#Annals of the former world

[jwood718]

Highway cut on I-39: sedimentary rock in northern Illinois.

At some time during our strange experience of pandemic, I read John McPhee’s magnum opus (and Pulitzer Prize winner) Annals of the Former World.  McPhee describes a multi-year journey across the U.S. along Interstate 80, meeting with geologists, and learning about the literal bedrock of the continent -- much of the variety of which is readily apparent in highway cuts like this one.  

Reading the book I recalled seeing the like driving north to Illinois Railway Museum in 2017.  In 2022, passing the same way, I recalled reading the book as I drove through the cut -- ‘cause life can be circular like that.

R. Jake Wood, 2022.

#photography #roadtrips #john mcphee #annals of the former world

[mishacollins]

Time.

I’m at home alone with COVID, which is giving me time to naval-gaze and empty my inbox. In that inbox, I discovered that my friend Alex Gorosh (director of my series RoadFood) sent me this little documentary short on the topic of time.

For some reason, the unfathomable magnitude of space and time has always been a great source of comfort to me. I remember feeling miserable as a teenager and looking up at the stars of the night sky and taking great comfort in the fact that I was just a speck on this tiny blue planet in an ever-expanding universe of quintillions of planets. Looking up at the night sky on a clear night in New England as a kid I could see faint glow of the milky way—hundreds of billions of stars so distant they ceased to be points of light, but together they added up to a dusty smudge of luminosity across the sky—and all of the stars the Milky Way are in our own galaxy! And there are hundreds of billions of stars in hundreds of billions of other galaxies in this universe. To my high school mind all of this comforted me, because how could my little problems ever feel big when held up to the enormity of everything.

I always remember being soothed by the vastness of the universe, but when I was 40, I read “Annals of the Former World,” a tome on geology by John McPhee. The book beautifully illustrated the great expanse of geologic time, which so often exceeds the limits of our comprehension with this simple quote, “Consider the Earth’s history as the old measure of the English yard, the distance from the king’s nose to the tip of his outstretched hand. One stroke of a nail file on his middle finger erases human history.”

When I remember to remember, this too comforts me. The infinitesimally-small-smallness of my troubles helps them fade into nothing. Watching these few minutes on Youtube this morning, it was comforting to see that I am not alone in this perspective on our blink of time in this world. 

https://youtu.be/nOVvEbH2GC0

#Misha #Alex Gorosh #Time #Navel-Gazing

[thebarontheabyss]

Guilt is not solely the domain of mortals.

It is divine, a force of profound transformation or destruction, capable of defeating the gods themselves.

So how can anyone ever hope to triumph over it?

The name "Hastur" was once whispered with dread across worlds, etched in the annals of countless wars. And then she came, and a choice was made.

And he set on a path that is seldom chosen.

Centuries have passed since Hastur emerged from the remnants of his former self, vowing his sword would no longer dictate fates but offer protection.

And now, as fate draws near, knocking at the doors of your bar, another knock is made: she has returned, and the guilt must be confronted at last.

Hastur faces one final challenge: a battle for divine redemption.

Will you stand beside him when it comes?

Artwork by Timothy S

#hastur tbota #hosted games #wip #hosted game #choicescript #fiction #thebarontheabyss #interactive novel #cog #interactive fiction #choice of games #oc lore #oc character #character art #art #original characters #character sheet #original character #oc art #oc #tbota #the bar on the abyss #writing #lore #dashingdon #if wip #if #if game

[anna-the-undertaker]

The Hunter Becomes the Hunted

I have more ideas for Badass MC and have taken a lot of inspiration from Supernatural. This is slightly different, though, and focused specifically on a female MC. I might give this OC a name. If you have ideas for one let me know:

Armor Art

After Lilith was reborn into human form, as she matured, fragments of her celestial past began to resurface despite Diavolo's attempt to erase her memory. Memories of her time as an angel gradually returned, though the specifics of her rebirth remained elusive.

Over time, through relentless practice, she managed to rekindle some of her angelic powers, particularly her skill in summoning celestial weapons at will. Silently honing her abilities, she painstakingly learned to wield these gifts without endangering herself or others in her newfound human existence. With each passing day, her muscle memory gradually reawakened until she attained a semblance of mastery, adapting to the limitations of her mortal form.

As she reached adulthood, Lilith assumed the mantle of humanity's protector, driven by an enduring love for the beings she cherished. Vigilant against both angelic and demonic threats, she passed down her skills to her daughters, then their daughters, and their daughters, creating a lineage of guardians spanning generations.

However, as time marched on, the noble cause she championed began to fray at the edges, tainted by the relentless march of human ambition and pride. Dogma hardened into unyielding doctrine, and corruption seeped into the fabric of her legacy. And the power passed down waned, sealed away through the mixing of bloodlines.

Centuries after Lilith's passing, MC emerged into a world practically devoid of celestial or demonic presence. One of the lucky few over generations to have been born with the power to use weapon summoning. Armed with the techniques of her forebears, she displayed remarkable prowess and dedication from a tender age, assuming the mantle of hunter at a mere sixteen. Dispatching angels and demons alike, she began to question the righteousness of her cause. Why were these beings targeted? Had they truly committed wrongdoing, or were they merely puppets of human whims?

Years later, one fateful encounter with a young demon challenged MC's convictions. Confronted by the genuine fear and innocence in the demon's eyes, she hesitated, recognizing the injustice of her actions. Letting mercy guide her, she allowed the demon to escape, defying the expectations of her kin. But this act of compassion came at a cost — her status was revoked, and she was shunned from her family's legacy, her very existence erased from their annals.

