#✧SILENCE BE HIS NAME ;; HIS WORD IS GOSPEL && IN CHARACTER

[usuragan]

since ya'll wanna pet him so badly. have a catsuke.

#✧SILENCE BE HIS NAME ;; HIS WORD IS GOSPEL && IN CHARACTER #((catsuke is the best thing i did for this blog #((the uchihas are cats tell me otherwise

[dplectio]

Dear brothers and sisters!

Each year, the World Day of Prayer for Vocations invites us to reflect on the precious gift of the Lord’s call to each of us, as members of his faithful pilgrim people, to participate in his loving plan and to embody the beauty of the Gospel in different states of life. Hearing that divine call, which is far from being an imposed duty – even in the name of a religious ideal – is the surest way for us to fulfil our deepest desire for happiness. Our life finds fulfilment when we discover who we are, what our gifts are, where we can make them bear fruit, and what path we can follow in order to become signs and instruments of love, generous acceptance, beauty and peace, wherever we find ourselves.

This Day, then, is always a good occasion to recall with gratitude to the Lord the faithful, persevering and frequently hidden efforts of all those who have responded to a call that embraces their entire existence. I think of mothers and fathers who do not think first of themselves or follow fleeting fads of the moment, but shape their lives through relationships marked by love and graciousness, openness to the gift of life and commitment to their children and their growth in maturity. I think of all those who carry out their work in a spirit of cooperation with others, and those who strive in various ways to build a more just world, a more solidary economy, a more equitable social policy and a more humane society. In a word, of all those men and women of good will who devote their lives to working for the common good. I think too of all those consecrated men and women who offer their lives to the Lord in the silence of prayer and in apostolic activity, sometimes on the fringes of society, tirelessly and creatively exercising their charism by serving those around them. And I think of all those who have accepted God’s call to the ordained priesthood, devoting themselves to the preaching of the Gospel, breaking open their own lives, together with the bread of the Eucharist, for their brothers and sisters, sowing seeds of hope and revealing to all the beauty of God’s kingdom.

To young people, and especially those who feel distant or uncertain about the Church, I want to say this: Let Jesus draw you to himself; bring him your important questions by reading the Gospels; let him challenge you by his presence, which always provokes in us a healthy crisis. More than anyone else, Jesus respects our freedom. He does not impose, but proposes. Make room for him and you will find the way to happiness by following him. And, should he ask it of you, by giving yourself completely to him.

A people on the move

The polyphony of diverse charisms and vocations that the Christian community recognizes and accompanies helps us to appreciate more fully what it means to be Christians. As God’s people in this world, guided by his Holy Spirit, and as living stones in the Body of Christ, we come to realize that we are members of a great family, children of the Father and brothers and sisters of one another. We are not self-enclosed islands but parts of a greater whole.  In this sense, the World Day of Prayer for Vocations has a synodal character: amid the variety of our charisms, we are called to listen to one another and to journey together in order to acknowledge them and to discern where the Spirit is leading us for the benefit of all.

At this point in time, then, our common journey is bringing us to the Jubilee Year of 2025. Let us travel as pilgrims of hope towards the Holy Year, for by discovering our own vocation and its place amid the different gifts bestowed by the Spirit, we can become for our world messengers and witnesses of Jesus’ dream of a single human family, united in God’s love and in the bond of charity, cooperation and fraternity.

This Day is dedicated in a particular way to imploring from the Father the gift of holy vocations for the building up of his Kingdom: “Ask the Lord of the harvest to send out labourers into his harvest” (Lk 10:2). Prayer – as we all know – is more about listening to God than about talking to him. The Lord speaks to our heart, and he wants to find it open, sincere and generous.  His Word became flesh in Jesus Christ, who reveals to us the entire will of the Father. In this present year, devoted to prayer and preparation for the Jubilee, all of us are called to rediscover the inestimable blessing of our ability to enter into heartfelt dialogue with the Lord and thus become pilgrims of hope. For “prayer is the first strength of hope. You pray and hope grows, it moves forward. I would say that prayer opens the door to hope. Hope is there, but by my prayer I open the door” (Catechesis, 20 May 2020).

Pilgrims of hope and builders of peace

Yet what does it mean to be pilgrims? Those who go on pilgrimage seek above all to keep their eyes fixed on the goal, to keep it always in their mind and heart. To achieve that goal, however, they need to concentrate on every step, which means travelling light, getting rid of what weighs them down, carrying only the essentials and striving daily to set aside all weariness, fear, uncertainty and hesitation. Being a pilgrim means setting out each day, beginning ever anew, rediscovering the enthusiasm and strength needed to pursue the various stages of a journey that, however tiring and difficult, always opens before our eyes new horizons and previously unknown vistas.

This is the ultimate meaning of our Christian pilgrimage: we set out on a journey to discover the love of God and at the same time to discover ourselves, thanks to an interior journey nourished by our relationships with others. We are pilgrims because we have been called: called to love God and to love one another. Our pilgrimage on this earth is far from a pointless journey or aimless wandering; on the contrary, each day, by responding to God’s call, we try to take every step needed to advance towards a new world where people can live in peace, justice and love. We are pilgrims of hope because we are pressing forward towards a better future, committed at every step to bringing it about.

This is, in the end, the goal of every vocation: to become men and women of hope. As individuals and as communities, amid the variety of charisms and ministries, all of us are called to embody and communicate the Gospel message of hope in a world marked by epochal challenges. These include the baneful spectre of a third world war fought piecemeal; the flood of migrants fleeing their homelands in search of a better future; the burgeoning numbers of the poor; the threat of irreversibly compromising the health of our planet. To say nothing of all the difficulties we encounter each day, which at times risk plunging us into resignation or defeatism.

In our day, then, it is decisive that we Christians cultivate a gaze full of hope and work fruitfully in response to the vocation we have received, in service to God’s kingdom of love, justice and peace. This hope – Saint Paul tells us – “does not disappoint” (Rom 5:5), since it is born of the Lord’s promise that he will remain always with us and include us in the work of redemption that he wants to accomplish in the heart of each individual and in the “heart” of all creation. This hope finds its propulsive force in Christ’s resurrection, which “contains a vital power which has permeated this world.  Where all seems to be dead, signs of the resurrection suddenly spring up. It is an irresistible force. Often it seems that God does not exist: all around us, we see persistent injustice, evil, indifference and cruelty. But it is also true that in the midst of darkness something new always springs to life and sooner or later produces fruit” (Evangelii Gaudium, 276). Again, the Apostle Paul tells us that, “in hope we were saved” (Rom 8:24). The redemption accomplished in the paschal mystery is a source of hope, a sure and trustworthy hope, thanks to which we can face the challenges of the present.

To be pilgrims of hope and builders of peace, then, means to base our lives on the rock of Christ’s resurrection, knowing that every effort made in the vocation that we have embraced and seek to live out, will never be in vain.  Failures and obstacles may arise along the way, but the seeds of goodness we sow are quietly growing and nothing can separate us from the final goal: our encounter with Christ and the joy of living for eternity in fraternal love. This ultimate calling is one that we must anticipate daily: even now our loving relationship with God and our brothers and sisters is beginning to bring about God’s dream of unity, peace and fraternity. May no one feel excluded from this calling! Each of us in our own small way, in our particular state of life, can, with the help of the Spirit, be a sower of seeds of hope and peace.

The courage to commit

In this light, I would say once more, as I did at World Youth Day in Lisbon: “Rise up!” Let us awaken from sleep, let us leave indifference behind, let us open the doors of the prison in which we so often enclose ourselves, so that each of us can discover his or her proper vocation in the Church and in the world, and become a pilgrim of hope and a builder of peace! Let us be passionate about life, and commit ourselves to caring lovingly for those around us, in every place where we live. Let me say it again: “Have the courage to commit!” Father Oreste Benzi, a tireless apostle of charity, ever on the side of the poor and the defenseless, used to say that no one is so poor as to have nothing to give, and no one is so rich as not to need something to receive.

Let us rise up, then, and set out as pilgrims of hope, so that, as Mary was for Elizabeth, we too can be messengers of joy, sources of new life and artisans of fraternity and peace.

Rome, Saint John Lateran, 21 April 2024, Fourth Sunday of Easter.

#Pope Francis

[the-writers-bookshelf]

Currently writing a play for my friends to blindly read aloud in the week before Christmas. I don't know why, but it's a parody of another work that I wrote; the original was called "The Stromberger Gospel," and this one is "The Stromberger Nativity." In this excerpt, a character named Lukas has gotten drunk on expired age-appropriate apple beverage right before Christmas Eve dinner. His father is suspicious, and to see whether he's drunk or not, makes him say grace. Disaster ensues as Lukas begins singing Falco's 1985 hit "Rock Me Amadeus" and his brothers try to pretend it's a legitimate prayer. (Sorry this is so long, and I hope the format works the way I'm seeing it!)

LUKAS

(quite confused) What?

MR. STROMBERGER

Can you say a prayer for us?

LUKAS

(laughing lowly) Yeah, of course I can! 

He clears his throat and crosses himself over. All the family does the same. There is a long, dramatic pause before LUKAS speaks.

LUKAS

Amadeus.

MATTHÄUS turns, thinking LUKAS said his name.

LUKAS

Amadeus.

MR. STROMBERGER

(annoyed) What the hell is this?

MATTHÄUS

(chuckles nervously) He’s clearly saying, “Ah, Matthäus.” What is it, Lukas?

LUKAS

Amadeus.

MATTHÄUS

Yes?

LUKAS

Rock me, Amadeus.

Stunned silence from all of the brothers as they realize that LUKAS is about to burst into a rendition of Falco’s 1985 hit song “Rock Me, Amadeus.” LUKAS looks downright ecstatic. 

MATTHÄUS

(quickly) Oh, yes! Yes, that’s right! He means St. Amadeus! Uh…St. Amadeus, pray for us!

LUKAS

Rock me, rock me, rock me, rock me. 

MATTHÄUS

Holy St. Amadeus, who was stoned to death…

JOHANNES

(Dead serious) Rock us. 

LUKAS

(Standing up, getting into a slow, methodical grove) Do it, do it. 

MARKUS hides his face in his hands.

LUKAS

Rock me all the time to the top—

MATTHÄUS

(pointing his finger in the air) —of Heaven! St. Amadeus, patron of… (glances around nervously) patron of…

JOHANNES

Patron of rocks!

LUKAS

(raps) 

Er war ein Punker

Und er lebte in der großen Stadt

Es war in Wien, war Vienna—

Uh…

War Vienna…

MATTHÄUS

Patron of Vienna! 

Quickly realizing he does not know the rest of the words, LUKAS returns to the chorus of the song.

LUKAS

(singing)

Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus!

Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus!

Amadeus, Amadeus, oh, oh, oh, Amadeus!

JOHANNES

Rock us.

MATTHÄUS

Pray for us…

MATTHÄUS

(trying to keep his cool and play it off normally) Most holy and beloved saint!

JOHANNES

(his hands in the air and eyes closed as if in deep worship) Rock us, rock us! (he begins to sway to the beat) 

LUKAS

Come and rock me, Amadeus!

MATTHÄUS

As you were…as you were rocked by the pagans of Vienna!

MRS. STROMBERGER begins to weep, deeply moved. 

Oh my GOD this is PRICELESS! Fantastic job!!! A truly chaotic holiday-with-the-family representation! 🤣 I loved it!

#Asks #fab friday writers #monaluisa

[haadeswrites]

Elysium

god this fic took forever i’m so sorry!! but hey, first fic on the new blog! <33 also y’all should really thank @iwaasfairy who listened to me complain about this fic for a solid month, she’s the reason it got finished

Cult leader Oikawa Tooru x female reader

tw: indoctrination, extremely dubious consent, blood, yandere themes, religious themes, minor character death, implied abuse & drug use, mild smut, nsfw

The island itself is breathtaking

Pristine beaches with gleaming white sand, vast swathes of lush, green rainforest and waterfalls that cascade into shimmering pools of crystal clear water. Untouched, undisturbed; a paradise. At least, that’s how Ryuji had described it. 

Paradise, but only in the sense that a gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods is paradise to a lost and hungry child. 

He hadn’t been wrong. Bare feet sink into soft, white sand as you climb from the boat - the warmth just toeing the line between pleasant and burning. Gentle waves ebb and flow behind you, and there’s a light breeze that kisses your skin, the taste of seasalt carrying in the wind. Home, it seems to sing.

A laugh sounds somewhere in the distance, yet the only other figure on the beach is a man walking steadily towards you. He smiles when he sees you’ve noticed him; friendly, non-threatening. It’s a far cry from the swarming welcoming committee you’d been dreading, and you wonder if that’s somehow intentional as well. 

As the boat pushes back out to sea he comes to a stop before you, “I’m Makki,” he says, pushing the fringe of his hair back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. Whatever he sees must meet approval, because his grin only widens, “Welcome to the Commune.”

Ryuji wasn’t wrong; the island is a beautiful, deadly thing.

—

You’d never heard of the Commune before the phone call. 

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. You’ll be the first to admit you’re hardly an expert, but from what you do know, groups like the Commune – cults – don’t spring up out of thin air and start broadcasting their mistreatment and systematic abuse. 

They’re not the kind of people that have sweet old ladies clutching their pearls and mothers shepherding their children away – at least, not in the beginning. Not entirely. They’re not out to recruit extremists to further their cause, they choose to prey on the vulnerable, the lost and the disillusioned. Those easily manipulated. You suspect that’s why when you google the Commune, all you find is a website for what essentially looks like a long term luxury wellness retreat.

‘The Commune is about healing and harmony, about returning to nature, supporting one another to forge a brighter, more holistic future together… a self-sufficient community living apart from technology and other evils of modern society.’ 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you scroll through. There’s a whisper of philosophical teachings woven throughout, a page dedicated to their founder, Oikawa Tooru – smiling handsomely in every single picture, because what would a burgeoning cult be without a charismatic leader – but there’s not enough.

So here you are, on an island hundreds of miles away from home living amongst strangers; because Ryuji wouldn’t have sounded so terrified if this was just some alternate, free-loving bunch of hippies.

And even with all that he’d told you, everything you thought you’d be prepared for, the Commune is like nothing you could’ve imagined. 

Makki introduces you to Asuka, a woman only a few years older than yourself, dark haired and stunningly beautiful, and winks as he tells her to take you under her wing. She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls you into a heartfelt hug – as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

“We’re so glad you’re here!” she beams.

You’d like to hate her. 

It feels like you're supposed to, sometimes; when she gets that dreamy look in her eyes and starts talking about Oikawa and the Commune and how lucky everyone here on the island is. Yet there’s something about her – the genuine warmth she emanates maybe, or the kindness in her eyes – that makes it difficult for you not to like her.

“You should come to the gathering tomorrow,” she hums idly one afternoon, maybe a week or so after your arrival. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down into the water, tangled fishing nets to be repaired strewn between you.

“I always go,” you reply.

She laughs, fixing you with a knowing look, “And sit right at the very back, all but running off the moment we finish?” 

And your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“It’s okay to take things slowly,” she says. “We understand that being a part of the Commune is a big change from the life you knew, and that not everybody is able to see what we see and embrace those changes.” 

Asuka sets down the knot she’s working through and reaches for your hand, a gentle smile on her face, “But you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re meant to be here, I can feel it. You just need to stop fighting against it; surrender yourself to us, to the island, and everything’ll make sense, I promise.”

It’s dangerous territory. One wrong word could set off alarm bells, yet you can’t help pressing just a little.

“Do you ever miss it, then? Life outside the Commune?” 

Your family. Friends. The life you left behind before you came here to be brainwashed like all of the others.

“Why would I?” she answers without missing a beat, and it’s hard to ignore the bitter flicker of disappointment you feel at her answer. “The island provides for us, we don’t have to spend our days selling off tiny pieces of ourselves just to make ends meet. It’s paradise here, and we have Oikawa to thank for that. Why would I ever want to go back?”

Silence falls between you as you struggle to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Yet Asuka isn’t even looking at you, instead staring out at the water with a strangely pensive expression. 

“Did you know I was married once?” The words seemingly out of the blue, you can only shake your head. For a moment, she doesn’t reply, watching as the waves rise and crash offshore. And then;

“I was young, eighteen or so, fresh out of high school and he was a small town cop.” Her eyes flicker to yours, and your heart clenches at the sadness and pain echoing there. “I thought he was a good man, once upon a time.”

A chord strikes deep, your chest tightening involuntarily at her words. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, and yet… 

No. You stop the errant thought in its tracks. Groups like the Commune prey on the vulnerable, you know this. People like Ryuji, like Asuka, like–

Her fingers squeeze around yours, pulling you back to the present. “Come to the gathering tomorrow. Listen to Oikawa, it’ll help.”

—

She doesn’t give you a choice in the matter – dragging you by the hand to sit right at the front of the gathered crowd that very night.

Oikawa’s handsomer up close; tall and dark haired with pretty eyes and long, sweeping lashes that frame delicate cheekbones, it’s not hard for you to see how a man like him has amassed such an impassioned following. 

Once he starts actually speaking, however, you realise that his good looks and charming smile are just the tip of the iceberg. Oikawa’s utterly captivating as he preaches about the cycle of life and death and the paradise that awaits his faithful. Passionate and engaging, he speaks like he truly believes every word of the lies he’s spreading. 

