are the specific animals taken on the pilgrimage in the story (transporting seven rare animals cross country can be fraught, so each had at least a few backups):

A pure white aurochs calf, found naturally born in a wild herd.

A massive, unbred and unyoked bull draft khait (dies en route, replaced by a less physically impressive backup with the same qualities)

A lioness with a full mane, from the white captive stock

A skimmer gull taken from a nest on the sacred rock in the waters of Od-Koto.

A baby two headed cobra (which dies en-route and is replaced with its backup, a melanistic viper)

A beautiful speckled riding khait mare whose horns form a near perfect circle (which is stolen en-route and replaced with its sister)

A rare wild hesperornis (haven't come up with an in-universe name yet) taken from the reeds of the Brilla river delta.

Anyway the sacrifices listed above are considered the absolute IDEALS when working with a specific face, but a great variety of animals will be sacrificed to various ends. There’s some very specific cultural/religious components to which animals are most valued, but in practice the value of a sacrifice is pretty close to 1:1 with the animal’s monetary value, at an intersection of utility and rarity.

So a young, healthy bull plow oxen who has never been bred or yoked is a more valued sacrifice than an old, experienced plow ox who has already sired offspring. You are giving up an extremely valuable animal and all its unused potential in a very practical sense, which makes the sacrifice more potent and valued. The 'virginal' status of the animal is key when the rite is SPECIFICALLY related to fertility, in the sense that the animal itself is sacrificing its unused fertility, allowing for the sacrifice-rebirth cycle to perpetuate. (Animals which Have been bred may be preferred in certain cases and rituals).

An animal with a rare coloration is usually going to be more valuable than one with more common genetics. This is the core root of why albino animals are of high value. It's less that white animals themselves are valued, just that rare genetics such as albinism = valuable sacrifice.

There are some specific exceptions where the color itself is significant (rather than just an extension of its rarity). God is specifically supposed to have taken the form of a white aurochs (itself emerged from the foam of the sea) during creation, so white oxen and wild oxen SPECIFICALLY have especially high value. Melanism or black scales are valued to the serpent face of God, which is associated with the cosmos and void behind the stars. (this stems from much, MUCH older beliefs in a cosmic serpent god in the region).

Animal sacrifice is a very significant part of the religious framework and involved in most rituals and prayers intended to affect significant change and transformation. (This is due in part to a deeply ingrained belief in the world being perpetually sustained in a cycle of sacrifice and rebirth, and in God Itself being the physical mechanism of rebirth and requiring sacrifice to be sustained). While blood itself is seen as potent, the nature of sacrifice isn't just 'spill blood and make thing happen', it's got a self contained value system and is very calculated and intentional in nature. You aren’t going to just grab a random rat and bleed it and pray, there needs to be a perceived ‘loss’. Sacrifice via killing is also not the only form, the most common day to day sacrifice is in (very minor) bloodletting and offerings of food and drink- the key is allowing a personal loss to sustain a greater cycle.

That being said, there is a HUGE trade system built up around the breeding and selling of animals solely for sacrifice. The industry revolves mostly around birds (doves are the cheapest, but also poultry, waterfowl, some birds of prey, a few select songbirds and ornamental birds), goats, sheep, and horses (the small, premodern kind). Cattle and camelids are a higher tier, and khait are among the highest of common sacrifices due to their great value.

Other animals that have no direct utility but are sacred are also bred or captured for sacrifice (hesperornis, lacetor, gulls and albatrosses, several kinds of snake, a bunch of wild ungulates, nechoi, etc). Some '''‘exotic’''' animals are imported specifically for this purpose, mostly as a means of displaying the wealth and reach of the state, with their sacrificial value rooted in the difficulty of acquisition. Animals taken from sacred sites are also prime candidates (ie cattle bred and grazed on the foothills of the Sons of Creation are VERY valuable).

---

So all that being said the importance of albino animals has come off a little overstated on my part, and doesn't have any particular impact on how albinism in people is regarded. It’s valued mainly for its rarity in the context of animal sacrifice, which would not have direct translations to how it’s perceived in people.

Albinism in people doesn’t have a super well defined significance in broader Imperial Wardi culture, but perspectives mostly skew negative and towards seeing it as a sign of ill fortune (physical differences in people tend to be seen as a result of being cursed in the womb). Imperial Wardin is culturally diverse (united mostly by a identity based in shared religion), so exact nuances would vary and this statement should not be taken as a universal.

Imperial Wardi population is mostly human (with its citizen population being MAYBE 5% elowey, 2% qilik, and a decimal point of caelin). Overall sentiment towards other sophonts by the human majority is not outright hostile, but is human-centric and tinged with xenophobia (as most qilik and elowey in the region are immigrants, with the only elowey ethnic group historically inhabiting the region (the Jazait) being regarded as 'heathens'). Albino elowey or qilik might be similarly seen as products of a curse, or may be given a 'wow how beautiful' treatment (in a heavily patronizing capacity) and seen as a curiosity, or otherwise just subject to varying perspectives on albinism in the region.