In the present day, MC finds herself summoned to the Devildom, expecting retribution for her past deeds. To her surprise, the demons are oblivious to her lineage and history, and she resolves to keep it that way, having left her former life behind.

Despite her best efforts to suppress her instincts, a confrontation during the TSL quiz exposes her true nature. In a split-second decision, she defends herself against an enraged Levi, revealing herself to the stunned onlookers with a display of angelic weaponry. Though she spares him harm, the revelation leaves all present dumbfounded, questioning the depths of her secrets.

The dreaded day had arrived, and MC found herself standing in the council room facing Leviathan, whose smug expression grated on her nerves. She silently hoped to navigate through this ordeal swiftly, reluctant to escalate tensions with her new found companions. However, deep down, she knew that a confrontation was inevitable.

"Alright, everyone! Finally, the wait is over! It's time for Devil's Trivia Showdown, the quiz show that pits demon against human!" Asmo's melodious voice rang out.

MC couldn't help but smirk inwardly at the irony of his statement.

As Asmo continued his introduction, MC observed Leviathan's prideful demeanor, sensing his unwavering confidence in victory. She felt a twinge of guilt for what she was about to do, but she couldn't let his overconfidence go unchallenged.

"I am the G.O.A.T. None can oppose me!" Leviathan boasted.

"And his challenger claims to have been introduced to TSL only very recently after binge watching the DVDs! Say hello to MC!" Asmo declared.

With a polite wave and a small smile, MC acknowledged the introduction, mentally preparing herself for the impending quiz.

Leviathan's bluster and threats didn't intimidate her, and with each correct answer she provided, she could sense his frustration mounting, exacerbated by Satan's commentary.

When the moment came to reveal her trump card, Leviathan erupted into a rage, vehemently denying her assertion with a torrent of protests. Yelling that the Lord of Masks wouldn't do such a thing to the Lord of Shadow.

"Lies, all of it! Pure hogwash! Don't think you can fool me by making up random stuff like that!" he bellowed.

Interrupting his tirade, Diavolo interjected with a calm, observant tone, "Hmm. Actually, MC doesn't appear to be lying as far as I can see."

"Levi, you know as well as I do that Lord Diavolo has the ability to discern whether someone is telling the truth." Satan added.

Leviathan's protestations faltered, disbelief etched on his features as he struggled to reconcile his convictions with the truth before him.

"But...no...! Everyone online has been talking about how the Lord of Masks and the Lord of Shadow are totally going to make up... What you said CAN'T happen! It...it just CAN'T!"

Leviathan's transformation was swift. With a surge of dark energy, his form contorted and shifted, the air crackling with unsuppressed power. In an instant, his slender frame elongated and his features sharpened, his skin taking on a sheen of iridescent scales. Horns sprouted from his forehead, curving gracefully as his eyes blazed with a molten hue, reminiscent of lava that boiled the deepest reaches of the ocean. His serpentine tail thrashed and lashed out with erratic intensity, mirroring the agitated movements of a threatened serpent.

Leviathan lunged towards her, and time seemed to slow to a crawl. Despite the urgent warnings from Mammon to flee, MC's instincts held her firmly in place. With desperation coursing through her veins, she summoned her magic, a claymore materializing in her grasp while armor enveloped her body in a protective embrace.

Shifting her stance just in time, she deftly dodged to her left, using the flat side of the blade to intercept Leviathan's attack and push him away. The vibrations of his scales against the blade sent a shiver down her spine, and she silently prayed that she hadn't inflicted any harm, though deep down, she doubted her abilities to cause him significant injury.

As the claymore vanished, replaced by a shield and spear, MC turned toward her opponent and could feel the weight of everyone's gaze upon her. Her heart hammered in her chest, knowing that her true nature had been laid bare, and that she faced imminent danger.

Leviathan rose from where he had fallen, his rage palpable in the air. MC knew that her initial success had been a result of surprise, and she doubted her chances of repeating it.

"Please, don't force my hand," she pleaded. "I don't want this, but I'll defend myself if I must, even if I know the odds are against me."

The chamber fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the ominous hiss of Leviathan's discontent. Before the tension could escalate further, Diavolo's commanding voice sliced through the air like a scythe.

"Stand down, Leviathan," he ordered, his authority brooking no dissent.

Leviathan's protests withered in the face of the Demon Lord's command, and all eyes turned to Diavolo as he addressed MC with measured scrutiny.

"Look at me," he commanded, and she obeyed, steeling herself for what was to come.

"So, you are a hunter," Diavolo stated matter-of-factly.

"I… yes, but no longer. I left that path behind years ago," she confessed, her words weighted with remorse and resignation.

It felt as though she stood on trial, offering her final confession before an inevitable reckoning.

"Were you ever going to tell us?" Mammon's voice cut through the tension, his hurt palpable.

MC sighed heavily, her gaze shifting between the assembled figures. "No. I wanted nothing more to do with it."

"Why?" Diavolo's question hung heavy in the air, demanding honesty.

"Because our purpose had been twisted from protecting humanity's free will to become senseless slaughter," she admitted, her voice tinged with regret. "I won't deny that I took pride in it in the beginning. The ego boost from besting entities who were supposed to be far more powerful than I was intoxicating. It wasn't until my hands were stained with the blood of many angels and demons that I realized what it was I was truly doing."