And Asuka, her friends, the others gathered, they eat up every word like it’s gospel truth, resounding cheers and thunderous applause deafening around you. In the midst of the rapturous din, Oikawa’s eyes flit to yours.

Slowly, he smiles – a dazzling grin that makes your stomach flip – and everything; Asuka, the noise, the others swarming around you, it all fades away.

For one electrifying heartbeat, you’re frozen in place. Just you and Oikawa, trapped in the pull of each other’s gaze.

—

You can’t forget the reason you came.

But it’s… difficult, in a way you struggle to understand. You only have one purpose for being here, one goal; find Ryuji and bring him home. 

And yet, some days it’s like there’s a fog in your mind, and you have to focus to remember why you’re here at all. You catch yourself laughing with Asuka and her friends, the days passing by in a blur of endless, easy distractions. 

It barely feels like work when you’re sitting under the shade of the trees, eating the fruits you’ve picked by hand – ripe and sweet, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted – diving off waterfalls into the crystalline water and meandering down the shore collecting seashells. Even when you are working, mending clothes or cooking with the others, it fills you with a sense of contentment you can’t quite explain. 

Like you’re a part of something bigger. Like you’re doing something that matters.

Ryuji becomes a distant thought. A whisper in the back of your head, a niggling in your gut, easily brushed aside and ignored until there’s a moment of quiet. In the dead of night, the balmy summer night’s breeze kissing your bare skin, you lie awake, lost in memories of the last time you’d seen him. 

Fists angrily pounding at your door, the yelling that gave way to sobs and the hoarse, desperate pleas that followed. Ryuji’s face; pupils blown wide and eyes rimmed in red, darting restlessly around as he held you too tight and begged–

Rolling over in bed, you gaze out your window at the star flecked sky, the shadows of the forest that lie at your doorstep, and wonder what it is that scares you more; that you’ve lost track of the days you’ve been here, and saving Ryuji is starting to feel like an afterthought, or that you could so easily forget all of it, find a place here in the Commune and be happy.

‘The island, it–it fucks with your head.’

Ryuji’d told you that, and you’d brushed it off as paranoia. You need to find him. Find him and get the hell outta dodge.

You can deal with the fallout later.

—

Kiyoshi. 

He’d mentioned the name a few times amidst his rambling – a friend of his on the island. You’re annoyed with yourself for not thinking of it sooner, however much like Ryuji himself, trying to focus and remember the name is like wading through thick mud.

Once you do, though, finding him amongst the hundred and fifty or so inhabitants is the easy part. 

There’s no strict division between genders within the Commune, however Kyoshi, despite his somewhat lean stature, is among the builders of the island and his path doesn’t often cross with yours. 

From Asuka you find out that he’s been a part of the Commune for years now, before even she joined, and that he mostly sticks to himself, though you’ve seen him chatting quietly to a few of the other men, a perpetually angry looking blonde in particular.

It’s the last part that piques her interest, “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” she asks, her face lighting up as a sudden thought occurs. “Do you want me to introduce you two? To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be your type, if you’re interested, though…”

Cheeks aflame, you’re quick to shut her down. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just… seen him around and we’ve never really spoken, I guess.”

A lame excuse, though mercifully she lets the subject drop without too much prodding.

Therein, of course, lies the problem. Walking up to Kyoshi and casually trying to drop Ryuji into the conversation without raising red flags is risky, but what other options do you have? You’ve already spent too much time on this island.

Although, maybe Asuka has the right idea. 

While you hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t interested in Kyoshi in that way, nobody else knew that. Who would really look twice at the shy newbie striking up a conversation with the quiet, easygoing man? He wasn’t unattractive per se, and from the brief interactions you’d seen of him, he seemed kind enough.

You have enough patience (barely) to wait for dusk the following night. There’s a celebration, something about the full moon and a blessing on the island and the Commune– you hadn’t really been paying attention when Oikawa had spoken about it. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. With the fire pits crackling, and the dancing and music and the sweet honey wine flowing freely, nobody will be paying too much attention to what you’ll be doing. Hopefully, the alcohol will also serve to lower Kiyoshi’s guard, and perhaps if you’re really, really lucky, loosen his tongue as well. 

Of course, you’re not banking on him telling you exactly where Ryu is or what happened to him– and that’s assuming he actually knows – but at this point you’ll take anything over the nothing you currently have. A tiny slip up, that’s all you’re asking for. 

As the sun descends beyond the horizon, you play your role well, laughing and chatting amongst friends, sipping carefully at the cup of wine in your hand as you wait for an opening. And perhaps it’s your nerves working against you, but you find that it’s not just Kiyoshi your attention is drawn to. 

Up on the shore, away from the rabble, Oikawa lounges back with a cup of the same honeyed wine you’re pretending to drink. For the most part he seems deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, his right hand, but every once in a while he glances up, letting his gaze roam over the crowd of his followers.

Every inch a king and his general.

And it would seem benevolent, if not for the strange smile he wears – the one that widens when his eyes catch yours.

Swallowing tightly, you force yourself not to dwell on it, to ignore the odd sensation curling in your gut and the way your skin prickles under his attention. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Pushing all thoughts of Oikawa aside, you subtly scan the beach once more, only to find that Kiyoshi’s moved, sitting now on a piece of old driftwood near the bonfire. Alone for the first time tonight. 

Your legs are moving before the thought even fully registers. 

“Do you mind if I sit?” you ask, gesturing to the empty space on the log beside him. 

Kiyoshi smiles, the laugh lines at corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks.”

Taking another sip of your wine, you will your shoulders to relax, your racing pulse to slow. This has to seem natural, and so you force yourself to hold your tongue, let your head loll back and breathe deep, soaking it all in. You can hear the others in the distance, the music and the dancing, the happy laughter and shouts that beckon – you want to go join them. Even your blood seems to hum, a call of something other pulsing through your veins.

But you pay it no mind. There are more important things to worry about tonight. 

Indeed, steel blue eyes have been appraising you curiously for a while now. “This is your first Lunar blessing, isn’t it?” Kiyoshi asks after a moment.

You nod, humming in agreement. Less than a month; you’ve been here less than a month. Is that a good thing?

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

A harmless enough question, and again you nod your head. “Yeah, it’s…” you pause, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “It’s paradise. I feel like I need to pinch myself just to make sure it’s real.”

He smiles gently. “But?” he probes.

Grimly, you wonder whether Kiyoshi’s usually this perceptive, or if you’re just a really terrible actor. In a way, you suppose it really doesn’t make a difference; you’ve come too far to turn back now – at least not without raising suspicion. 

So you lie with a truth, and pray that it works.

“I had a friend I was supposed to meet here,” you confess quietly, gazing not at him but the crackling flames of the bonfire, the burning embers carried off into the night. “He was the one who said I should come, but now I’m here and he’s not and every time I catch myself enjoying this–”

“You feel guilty,” he surmises, cutting you off. “Because he’s not here to enjoy it with you.”

Wordlessly, you nod – and maybe it isn’t so much of an act when your eyes begin to glisten, your smile wavering. 

Kiyoshi’s silent for a moment, and you take another sip of the honey wine to hide your nerves. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he says eventually. “Feel guilty, I mean. You belong here, with the Commune. You’re happy here. Paradise… isn’t for everybody.”

He doesn’t say it to be cruel, more like he’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it all the more unnerving. And it’s nothing you haven’t listened to Oikawa preach about time and time again. The Commune is for the devoted, the faithful – the lucky few – and you’ve never thought too hard about what he’d meant by that.

The Commune’s small, maybe a hundred and fifty or so people on the island. There’d been no initiation, no test of faith or trial period you’d had to pass when you arrived – at least, none that you’d been aware of. You simply stepped off the boat and they’d welcomed you with open arms. 

An uneasy sensation settles into your gut, goosebumps prickling at your skin despite the heat of the midsummer night. 

That… doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Absolute control’s too important in groups like this, they couldn’t just let anyone–

Kiyoshi speaks again, his calm voice pulling you from your thoughts. “What was his name?” 

You blink at him slowly – stupidly. “Sorry?”

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “What was his name?”

“Oh, um- Ryuji.”

Kiyoshi’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, but he merely shakes his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell, but like I said, not everyone who arrives stays with us for long.”

He looks you right in the eye as he says it.

You don’t understand the cold, foreboding that seeps through your veins, because he’s lying. He has to be. 

Ryuji was here. They were friends, Ryu’d told you that–

Why did you think this stupid plan would work anyway? That he’d tell you anything, much less the truth when this whole fucked up island is full of liars and those too indoctrinated to know the difference?

“You alright?” he asks when abruptly, you shoot to your feet beside him.

And it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to force an easy smile to your lips, raising your cup just a fraction, “Yeah, just gonna go get a refill. Thanks for the talk, Kiyoshi.”

Whether he notices that your wine’s barely touched or not, you don’t care – not as you turn on your heel without another word and head back up the beach. 

Your head is pounding, your body trembling – you don’t hear the call of your name until a hand reaches out and grasps at your wrist, spinning you around.

Asuka greets you with a wide grin, Makki and a tall, broad shouldered man you think is called Mattsun standing either side of her – the former’s arm slung casually over her shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “Come on, we’re gonna go swimming, it’s so pretty out there!”

You glance out towards the ocean. Moonlight bathes the inky blue water, light shimmering off the rippling tide; some of the others are already out there, splashing amongst the waves. 

“Clothing optional, of course,” Makki laughs, and Asuka tugs on your wrist once more. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

But you shake your head, slowly pulling your hand from her grip, “I’m not feeling great, I think I’m gonna head back.”

Asuka frowns, concern marring her pretty features. “Are you okay? Do you need us to call Mizo–”

“No,” you say, cutting her off. Healer Mizoguchi is the last person you need to see right now. “I just– I just need to go lie down for a bit. You guys go have fun – enjoy the blessing, I’ll be fine.”

Makki and Asuka share a fleeting look, but it’s Mattsun who interjects before either one of them can speak, “I’ll walk you back, then.”

Your stomach churns. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And the smart thing to do would be to accept his help; the walk from the beach to your villa isn’t far, and while you’re not as familiar with Mattsun as you are with Makki or Asuka, it’s not like he’s going to hurt you or anything, but–

“Really– you don’t need to, it’s fine,” you smile weakly, shuffling back as he reaches to offer you his arm. “Go swim, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Mattsun shrugs easily enough, falling back into line with the other two – yet there’s something in the way he grins and holds your gaze for a beat longer. A glimmer of amusement, as if there’s some joke you're not a part of. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

The heat that floods your cheeks clashes uncomfortably with the cloying heaviness in your stomach, but somehow you manage to stutter out one last goodbye before turning back to scamper off in the direction of your room.

–But not to lie down.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon’s bright. No need for a torch, not unless you decide to venture into the heart of the forest.

You’ve been a fool. Kiyoshi, Asuka, Makki, Mattsun; you can’t trust any of them to help you, even unwittingly. Ryuji’s here on the island – somewhere – and every second that slips away, every second that you allow yourself to forget puts him in further danger.

And so you cling to your discomfort, ground yourself in it. The prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the tightness in your chest as you slip past your villa, keeping low and quiet – they’re a reminder that there is something insidious here on the island, that you have to get out.

You and Ryuji.

He’s here. Away from the others, kept under lock and key as punishment, or maybe being forced to undergo whatever kind of glorified brainwashing they’ve got going on, but here. You need to be smart about this, because while you don’t intend to stop until you find him, tonight will be your best shot – while everyone’s distracted down on the beach. 

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you have a clear head. 

Creeping through the underbrush, you steer clear of the well trod pathways that lead towards habitation. You’ve been there, and to the docks, and the river. 

If they’re still keeping him here (and they are, you refuse to entertain the possibility that it could be otherwise) then it’s not somewhere out in the open. A bird cries out in the distance shattering the calm of the night, and you flinch – but it only serves as another reminder that your time tonight is limited; you cannot afford to delay. You wrack your brain, trying to dredge up memories of the last few weeks, surely you must have seen something–

“Lost?”

The single word, spoken in a deep, gruff voice has your blood running cold.

Slowly, you turn. 

Iwa stands behind you in the thicket, his face utterly impassive. Briefly, you contemplate whether it’s worth trying to bluff your way out of this, but Iwa’s eyes narrow, flashing in the dim light and you think better of it.

A sigh escapes you, your shoulders deflating. “Where is he– Ryuji?” you ask; a whisper rather than a demand.

Iwa’s expression gives nothing away. Did he know, or have you handed him the smoking gun of a crime that’d fallen through the cracks? Does it even matter anymore? You’re just–

You’re tired. 

Exhausted. In the space of a few moments all of that shining determination and resolve; it fled, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. This has to end, you can’t keep fighting against them forever. You can’t keep drowning in this guilt, feeling torn every second that you spend here on this stupid island. You just want to find Ryuji and go home.

… Right?

A tense beat passes as Iwa appraises you, and then; “Come with me.”

The hand he places on your shoulder doesn’t give you much choice. His grip isn’t what you’d describe as gentle, yet he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t trip or stumble as he marches you north. 

In the thick of the forest away from the beach, it’s eerily quiet. Every twig that snaps underfoot, every ragged breath you draw; it feels too loud. Out of place amongst the stillness of the midsummer night. 

And isn’t it ironic, that for the first time since you set foot in this paradise, you feel like you’re trespassing?

A bead of sweat trickles down from your temple and your mind unwittingly drifts back to Mattsun and Makki. Are they still swimming with Asuka? Probably, you reason. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since you left them on the beach, but surely no more than an hour.

And strangely, like water drawn from the depths of a well, an image comes to mind; the four of you standing in the waves, you perched atop Mattsun’s shoulders, screaming and giggling in delight as Asuka tries to knock you down again, two sets of eyes watching from the shore… 

You should have stayed on the beach.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You can ask,” he replies drily – humouring you, you suppose.

Your lips quirk upwards for the briefest of moments. “What happens on the Lunar blessing? Asuka, the others– no one told me what it was.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer you immediately, but you feel his fingers reflexively tighten on your shoulder. Likely it wasn’t the question he was expecting; surely there were others that you could have asked – but you don’t really want the answers to those.

If you’re being led like a lamb to proverbial slaughter, what good would it do you to know it? 

And yet as the seconds pass and no answer seems forthcoming from your captor, you resign yourself to the fact that your curiosity will remain unsated. You don’t even know what prompted you to ask in the first place; knowing Oikawa it’s probably some grand, meaningless spectacle. Pretty, hollow words spoken only to–

A heavy sigh draws you from your thoughts, and you falter in your step, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. Iwa’s quick to right you, urging you forward with a less than gentle nudge. “Walk straight,” he grunts, yet it lacks any true heat. Anticipation flutters through your veins, and he mutters a soft curse behind you. “Fine. It… it’s an exchange.” 

An exchange? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your eyebrows draw together, mouth opening to press the matter, but Iwa beats you to the punch.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now shut up.”

You have no response to that, so you do.

—

The two of you walk in silence for what feels like hours. Eventually, the terrain becomes steeper, the worn path you’re treading twisting and winding, and you realise you must be close to the mountains at the heart of the island. 

As your breath comes in heavy pants, your legs beginning to ache, you can’t help but be lost in the beauty of it all.

The flora’s different here, unlike any you’ve seen before. Flowers bursting from the bark of towering trees, blooms of vibrant hues; reds and purples and soft, baby pinks. Even the vines at your feet curl amongst pretty white buds that gleam invitingly under the moonlight. Your jaw falls open as you gaze around in wonderment. 

You forget why you’re walking, where it is that you’re heading. Iwa’s grip relaxes as a quiet gasp escapes you, and he doesn’t stop you when you stray from the path to take a closer look. You can’t resist reaching out to touch the silken petals, leaning in to smell their perfume. Soft and light and sweet, your eyes flutter shut, a smile creeping across your visage. 

It reminds you of home. Not your actual home – the rundown, tiny shoebox apartment you gave up before you came here – but something deeper.

Home, like the long summer days spent playing in your parents’ backyard. Home, like afternoons curled up by the window, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. 

Home, like the comfort of arms wrapped around you; two hearts beating in sync.

“C’mon,” Iwa interrupts after a minute or so, his voice a touch less gruff. “We’re almost there.”

Dazed, you find yourself nodding, allowing him to guide you back to the path. This time, he doesn’t grab you by the shoulder, seemingly content enough to walk by your side. 

True to his word, it’s only another few minutes before you see it; a wooden villa, four times the size of your own and far, far grander, set amongst a clearing of trees on the mountainside. Confused, your eyes flicker from the villa to Iwa and back again. Gossamer curtains billow lightly in the breeze, a warm, inviting glow spilling from the open windows. Surely this cannot be where he meant to lead you… and yet he merely stands at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, watching you expectantly. 

“You gonna make me carry you up there?” he asks, not unkindly.

Swallowing tightly, you shake your head. 

Another glance, and you catch a shadow lingering by the window. Your heart skips a beat, apprehension curling in your gut as you begin to walk, every step feels less steady than the last. You’re almost glad when Iwa takes you by the arm; if only so that you have something to focus on other than the growing tightness in your chest. The villa, with its pretty flowers and airy, elegant grandeur is far from the isolated cell you’d been afraid of, yet the uncertainty of what you’re walking into eats at you all the same.