The one other thing I have established in this vein is that the semi-mythological hero Janise (sworn brother of other semi-mythological founder hero Erub) is said to have been albino. While he is positively regarded, he is supposed to have died young of a snakebite (assumed to be the product of a curse from his enemies) and this would not improve perceptions of albinism being related to ill fortune.

[oxeyedmother]

And so Hera called to the all-weather sailor Eurybia, called Her to ready Her sacred vessel and Her strong-muscled crew.

In Her peplos of blue and Her veil of green, most esteemed Hera boarded Her ship, the oarless trireme with sails spun from cloud.

Sweet Galateia laid Her charms on Thalassa, calming Her temper and permissing the divine ship passage to the furthest point. Where sky touches sea, heavens mingling with ocean.

One bare foot upon Virgin’s land, a spit of sand in the vast ocean, lead to two steps, and then a trail of blossoming footsteps.

The sea nymphs lingered by the first print, not daring to move closer until Hera had made a decision. The verdict was given soon enough, when Hera raised Her honeyed voice and sang their new home into being. Flooded land raised from cool ocean, the ruins of unknowns before restored by rocks chiselling themselves to shape as if unseen stonemasons filled the air.

Hera sung up the land over the sea, bringing up a paradise from the depths. A home with temple and square, homes and fisher huts, harbour and community, with lush glens and deep woodland. All flowers and beasts sprung from Her green footsteps, protected from interloping or wayward mortals by divine edict.

When freshly-unyoked Hera had sung the land into being, She waded from the new shore into the glass-flat ocean. She flung Her arms wide, dress floating around Her.

Hera Pais cried to Her beloved foster-mother.

Mother! Encircle this place with your river, waylay any who try and breach the bounds!

Tethys, loving Her foster daughter fiercely, laid an encircling and intertwining river around land over sea, so that none but those with the sign may reach the shore. She employed Her nereid nieces who rule over rough seas and fierce tides to stir up Thalassa, further dissuading unaware travellers.

[originally posted on my neocities] [divider credit]

[rgraves1]

Source: Greek Mythology on slogmedia.com

The Birth of Heracles

Meanwhile Zeus, taking advantage of Amphityron’s absence, impersonated him and, assuring Alcmene that her brothers were now avenged … lay with her all one night, to which he gave the length of three. For Hermes, at Zeus’s command, had ordered Helius to quench the solar fires, have Horus unyoke his team, and spend the following day at home; because the procreation of so great a champion as Zeus had in mind could not be accomplished in haste. (The Birth of Heracles, The Greek Myths by Robert Graves, pp 446-452).

Zeus wished to father the greatest of the heroes and Alcmene, wife of King Amphityron of Troezen, was his choice of mother to the last of his children by mortal women. Amphityron, cast into exile after committing a murder, found refuge with his wife in Thebes, but Alcmene refused to lie with him again until he had avenged the death of her brothers, killed in a cattle raid. It was while Amphityron was away defeating the raider Pterelaus, that Zeus carried out his lovemaking ruse. Alcmene was entirely fooled by the subterfuge and refused to listen to Amphityron’s war stories or allow him into her bedchamber when her victorious husband actually returned, so convinced was she that they had already celebrated and made love. The seer Teiresias eventually told Amphityron he had been cuckolded by Zeus and the King never slept with his wife again, fearing divine jealousy.

Zeus determined that his son by Alcmene should be called Heracles or ‘Glory of Hera’ but the Queen of Heaven’s jealousy would not be assuaged so easily. She made Zeus promise that the first born son of the House of Perseus would rule Argolis. Zeus readily agreed, assuming Alcmene, who was now in labour, would deliver Heracles before any other claimant. However, Hera contrived to induce the birth of Eurystheus, son of King Sthenelus of Mycenae and Queen Nicippe, while delaying the birth of Heracles. Euystheus therefore eventually became High King, at Heracles’ expense.

Graves claims that the birth of Heracles, worshipped by the patriarchal northern invaders, the Dorians, was a symbol of the displacement of the Goddess-worshipping religion of Argos, and that Alcmene was a Mycenaean title of Hera. Heracles also bears remarkable similarities to the Babylonian hero, Gilgamesh.

[smakkabagms]

The Hours unyoked themselves like chariots off to war - there is nothing sweet left, every tenderness has been violated every fantastical thought - of dragon, wand, or wing - is gone the world has belittled us, pried open like the heart's thousand eyelids forced to watch its own upheaval already I see the bones peeking out from our thinning flesh another name is lost to an insurmountable past, will time take even the memory of love? the phantom of hours spent wading the black waters murked by hook and plague and story life, put your hand in my hand, the horses run wildly onwards - they stampede the pine needles of my childhood into mud, no one will remember the worms they go to feed

[themotherofrevelation]

The Shiva-husband does not engage in the Hellgram universe of mental masturbation. He does not collect/hoard soulless mirages of the automated feminine. The Shiva-husband does not compartmentalize his holy/whole devotion to Goddess. The Shiva-husband cannot unyoke the flesh from the anima.