As she allowed her weapons and armor to dissipate, MC's gaze fell to the floor, heavy with the weight of the lives lost by her hand. Faces of beings flashed before her eyes — some had fought fiercely, others had surrendered, while some had never even seen her coming.

"The more I came into contact with them, the less I could see them as mere creatures to be culled for humanity's protection," she confessed. "They were people, with wants and fears, individuals who had been born into their roles without choice. They had no control over which realm they were born into. They had feelings, desires, just like I did. And most had been summoned to the human realm against their will, called forth by humans seeking blessings or curses. From then on, I let mercy guide me."

"For that," she continued, her voice growing faint, "my sisters in arms cast me out, wiping my name from our history."

Mammon's features twisted with a mixture of hurt and disbelief as MC's confession unfolded before them. His eyes, wide with shock, darted between her and the others in the chamber, struggling to reconcile the image of his friend being a hunter. A pang of betrayal pierced his heart, as if the ground beneath their bond had shifted. Yet, beneath the hurt, there lingered a glimmer of understanding, a recognition that there was more to MC's story than met the eye. Despite the tumult of emotions swirling within him, Mammon's gaze remained locked on MC, silently conveying his unwavering support and the hope that their bond would endure.

Lucifer's stoic facade remained unyielding, though a flicker of suspicion danced in his steely gaze. His keen mind worked overtime, dissecting her words for any hint of deception or ulterior motive. The revelation only served to validate his lingering doubts about MC, solidifying his belief that her presence among them was fraught with hidden agendas. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a subtle indication of the wariness that had plagued him since their first encounter. He made a mental note to keep a closer eye on her, his resolve to protect his brothers from any potential threat only strengthened by her confession.

Beel's expression softened with empathy. Though surprised, he regarded her with a gentle understanding, his eyes reflecting a depth of compassion that surpassed judgment. Despite the weight of her past actions, Beel recognized the sincerity in MC's words, sensing the turmoil she must have endured.

Asmo's demeanor shifted subtly, his usual indifference replaced by a flicker of curiosity fueled by self-interest. While initially uninterested in her presence, the revelation of her past as a hunter ignited a spark that had previously been absent. His gaze lingered on her, though his scrutiny was not born out of empathy or concern, but rather a selfish desire to satisfy his own curiosity. The prospect of unraveling the mysteries surrounding her magic holding a tantalizing allure.

Leviathan's eyes widened in shock, his jealous outburst forgotten. Their past dealings flickered through his mind, casting a shadow of doubt over his perception of her. While he had once viewed her as nothing more than a means to an end, her sudden revelation threatened to upend his carefully constructed worldview. His paranoia, a constant companion, whispered doubts in his ear, urging him to distance himself. The notion of forging a pact with MC, despite their agreement, now seemed fraught with uncertainty.

Satan's eyes gleamed at the promise of uncharted knowledge, his mind ablaze with a myriad of questions, each craving to unravel the enigma of her past and the intricate motivations of her order.

"How is it that your 'sisters' managed to elude discovery for so long?" he inquired, his voice laced with curiosity. "Centuries of clandestine hunts on both celestial and infernal fronts surely would have left a mark. When did this begin? And who was its progenitor?"

MC hesitated, her uncertainty stemming from the lingering remnants of spells that had once bound her to silence.

"Our origins trace back to a single woman, though her identity remains unknown to me," she revealed. "Details of her existence were obscured, relegated to forbidden archives. What I do know is that each of us is a descendant of hers, inheriting not only her lineage but also her magic. I am the first in three generations to manifest this magic, however. The dilution of our bloodline has dimmed the genes potency."

A mix of astonishment and relief bloomed in her chest, a surge of liberation coursing through her veins. She had shattered the shackles of secrecy that bound her, reclaiming her voice after years of silent submission.

Undeterred, MC forged ahead, her loyalty to her sisters eroded by the passage of time. "As for our concealment, with each entity vanquished, we acquired new arcane arts, using them to cloak our existence and our elders used them to enforced our silence. Moreover, our armor veils our very souls, rendering us indistinguishable to both demon and angel when not in the field."

Diavolo cut in, prompting MC to look at him.

"Why reveal this now?" he pressed.

"Because I dedicated countless hours to unraveling the bindings that once tethered me," she declared, her tone resolute. "I refused to remain ensnared by chains that held no sway over me any longer."

Satan's contemplative gaze bore into MC before posing his next question, "How is that a meer human like yourself, magic aside, has been able to overpower angels and demons?"

"As I'm sure you know," she began, "angels and demons are inherently weakened when traversing the human realm. Some magics draw upon the energy of their respective realms, and when removed from that source, they become vulnerable to manipulation and restraint. This vulnerability applies primarily to lesser demons and angels. However, it's important to note that our tactics would prove practically useless against beings such as yourselves or the Archangels. Hence, why you have never been targeted."

Barbatos maintained his serene composure. He regarded her with a knowing gaze. His powers had afforded him a unique perspective. Though he had been privy to MC's past as a hunter, only sharing his discovery with the demon lord, Barbatos had seen no cause for concern. In his eyes, her journey had been one of growth and redemption, and he quietly observed her honesty in this moment with quiet approval.

Diavolo's cheerful demeanor returned. Barbatos' subtle encouragement had indeed led him to ponder the implications of MC's past. Yet, rather than rushing to judgment, he had chosen to reserve his conclusions until after getting to know her better and her honesty in this solidified his trust in her. In his eyes, compassion and understanding were the cornerstones of effective leadership, and he applied this principle not only to his fellow demons but also to humanity.