Is this where they’ve been keeping Ryu, or has he brought you here for another reason?

Nothing, however, can prepare you for what you find inside. Warm light emanates from lanterns that bathe the room, and your eyes widen as you stare around you.

Strange, gold carvings inlaid with mother of pearl decorate the thick, woodens support beams, a pot of incense burns on a table overflowing with fresh fruit. There’s a jug of the same honeyed wine you’d drank earlier in the night and two cups set on an ornate stand nearby – just within arms reach of one of the chaise lounges.

Iwa affords you little time to gape, drawing you further in. Silken tapestries hang from the walls – you’re pulled along too quickly to truly take note, but the brief glimpses you get hint at a story; a divine being cast from his home, lost and wandering.

It tugs at something buried within you, and uncomfortable, you tear your eyes away.

The two of you reach a closed door at the end of the hall, and Iwa pulls you to a stop, knocking once.

“Come,” a familiar voice calls.

You stiffen, though perhaps you should have foreseen this outcome. Who else would Iwa bring you to but to him? Distantly, you register his grip relaxing, the sound of the door sweeping open and his voice at your ear.

“Go on.”

And it’s funny, you think, how two halves of yourself can be so at odds with each other. Because while your stomach twists itself into knots, goosebumps prickling at your skin, your legs stumble forward of their own accord.

Two steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a bedroom, that much you can deduce from the decor, but that’s not what captures your attention. Nor is it Oikawa, leaning against the bureau with a genial smile – at least not at first. 

No. In place of a back wall, there’s open space, not so much as a panel of glass obstructing the view before you. And what a view it is; from this height you can see the sprawling forest below, the coastline dotted with bonfires and the moonlit ocean shimmering beyond. Where the floorboards end, there are steps, you realise as you unwittingly inch closer, leading to a cascading spring – likely fed from the waterfall you can hear rushing nearby.

How easy it would be to brush aside your worries, you think, to shed your clothes, slip into the cool, calm water and lose yourself entirely. Even amongst all you’ve seen and experienced on the island so far, this is incomparable. 

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Oikawa murmurs, coming up behind you.

His voice startles you, yet when you turn, you find him not gazing out at the scenery but rather at you, that same strange, knowing smile curling at his lips.

“Some days, I admit, it’s hard to tear myself away,” he continues, unbothered by your stunned silence. “But even I can’t neglect my duties for too long.”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Confusion twists through you at the conversational tone, surely he hasn’t brought you here just to chat about the impressive views, yet there’s no hint of disapproval on his face, no indication that he’s anything less than pleased with you.

It’s unnerving to say the least, but you’ll play along with his game if that’s what Oikawa wants.

“Beautiful,” you say, though the words feel woefully inadequate even as you speak them.

He hums in agreement, something akin to pride flickers in his eyes at your assessment, “A labour of love, I suppose. But… everything you see here, everything I’ve built, it comes with a price. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry?” you stutter.

“Paradise,” he elaborates, his smile widening. “There’s no give without take. Those people down there,” he nods down at the beach, the tiny, ant-like figures still milling about, “the lost, the beaten, the abused – I gave them what they so desperately sought; a sanctuary. A life without struggle, without suffering.” He pauses for a moment, reaching forward to take your hand. You almost flinch, almost skitter across the room to put as much distance between you as you can, but you don’t–

His palm is warm as it envelops yours, a pleasant heat that seems to spread through your veins, easing your tense muscles. There’s nothing to fear from him, you’re safe with Oikawa.

“Aren’t you happy here?”

Yes.

“What about the price?” you ask instead, though it takes more concentration than it should to force the words out. 

Oikawa’s thumb sweeps along the back of your hand. “I never said it was your price to pay,” he soothes. 

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but another sharp knock at the door draws your attention before you can think too hard about it. You turn out of instinct, barely aware of the way his hand tightens fractionally around your own.  

A single finger at your jaw coaxes your attention back to him. “If you built a paradise, wouldn’t you give whatever necessary to ensure it flourished?”

Oikawa stares at you expectantly, deep brown eyes searching your face as he waits for an answer. Agreement would be the logical choice – the one he seems to want from you – but even as your lips part, the only sound that escapes is a breathless, confused noise. 

When you were a kid, maybe six or seven, your parents took you to the beach one day and you waded too far out into the water. The waves were bigger than you expected; all it took was one mistimed jump and you were dragged under.

It wasn’t for long, probably only seconds, and ultimately you were fine – but you remember those few seconds so vividly. The feeling of helplessly tumbling through the water, fighting to break the surface but not knowing which way was up. Your lungs crying out for oxygen, the disorientation and dizziness, the panic.

It feels like that now – like the floor’s dropped out from beneath you and you’re just hurtling through empty air, desperately trying to slow yourself down with nothing to grab onto.

None of this makes any sense. Your emotions are shot to pieces, too many parts of yourself being pulled in different directions and you’re not sure which ones you can trust anymore. How can you be? Oikawa’s still holding your hand, smiling at you, and you just want everything to stop for a second so you can right yourself and breathe–

The door opens.

Iwaizumi appears in your field of vision, dragging a bound, hooded figure behind him. And because this is all some big, cosmic joke, you get your wish. Both of them, actually. 

Time slows. 

Even with a burlap sack pulled over his head, you recognise the man Iwa shoves to the floor and sneers at. 

Hundreds of miles, weeks of uselessly traipsing around this fucking island, and finally– 

Finally, you’ve found Ryu.

There should be relief. Fear, considering his current state, yes, but Ryuji’s here and he’s alive and as the hood is ripped off his head Oikawa squeezes your hand and the only thing you feel is… anger.

Not a heated flash that surges through your blood. It’s slow and seething, insipid. You look at him, locked in place as empty, pleading eyes meet yours and all you can think is that all of this – everything – is his fault.

“Asuka told you why she came to me, didn’t she?” Oikawa asks.

Your brow furrows, why–why is he asking you that now, how did he even–

He slips closer behind you, letting your hand go in favour of your shoulder, his spare dragging lightly along the bare skin of your arm. “She was lost, in so much pain. The physical wounds, they heal after a while,” his voice is right in your ear, a low murmur that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

It isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“But the scars inside, well… sometimes those fester.”

Gagged and bound, kneeling at your feet, Ryu doesn’t even try to make a sound. 

He’s thinner than you remember. Face gaunt and bruised; there’s a half healed, mottled yellow one painted across the left side of his jaw, one eye purple and swollen. You glance at Iwa, standing stoically behind him, muscular arms folded across his chest. His work, you wonder, or others as well? You notice the tear tracks running down his face, catching the light of the lanterns, but it’s as if you’re seeing it all through a thick pane of glass. None of it reaches you, there’s nothing but that simmering, ugly feeling in your gut.

Oikawa hums, “I told you that Paradise wasn’t for everyone. It’s a haven, yes, but there are those who simply… don’t belong.”

His body’s so warm, pressed up against yours. Fingertips graze along your side, and this time you don’t bother biting back that tiny, breathless moan. Iwa briefly smirks at it, but there’s no embarrassment. Why should there be? Your eyes flit back to Ryu, bowed on the wooden floor.

Another memory resurfaces; A sharp crack and a ringing in your ears, Ryuji, eyes bloodshot and glazed, falling to his knees, clutching frantically at the leg of your pants as endless apologies spill from his lips. 

It wasn’t him. It was never him. 

“He hurt you,” Oikawa purrs. “He kept hurting you, I saw it.”

The words wash over you like waves breaking on the shore, but you find yourself nodding anyway. It was the truth, wasn’t it? A thousand tiny hurts, piled up on one another until you finally broke.

And you’d still come when he’d called.

Listened to him when he’d begged you not to hang up the phone.

“Iwa.” 

The brunet moves towards a grand chest of drawers pushed up against the western wall. An ornate dagger sits atop, strange and beautiful; the blade isn’t steel or any metal you’ve seen before, but some kind of black stone, the handle intricately carved ivory. You hadn’t even noticed it before, Oikawa’s room filled to the brim with odd trinkets and treasures, but now that you have, it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Iwa takes it and carries it over towards the two of you, holding it with the utmost care. 

“Obsidian,” Oikawa informs you as he accepts the blade from his friend, bringing it in front of you both to show it off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” And while you can’t see his face, you can hear the smile in his tone.

He isn’t wrong though. 

Ever so carefully you reach out, the soft pads of your fingertips running along the obsidian surface, surprisingly cool to the touch. The razor sharp edges – wavy and asymmetrical, leading to a tapered point – you’re careful to avoid, almost positive you’d draw blood with the slightest touch. 

“Take it,” he urges, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. 

Obediently, you turn your hand over, your fingers wrapping around the hilt when he presses it against your palm. And as long fingers curl around yours, you idly wonder how old the dagger is – there’s not so much as a scratch on it, yet there’s something about the weapon in your hand that feels ancient. It thrums under your combined touch.

Oikawa jerks his chin at Iwa, and with a short nod and one last, lingering glance cast your way, the latter exits once again. 

Leaving you and Oikawa alone with Ryuji.

“It’s almost time,” he remarks – though time for what, you’re not entirely sure. His lips press against your hair, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist, drawing you flush against him. “I know why you came to me, the lies that led you here.”

Both of you turn your attention back to Ryuji at that, the bound man now shaking with the force of his muffled sobs, snot dripping from his nose. That bitter resentment rears its ugly head again, soothed only by Oikawa’s pacifying hum, his thumb now rubbing slow circles at your side. “Shh, I’m not angry – none of that matters now. You’ve found a home here, no? You want to stay on the island with me.”

You swallow, nodding your head rapidly. The thought of having to leave now, of being forced out after everything you’ve seen and felt and experienced here, you– you can’t fathom it. You don’t want to. 

Ryuji’d wrought so much damage, but even before he’d swept through your life… had you ever been happy? Were you ever truly accepted – or loved, for that matter?

You can’t go back to that life. You won’t; he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the shore. The Commune is your home, this is where you belong. Here, with Oikawa.

“Good girl,” he croons, another kiss pressed to the crown of your head. You beam at the praise and Ryuji crumples a little further. “Death begets life, you understand now, don’t you?”

You glance at the obsidian dagger in your hand and then at Ryu, beaten and bruised, bowed in forced supplication before you, and nod.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Then do it.”

Leaning forward, you reach for Ryu, fingers lightly trailing down his ruined cheek, curling at his chin to coax his head upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain and regret etched over every inch of his face, but he doesn’t fight you. 

Baring his throat to your dagger, Ryuji’s pleas take the shape of your name.

Muffled, thanks to the gag, but unmistakable. And for one single moment, you falter. 

This… this is wrong; for all his faults, and god knows there were plenty, Ryu didn’t des–

A wave of calm washes over you, allaying your fears, your doubts. Your breath leaves you in a heavy gust, taking with it the tension in your shoulders, and Oikawa’s voice, smooth and honeyed, reaches your ears once more, “Nothing comes without a price, doesn’t he deserve to be the one to pay it?”

With your hand still tucked inside of his, your arm moves with a will of its own; slashing with inhuman grace.

The dagger cuts deep, Ryuji’s eyes snapping open in shock as a spray of warm blood hits you both. He chokes – a horrid, wet, gurgling sound – wide, pleading eyes frantically shifting between you and Oikawa. Every beat of his failing heart sends fresh blood spurting from the gaping wound. It drenches his front, splatters across your dress, your face, crimson pooling at the wooden floorboards at his knees. His mouth falls open and shut, trying and failing to form coherent sounds and you just stand there and watch, the dagger hanging limply at your side.

It doesn’t take long; seconds at the most. 

Ryuji’s slumps to the floor, his body finally growing still as the light fades from his eyes. There’s a beat of absolute silence, and then–

Oikawa shudders behind you, a strangled, drawn out moan leaving his lips. You try to turn, but his arms lock around you, every muscle tensing, his back arching. The dagger in your hand grows hot, burning the soft skin of your palm, but with his fingers still tightly entwined with yours you can only whimper and endure it.

With a hoarse, guttural roar, a pulse of pure energy surges through the room like a shockwave. Every cell in your body lights up, electrified, buzzing; a dizzying euphoria unlike any you’ve felt before coursing through your blood. 

Across the island, voices cry out in delight, a symphony of life. The trees tremble and shake, invigorated and renewed, fresh buds bursting from the forest floor, blooming under the light of the full moon.

The harvests flourish, even the river swells in response to the call.

Death begets life, just as he promised.

And with every inch of your body alight and singing with pleasure, you can barely think much less protest (and why would you want to?) as Oikawa roughly yanks you around, hungry lips crashing against your own as his fingers pull and tear at your bloodstained dress. He wastes no time with foreplay, and you suspect only begrudgingly takes a moment to hoist you up against him and carry you to his bed.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he hauls your hips to his, sheathing his cock inside of your warm, tight cunt with one savage thrust, but you don’t care.

Not as you cling to him, fingernails raking along his shoulders as he presses your thighs further apart so he can fuck you deeper. It’s hard and rough and brutal, yet you moan for him all the same, his name a prayer swallowed up by feverish, claiming kisses.

Tonight, bathed in blood and the soft glow of moonlight, you offer your god everything.

—

“Look, look!” 

A small hand tugs at your skirt, and you glance down to find a little girl with pretty, dark curls holding up a crown of woven flowers.

“Do you like it?” she asks. 

Carefully, you take it from her, bringing it closer to examine. She watches you intently as you study it, lifting it this way and that to appraise her work, humming thoughtfully for good measure. “I think it’s beautiful work,” you tell her after a long enough pause, and you can’t help but smile at the way she lights up, preening under your praise. “Why don’t you go show your mama? I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.”

The girl nods rapidly, thanking you before skipping off in the direction of her parents. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, the fires already being readied for the night ahead. You’re not unaware of the watchful gaze that carefully monitors your every move, and the moves of anyone who ventures too close by. Soon enough, you’ll return home to the heart of the island – anticipation fluttering in your belly at the thought of what awaits you – but for now, you let your feet sink further into the sand, closing your eyes as you bask in the lingering warmth of the setting sun.

At least until the sound of your name being called draws you back to the present. Yet it’s not Iwaizumi approaching, but rather Makki, two strangers trailing along behind him. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” he grins, throwing a casual arm over your shoulders. “This is Kaneo,” he gestures to the man, “and his wife Manaka. They arrived this morning, I’ve been showing ‘em round.”

You turn to the couple, smiling sweetly as you extend a hand, “Welcome to the Commune.”

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere oikawa tooru #yandere oikawa #yandere oikawa tooru x reader #cult au #tw: religious themes #tw: dubcon #tw: blood #tw: minor character death #tw: abuse #hades.dark #oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader

[unsettledling]

they say my professor used to be a fed. somehow through the nepotism he sat across the table from people deemed monsters given softer names; bureaucracy dulling all their edges until they fit the academic language of syllabic cages. the violent criminal apprehension project, it's called, and whispers claim my professor was a profiler.

he teaches creative writing now. wears age-softened leather and tweed. looks, for all the world, like a quietly mad poet who walked from a movie into the university's halls instead of diving into martyrdom. he smiles like a song bird and laughs like a ghost; he's the most real when students read their work aloud. he's the least real when we ask him to read his.

he gives us advice, sometimes, beyond the ways to bend words better to our craft, to our intentions, our visions. "never fall in love with someone who wants to save the world," he says. "never fall in love with prophets, messiahs. revolutionaries.

"they give so much, too much, to the world. they won't have enough left for you.

"you'll try to fill them," he says. "you'll try to replenish what they've lost with pieces of yourself, but they're too selfless. they'll always keep giving more away."

the whispers grow whenever a disappearance leaves a bloody shadow. whenever his door locks behind people from administration. the whispers twist, darkening like the bags under his eyes.

sometimes, the missing person comes back. sometimes, my professor stands silent in our classroom, staring at his hands.

no matter what we say, he shakes his head. tells us, "revolution is an act of love. with the risk of appearing ridiculous." he always smiles here, empty. "with the risk of appearing ridiculous," he repeats. "there's nothing in it unless the core of it is love."

we ask what he means. what he's talking about. he shakes his head again. "don't dirty yourself to keep your prophet bright," he says. "your hands might be bloody but make the deeds your own. don't hold someone else's sins by proxy."

we ask if he's religious, one day, when the sun makes the leaves burn like emerald fire, when my professor looks alive. he chuckles and it sounds like wind through a gorge. "who was the savior, jesus as a god, or as a man?"

we don't ask about his past. we don't ask if he sat across from serial killers, if he ever got answers too late, if he ever found bodies when he was looking for breathing; the ghosts cling to him. wind themselves through his hair. the hallways whisper, even when nobody's there.

his hands shake when someone reads their piece, a character study on judas. on loving a piece of glass, of silver mirror, a reflection of g-d and man. we don't ask.

that student brings a story about a hunter and a bluejay next class instead; set in winter, the snow in the story leeches any warmth or passion from the words. my professor comments on the bluejay's perspective.

we don't ask.

the next day, he gives us another piece of advice. "your bread will turn to stone," he tells us, "if you become a wilderness. the prophets stay forty days and forty nights. but they always leave."

one day, he cries. i don't know what caused it. i don't think any of us do. maybe a name, a memory, something conjured in a piece someone shared—but why hardly matters. his face shattered and his eyes reflected the sky and he broke open. he knelt and wept like bleeding, wept like a wound.

we sat in silence. watched. like hungry parishioners and this was communion.

"i cannot pen more hymns," he says. "i cannot write more gospels. not when each other disciple—each other brother—has followed you, waiting, where i cannot." his voice breaks. none of us move. some of us might not have breathed.

my professor presses his forehead to the floor.

"john," i say. "you've finished. you have no more to give."

he looks up and his eyes are too old to see me.

"you can rest." i look to my classmates because i can't look at him. "someone else will continue the story."

they say my professor used to be a fed. that he spoke to monsters with a straight face. they don't know he's spoken to much more important. that you can't flinch from the light once you've already been blinded.

[dwellordream]

“Antifeminist jest and satire against alewives, shrews, and gossip soften grouped together as gossips' literature-provides a rich site for this sort of excavation. The word gossip itself requires more careful treatment than it is usually given. Respectable for centuries, gossip (from godsip) referred primarily to a godparent of either gender. By the sixteenth century the word was being applied to any close female friend, though it was sometimes used for male friends as well. In the late sixteenth century "gossiping" described a "merry meeting" of women to drink, laugh, and talk; it was not until a century later that Johnson's Dictionary equated gossip with the obnoxious woman "who runs about tattling like women at a lying in." Early modern speakers drew important distinctions between scold and gossip. The words were by no means equivalents. 

Unlike talking about one's neighbors, scolding was a chronic, legally actionable offense; and the connotations of shrew varied from mild to damning. In Brathwait's Essaies upon the five senses (1619), a scold "goes weekly a catter-wauling, where shee spoiles their spice-cup'd gossiping with her tart-tongued calletting." Whatever those gossips are up to, the scold is wrong to spoil it. Such a distinction suggests that women had certain rights of assembly-despite all the injunctions that women should stay indoors, avoid all gadding, and strive for silence. Traveler Emmanuel Van Meteren marveled that Englishwomen spent so much time visiting their friends and keeping company, conversing with their equals (whom they term gossips) and their neighbours, and making merry with them at child-births, christenings, churchings and funerals; and all this with the permission and knowledge of their husbands, as such was the custom.

Daniel Rogers warned husbands that they would be foolish to forbid their wives to attend gossipings and even advised them to give wives money "to bestow upon the meetings and lawfull merriments of their kind, which it were a poore thing for a husband curiously to enquire after." Robert Cawdrey urged moderation rather than abstinence: gossips should meet only as often as "the law of good neighbourhood doth require." John Stephens's character "A Gossip" predictably conflates a woman's volubility and mobility with sexual and bodily incontinence. 

Her knowledge is her speech; the motive, her tongue; and the reason is her tongue also: but the subject of her eloquence is her neighbours wife, and her husband, or the neighbours wife and husband both. Shee is the mirth of marriages, and publicke meetings .... Shee carries her bladder in her braine, that is full; her braine in her tongues end, that shee empties .... Shee emulates a Lawyer in riding the circuite, and therefore she keeps a circuit in, or out of her own liberties: striving to be both one of the judges, Jury, and false witnesses: that is her freedom only, to censure .... Her truth is, to make truths and tales convertibles: tales be her substance, her conceit, her vengeance, reconcilements, and discourse .... If she railes against whoredom it savours not of devotion; for she is only married to escape the like scandall; from the doore outward.

The irony, of course, is that the author rails in the catty tones of a censorious neighbor. Despite the formulaic hostility in this character, one may glimpse a shadow portrait of a neighbor and a neighborhood. Like neighbor, the term gossip implies a relationship between peers. Always on hand for disputes and interventions, she also serves as a chief relayer of news and knowledge within the community. As the sarcastic phrase "one of the judges" indicates, she operates as an informal social arbiter. Ironically, it is precisely her narrative skill that qualifies her for this role. No matter how caustically "tittle tattle" was scorned, gossip "gave women a particular standing in neighbourhood social relations," as Gowing puts it. "Telling stories and judging morals made women the brokers of moral reputation."

While Stephens derides his gossip for gadding and tattling, he fails to suppress an uncomfortable social fact: such women can never be excluded from the crucial labor of maintaining social order. Pamphleteers and playwrights devoted much energy to trivializing women's talk at gossipings, betraying their fear that the effects on men's reputations could be far from trivial. In a merry meeting in Thomas Deloney's Thomas of Reading, some gossips "talkt of their husbands' frowardnes, some shewed their maids sluttishnes, othersome deciphered the costliness of their garments, some told many tales of their neighbors." Some jest gossips are two-faced, greedy, and leaky, such as those in Middleton's Chaste Maid in Cheapside. Others are almost witchlike. 

The author of The Gossips Greeting (1620) rants against "the proud, peevish, paultry, pernicious shee-pot companions, those curious, careless, crafty, carping curtizanicall Gossips ... dangerous as hell, / None of you beare a modest womans mind / You do infect even with your smell." These representations must be read alongside gossips' texts that are more nuanced and altogether less bilious. Samuel Rowlands's best-selling Tis Merry When Gossips Meet (1602) and A Whole Crew of Kind Gossips (1609) painted alehouse meetings with a mix of humorous voyeurism, mild satire, and unusually candid social realism. In the first pamphlet a wife and widow give a maid fairly standard advice about men and marriage. The widow buys them rounds with an evident pride in her ability to pay, providing a strong contrast to the many jests in which drunken men cheat the hostess. 

Satire is directed largely at the widow, who gets tipsy and garrulous. But for the most part, the pamphlet leaves the impression that it offered readers a glimpse of women indulging in a merry pastime that formed an important and familiar part of neighborhood socializing. To repeat Wrightson's argument, the ideal of "good neighborhood" required everyone to accept neighbors "as a reference group in matters of behavior and to promote harmonious relations among them." How could a woman fulfill this obligation without asking, "What news?" The surprising answer is that she couldn't. What we now call gossip was, in fact, essential to being a good neighbor, and talking about neighbors and strangers was not considered the prelude to scolding or near kin to slander. The obligation of neighborhood made constant comment not only normative but a prime regulating device. 

To use Merry Wives as an example, the Windsor wives' censure of Falstaff and gossip about Ford initiates action that will eventually involve their neighbors in neutralizing the threats to the common peace posed by a sexual adventurer and a horn-mad husband. Their joint consultation and campaign of mockery lie firmly in the bounds of "good neighborhood." Censorious gossip "could be an effective informal method of control: it indicated community disapproval, and shamed its subject. If the subject of gossip did not stop the behavior, at least everyone else knew what to think about it." Gossip, defined this way, could maintain and reiterate social boundaries. Fueled by curiosity and pleasure in ridicule, gossip also primed audiences to recognize the more cutting forms of wit and the aesthetically engineered moral judgment known as satire. 

Proficiency at this narrative form, so often salted with jests and proverbs, promoted rhetorical efficacy in life and art, while skill at telling believable stories about one's life and neighbors held much weight in the courtroom and on the streets. Gossip was not always conservative in effect. By asking "What news?" women also had a chance to learn about and talk over events in the larger world, out of the hearing of husbands, fathers, and masters. According to historian Steve Hindle, gossip is both a "female subculture" and a "formative stage in the development of 'public opinion' over a whole range of issues, local and national, private and public, personal and political. To ignore gossip is to ignore one of the few channels of participation in this 'public sphere' that was open to women."

Gatherings during working time or in leisure moments, such as christenings, may have given women a place in which to articulate opinions and to plan for common action, such as the many enclosure protests, grain riots, and religious disputes in which they participated. Some fictional gossips poach eagerly on male discourses supposedly closed to them, such as biblical interpretation, the worth of stage plays, and the fate of kings. In The gospelles of dystaves (c. 1510) a group of women meets secretly to hear a new kind of preaching by "apostles" named Dame Hengtyne and Dame Abunde, while a male scholar transcribes. Their chat mixes homely proverbs and bawdy laughter, interspersed with more serious challenges to religious teachings about women's subjection. 

While the pamphlet obviously satirizes ignorant and unruly women, it also suggests that women did talk together about what they heard in church and that they were given to interpreting biblical passages in favor of women's interests. Female association could be dangerous to the state: the weird sisters of Macbeth carp about their neighbors, crack jokes, practice riddling prophecy, and rearrange Scottish history. Like gossips in their cups, they "scorn male power" while "their words and bodies mock rigorous boundaries and make sport of fixed positions. " In The Staple of News, Jonson attempts to silence and discipline unruly women in his audiences by presenting caricatures of neighborhood gossips. 

Underlining the close association between the juries of the threshold and the theater, Tattle, Mirth, Censure, and Expectation boldly invade the stage with their stools, sitting down to cavil about the actors and the sweaty playwright, forming a jury of women who judge a play together as if they were judging gossip and scandal at home. Despite the satire, Jonson casts them as the prime producers and consumers of news and rumors; he cannot help but make them sharp-eyed judges of the staple, which commodifies word of mouth" by printing it. Occasionally gossips are painted as resourceful and clever. In Dekker and Webster's Westward Hal, citizen wives furnish themselves "a commodity of laughter" by leading their jealous husbands and eager suitors on a wild-goose chase up the Thames. 

As in Merry Wives, this pleasure carries a risk. When they plot to scare their husbands with the prospect of horns and turn the tables on their arrogant suitors, one wife warns the others that they must deflect any resulting slanders using shrewd foresight: tho we are merry, let's not be mad: ... It were better we should laugh at these popin-Jayes, then live in feare of their prating tongues: tho we lie all night out of the Citty, they shall not finde country wenches of us: but since we ha[ve] brought em thus far into a fooles Paradice, leave em int: the Jest shall be a stock to maintain us and our pewfellowes in laughing at christning, cryings out, and upsittings the twelvemonth. 

Similar scenes of female complicity are rooted in the social reality of women neighbors and gossips who rely heavily on each other's judgment in matters sexual and romantic. Such interdependence was especially important for unmarried women. Comedies featuring maids satirizing suitors (like Portia and Nerissa in The Merchant of Venice) or coolly ranking types of men (like Franck and Clora in Fletcher's The Captain and Celia and Rosalind in As You Like It) probably did stoke masculine anxieties about patriarchy's vulnerability to the desires of women. On the other hand, the very same scenes may have delighted women or taught them sophisticated new ways to squelch unwanted suitors. 

The antimasculinist satire and complaint that fill gossips' literature function in a distinctive way in Margaret Cavendish's Convent of Pleasure, which virtually reproduces passages from gossips' literature and from women's tirades in controversy pamphlets. Poor women meet in the street to moan about the flaws of their husbands, which include wife beating, heavy drinking, and gambling away the household funds. Other scenes show the terrors of childbed and the persecution of a gentlewoman threatened with rape by a married man whose proposals she rejects. Neighbors and friends cannot stop rapine suitors or worthless husbands in this dystopia; so Cavendish creates a gender retreat that takes female complaint seriously, dedicating her earthly paradise to women's association, education, and delight: a high-toned gossips' feast.”

- Pamela Allen Brown, “Ale and Female: Gossips as Players, Alehouse as Theater.” in Better a Shrew than a Sheep: Women, Drama, and the Culture of Jest in Early Modern England

#better a shrew than a sheep #pamela allen brown #history #tudor #renaissance #elizabethan #jacobean

[nerdygaymormon]

Matthew 15: 21-28 - yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters' table

21 Then Jesus went thence, and departed into the coasts of Tyre and Sidon. 22 And, behold, a woman of Canaan came out of the same coasts, and cried unto him, saying, Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou son of David; my daughter is grievously vexed with a devil. 23 But he answered her not a word. And his disciples came and besought him, saying, Send her away; for she crieth after us. 24 But he answered and said, I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel. 25 Then came she and worshipped him, saying, Lord, help me. 26 But he answered and said, It is not meet to take the children's bread, and to cast it to dogs. 27 And she said, Truth, Lord: yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters' table. 28 Then Jesus answered and said unto her, O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt. And her daughter was made whole from that very hour.

————————————————————

It’s interesting that the unchangeable characteristics of the Canaanite woman are highlighted.

Canaanites were non-Jews and considered “unclean” from birth. The Canaanites were dispossessed of their land by the invading Israelites and despised by the Israelites. 

At that time, women were not supposed to be out in public by themselves, much less allowed to speak to a man. 

Likewise we don’t choose our sexual orientation or gender identity and we can’t change them, they aren’t malleable. 

—————————

In these verses, the Canaanite woman was ignored by Jesus. This is the first time in Matthew’s gospel that a women directly speaks to Jesus, it may have surprised Him. Perhaps Jesus and His disciples are expressing the cultural racism & sexism of their time.

In the treatment of the Canaanite woman, I recognize the Church’s treatment of queer people. The reaction is unacceptable but unsurprising. Queer people risk rejection of all kinds when they come out and try to join or remain in a faith community. 

Our questions about how we fit in the gospel are often met by uncomfortable silence, typical behavior of the privileged who are secure in their position and don’t need those questions answered for themselves.  

When Jesus does answer, he responds that His God-given mission excludes her, that she’s among the lost sheep. On what basis is He rejecting her request? It’s not to do with her character or faith, it’s because of her ethnicity or gender. This is Jesus’s version of “We don’t serve your kind here.”

This is similar to people being dismissed from church for being queer, not according to our faith or our character.

—————————

I’m sure it came at great cost to her dignity, but the Canaanite woman doesn’t leave. Even knowing His people have oppressed her people, this woman cries to Jesus in desperation, knowing He may be the only one who can help her daughter.

Queer people can identify with the Canaanite woman’s “outsider” status and her desire to be included. She made a personal appeal to Jesus, “Lord, help me.”

Jesus tells the Canaanite woman that not only will he not help her daughter, but she’s is a mere animal compared to the people to whom He extends His mercy.

Jesus says He won’t throw the bread He is feeding the children to the dogs (actually the word He uses might better be translated as puppies). This is a really shocking thing to read.

In the scriptures, Jesus compares Himself to bread, and those who eat shall never hunger and will have life. We read of Jesus multiplying 5 loaves to feed a multitude of thousands, but He can’t extend His love and mercy to yet one more person? Scholars acknowledge that “dogs” was an ethnic slur used by Jewish people against their “unclean” Gentile neighbors. In essence, the Bread of Life that Jesus is providing is only for the Jewish children and not the children of the dogs. Ouch!

This is a situation that queer people find themselves in. Most queer people have been called names that sting. We’ve been told the blessings of the gospel are for others, not for us. 

The Canaanite woman’s response that “the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters' table,” displays the kind of cleverness that usually Jesus offers. She turned Jesus’ words against Him the way that Jesus often turns the words of the Pharisees against them. 

I bet her words surprised Him. Jesus realized He is mistaken and she has helped Him better understand His purpose and mission. Her wise rebuttal showed Jesus’ position was unreasonable and unmerciful, she turned His derogatory statement into a reason for Him to give her what she wants.

Jesus notes she has great faith, then blesses the Canaanite woman that her daughter would be made whole. 

God’s love is so expansive, it can stretch and surprise even Jesus Christ himself.

—————————

Many churches have kicked out queer people from their congregations because they’re expressing the cultural bigotry of the time they live in. When they reject queer people, these churches are acting as Christ and the disciples did in rejecting the Canaanite woman.

So many queer people are thrown out of church because the leaders and members call them “sinners.” 

Others are told that changing the prejudiced theology and opening the doors of ordinances/sacraments to non-straight people would be too much for the congregants, they’re not ready. 

Other queer people are told they are welcomed, but then their needs & unique situations are ignored, no accommodation to the way principles are taught or implemented to include queer people.

Queer people aren’t even getting crumbs, yet we deserve access to the same bread provided to the children who are straight and cisgender. 

Christians should be mindful of their biases and understand that God’s love isn’t as restrictive as their own prejudices.

Queer people aren’t outside of God’s love. We should ask for the blessings we need, even if many Christians think we’re not acceptable.

It’s been a long-time coming, but some Christians are now recognizing that their rejection of queer people is unreasonable and unmerciful. A few congregations can be found which welcome and include queer people and bless them the way Jesus ultimately blessed the Canaanite woman, they recognize the faith queer people have.

#queer scriptures #long post #queer faith #queerstake

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

Pilate Sentencing Jesus (John 19:1-16)

Pilate's portrait is hung up in the gallery of the world's great criminals. His is one of the names which never will be forgotten. The incident of the scourging is one of the darkest blots in the story of that terrible Friday. Pilate claimed that he could find no fault in Jesus, and that He should be released - yet, hoping that it would satisfy the Jews, he ordered Him to be scourged. The scourging must be considered as a part of Christ's sufferings as the world's Redeemer. The shame and indignity of being tied like a slave to a whipping post and then beaten until He seemed dead, we never can realize, for, thanks to the softening influence of the religion of Christ, such treatment even of the worst criminals is now unknown in civilized lands. There is, however, a word in Isaiah which gives a fresh meaning to this part of Christ's suffering. "With His stripes we are healed" (Isaiah 53:5), says the prophet. The peace we enjoy is ours, because the rod of chastisement fell upon Him - because He was smitten. Our soul's diseases are healed, their wounds made whole, because the body of Jesus was gashed and lacerated by the horrible scourge!