Diavolo's laughter filled the room, resonating with a warmth that belied the gravity of the moment. "Thank you for your honesty. It's clear to me that you've been truthful. I'm delighted to say that you truly were the perfect candidate for the exchange program."

Gasps of astonishment reverberated from the others, even Lucifer's usually composed facade cracked with surprise, while MC stood in disbelief, her jaw nearly hitting the floor.

"You knew?" she stated, shock written across her face.

"Of course," Diavolo replied with an unwavering smile. "We took great care in selecting participants for this program, ensuring the safety and integrity of all involved. I must say, I'm impressed by your ability to keep it hidden for so long, and equally surprised that others hadn't noticed your familiarity with certain subjects."

"But why keep it a secret?" MC questioned, her confusion evident. "Wouldn't it have been simpler to address it from the outset?"

"While it may have been easier, it wouldn't have fostered growth or understanding," Barbatos interjected, prompted by his lord to offer insight. "Your past is best shared by you, the one who lived it. Each person's perspective shapes their understanding, and by witnessing your emotions and reactions, we've all gained a deeper understanding of this aspect of humanity allowing us to cultivate better relations in the future."

MC stood in stunned silence, her emotions swirling in a chaotic whirlwind of relief, confusion, and disbelief. She struggled to find the right words to express the myriad of feelings coursing through her, her mind reeling from the unexpected turn of events.

"I honestly expected you to throw me into a pit of fire after killing some of your people," she finally managed to voice.

Diavolo's laughter filled the room once more, echoing with a warmth that washed over her like a comforting embrace. "While the loss of my people is indeed a tragedy, it's important to remember that those of us gathered here have all taken lives in the past," he remarked, his tone gentle yet resolute. "It would be hypocritical for any of us to pass judgment on you. Besides, I have full confidence that you no longer harbor any intention of causing harm to anyone."

As the weight of Diavolo's words settled over the room, a sense of peace descended upon MC. She felt a burden she had carried for so long begin to lift from her shoulders.

With a grateful nod, MC found her voice once more. "Thank you," she said. "For seeing beyond this and giving me the chance to prove myself.

Diavolo's smile widened, and with a final glance around the room, MC let out a deep breath. She was ready to embrace this change and embark on the next chapter with courage and resilience.

This got weird toward the end because I'm tired and have only slept 6 hours in the last 24. I may or may not do one more chapter that includes relationship changes with the brothers and the introduction of Simeon, Luke, Solomon, and of course Belphie and their reactions to her past. It really depends on how im feeling, and if I still have the urge to write. this whole thing probably sucks if im being honest.

#obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me mc #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me badass mc #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos

[pranaextirpated]

in the fullness of time

genre: romance, angst pairing: jing yuan/reader word count: 1.4k

tags: gn/m, emotional hurt/comfort, crying, bathing, happy ending (?), mild spoilers with jing yuan's lore

a/n: yeah. sorry

jing yuan was a precocious individual in his earlier years. he hated to read but loved to pick up a wooden sword instead. he cherished living a life that wasn’t constrained to his family’s expectations. at times, jingliu viewed him as a little butthead and allowed his ego to get the best of him, but he donned the same toothy grin every day. things have changed since.

now, every stride he takes is powerful and resolute, whether he’s surrounded by the lush flora of a garden or the piling corpses on a devastating battlefield. he bloodied his hands and they've become calloused as a result. old, harrowing memories serve to haunt him then and there, either through uninvited flashbacks or dreadful nightmares. but he doesn't cast them aside and treats them in the same manner as his pleasant ones. jing yuan doesn't forget easily; if he does, that's what diaries are for.

as for you, you terribly love jing yuan. perhaps too much than you'd like to admit, but there's never a consequence to what is considered "too much," if love can even be quantifiable. with his generosity, he reciprocates that love to a greater degree (in other words, he spoils you) and reverts to his former, youthful self again. jing yuan can be quite the sappy lovebird behind closed doors— maybe too cheesy due to his "old" age, as you'd tease him, but he wouldn't trade you for the world whatsoever. your love is a breath of fresh air; it rejuvenates his body and mind, allowing him to escape the confines of the horrors he's faced, for just a while.

or maybe there is a consequence after all, because good things don't seem to last forever.

as droplets of water patter onto the warm bathtub, jing yuan notices you lost in thought. the reflection of your face in the rippling water reveals a tinge of unease.

"my dear, is something on your mind?" his voice disrupts your ruminations from snowballing in.

"sorry," you shake your head. "it's nothing important." jing yuan could clearly see through your white lie. a part of him contemplates accepting your falsehood for your comfort, but his curiosity nudges him forward.

"please don't hide from me," he gently implores. "speak freely so that i can help you."

not even jing yuan, the wise and brave of luofu, can prevent such a misfortune.

with no meaningful reason to continue cowering, you summon the courage to speak, though a lump forms in your throat.

"jing yuan," you start, words beginning to stale on your dry tongue. "what would you do if i were to leave you?"

he gazes at you, a mix of concern and confusion etching his features. he pulls you closer, wrapping his arm around your waist while attempting to fathom the significance behind such an unexpected question.

"why do you ask this?" he softly inquires, rubbing small circles against your hipbone. "is there something troubling you that i am unaware of?"

you swallow empty. "i've been pondering... our time together. it seems as if we have only a fleeting amount of it," you trail off, your voice filled with the weight of fading into the annals of time.

his heart freezes cold, then sinks. the insinuation settles within jing yuan like a festering plague. still, he takes a deep breath, leaning momentarily against the tub to consider your words. to you, the time you've shared feels insignificant in the grand scheme of his longevity. the thought of you leaving weighs heavily on his soul.