After the cruel scourging came the crowning with thorns and the mockery of Jesus as a King. "The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head." We ought to look with great love and reverence at the picture - Jesus the Son of God, our Savior, standing there in the midst of heathen soldiers, mocked and insulted by them. We know how truly He is a King, and what a glorious King He is.

When the crusaders had captured the Holy City, Palestine became an independent kingdom. Godfrey, of Bouillon, was made king of Jerusalem, and it was proposed that he be crowned with a golden crown. But Godfrey's noble answer was, "I will not wear a crown of gold in the city where my Savior wore a crown of thorns."

It is a sweet thought, too, that because Jesus wore a crown of thorns in the day of His shame - His redeemed ones shall wear crowns of glory in the life to come.

In one sense this mock coronation of Jesus was very significant. Was He really ever more a King than when He was enduring His cross? All through John's gospel we have seen that Jesus spoke of His going to His cross - as His being glorified. His cross really was His throne. It was on the cross that He fought the great battle and won the great victory of redemption. The cross was the ladder that led up to His throne. His crown of thorns, too, was fitter for Him than a crown of gold would have been, for He was the King of sorrow ; He reached His glory - by His sufferings; He saved His people - by dying for them. He is adored and worshiped now as the King who has lifted men up by His own sorrows and blood to eternal life and blessedness.

Pilate showed pitiful weakness at every step in his dealing with Jesus. He knew there was no sin in Him, and yet he brought Him out to the people and surrendered Him to them. "Behold the Man!" Our eyes should be fixed upon Jesus as He stands there in the presence of the multitude. On His head - is the crown of thorns, and around His torn and bleeding body - is a purple robe, mock emblems of royalty. Behold the Man! Behold the Man enduring shame and contempt, set forth as a spectacle of mockery, that He might be presented at last in glory, and honored before angels and the Father. Behold the Man, reviled - yet reviling not again; hated - but still loving on; cruelly wronged - but speaking no resentful word. Behold the Man, the God-Man, wearing humanity, the Son of God humbling Himself and becoming obedient unto shame and death - that He might save our souls! Behold the Man, holy, sinless, undefiled, separate from sinners - yet bearing upon His own head as the Lamb of God, the sin of the world.

The only righteous thing for a just judge to do when he finds his prisoner innocent - is to set him free. Pilate brought Jesus out to the people - but said plainly, "I find no fault in Him." Nobody could. Nobody ever did. The rulers tried zealously enough to find something that they use as a pretext - but they found nothing. They tried false witnesses - but even these could not agree in their witnessing. Now the keen Roman judge inquires into His character, into His life, into His motives - but finds nothing against Him. No other man has lived in whom no fault could be found. The holiest men have sinned. But Jesus was absolutely sinless. Why then did He suffer as a sinner? We know well the answer. They were our sins that they laid upon Him. "Christ has redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us" (Galatians 3:13). Christ also has suffered once for sins, "the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God." "Who His own self bore our sins in His own body on the tree."

We never should forget this. In these days perhaps there is a tendency to forget the sacrifice of Christ, in thinking of His salvation. Between us in our curse and our blessing - stands the cross of our Savior. He was wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities. Let us praise the grace that took our sins, that we may stand whiter than snow before the throne of judgment!

The silences of Jesus are always as significant as His words. He was silent to Pilate. He understood Pilate's weak insincerity. Pilate had had opportunity enough to do the right thing for Jesus - but he had thrown away His opportunity. Now Jesus would answer no more of His questions. One lesson we must get from this silence - is that if we reject Christ's offer of mercy and grace over and over, the time may come, will come, when Christ will be silent to us. And of all calamities that can possibly ever come to any soul - none could be so great as that Christ should be silent to its prayers. "Then shall they call upon me - but I will not answer; they shall seek me early - but they shall not find me" (Proverbs 1:28).

Another lesson we may learn from Christ's example, is that there come times in all our lives, when silence is better than speech. Often to words of reviling or to insult - silence is the only true Christian answer. To many of the assaults of skeptics on our religion and on our Lord - it is better that we remain silent than that we speak. There is a time to speak boldly and without fear in the presence of Christ's enemies - Christ did speak several times in reply to Pilate - but there are also times when we should keep silence, attempting no answer.

Pilate tried to compel Jesus to answer him. "Don't you realize I have power either to free you or to crucify you?" The answer of Jesus is very clear. "You would have no power over me - if it were not given to you from above." No man's power belongs to himself, to do with as he pleases; it is given him from God, the Source of all power. This is true of the authority of parents and teachers, and of the power possessed by civil magistrates. Men are eager to obtain positions of power, and they do not always realize the responsibility which is attached to such positions. Power belongs to God, and must be used for God, or its misuse will bring its sore penalty. It is a talent which is given to us to be accounted for, and no treason is worse than malfeasance in the employing of power. This is true all the way from the power of the child on the playground or in the home, up to the power of the president of the nation or of the king on His throne. "You would have no power over me - if it were not given to you from above."

There is another sweet thought suggested by the words "against me" in this sentence. Christ in this world was under the protection of His Father, and no one on earth could lift a finger against Him but by the Father's divine permission. What was true of Him, the Son of God, is true of each one of the sons of God in all their earthly life. Each believer, the humblest, the weakest, is kept in this world as the apple of God's eye. No one can lift a finger to touch one of God's little ones, except by divine permission. This shows how secure we are, amid all the world's dangers and enmities, while we trust ourselves, like little children, in our Father's keeping.

When Pilate ceased His weak efforts to have Jesus released, saying to the rulers, "Behold Your King!" they cried out, "Away with him, crucify him!" Thus they finally rejected their Messiah. We read at the beginning of John's gospel that "He came unto His own - and His own received him not" (1:11 ). The whole story of His life was an illustration of this rejection of Him. Wherever He went they received Him not. Here and there a home opened its doors to Him, and now and then there was a devout heart that made hospitality for Him - but these receptions were so few that they could easily be counted. Crowds of the common people thronged after Him, and many heard Him gladly - but very few became His true disciples. Even on Palm Sunday, five days before He died, there was a vast multitude to cry, "Hosanna!" and wave palm branches; but soon the palms lay withered in the streets, and on Friday only cries of "Crucify him!" were heard in the air. "He came unto His own - and His own received Him not."

It is the saddest event in all history, this coming of the Son of God to this earth, bearing in His hands all divine and heavenly blessings - but finding only shut doors and shut hearts, being compelled to take away His gifts because men would not receive them. We read this old story and wonder how His own people could have treated Him so; yet how is it with us? Do we treat Him any better? We do not cry, "Crucify him!" but we shut the doors of our hearts in His face and keep Him out. We reject and refuse His gifts which He comes all the way from heaven to bring to us. We may not with angry voice exclaim, "Away with him!" but in our hearts many of us do keep Him away.

The struggle had ceased, and "Pilate delivered him therefore unto them to be crucified." He first tried every way to avoid the issue; then he temporized, hoping in some way to evade the responsibility. At least he yielded, and his name goes down through history pilloried forever, as the man who delivered Jesus to be crucified, knowing and confessing that He was free from any crime. He was known in the world by no other act. Surely it is an unenviable notoriety. It had been a thousand times better for him if he had never been horn, or if he had remained forever in quiet obscurity, instead of going to that high place of power in the land, in which he had to meet and deal with this most monentous question of history.

We read in one of the Gospels that Pilate took water in the presence of the people and washed his hands, thus by symbol declaring that he was not responsible for the sentencing of Jesus to die. But the water did not wash away one particle of the stain of the guilt of that terrible sin! Pilate had the misfortune to be the only man in all the province who could send Jesus to the cross. Upon him, therefore, the final responsibility rested, no matter the pressure that was brought to bear upon him by the enemies of Jesus.

Just so, the fact that others urge us to sin - does not take away our guilt for that sin. No being in the universe can compel us to do wrong; if, then, we do wrong - the sin is our own. True, Jesus said there was one other whose guilt was even greater than Pilate's - that was the high priest. His sin was not only that he himself was determined to do wrong - but that he dragged others with him. We remember that the rulers replied to Pilate's act of washing his hands, "His blood be on us and on our children!" (Matthew 27:25). No one who has read the story of the next forty years can doubt that this self-imprecation was fulfilled. Forty years later, thousands of the people were scourged and crucified. The crime of the rulers was successful - but what came of the success in the end? Let us learn that sin brings always terrible woe, and that the worst of all sin - is sin against the Lord Jesus Christ.

#J.R. Miller #Devotional Hours Within the Bible #John 19:1-16 #Pilate Sentencing Jesus #September 20 #2021

[warmau]

☆ pride & prejudice!au doyoung others: yeosang

something catches the heel of your boot as you make your way through the freshly wet grasslands of the countryside

there had been a horrible storm last night and you were worried that your dear sibling had been caught up in it after your parents had sent her off on horseback to that rich mans manor

you stop to look up at the now sunny and expansive blue sky

what was his name? 

your sibling had fawned over him all week after first making his acquaintance at the ball you’d been forced into attending

you try to remember, but all that you recall is the name of his perpetually scowling and stone-faced friend

kim doyoung

other guests at the ball had whispered about him, some kind of surviving heir to a handsome estate and a gigantic load of money

he was even wealthier than the young gentleman throwing this ball, and from the amount of frivolous furniture and expensive wine strewn around the place

that was saying something

he had been beside the man your sibling was being obviously courted by the whole night 

and when you’d had enough of the brooding silence

you had introduced yourself - or you had attempted 

with one glance that seemed to take in the entirety of your existence 

he had stated his conclusion

rudely

“plain, everything about you agrees with the status you and your family are currently in.”

your sibling had a hard time swallowing the statement, but they were easily quelled with their new potential partner

you, on the other hand, just smiled in response 

and everything about your pompous attitude makes me happy to report that rich people are just as self righteous and despicable as ive always assumed them to be

you hadn’t said it outloud - you wanted to - but youd just driven your nails into the skin of your palm behind your back

at home that night your sibling had told you to forget about doyoung, and you had assured her you werent about to live by the gospel of a man born with a golden spoon in his mouth

plus - he was nowhere near your type anyway

you were much more interested in selfless men, with some inklings of kindness and manners

plus, you didn’t think he was all the handsome anyway.

(that was partially a lie, for his lean but broad figure and dark eyes were charming - but it didnt matter. his character shined very, very well through)

finally, after an almost two hour walk - you make it to the manor

and you remember the name of the man who owned it

“im here to see sir taeyong.”

the maid takes a look at the boots you have on - mud and leaves stuck to the toes. the hair you’d tried to make presentable before leaving was now slightly curled with a bit of sweat and the hanging dew still in the air

your skin was glowing with it too, the shawl around your shoulders hanging slightly crookedly

“and you are?”

“my sibling is here-”

“ah! of course, come in. ill take you to the drawing room.”

you’re not surprised at the size of the halls and the ceilings that arch up, you feel like you’re in a church rather than a home

but you presume rich people must enjoy the ,,,,,,,,,, open space

when the maid announces your presence you step inside and into a room of three pairs of eyes

one is taeyong

the other is a women, who might assume is the sister of taeyong or the last person in the room

doyoung

“sorry to disturb-”

“heavens, what is on your feet?”

the women points out

you look down and think - isn’t it obvious? it’s just mud

“did you walk here?”

another voice, deeper, asks

you look up and see doyoung’s gaze fixed on you, a quill in one of his hands

“ah yes. my sibling took our horse here, but i generally do enjoy the exercise.”

taeyong is the only one in the room that gives a little laugh, the other two occupants eye you over again

“by the way, where is my sibling?”

taeyong hurries over and with a sympathetic look explains that they’ve caught a cold and are staying in one of the rooms upstairs

you vaguely remember how persistent your mother was about not allowing your sibling to take the carriage - even when the greying clouds had been peeking through 

it was probably the plan all along, im sure sir taeyong has enjoyed taking care of them immensely

“ill take you!”

taeyong begins, but suddenly doyoung is at his side and as taeyongs hand reaches to hand you the key to the room - doyoungs interrupts and your hand brushes his instead

a small sound emits from you as you step back

but doyoung quickly turns away and calls for a maid to do it instead

you follow the maid up to the room

hands cradled in one and other as you push away the instances thats just happened into the corners of your mind

you unlock the door to the spacious room where your sibling is almost drowning in the extravagant velvet blankets in a lacquered black wooden bed

you can see that they’re paling and shivering and you think its ridiculous what people do to have the attention of someone they love

although, you’re pretty sure your sibling is innocent in the case of this situation

you talk for a bit and before you get up to go, their hand touches your wrist lightly

“i didnt know if it would be important to mention but sir doyoung asked about you.”

the surprise perks you up a bit

“what did he ask?”

“he asked if id relay an apology to you,,,,,,about his comment at the ball.”

as quickly as you’d been interested, you let out the tension in your shoulders

“ill tell him you did, but honestly im just more irritated he’s brought it up again.”

your sibling’s smile is weak and you leave them to rest

you intend to start the long walk back after you’ve excused yourself

but as you say your farewell in the drawing room, the sound of a chair pushing back breaks through your words

doyoung stands and the weight that has hung in the room since your arrival shifts

“ill see you out.”

you’re not sure if that’s a suggestion for which you should give an answer (your answer would be no) but he’s already making his brisk way toward the hall

you follow and are a little bit peeved that he doesn’t stop at the doors

you’re side by side now, and a well halfway through the sprawling path that leads off the property 

the lack of explanation irks you - am i so unworthy of even a word?

you stop and he seems only to notice a few paces later as he turns around

there’s a good five or so feet between you - and from now on you think you’d like to keep it that way

“im sorry if this is crass, but i must ask - do you intend to make the treacherous walk back with me?”

“i-”

the high collar of his perfectly pressed shirt seems to stiffen around his neck

you can’t help yourself and jab for further measure:

“as you’ve noted about me before, the place where i come from is indicative of my class and so i dont think you’d like it much sir.”

his eyes - usually dull and cast to the side are suddenly transfixed on your own

“ive already inquired that your sibling pass on my sincerest apology for th-”

“oh don’t bother.”

you uncross your hands and the shawl falls a bit from your shoulder 

it exposes just a bit of the curve of your neck from the swoop of the line of what you’re wearing and you don’t notice it in the split second of the motion

but the nape of doyoungs neck seems to sweat at the slightest baring of skin

“you don’t have to pretend to want to be in my company simply because your friend is entranced with someone from my family. although it may spite you that he has fallen for someone poor-”

“i never intended to insult you or your family. i apologize, but i don’t think i can keep repeating it until you’re satisfied if that’s what you are asking of me.”

your hands reach your hips now and you lean forward, the strands of your hair are still a little wild since you had no time to brush them back

and the stance makes doyoung take a careful step back 

although he’s dealt with many prying persons in his life, and he’s been accustomed to earning the immediate dislike of them 

something about you right now is less so an annoyance as it is - rather engrossing 

he thinks if you come any closer the heat that’s its way up his jaw might tickle its way onto the rest of his face

“im not asking you to do anything for my pleasure, sir doyoung. i would never ask someone so untouchable to perform any kind of favor - especially not you.”

“not me?”

he snaps from the momentary daze of fascination

you straighten up and march forward, passing him and nearly brushing your shoulder against his

the steps are quick and you are deliberately making them loud to aid your message 

but for some unknown reason they play out like a slow scene in doyoung’s mind

the smell of the dew and honey float by him in the ends of your trail and he swallows a lump that rarely ever grows in his throat

you turn back when you are once again at a good distance

“yes you, ive met enough new people in my life to know that some are just not meant to be my companions, much less even a neighbor to greet occasionally when we cross paths.”

your look is fiery, but not dotted with the usual sparks of momentary greed driven anger doyoung is so used to

instead the flames are yours, and although your expression reads as if you would like nothing more then to take a hold of his throat and wring him out

doyoung is in awe of the beauty that radiates from all around you - like a glowing halo of the setting sunlight

“and i believe you would agree as well - that you and i should keep our interactions to a minimum, and at best, we should never meet again at all!”

with that you start your march again - but his voice only reaches out to you after a minute of a pause

“i was going to offer that you take my carriage hom-”

“no thank you!”

you wave your hand and doyoung stands as he watches you disappear into the countryside

the rapid beating of his heart and sweat on his palms is new 

its different

he’s never reacted like this to someone before

he doesnt realize he’s standing there thinking about the shadow of your back until taeyong runs out to ask him what happened

doyoung doesn’t know how to answer that

what did happen? you had chided him, but he would have done nothing more than to keep hearing such sweet, rude words come from your mouth again.

you keep walking - the fuming anger dying down a bit with each step as you think about the look on doyoung’s face

he hadn’t responded with as many quips as you’d expected, or even turned away to ignore you completely

you know you should forget, but as you near home you bring your hands together and the only thing left on your mind now

is how it had felt when your skin had brushed his 

ugh - what i wouldn’t do to keep telling him off! although now im sure he’ll never want anything to do with me again.

oh, but how wrong you are. 