"i understand your thoughts," he treads carefully, his hand now stroking your waist. "however..." he pauses, sighing to recollect himself. "please know that you are here, in this moment, with me. i couldn't have wished for the heavens to bring someone like you into my life."

jing yuan is well acquainted with loss, in all of its forms. comrades and subordinates, once present in his life, have met their fate— many perished, others captured, and a few simply vanished without a trace. you would become just another tally mark to his list.

a flux of emotions threatens to overwhelm you. you berate yourself for it. "i know," your voice quivers. "i know that, but how can i bear the thought of dying— of leaving you so soon?" your breath hitches, the gravity of your words fueled by fear. "you'll still look the same even after a hundred years, but i—" the sight of your reflection intensifies the unbearable ache in your heart. you wrench your eyes shut, desperate to hold back the tears.

"i'm scared, jing yuan."

he gently turns you around, witnessing the tears glistening on your eyelashes like dewdrops on petals. it embarrasses you to cry before him, and your emotions churn like an ocean's riptide that swells every ticking second. jing yuan leans in as his warm breath brushes against your lips.

"let us focus on today," he murmurs, running a hand through your wet hair. "for tomorrow will take care of itself."

perhaps it's true that what exists between you and him is merely temporary joy, as everything transient tends to be. yet his words assuage the fear raging within you. the tears continue to trickle down your stained cheeks.

jing yuan presses a tender smooch upon your forehead, intertwining his fingers with yours beneath the water's surface.

"i don't want to leave you, jing yuan," you sob through fits of despairing cries. "i don't want to, i don't want to." it deeply pains him to see you like this— to confront another tragedy fate has imposed upon him.

"you will never leave me," jing yuan assures you, tightening his clasp on your hand for emphasis. "in times like these, we should always enjoy what we've been given. you may not have my lifespan, but you share my heart. every moment with you is worth being loved."

unable to find your voice, you can only sniffle quietly as he consoles you. you feel like a restless child being cradled by a man who is going to outlive you. this man, who has willingly shouldered the weight of martial duties in service of his people, carries the burden of an ongoing war against immortality. each contour and scar on his body stands as a testament to his valor and the trials he has endured, some of which you may never fully comprehend.

jing yuan leans forward again, placing featherlight kisses along the gentle curves of your eyelids. his lips collect each streaming tear before descending to caress yours in a loving lock, and your arms instinctively snake around his back in solace.

"even if i'm no longer here, i hope to see you again in my next life. whenever and wherever that may be," you whisper with yearning desire.

his gaze intensifies as he locks eyes with you, his heart stirred by the sincerity in your words. he gently cups your face to brush his thumb against your cheek, and any lone teardrop is wiped gone.

"i will wait an eternity if necessary. i have faith that our paths will lead us back to each other," profound devotion evident in his hushed whisper.

as tears ebb away from your eyes, you plead to jing yuan with a trembling voice, seeking a heartfelt promise. "please, jing yuan, promise me."

his smile is so warm, so fulfilling. "i give you my vow," he declares with unwavering commitment. "know that my love for you will always remain eternal, and i will always stand alongside you, forever.”

"i'll miss you then."

suddenly, you lunge towards him, bridging the remaining distance, and wrap your arms tightly around him. you cling to jing yuan as though your fragile life hangs in the balance. his presence reassures you of his enduring existence, his bare skin a tangible reminder of his permanence to your heart.

and in every instance, jing yuan will eagerly await your return and greet you with open arms. he will regale new anecdotes, recount moments that transpired during your absence, and relive the shared moments of the past, breathing new life into them. in this lifetime and hereafter.

and so, the final pages of this chapter will end in a bittersweet note, leaving an indelible mark on both of your lives. however, it is not an end that signals the cessation of all, but rather the turning of a page, welcoming a new chapter to unfold.

#jing yuan x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #jing yuan #honkai star rail #hsr #jing yuan x you #writings

[darknesseddiem]

𝐀𝐥𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐳: 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝟔𝟔

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: In the shadowy annals of crime, a figure emerges, casting a chilling pall over the world. Eddie Munson, infamous for his macabre deeds as a serial killer, now stirs fear with an unprecedented proposal. Like a sinister weaver, Eddie prepares to embroider a fabric saturated with long-held vengeance. Whispers of his scheme cloak his intentions in darkness, leaving observers to ponder the depths of his depravity.

Each stitch in his plan weaves a sinister narrative, drawing the curious into the abyss of his psyche. As intrigue mounts, the world braces for Eddie Munson's cryptic request, poised to unravel reality itself, ushering forth chaos and terror.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: +18 MDNI, gore, mentions of blood; violence, descriptions of torture and death, Eddie is a serial killer, cannibalism, cruelty, mistery, Eddie is on the death row, mentions Chrissy's mother and allusion to her death.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Please be advised that this series of stories delves into darker and more disturbing themes than my previous works. The content will include highly sensitive and grotesque subject matter. If you find yourself uncomfortable with such material, it's perfectly understandable. Your well-being is paramount, and your decision to refrain from reading is respected.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2,4K

𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫.

Fell free to support my works with some 𝐊𝐨-𝐅𝐢!