#guess what one of my quarantine go-to movies is.................. #i mean lizzy n darcy........queen n king of social distancing #doyoung scenarios #doyoung imagines #doyoung au #nct scenario #nct imagines #nct au #nct 127 #doyoung #member: doyoung #sfw

[cassianus]

How can a priest live apart from silence? Because of the great mystery of the Eucharist that he celebrates daily, he must devote a large part of his life to silence, from which the Canon ought to emerge, weighty with power and meaning. Holy Mass is the most sacred, most divine thing that he possesses. It must be surrounded with dignity, silence, and a sacral character. The [Divine] Office prepares us for it. All creatures are mute except the priest, who has the power to speak for all and in the name of all in the presence of the divine Majesty. The priest unites men to God in a few simple phrases that are divine words. He confronts mankind with God by the words of the consecration, in which he utters the very Word of the Father—he brings about the presence of the Word in time, in a special incarnate, sacrificed state.

The priest must know when to be quiet and when to speak. It is important to pray seven times a day, in order to praise God, to profess him at Holy Mass in the presence of men. The priestly dignity requires us to realize the importance of our words. Everything in the priest, body and soul, must proclaim the Glory of God. Speech is then more important than life or death: these words do not necessarily have to be loud on this earth, provided they make themselves heard in heaven. Above all, in order to nourish this speech, it is terribly important to remain silent.

When? Nearly all the rest of the time. The narcissism of excessive speech is a temptation from Satan. It results in a form of detestable exteriorization, in which man wallows on the surface of himself, making noise so as not to hear God. It is essential for priests to learn to keep to themselves words and opinions they have not taken the trouble to meditate on, interiorize, and engrave in the depth of their heart. We must preach the Word of God and certainly not our petty thoughts! “For if I preach the gospel, that gives me no ground for boasting. For necessity is laid upon me. Woe to me if I do not preach the gospel!” (1 Cor 9:16). Now this preaching implies silence. Otherwise it is a waste of time—petty, sententious chatter. Spiritual exhibitionism, which consists of exteriorizing the treasures of the soul by setting them forth immodestly, is the sign of a tragic human poverty and the manifestation of our superficiality. We often speak because we think that others expect us to do so. We end up no longer knowing how to be quiet because our interior dike is so cracked that it no longer holds back the floods of our words. God’s silence, however, should teach us that it is often necessary to be quiet.

Card. R. Sarah

[leomitchellart]

So… about this latest Inktober controversy….

Time to begrudgingly chuck in my two penneth… (Remeber you can always press “J” to skip this post altogether)

As most of you may or may not know, Alphonso Dunn released a Youtube video wherein he publicly accused Jake Parker, and creator of the Inktober challenge, of plagiarising his book. Both of these men are public figures, artists specialising in pen & ink. In the video Dunn looks at the preview pages and flip through footage of Parker’s “Inktober All Year Round” and says they draw many similarities in the illustrations, language and layout that he used in his own book, “Pen & Ink Drawing”. Parker’s book was set to this month. Hense why Dunn only used footage and not a physical copy.

Since the video’s release, the art community has been very spilt down the middle. The book’s publisher has halted the launch of Parker’s book until the matter can be investigated. Even DeviantArt cancelled their own Inktober event thing (I’ll admit I don’t keep up with these things DA keeps doing). Parker has since released a statement in the matter. Now it’s up to the courts to decide what’s happening next. The video itself is an hour long, but it’s crucial to see it yourself. 

People are, understandably, outraged after seeing it. This seems like a shitty thing to rip-off Dunn - not to mention stupid. Since Dunn is the more popular pen & ink artist with more social media followers and name recognition. Many have called to boycott inktober and condemn Parker. I’ll admit, I was right alongside them at first, at least for feeling outraged. The similarities are there. But if YMS’s Kimba video has taught me anything, it’s that, even if an accusation of plagiarism may be obvious at a cursory glance, sometimes it’s important to take a more critical eye and do more research to learn that things aren’t as cut and dry as they first seem. If there’s a lesson I can take away from the internet as a whole, it’s that no one thinks about the consequences of mob mentality.

The most common defence of Parker is that because they’re both books about pen and ink drawing, then they’re inevitably going to be similar. I’ll admit that, when you pick-up so many art books, a lot of them will cover the same basic grounds of materials, tutorials, strokes, techniques etc. The parts about rendering textures on spheres and cubes isnt new. Look up “texture study” and you’ll see so many examples of artists rendering these kinds of things digitally. I’ve also noticed a common theme of people more formally educated in art pointing out how none of these are original. Everything down to the steps and illustrations are things they’ve learned from years ago. Since I'm a pen & ink artist, inspired by my love of comics, I have quite a few books about inking: Dunn’s included. I own both his books and still highly recommend them. I didn't even preorder Parker’s book. Ironically because I didn't think it could offer anything new that my other books hadn’t already.

While Ethan Becker took the time to cross-examine Dunn and Parker’s books with several others, there weren’t many of the ones I actually owned. So I looked to my shelves to see what I could find. Books like:

“The Art of Comic Book Inking” by Gary Martin & Steve Rude

“How Comics Work” by Dave Gibbons & Tim Pilcher

“The DC Comics guide to Inking Comics” by Klaus Janson

“Making Comics” by Scott McCloud

“Stan Lee’s How to Draw Comics”

I’m sure there’s plenty more examples out there. I was planning to go through all of these and take pictures. But ultimately that’s not the core point of these post. Plus it would’ve taken WAY too long and this post itself, is long enough.

Of course, none of the them are 100% close to Dunn’s in the way they’re displayed. Not as close as Parker’s could be considered. That being said, I know Dunn is trying to claim that he invented these techniques. The nucleus of the issue is how similar they are in terms of order and how these pages are displayed. Some I can chock-up to standard practice, while others seem more coincidental.

If there’s one thing I’m adamant about, it’s that I think that Dunn should’ve messaged Parker first before making the accusation public. Some try to dispute that this would've made it easier for Dunn to be “silenced”, whatever that means; but that sounds a bit conspiratorial to me. Ideally, you confront him about it in private, if he makes any threats or blows you off, get your lawyer on the phone and then make the video. Not only is it the more civil thing to do - but it’s the smarter thing to do. This is a serious legal matter, not just internet drama. While I’m sure Dunn had no intention of tearing Parker down or getting a mob onto him, that’s unfortunately what’s happened. A backlash both from the general artisan community and several companies. Wherein it was left to Parker himself to make this an official legal matter. If Parker’s found not guilty, then this could easily leave the gate open for him to sue Dunn for damages, loss of revenue, defamation of character or whatever else, should he see fit. As could the publishers, given how this affected their sales. Companies responded to the accusation of the video alone, before an investigation could be launched. Sure, it wouldn't be “acting the bigger man” but he’d be well within his right to do it. Dunn showed that Jake has mentioned him before, shown admiration for his career and referenced him in other posts. If it comes to light in court, that Dunn is even cited as an inspiration or source in the book itself, then it’s case closed. 

Then there’s the other possibility that Parker might not have done this on his own, but that he has a team behind the book. If that’s the case, the most I can accuse Parker of is being a hack. I worry Dunn has kneecapped himself for just how badly he’s handled this situation. Made worse by him not having an actual physical copy to assess and just had footage of preview pages to go on. So far, the circumstances don’t seem on his favour. 

I don’t think ill of Dunn. I do think he believes he’s been wronged and no malice in his intentions. I just think he’s made some critical errors on how to handled this. As for Parker himself, I couldn't give a donkey’s doo-dah about him. I’m sure you could accuse me of playing devil’s advocate earlier, but to me, he was the guy who released the annual prompt list. If it really does turn out that he’s a plagiarist and had malicious intent, then fuck ‘im. I never regarded him as an inspiration of mine or paid much attention to him outside of that. It was the community that made Inktober what it is. I’ve never met Parker. Maybe he’s a cool guy? Maybe he’s a bellend? I don’t know.

Granted this isn't the first time Parker has proved himself to be a controversial figure: - Last year people were upset about him trademarking (not copywriting, as many have erroneously claimed) the word “Inktober” and some artists were stopped from selling their related work or zines. Parker would issue a statement: claiming the takedowns were a mistake of “overzealous lawyers” and it’s just a matter of the logo being trademarked. People can sell their Inktober works and even mention they are Inktober-related. Just not use the official logo. On the one hand, from a business standpoint, I get it. It’s the bare minimum you need to do to protect your IP, especially when you have a store. BUT, like most people, I don’t like how, what’s intended as a community challenge, has slowly become more of a brand associated with one man. Hardly a surprise it left a bad taste in so many people’s mouths. But, since it doesn't actually effect anyone’s ability to take part in the challenge, outside of personal principle, I went ahead with it the previous year. 

 - The year before, when asked if one can do Inktober digitally, Parker said the following:

I know some are still bitter about that, but speaking as someone who inks traditionally and digitally, this came across as needless whinging and blowing things out of proportion. Claiming that Jake had derided digital artists and said they were invalid etc etc. Take it from me, challenging yourself to try out different methods to ink traditionally can greatly improve the work you do digitally. It’s like how learning traditional fundamentals of art can still be applied to digital. Plus he never said “No.” he just gave valid reasons about how it makes it a different experience. That said, if you’re someone who can’t afford any kind of inking equipment or pens and only have a selected application to draw on - then none of this applies to you. Just the aforementioned few who took it upon themselves to get angry over nothing. Recently I’ve heard from subscribers of his newsletter that he’s now embraced the idea of people doing inktober digitally, to the point of selling digital brushes for inktober. I’m sure some will call this “backsliding” or “money grubbing” because people aren’t allowed to change their minds or update their statements.

For weeks I’ve been torn on what to do, not being able to solidify one stance over another. One minute I thought #JusticeForAlphonsoDunn then I wonder “Wait maybe I should look again?” to “But wait, those are way too similar!” Having splinters in my arse from sitting on the fence for so long. The longer this went on, however, I began to realise that I can’t take one stance over another. This case is far too muddy and complicated. I don’t have enough sufficient knowledge or evidence. Nor do any of you. We literally only have Dunn’s video to go on. While it’s a good start, it’s not enough to be taken 100% as gospel when it’s the only thing to hand. 

As previously mentioned, a lot of artists have decided to not take part in Inktober at all, or follow different prompt lists. That’s completely fine. A lot of them are based around a specific theme: halloween, kinky stuff, bears, transformers, OCs, Disney or whatever. That has massive appeal. I just can’d do it myself. I prefer the focus on random words, rather than all centred on a single subject; allowing me to be creative with my ideas and execution. I actually did try to make a list of my own random words. Problem is, I worried that because I was choosing my own, I might be subconsciously bias towards certain prompts and not truly challenging myself. Even narrowing down my options was taking too long. In the end…. I’ve decided to just do the official prompts again this year.

For me, that’s what it ultimately came down to. TIME. It’s the middle of September. I can’t afford to wait for the court case to be settled. No other prominent artists I respect have released their own prompt lists. I know there’s been some shitty people who are condemning this choice. Attacking others, accusing them of supporting plagiarism, looking to block anyone who does the official prompts. Even trying to make this a racial issue. Just…. no. 

If someone doesn’t want to take part in Inktober, that’s fine. If someone wants to do the official prompts, that’s fine. If someone wants to do their own prompts, that’s fine.

Don’t go around aggressively making snap judgements or accusing people of taking a side. Do whatever makes you feel comfortable. This has been a shit year, let people enjoy something.

If you look at this situation and it makes you feel angry, and you don’t feel comfortable in taking part in a challenge because of it’s creator. I get that, I literally get that. It’s why I haven't done Mermay. And please don’t mention Pinktober, I’m aware of it, but given his insta video on the subject and the things he said, I quickly came to the conclusion that I can’t take this person seriously. I’m sure this might make me seem hypocritical, but how this differs, if only for me, is the sheer amount Inktober means to me. It’s more than a simple challenge. Inktober's the one thing I’ve been most excited about all year. As it was ruined for me in 2019, when I lost my home and I didn't get to complete every prompt. (Long story, I’m okay now). As we all know, 2020, has been an AWFUL year. We’ve got to take whatever joy we can. As I’ve looked longer at the official prompts, I found ideas I’m really excited for. 

Once I started to really dedicate myself to it, it became a massive event. I hype myself up as I prepare for the busy month. Buy in supplies, clean the house and workspace, cook and freeze meals in bulk to save time, printing off a sheet that allows me to jot down ideas as I plan ahead.  Then once it’s done, after so much work, it makes the reward all the sweeter: Ordering a takeaway, celebrating a great halloween night and still rocking those vibes throughout November. Feeling proud of myself for doing it and seeing myself improve my technique, discipline and earning a few lie-ins to make up for the sleep I lost working. I’m like a kid waiting for Christmas. That said, don’t think that there’s something wrong with you when you understandably can’t dedicate that amount time for a simple art challenge. If anything that’s plenty of reason to why you’re smarter than me. You have a life and don’t push yourself too much.

Now, I need to crack on with the preparations. If you want to boycott Jake Parker, just not buying any of his products should be enough. Doing the inktober challenge doesn't bring attention to him, as I doubt most people even know him as the creator, nor does it even line his pockets. I just hate how cancel culture can do such serious damage like this and then try and put pressure on others to act accordingly without even doing any research themselves. 

As long as you’re not harassing anybody. Just do what YOU want to do. That’s fine. 

#Inktober #Inktober 2020 #My two penneth #Jake Parker #alphonso dunn

[usuragan]

@kinslain wrote:“You’re up early,” he remarks, his tone carrying a hint of accusation. Actually, Sasuke isn’t up any earlier than usual. Itachi has simply lost track of time. And now, here he is, using the door and his body to block the birthday boy’s access to the kitchen. “You need to go somewhere else for a while.” There’s a distinct smell of burnt sugar in the air, flour dusting Itachi’s hair, and panic rising slowly in his eyes. The oven pings and he mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a curse before slamming the door shut on Sasuke’s face.

There's something odd in the way Itachi projected himself ; the young Uchiha never could decipher what exactly went through the elder's mind but it was clear that he was hiding something. It was around the usual time Sasuke would wake & wander down to the kitchen, expecting to see their Mother making breakfast but instead was met by his brother blocking the very entrance. ❝ Whatcha doin'? ❞ His curiosity lead him attempting to peak past his leg, trying to get a glimpse of what exactly Itachi was failing to hide from prying eyes.

The flour & burnt sugar were far enough a dead give away, but that correlation was soon cut short by the door being slammed in his face. ❝ Nii-san! ❞ Puffing his cheeks in mild irritation, Sasuke knew if he stood by the door any longer than he should, he'd be no sooner finding his answer.

#✧SILENCE BE HIS NAME ;; HIS WORD IS GOSPEL && IN CHARACTER #✧ THE INNOCENCE ;; WHERE THE FAN STILL KINDLED THE FLAME. && PRE-MASSACRE. #((HELP THIS IS CUTE #kinslain

[araitsume]

The Acts of the Apostles, pp. 461-468: Chapter (44) Caesar's Household

The gospel has ever achieved its greatest success among the humbler classes. “Not many wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called.” 1 Corinthians 1:26. It could not be expected that Paul, a poor and friendless prisoner, would be able to gain the attention of the wealthy and titled classes of Roman citizens. To them vice presented all its glittering allurements and held them willing captives. But from among the toilworn, want-stricken victims of their oppression, even from among the poor slaves, many gladly listened to the words of Paul and in the faith of Christ found a hope and peace that cheered them under the hardships of their lot.

Yet while the apostle's work began with the humble and the lowly, its influence extended until it reached the very palace of the emperor.

Rome was at this time the metropolis of the world. The haughty Caesars were giving laws to nearly every nation upon the earth. King and courtier were either ignorant of the humble Nazarene or regarded Him with hatred and derision. And yet in less than two years the gospel found its way from the prisoner's lowly home into the imperial halls. Paul is in bonds as an evildoer; but “the word of God is not bound.” 2 Timothy 2:9.

In former years the apostle had publicly proclaimed the faith of Christ with winning power, and by signs and miracles he had given unmistakable evidence of its divine character. With noble firmness he had risen up before the sages of Greece and by his knowledge and eloquence had put to silence the arguments of proud philosophy. With undaunted courage he had stood before kings and governors, and reasoned of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to come, until the haughty rulers trembled as if already beholding the terrors of the day of God.

No such opportunities were now granted the apostle, confined as he was to his own dwelling, and able to proclaim the truth to those only who sought him there. He had not, like Moses and Aaron, a divine command to go before the profligate king and in the name of the great I AM rebuke his cruelty and oppression. Yet it was at this very time, when its chief advocate was apparently cut off from public labor, that a great victory was won for the gospel; for from the very household of the king, members were added to the church.

Nowhere could there exist an atmosphere more uncongenial to Christianity than in the Roman court. Nero seemed to have obliterated from his soul the last trace of the divine, and even of the human, and to bear the impress of Satan. His attendants and courtiers were in general of the same character as himself—fierce, debased, and corrupt. To all appearance it would be impossible for Christianity to gain a foothold in the court and palace of Nero.