In the somber depths of the penitentiary's labyrinthine corridors, where the very air seemed to congeal with foreboding, the flickering glow of pale moonlight dared not venture. Within these subterranean confines, an imposing edifice of concrete and steel stood sentinel, its walls steeped in the crimson stains of untold atrocities perpetrated by the merciless hands of those who had transgressed against the sanctity of innocent lives. This fortress, a bastion of unforgiving incarceration, cast its shadow over all who dared to tread its bleak corridors, an inescapable abyss of despair and anguish.

Descending further still, into the bowels of this infernal domain, lay the deepest recesses of confinement - a purgatory reserved for the most depraved and desolate souls. Here, shrouded in perpetual darkness and devoid of even the faintest glimmer of sunlight or human contact, languished men and women so irredeemably profane that they had become naught but spectral echoes of their former selves. Condemned to an eternity of solitude and torment, they withered away in the suffocating embrace of isolation, their existence a cruel mockery of the vibrant world they once knew.

Amidst this realm of despair and desolation, a singular figure loomed in the shadows - the enigmatic inmate of Cell 66, a nameless specter whose very presence invoked dread and apprehension. Eddie Munson, a man cloaked in the chilling aura of mystery, stood as an epitome of cold-blooded savagery, his nefarious deeds shrouded in the veils of silence and secrecy. For a decade, he had steadfastly refused to divulge the twisted tapestry of his dark past, his lips sealed with an iron resolve that defied the relentless interrogation of law enforcement.

Eddie Munson, age of 28, stood accused of crimes so heinous and grotesque that they defied comprehension - murder, slaughter, torture, and the ultimate depravity of cannibalism. The latter having as victim his father, William Munson, the man had his heart ripped out of his body while he was still breathing, and eaten by his own son.

His victims, numbering unknown, bore the indelible mark of his sadistic cruelty, their anguished cries silenced forever in the abyss of oblivion. Yet, despite the relentless onslaught of interrogation and torture, Eddie remained an impenetrable enigma, his psyche a labyrinthine maze of madness and malevolence that confounded even the most seasoned investigators.

In a desperate bid to extract the truth from him, they exhausted every tool in the arsenal of human torment. Shock therapy surged through his veins like bolts of lightning, while hypnosis sought to unravel the tangled web of his mind. Sleep deprivation gnawed at his sanity, each minute stretching into an eternity of agony. Temperature manipulation plunged him into the icy depths of despair, while purposeful drowning submerged him in a watery abyss of terror.

Yet, despite their relentless efforts, the truth remained elusive, shrouded in the darkness of his twisted psyche. As the investigators and police faced the grim reality of their failure, they reluctantly conceded defeat. With heavy hearts and haunted souls, they consigned him to the unforgiving confines of death row, where the specter of execution loomed ominously over him like a shadowy executioner awaiting his final reckoning.

Perched upon a cold, unforgiving chair, Eddie Munson found himself shackled before a cadre of stern-faced law enforcement officials. The putrid hue of his garb, a garish orange jumpsuit, seemed to mock the gravity of the situation, its color reminiscent of flames licking at the edges of his very existence.

As he awaited his fate, the weight of his crimes hung heavy in the air, a palpable presence that suffocated the room with an oppressive sense of dread. The gaze of the officers bore into him with a mix of contempt and morbid fascination, as if they were peering into the depths of a bottomless abyss, searching for a glimmer of humanity amidst the darkness.

The clang of metal against metal echoed through the chamber as the handcuffs tightened around his wrists, a stark reminder of his loss of freedom and impending doom. And yet, despite the grim tableau unfolding before him, Munson remained eerily composed, his eyes betraying no hint of remorse or regret, but instead, harboring a chilling calmness that sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to meet his gaze.

"I, Judge William Bennet Carver," the judge's voice reverberated through the solemn courtroom, each syllable weighted with the gravity of the impending verdict, "sentence Edward James Munson for the heinous crimes of murder, slaughter, cannibalism, torture, concealment of a corpse, violence, and femicide, to face the ultimate justice: the electric chair."

The resounding thud of the judge's gavel against the polished wood punctuated his decree, sending a chilling ripple through the hushed chamber. Yet, amid the somber atmosphere, a twisted smirk danced upon Eddie's pallid visage, his lips curling into a sinister grin that betrayed a morbid amusement at his own demise.

The dim light of the courtroom cast eerie shadows across his features, accentuating the gleam in his eyes that flickered with an unsettling blend of defiance and derangement. To Eddie, the solemn pronouncement of his fate seemed to serve only as fuel for the perverse amusement that bubbled within him, a dark amusement born of a mind steeped in darkness and depravity.

As the weight of his sentence settled upon him like a suffocating shroud, Eddie's gaze remained locked upon the judge, his expression an unsettling mixture of defiance and amusement. For in the face of impending doom, he found only a perverse delight in the twisted game of fate that had brought him to this chilling juncture.

Before the attendees could muster the resolve to depart the trial chamber, a chilling silence settled over the room like a suffocating fog. Yet, amidst the palpable tension, a voice shattered the eerie stillness, cutting through the air with an unsettling cadence that sent shivers down the spines of those present.

It was Eddie, his voice devoid of the usual satisfaction that accompanied his macabre deeds, each word dripping with a cold detachment that belied the horrors lurking within his psyche. As if emerging from the depths of a nightmare, his utterance hung heavy in the air, a spectral presence that seemed to linger long after the sound had faded.

The unexpectedness of his speech sent shockwaves through the gathered throng, their eyes widening in disbelief at the audacity of this monstrous figure to break the oppressive silence that had enveloped the chamber. And yet, despite the chill that coursed through their veins, there was an undeniable allure to Eddie's words, a morbid curiosity that compelled them to hang upon his every syllable, like moths drawn to the flame of his dark presence.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a harbinger of terror, his voice a haunting echo of the abyss from which he had emerged, leaving all who bore witness to wonder what other horrors lay concealed within the depths of his twisted mind.

"Before you lend me to my inevitable fate," Eddie's voice sliced through the heavy air, his tone carrying an unsettling calmness that seemed incongruent with his looming demise, "there is a final thing I must ask."

The twisted curvature of his lips formed a grotesque grin, a stark contrast against the grim backdrop of the courtroom. His smile, more akin to a rictus of madness, sent shivers coursing down the spines of those assembled, each icy caress leaving behind a trail of apprehension and dread.

The macabre spectacle of Eddie's grin seemed to warp the very fabric of reality, casting a pall of unease over the room as if the darkness within him threatened to consume all who dared to behold it. And yet, despite the visceral discomfort it elicited, there was an undeniable magnetism to his presence, drawing the gaze of onlookers like moths to the flame of his twisted charisma.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a specter of malevolence, his smile a haunting reminder of the horrors that lurked within the depths of his depraved soul. And as the weight of his words hung heavy in the air, the gathered throng braced themselves for the chilling revelation that awaited, knowing all too well that whatever he had to say would only serve to deepen the darkness that enveloped them all.

“Nothing you say will save you, Mr. Munson.” Judge Carver said seriously.

"Indeed, Judge Carver," Eddie's voice echoed through the chamber, carrying an eerie calmness that seemed to mock the severity of his situation. His gaze, like obsidian pools devoid of remorse, bore into the judge with an unsettling intensity, as if daring him to peer into the abyss of his twisted psyche.

A grim chuckle escaped Eddie's lips, its echo reverberating off the walls like a sinister melody. "Save me?" he mused, the words dripping with a venomous disdain that sent a shiver down the spine of all who heard. "Oh, dear judge, salvation is but a distant memory in the shadowed recesses of my existence."

The air seemed to thicken with tension as the weight of Eddie's words hung heavy in the room, casting a pall of unease over the gathered throng. And yet, despite the palpable discomfort that permeated the chamber, there was an undeniable allure to his defiance, a morbid fascination with the darkness that lurked within him.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a testament to the depths of human depravity, his words a chilling reminder of the horrors that lay concealed within the darkest corners of the human soul. And as the judge's stern gaze bore down upon him, Eddie met it with a steely resolve, knowing full well that no words could save him from the abyss into which he had willingly descended.

"I want my story to be told to the world," Eddie's voice sliced through the tense atmosphere of the courtroom, each syllable laden with a sinister promise that sent a shiver down the spine of every witness. Gasps of shock rippled through the room, eyes widening in disbelief as if Eddie had uttered a profanity that defied comprehension.

"But... on one condition," he continued, his words hanging in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating all who dared to breathe in their ominous implications. The palpable anxiety in the room intensified, a suffocating weight pressing down upon the gathered throng, rendering them paralyzed in a state of morbid anticipation.

The silence that followed was deafening, a tangible presence that seemed to fill the room with a foreboding sense of dread. Each heartbeat thundered in their ears like a drumbeat of impending doom, the rhythm echoing the pulse of their mounting fear.

And then, with a voice that cut through the silence like a blade, Eddie delivered his chilling demand: "Bring her to me." The words hung in the air like a curse, casting a shadow over the room as the gravity of his request sank in. In that moment, the darkness that lurked within Eddie Munson's twisted soul spilled forth, enveloping all who bore witness in its malevolent embrace.

As Eddie's demand reverberated through the room, a hushed murmuring rose among the spectators, whispers of unease intertwining with the palpable tension that gripped them all. Judge Carver, his brow furrowed with concern, exchanged a glance with the bailiffs, uncertainty etched in their solemn expressions.

Suddenly, from the back of the courtroom, a figure emerged, cloaked in shadows and bearing an aura of ominous dread. It was a woman, her features obscured by darkness, yet her presence radiated an eerie calmness that seemed to quell the rising panic.

With measured steps, she approached the bench, her gaze fixed upon Eddie with an intensity that bordered on obsession. And as she drew closer, the dim light revealed the haunting familiarity of her visage—a haunting resemblance to one of Eddie's victims, long thought to be lost to the annals of his depravity.

A collective gasp swept through the room as the truth dawned upon them all, a revelation so horrifying that it threatened to shatter the fragile facade of their reality. For in that moment, it became clear that Eddie's request was not merely a macabre whim, but a sinister plot to unleash a new chapter of terror upon the world—one that would plunge them all into the depths of darkness from which there could be no escape.

"It's about time I found you, Munson," the words cut through the air like a frigid wind, each syllable dripping with a chilling resolve that sent shivers down everyone's spine. The voice, belonging to a middle-aged woman, resonated with an underlying tremor, hinting at the depths of her pent-up anguish and fury.

Eddie's gaze locked onto the woman, his expression unreadable yet tinged with a flicker of recognition that danced behind his steely facade. The name she uttered—Selenne Cunningham—stirred a distant memory within him, a memory veiled in the shadowy recesses of his consciousness.

A sinister smile curled at the corners of Eddie's lips, a perverse amusement twinkling in his eyes like the glint of a predator stalking its prey. "Ah, Selenne Cunningham," he purred, his voice laced with a venomous edge that mirrored her own icy tone. "Your daughter... such a delicate flower, crushed beneath the weight of my artistry."