Yet in this case, as in so many others, was proved the truth of Paul's assertion that the weapons of his warfare were “mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds,” 2 Corinthians 10:4. Even in Nero's household, trophies of the cross were won. From the vile attendants of a viler king were gained converts who became sons of God. These were not Christians secretly, but openly. They were not ashamed of their faith.

And by what means was an entrance achieved and a firm footing gained for Christianity where even its admission seemed impossible? In his epistle to the Philippians, Paul ascribed to his own imprisonment his success in winning converts to the faith from Nero's household. Fearful lest it might be thought that his afflictions had impeded the progress of the gospel, he assured them: “I would ye should understand, brethren, that the things which happened unto me have fallen out rather unto the furtherance of the gospel.” Philippians 1:12.

When the Christian churches first learned that Paul was to visit Rome, they looked forward to a signal triumph of the gospel in that city. Paul had borne the truth to many lands; he had proclaimed it in great cities. Might not this champion of the faith succeed in winning souls to Christ even in the metropolis of the world? But their hopes were crushed by the tidings that Paul had gone to Rome as a prisoner. They had confidently hoped to see the gospel, once established at this great center, extend rapidly to all nations and become a prevailing power in the earth. How great their disappointment! Human expectations had failed, but not the purpose of God.

Not by Paul's sermons, but by his bonds, was the attention of the court attracted to Christianity. It was as a captive that he broke from so many souls the bonds that held them in the slavery of sin. Nor was this all. He declared: “Many of the brethren in the Lord, waxing confident by my bonds, are much more bold to speak the word without fear.” Philippians 1:14.

Paul's patience and cheerfulness during his long and unjust imprisonment, his courage and faith, were a continual sermon. His spirit, so unlike the spirit of the world, bore witness that a power higher than that of earth was abiding with him. And by his example, Christians were impelled to greater energy as advocates of the cause from the public labors of which Paul had been withdrawn. In these ways were the apostle's bonds influential, so that when his power and usefulness seemed cut off, and to all appearance he could do the least, then it was that he gathered sheaves for Christ in fields from which he seemed wholly excluded.

Before the close of that two years’ imprisonment, Paul was able to say, “My bonds in Christ are manifest in all the palace, and in all other places,” and among those who sent greetings to the Philippians he mentions chiefly them “that are of Caesar's household.” Verse 13; 4:22.

Patience as well as courage has its victories. By meekness under trial, no less than by boldness in enterprise, souls may be won to Christ. The Christian who manifests patience and cheerfulness under bereavement and suffering, who meets even death itself with the peace and calmness of an unwavering faith, may accomplish for the gospel more than he could have effected by a long life of faithful labor. Often when the servant of God is withdrawn from active duty, the mysterious providence which our shortsighted vision would lament is designed by God to accomplish a work that otherwise would never have been done.

Let not the follower of Christ think, when he is no longer able to labor openly and actively for God and His truth, that he has no service to render, no reward to secure. Christ's true witnesses are never laid aside. In health and sickness, in life and death, God uses them still. When through Satan's malice the servants of Christ have been persecuted, their active labors hindered, when they have been cast into prison, or dragged to the scaffold or to the stake, it was that truth might gain a greater triumph. As these faithful ones sealed their testimony with their blood, souls hitherto in doubt and uncertainty were convinced of the faith of Christ and took their stand courageously for Him. From the ashes of the martyrs has sprung an abundant harvest for God.

The zeal and fidelity of Paul and his fellow workers, no less than the faith and obedience of these converts to Christianity, under circumstances so forbidding, rebuke slothfulness and lack of faith in the minister of Christ. The apostle and his associate workers might have argued that it would be vain to call to repentance and faith in Christ the servants of Nero, subjected, as they were, to fierce temptations, surrounded by formidable hindrances, and exposed to bitter opposition. Even should they be convinced of the truth, how could they render obedience? But Paul did not reason thus; in faith he presented the gospel to these souls, and among those who heard were some who decided to obey at any cost. Notwithstanding obstacles and dangers, they would accept the light, and trust God to help them let their light shine forth to others.

Not only were converts won to the truth in Caesar's household, but after their conversion they remained in that household. They did not feel at liberty to abandon their post of duty because their surroundings were no longer congenial. The truth had found them there, and there they remained, by their changed life and character testifying to the transforming power of the new faith.

Are any tempted to make their circumstances an excuse for failing to witness for Christ? Let them consider the situation of the disciples in Caesar's household—the depravity of the emperor, the profligacy of the court. We can hardly imagine circumstances more unfavorable to a religious life, and entailing greater sacrifice or opposition, than those in which these converts found themselves. Yet amidst difficulties and dangers they maintained their fidelity. Because of obstacles that seem insurmountable, the Christian may seek to excuse himself from obeying the truth as it is in Jesus; but he can offer no excuse that will bear investigation. Could he do this he would prove God unjust in that He had made for His children conditions of salvation with which they could not comply.

He whose heart is fixed to serve God will find opportunity to witness for Him. Difficulties will be powerless to hinder him who is determined to seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness. In the strength gained by prayer and a study of the word, he will seek virtue and forsake vice. Looking to Jesus, the Author and Finisher of the faith, who endured the contradiction of sinners against Himself, the believer will willingly brave contempt and derision. And help and grace sufficient for every circumstance are promised by Him whose word is truth. His everlasting arms encircle the soul that turns to Him for aid. In His care we may rest safely, saying, “What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.” Psalm 56:3. To all who put their trust in Him, God will fulfill His promise.

By His own example the Saviour has shown that His followers can be in the world and yet not of the world. He came not to partake of its delusive pleasures, to be swayed by its customs, and to follow its practices, but to do His Father's will, to seek and save the lost. With this object before him the Christian may stand uncontaminated in any surroundings. Whatever his station or circumstances, exalted or humble, he will manifest the power of true religion in the faithful performance of duty.

Not in freedom from trial, but in the midst of it, is Christian character developed. Exposure to rebuffs and opposition leads the follower of Christ to greater watchfulness and more earnest prayer to the mighty Helper. Severe trial endured by the grace of God develops patience, vigilance, fortitude, and a deep and abiding trust in God. It is the triumph of the Christian faith that it enables its followers to suffer and be strong; to submit, and thus to conquer; to be killed all the day long, and yet to live; to bear the cross, and thus to win the crown of glory.

#egw #Ellen G. White #Christianity #God #Jesus Christ #Bible #conflict of the ages #the acts of the apostles #Apostle Paul #pauline epistles #Rome #preaching the gospel #ministry #Caesar #Nero #divinity vs. debauchery #persecution #man's expectations are not God's plans #faith #patience #salvation #courage #martyrdom #obedience

[duckie-baby]

let's talk about s02e08: the sins of the father.

let's talk about how this could've been a pivotal point in arthur's character arc, if the writers of this show weren't fucking cowards.

let's talk about how it was completely unfair on merlin's part to lie to arthur, because arthur deserved the truth goddamnit and it wasn't merlin's place to take that away from him.

of course, this is later justified by merlin saying that he knows arthur and that he wouldn't be able to live with himself or the guilt of it if he had gone ahead and killed his father. and of course, like every other potentially life-changing event, all of this is never mentioned by the show again.

magic is damned even further in arthur's eyes, uth*r threatens everyone who knows the truth into silence, vaguely implies that he's totally chill with his son fucking his manservant as long as they're all of the same anti-magic ideals, the episode ends in all smiles.

but whew! at least arthur's been protected from the harsher sides of reality, once again! god forbid this character gains any sense of self-awareness!

my point is, if all of this was to keep arthur from killing daddykins bc it would weigh on his delicate conscience, to preserve the Goodness Of His Character As A Man And King, why the fuck should merlin have to lie to him about it?

consider, instead of:

Morgause is lying! She's an enchantress. She tricked you. That was not your mother you saw. That was an illusion. Everything...everything your mother said to you...those were Morgause's words.

we could have had something along the lines of:

What your father did was wrong, Arthur, but is this man the man you want to be? The king you want to be? Would you be able to ascend the throne even as your father's blood glistens, still fresh, on your sword? Would you be able to live with yourself if you made this decision?

if he kills his darling father anyway, honestly, Good For Him. he has every right to. uth*r went through with a dangerous spell despite knowing the risks, then commited genocide in its name whilst lying about his reason as to why.

uth*r has commited genocide.

he is not a good king or father either, as proven several times throughout the show. he deserves no mercy, no pity.

but the choice should've been arthur's to make. this scene should've been a testament to arthur's character.

if he kills daddy dearest anyways but then feels Super Guilty about it later, we know he wouldn't have made a good king. you can't head a country when you're prone to making drastic decisions without thinking them through bc you were throwing pissy fit at the time.

so if he still goes through with it, he must not been shown to regret it.

but say he does let uth*r live. maybe for whatever love remains for the man who raised him. but he renounces him as his king, as his father.

arthur starts publicly going against his policies and decisions. bc if uth*r could have been so wrong about this alone, what else is he wrong about? arthur refuses to carry out his orders if he believes it’s against the interests of the people.

raising taxes? how about No. oh, he can’t knight commoners? just Try and stop him. he learns to trust in the counsel of merlin, gwen, morgana, people who we know interact direct directly with the citizens of camelot and want what’s best for them; builds his own circle. he routinely breaks out prisoners from the dungeons he believe have been punished unjustly.

especially the people who use magic. he openly speaks out against his father and his persecution of it.

uth*r can try and stop him, alright. but there is a clear rift in the kingdom now, two distinct factions. those who believe in the king that arthur will be, and those who believe their loyalty is still to the current monarch.

and look at these people, from the execution scene from s01e01:

look at their faces (and also hnfvbdjh colin morgan and his obscene fucking cheekbones jesus christ). they don't seem to appreciate uth*r saving them from the evils of magic much. how many of them have lost their friends and family to his crusade? how many of them remember a time when magic was still allowed in camelot and the kingdom flourished?

these people will stand with arthur pendragon.

yeah. the ones who still believe in uth*r’s authority are few and far in between. and they know where they can shove it.

arthur learns. about magic, about its history, the old religion. merlin finally reveals his magic to him, so does morgana. he goes to the druids and he falls to his knees and he begs for their forgiveness. morgause begrudgingly allies herself with him, seeing his determination to right his father’s mistakes. he still struggles with the little boy within him who just wants his only parent’s approval, sometimes. but he is slowly but surely becoming his own man.

arthur becomes king long before he takes the throne. uth*r is forced to watch, a meaningless figurehead, as everything he worked to achieve comes undone at the hands of his own son. no attempts to make the viewers sympathise with him. he is angry and miserable and wasting away and there is nothing he can do about it; and it’s exactly what he fucking deserves.

and merlin? merlin finally realises kilgharrah’s word isn’t gospel. morgana is redeemed before she ever loses herself. but they must learn to trust each other again, bc merlin left her to face her fear and self-loathing alone when she needed someone more than ever (you might be cute, merlin, but not enough to get away with THAT). he finds himself taking young sorcerers who don’t know how to control their power under his wing (gilli, daegal, oh god the endless opportunities here), including mordred. MORGAUSE TEACHING MERLIN AND MORGANA MAGIC.

he and arthur are equals now, partners in destiny; the world is theirs.

and for the love of god, give me villains whose entire personality and motivations don’t boil down to I Hate Uth*r Pendragon And Also His Son.

give me kings who are afraid of camelot’s growing power, give me bandits and slave traders who realise they have no place in arthur and merlin’s albion. give me uth*r apologists scrambling to maintain their position in court, hell, give me anarchist organisations if that’s what it takes to spice things up a little.

give me the golden age of albion we were promised.

of course, all of this requires characters acknowledging and growing from their mistakes, and making their actions have lasting consequences — so i suppose it really is a bit too much to ask of the writers.

#bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #uther pendragon #morgana #morgause #guinevere #merlin emrys #i have Several Thoughts about this #evidently #sorry this turned out so long #camelot #golden age of albion #with arthur and merlin as power husbands and high kings of albion 😌 #merthur #i support kilgharrah's rights to shut the fuck up #mordred was only baby he deserved better #knights of the round table #someone write the fanfic PLEASE #my writing #just a little #i hate this show

[asimawv]

I write and conceptualize story to music, so I’ve compiled a playlist of 30 Darkest Dungeon-specific songs that I listen to when writing (and subsequently re-writing) in no particular order, which I hope will help you set the vibe too. :+)

Names in bold are links for easy listening - tons of Hozier and Of Monsters and Men up ahead, five minute warning.

1. ‘Fire and the Flood’ - Vance Joy

If you listen to nothing else on this list, listen to this one - it’s the kind of song that’s made for movies about yearning. Folk influences, choruses of trumpets and vocal harmony, and instruments that are layered for a rich, resonant sound. This is the song I imagine Dismas and Reynauld horse-racing through a crowded outdoors market in the hamlet to, and the song I listened to nonstop freshman year when I first started writing The Myth of Sisyphus.

You're the fire and the flood And I'll always feel you in my blood Everything is fine When your hand is resting next to mine Next to mine You're the fire and the flood

The chorus is built around biblical allusions to the fire (the burning bush signifying first contact) and the flood (destruction of the first world), the beginning and end. Every line is similarly evocative of Darkest Dungeon in their simplicity (“I’ve been getting used to waking up with you,” etc.)

2. ‘Soldier, Poet, King’ - The Oh Hellos

By the title alone you can guess who this is for. Even the Guild quote for the Leper approaches these three things as the defining parts of his character (specifically it’s “a ruined man, a warrior, and a poet.”) This song coincidentally has an old world influence to it, with a Medieval Renaissance style from a guitar playing a lute-adjacent melody.

There will come a ruler Whose brow is laid in thorn Smeared with oil like David's boy, oh lei oh lai oh Lord Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord Smeared with oil like David's boy, oh lei oh lai oh Lord

To be smeared with oil is to be anointed by a prophet and thus chosen by god himself to be king, just as David was and his boy after him (presumably Solomon). There’s something strangely wistful about the imagery, which is just how I like my songs about bygone kings.

3. ‘Exit Hymn’ - Bear Attack!

This song is about the end of the world in a version where everyone simply stands together in silence watching, rather than having the masses swarming in panic.

Lovely shapes to the world descending, Brothers and sisters. Lovely shapes to the world descending, Brothers and sisters Mute.

It defies Lovecraftian horror, which is based on the premise that “common human laws and interests and emotions have no validity or significance in the vast cosmos-at-large” - it flies in the face of existential nihilism and the despair that it should bring us. That’s why I like this song for deaths in the end-boss fight; it also has a special place for other death-related ideas, like full-party wipes - entire teams of people vanishing into the dungeons, gone insane, holding hands while the darkness surrounds them.

It’s a bare song which has a sanctity to it, mostly just piano and rain and human voices. Just what you would hear at the end of the world.

More under the cut:

4. ‘Pursuit of Glory’ - Jhameel

This song is laid-back. It doesn’t have the Homeric intensity that some of the other songs here do - it’s a guy with a guitar and vocal harmony. By god is it a great piece of writing though (all of Jhameel’s older songs have that quality to them), and all of it is evocative of Darkest Dungeon.

So many eyes set on the path to glory Too many ties, friendship is for the lonely Can't still my heart, my tongue has tasted folly Thirsty for art, hungry for power and money

This is a song for everyone in the barracks, especially the ‘laundry list’ of people and their approaches to the pursuit of glory.

5. ‘Good Old Days’ - Macklemore (feat. Kesha)

This fucker put a Macklemore song in here. I did, yeah. It’s not even the only song with Kesha in it here (I’m sorry.) 

It’s a sentimental pop song, and I am sentimental to a fault. This is Darkest Dungeon AMV material, and I always mishear one of the lines as “we were underground, loaded mercs in that 12-passenger van” so it’s here.

We've come so far, I guess I'm proud And I ain't worried about the wrinkles around my smile I've got some scars, I've been around I've felt some pain, I've seen some things, but I'm here now Those good old days

6. ‘Past Lives‘ - Kesha

Here it is, the other Kesha song - this was introduced to me by a good friend, also in a Darkest Dungeon context. There’s just something about the lovers spanning time trope and finding each other in one life to the next that is irresistible (for the obvious reason in the context of Darkest Dungeon.) It’s a soft song, totally out of place in Kesha’s typical discography, and has a line about losing someone to the crusades, so... you know.

There's just somethin' about you I know Started centuries ago though You see your kiss is like a lost ghost Only I would know But I, I keep on falling for you Time after time Time after time

7. ‘Viva la Vida’ - Coldplay

You cannot fight this. You know that this is the song for King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem, you know it is. Did you know the official name of this genre of music is “Baroque pop”? Yes, that means more songs like this exist. You will live with this information now.

Don’t fight it. Just let it wash over you.

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing Roman Cavalry choirs are singing Be my mirror, my sword and shield My missionaries in a foreign field For some reason I can't explain Once you go there was never, never an honest word And that was when I ruled the world

Mirror, sword, and shield, the three other members of his party, his missionaries in a foreign field. Thinking emoji. I typed that out so I wouldn’t have a repeat of the crab emoji incident.

8. ‘The Boxer’ - Jerry Douglas (feat. Mumford & Sons, Paul Simon)

Partly inspired by the Bible, Simon & Garfunkle’s ‘The Boxer’ is a folk rock song about poverty, loneliness, and homesickness. It’s written and sung in a style that’s strongly reminiscent of older times, and the final verse about its eponymous boxer is particularly powerful:

In the clearing stands a boxer And a fighter by his trade And he carries the reminders Of ev'ry glove that laid him down Or cut him till he cried out In his anger and his shame "I am leaving, I am leaving" But the fighter still remains

This is what I use for Dismas’ life leading into organized crime and his foolish abandonment of stable job prospects in a half-baked bid for fame, as well as being punched down over and over again but with nowhere else to go. That last part is widely applicable across the cast.

9. ‘I Will Wait’ - Mumford & Sons

I am but a simple man. I see 'folk rock' and add it to my Darkest Dungeon playlist. This song I use for Reynauld - it has that sort of “salt of the earth,” somewhat biblical humility in its choice of words and style. 

Raise my hands Paint my spirit gold And bow my head Keep my heart slow

10. ‘Little Lion Man’ - Mumford & Sons

Have we not beaten this song to death yet? Can you blame us? This is the people’s song. We reserve it for all of our favorite fuck-up characters, as primal as Saturn devouring his son. We love this song. Jesus.

Tremble for yourself, my man, You know that you have seen this all before Tremble little lion man, You'll never settle any of your scores Your grace is wasted in your face, Your boldness stands alone among the wreck Now learn from your mother or else spend your days biting your own neck

The line about learning from your mother in particular is why I think of this song for Dismas’ introspection, but I also associate it with the Hellion.

11. ’From Eden’ - Hozier

There’s too much Hozier in my playlists. There is so much of it, and it’s all important to me, says the hoarder. There’s something about profoundly intimate folk music that I love, and god put folk, R&B, blues, and alt rock into a Vitamix for 45 seconds to make Hozier.

Honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword Innocence died screaming, honey ask me I should know I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door

‘From Eden’ is, according to Hozier, about idolizing someone from a distance, written from the perspective of the devil “looking longingly at something he desires - for everything that he does not have.” I associate this song with the Grave Robber for its playfully nihilistic tone - Audrey does say something to the effect of being left for dead by high society and the affectionate bordering condescending address is on-brand.

12. ‘Cherry Wine’ - Hozier

‘Cherry Wine’ is unabashedly about domestic violence, and its sincerity is heartbreaking, the sanctification of the blood spilled in the name of keeping her.

The way she tells me I'm hers and she is mine Open hand or closed fist would be fine The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine.

This song is strongly tied to the Vestal for me.

13. ‘Work Song’ - Hozier

A song about unconditional love - heaven and hell were just words, indeed.

When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

I think of this song for both Dismas and the Abomination - it’s a song about love transcending spiritual and even physical need, complete devotion, but something about it is also not quite right. It’s morbid and excessive, self-pitying, and almost ugly in its sincerity.

14. ‘Sunlight’ - Hozier

The strong gospel influence with the choruses, church organ, religious fervor - I think it makes a great song for traveling scenes and church/altar scenes.

I had been lost to you, sunlight Flew like a moth to you, sunlight oh sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight (sunlight, sunlight) But it is sunlight

15. ‘Arsonist’s Lullabye’ - Hozier

The gospel this time is paired with electric rock instrumentation. Something about the lamentation is unapologetic and matter-of-fact in its disturbing inclinations - this is Paracelsus’ song. Arguably representative of Bounty Hunter and Flagellant as well.

Now that I think about it, it’s great for Abomination as well. Damn.

All you have is your fire And the place you need to reach Don't you ever tame your demons But always keep 'em on a leash

16. ‘We Sink’ - Of Monsters and Men

Of Monsters and Men are closer to the indie rock/pop spectrum with influences of folk, with much less biblical influence and more folklore-inspired lyrics. They make for great trailer and action songs.

We are the sleepers, we bite our tongues We set the fire and we let it burn Through the dreamers, we hear the hum They say come on, come on, let's go So come on, come on, let's go

In Lovecraft’s Cthulu mythos, dreams are how the Old Ones commune with humans on the earth’s surface while they slumber in the ocean depths (Cthulhu fhtagn meaning “Cthulhu is dreaming”); I like to think of the ‘sleepers’ as the heroes being tasked to “set the fire” and the ‘dreamers’ being the Heir and Ancestor driven by some unseen force to unearth the antediluvian underground.

17. ‘I Of The Storm’ - Of Monsters and Men

Very somber song, overwhelmingly piano and snare drum and vocals. Also a great death scene song, or for introspection around the campfire, or played to reveal a major event.

If I could face them If I could make amends With all my shadows I'd bow my head And welcome them

18. ‘King and Lionheart’ - Of Monsters and Men

My favorite OMAM song - it’s clearly written about two children, kind of reminiscent of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ in its fantastical nature, and very upbeat about the end of the world.

His crown lit up the way as we moved slowly Pass the wondering eyes of the ones that were left behind Though far away, though far away, though far away We're still the same, we're still the same, we're still the same

This part is reminiscent of the Leper’s journey, but the mentions of taking over a town, howling ghosts, the end of the world, a black sea and creatures lurking below, etc. are all evocative of Darkest Dungeon.

19. ‘Little Talks’ - Of Monsters and Men

Also very upbeat for its subject matter - according to OMAM, it’s a narrative of a woman speaking with the ghost of her dead husband, or going insane and believing that she’s speaking with her dead husband.

Some days I don't know if I am wrong or right Your mind is playing tricks on you, my dear 'Cause though the truth may vary This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore

The call-and-respond style of the song is haunting. I like this song for expeditions and afflicted heroes.

20. ‘Wolves Without Teeth’ - Of Monsters and Men

Suitable for both Occultist and Abomination, being consumed by an unseen and otherworldly force that inhabits them - well, maybe just rarely seen, in the Abomination’s case. Special mention to OMAM’s ‘Human,’ same conceptual backing but more raw.

You hover like a hummingbird Haunt me in my sleep You're sailing from another world Sinking in my sea, oh You're feeding on my energy I'm letting go of it He wants it

21. ‘Desierto’ (Original Motion Picture Score) - Woodkid

This is a full album, because all of it is dark orchestral cinema music described as ‘unsettling,’ with the sole exception of ‘Land of All,’ which has vocals to it. I reserve this album for writing fight scenes and for particularly unsettling events because it’s tense and wordless. I read Junji Ito to this soundtrack too, it’s insanely high-strung and discordant.

22. ‘Iron’ - Woodkid

‘Iron’ qualifies as Baroque pop - you might recognize this as the Assassin’s Creed: Revelations song. The large-scale, cinematic style of it and thematic lyrics make it great for writing about dramatic encounters or brigands.

This deadly burst of snow is burning my hands I'm frozen to the bones, I am A million miles from home, I'm walking away I can't recall your eyes, your face

23. ‘Never Let You Down’ - Woodkid (feat. LYKKE LI)

Another somber song, orchestral with some industrial noise in the mix - another great introspection song, or one for a scene with some hard decisions to be made.

Will you come along cause I'm about to leave this town In my eyes, a waterfall, all I can hear, a siren call Could you be waiting by the shore, oh I could drown without you Will you be holding out the line when I fall?

24. ‘Run Boy Run’ - Woodkid

Church bells, fast percussion, strong orchestral presence. For chase scenes, obviously, but great for fast-paced sneaking scenes as well. Also has a strong quasi-Medieval fantasy setting style to it.

Tomorrow is another day And you won't have to hide away You'll be a man, boy! But for now it's time to run, it's time to run!

25. ‘I Love You’ - Woodkid

Don’t let the scream effects and aggressive percussion at the beginning deter you (it kind of took me by surprise the first few times too) - it soon fades into more of the church bells and melodic string accompaniment.

Oh yeah, unrequited love song? It’s free (mental) real estate, baby.

Is there anything I could do Just to get some attention from you? In the waves, I've lost every trace of you Where are you?

26. ‘Vagabonds’ - Grizfolk

A rare departure from folk! Grizfolk is alt rock/indie pop. Stylistically it doesn’t match the feeling of Darkest Dungeon, but lyrically it’s almost 1:1 to arrival in the hamlet and the subsequent expeditions. Good song for writing about recruits bonding.

Oh this careless ground, guessing this is home now Oh in no man's land, at least we're still standing And we're all just fighting, some of us will not return And there's no redemption in trying to find your way out

27. ‘Everybody Wants To Rule The World’ - Lorde

Great trailer fuel, if you’ve seen the AC: Unity E3 trailer with this song - I listen to an extended version when writing fights in the Guild, especially one where two heroes are beefing. It’s got a primal kind of thing going on. I also associate this song with the Arbalest - lyrically, it fits her backstory like a glove.

Welcome to your life There's no turning back Even while we sleep We will find you

Acting on your best behavior Turn your back on mother nature

28. ‘Torches’ - X Ambassadors

More alt rock/indie pop - kind of a rallying song for dark expeditions, hopeful but still somber in nature - some gospel elements. X Ambassadors’ more popular ‘Renegades’ is also a fun tavern song.

Come on, carry your flame Carry it higher Leave it in the darkness Carry your torches

29. ‘Passing Afternoon’ - Iron & Wine

This is a song I use for reconciliation or domestic scenes - Dismas with Junia in the garden, for example. It’s soft and kind of meandering, and features vintage piano - you know, the piano you heard in the basement of your church turned community center as a child.

There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms

30. ‘Some Nights’ - Fun.

You know this song, your mom knows this song, everyone knows this song from like, middle school. Thought it’d be fun to end this list on an uplifting and very popular song. This is the song that a Disney adaptation of Darkest Dungeon would use in the Training Montage™ - from the point of view of Reynauld. It hits all of the points - being their commander rather than their equal, his stern and antisocial zealotry with no true ideology behind it, the ghost of his wife.

Verse 2, starting with “Well, that is it, guys, that is all / Five minutes in and I'm bored again” is where I see it transitioning to Dismas.

Well, some nights, I wish that this all would end 'Cause I could use some friends for a change And some nights, I'm scared you'll forget me again Some nights, I always win (I always win) But I still wake up, I still see your ghost Oh Lord, I'm still not sure what I stand for, oh What do I stand for? What do I stand for? Most nights, I don't know

_____

Well that’s all from me! Feel free to leave your own recommendations in the replies, and I’d love to know what you think about my personal picks. :+)

#darkest dungeon #playlist #song reccomendations #fic: the myth of sisyphus #give me that hozier baby

[palepinkycat]

OC Playlist

To everyone who tagged me - I swear, I didn't forget or ignore you, my life is simply a mess lol

Tagged by @mimabeann and @sleepswithvillains, thank you, I've had so much fun creating this playlist!  I'm gonna post the 2nd part soon.

This one's for - surprise, surprise - Cithar ☻ 

On behalf of Taral, I’m asking you NOT to give Cithar a radio. Leaving the Alliance was painful enough, please, don’t let him listen to sad songs.

His intro theme: Grá by Warduna!!! It IS his song! I mean, the lyrics, oh boy... I have SO MANY thoughts after reading the lyrics... I feel like this is something Cithar would like to tell Aivela and his friends/followers if he ever had a chance to speak to them one last time. It would be both a promise and an apology. So much angst in this one lol

Your song stirs something deep within

Like chords pulling straight from memory

I can’t find the words, they still remain veiled

Yet I know it is old, I know that it’s forgotten

I remember when you roamed freely

I remember when we roamed together

I remember us before our paths got separated

I remember the ring before it broke

[...]

You may run to my forests

Roam freely in my mountains

Lead your pack to my valleys

Let us restore the ring

I shall sing you safe on your way

I shall sing you safely home

His boss battle theme: Ah yes, more angst. Boss battle, huh? You mean him fighting a boss or him being the boss, huh? Anyways, Pride by Manchester Orchestra toatally suits both options.

Finally I felt the calming breeze

Stepping out to watch the final scene

After all it's you, my pride, and me

I can't speak whatever I can speak

You see

Now I found the way to meet the means

Faker face to make the kingdom clean

After all it's me, and the king, and the beast

Whatever whatever I can't speak

A thing

His love song: So I guess I should find two songs - one for him and Aivela and the second for him and Mara. Sooo Sarah by Alex G for Cithar x Mara where Sarah = Mara?

I can't be

What you need

I am stuck in a dream

[...]

Every day

I'll make promises that plague

Sarah's heart

So I can watch her fall apart

'Cause I know

When I break her down

We'll spit on all the happy clowns

That live around this sunny town

She loves me like a dog

And when we mess around

I'll let her know the truth I found

In my own hopeless hate

And every time I wake

I second guess the game I played

Did I make a mistake?

Yes, you did ☻

And for Cithar x Aivela - I was specifically looking for a song with some ballad/medieval mood when I came across The Song of Seven Sorrows from the Kingkiller Chronicles. Now, I've never read the book so I don't really know the lore but no other song from my playlist depicts their story so well. Assuming Lyra = Aivela, Lanre = Cithar, Selitos = Izax - or basically the whole Pantheon, they all hate him lol - and Myr Tariniel = Medriaas/Nathema

Our hero of songs and stories untold

He fought not for glory, nor silver nor gold

He killed for the hands that held his heart

For Lyra, who loved him till death did them part

[...]

But Death is a tyrant who won't be denied

Lyra she faded, she paled and she died

Her fate left unknown to we who remain

Its consequence etched in misery and pain

Unable to die, to forget or to sleep

Lanre was driven to madness and grief

Myr Tariniel burned by his hand

A mercy to the people of that wretched land

Selitos roared and he clawed at his eyes

Frenzied by pride, he cursed the skies:

"Lanre you traitor, cursed be thy name,

May you live always in the shadow and shame!"

Our hero of songs and stories untold

Now wanders these roads, alone in the cold

He dreams of the hands that held his heart

Of Lyra, who loved him till death did them part

Sorry for all my calculations 🤠

His sad times song: Oh, the sad times. Who Killed Mr. Moonlight by Bauhaus

A broken arrow in a bloody pool

The wound in the face

Of midnight proposals

Someone shot nostalgia in the back

Someone shot our innocence

In the shadow of his smile

[...]

All our dreams have melted down

We are hiding in the bushes

[...]

All our stories burnt

Our films lost in the rushes

We can't paint any pictures

As the moon had all our brushes

OR Kingdom's Coming , also by Bauhaus

Madness in the wind's got something to say

It ripped you apart

It will always be that way

It said kingdom's coming, causes chaos

Will cut to pieces the film you saw today

It's your big bad secret

Your crown of thorns

Can't take it easy, you can't turn back

The sky will open soon, could be today­

Forget your bastard ego, get it off your back

[...]

You want it all, but it's on the run

A song that reminds him of a better time: Times with Aivela, huh? 👀

The Stable Song by Gregory Alan Isakov

Remember when our songs were just like prayers

Like gospel hymns that you caught in the air?

Come down, come down sweet reverence

Unto my simple house and ring

And ring

Also, I just couldn't skip that part, it's soooo fitting

Now I've been crazy couldn't you tell

I threw stones at the stars, but the whole sky fell

He should get it tattooed on his stupid forehead so that in the future, everyone will be able to tell.

A song that calms him down: Y'all probably noticed but it really bothers me that the OLD Republic era is basically the same as the prequel/sequel era 626271182772 years later. So I pretty much headacanon it to be more of a Star Wars middle ages, like a mix of Vikings, LOTR and Game of Thrones lol Besides, Cithar is a character from my Dragon Age/Star Wars crossover soo if we're not talking about lyrics that describe him but instead about songs he'd actually listen to, I think it'd be some traditional Sith music he'd stumble upon while wandering among the common folk on Medriaas. Something that reminds him of home. As much as he hated its corruption, there were many things he loved. I imagine it would sound similiar to Sacrifice by Sharon Lyons.

A song that gets him hyped up: What's a better song to start a rebellion to than Svanrand by Heilung???

*No lyrics this time since it's just a list of names of valkyries, but imagine ancient sith reciting the names of their gods before entering a battle??? 👀*

A song that fits his aesthetic: Music that fits his aesthetic - Postaci by Dzivia

And lyrics that fit his aesthetic - The Sound of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel

In restless dreams I walked alone

Narrow streets of cobblestone

'Neath the halo of a street lamp

I turned my collar to the cold and damp

When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light

That split the night

And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw

Ten thousand people, maybe more

People talking without speaking

People hearing without listening

People writing songs that voices never share

And no one dared

Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools, " said I, "You do not know

Silence, like a cancer, grows

Hear my words that I might teach you

Take my arms that I might reach you"

But my words, like silent raindrops fell

And echoed in the wells, of silence

His own favorite song: The same as the one that calms him down.

The song that plays at his funeral: Would there even be one? Helvegen by Warduna

Who will sing me

Into the death-sleep sling me

When I walk the road to Hel

And the tracks I tread

Are cold, so cold

[...]

You will be free from the bonds that bind you

You are free from the bonds that bound you

#that one bauhaus song is like #forget your bastard ego get it off your back #and cithar's just #NO. #i just noticed #i always roast cithar? #even when i try to create a basic playlist #i love him to pieces but i also love making fun of him #i cant help it #i've skipped a few promts tho #was super confused lol sorry! #oc:cithar #swtor #oc playlist #Sith Pureblood #zakuul #aivela #SWTOR OC #my art