The room fell silent, the tension thickening with each passing moment as the gravity of their confrontation hung heavy in the air.

With the first thread of Munson's sinister plot meticulously woven, the tendrils of his malevolence unfurled like a dark shadow, poised to ensnare those who unwittingly danced within its grasp. The nefarious machinations of Eddie Munson, honed to a razor's edge, stood poised to carve a path of unfathomable destruction through the lives of all who had dared to cross his path.

As the tendrils of his wickedness coiled with calculated precision, a palpable sense of foreboding descended upon those ensnared within the web of his deceit. Edward Munson, a specter of malevolence risen from the depths of darkness, loomed large on the horizon, his presence casting a long shadow that threatened to engulf all who stood in his wake.

With a chilling resolve that echoed through the corridors of fate, he returned from the abyss, his resolve steeled by the bitter taste of past failures. This time, there would be no room for error, no margin for mercy.

Eddie Munson had returned, and with him came a reckoning so dark and terrible that none would emerge unscathed.

#darknesseddiemfics #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddiemunson #dark!eddie munson #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson imagine #bestfriend!eddie munson #older!eddie munson #eddie the freak munson

[radioactive-earthshine]

I'm actually really in love with Bart from The Legion of Super Heroes in the 31st Century tie-in comics with the 2006 animated series.

We don't know exactly how much of his origin in this series is EXACTLY parallel with his comic lore but there are some similarities with a little tweak but none-the-less the implications seem to be a little sinister.

The issue opens up with Chuck (Bouncing Boy) and Luornu (Triplicate Girl) being shifted from a recreational VR simulator directly to Bart's own VR "server" (a replica of 21st century Keystone City) where he explains that he's there to get his powers under control.

Of course in his comic origins this is untrue, but it is something that the scientists charged with 'observing' him might have told him instead of the truth. Again, in this we do not know if there is any foul play going on with Bart for sure but nevertheless things are amiss.

The VR world Bart is in seems to house AI sentients and their disappearances is enough to convince Chuck and Luornu to help Bart. Where the scientists are in all of this is... questionable. It could be that Bart's origins in this are no different from the comics and he is essentially an unknowing prisoner.

What is interesting is throughout this issue they try to imply that they don't know for sure if Bart is an AI, or if he is plugged into VR, but by the end you get the impression he is plugged in like the rest of them.

The word usage they use is that he "lives" in the VR which is not inaccurate even in the comics. Bart spent the majority of his life in the 30th/31st century plugged into VR making it his home as he knew no other way of life. Bart doesn't seem to differentiate between the two as VR is his home right now.

Because thinking is involved in solving this case naturally they have to reach out to Querl for help, which solves a lot of mysteries about Bart through implication.

The way how Querl talks is interesting... and when Querl comes into all of this is when things get interesting as we get a small implication that Bart is plugged into VR, and is not just an AI.

Querl refers to Bart by his full name, no where in this issue does Bart use his full name. The fact that he says he is honored to meet him implies that Querl likely remembers Bart's origins from some annals of time due to his knowledge of history and special interest of 21st century heroes.

I also like that in this they push Bart's friendship with Querl which was a thing even in his 90s comics (as unusual as it was).

Querl reveals that he's read that he's fast, again this could mean he knows 21st century history OR he just pulled the information about Bart from the facility that is holding him, but it's likely the former due to how honored he was to meet him.

In this Querl and Bart work together in much better harmony than they did in the comics which is a delightful contrast.

Also in direct contrast to Bart's interaction with the Legionnaires in the comics, he is immediately invited to join up. This is something that comic Bart fervently wanted.

Unfortunately, he is unable to join and Bart's wording here is ominous in that they won't let him leave until he has control of his powers. If this is like his comics, that would have been never. He's still trapped in VR, timeline being a little different, maybe he doesn't have the speed aging going on in this version. Bart never was rescued and he's still in VR.

All in all a delightful take on Bart but it still leaves a lot of questions open and I am sad we never got more out of this. This little comic is like a little love letter to Bart and I 10/10 recommend reading.

The Legion of Super-Heroes in the 31st Century Issue #15

#bart allen #impulse #chuck tain #bouncing boy #luornu durgo #triplicate girl #triad #querl dox #brainiac 5 #losh #legion of super heroes #legion of super heroes 2006 #losh 2006 #my wild hcs #he could be there for reasonable motives #but i don't like that he is unable to leave until he has control #that's where it goes wrong for me

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

A Porsche 904 Story"

In the heart of Stuttgart, where the air was thick with the scent of gasoline and the sound of engines echoed through the streets like a symphony, there stood a factory unlike any other. It was the home of Porsche, a legendary marque known for its relentless pursuit of speed and innovation. And within the hallowed halls of this factory, there was a car that would come to define an era – the Porsche 904 Carrera GTS.

The 904 was a marvel of engineering, a sleek and aerodynamic masterpiece designed to conquer both the racetrack and the open road. Its low-slung profile and sweeping curves exuded an air of aggression and elegance, while its lightweight construction and powerful engine promised blistering performance.

But it wasn't just the 904's beauty that captured the hearts of enthusiasts around the world; it was its racing pedigree and storied history that truly set it apart. With victories at iconic races like the Targa Florio and the 24 Hours of Le Mans, the 904 cemented its place in the annals of motorsport history, becoming a symbol of Porsche's dominance on the track.

One man who understood the true spirit of the 904 was Markus, a seasoned racer with a passion for speed and a hunger for victory. From the moment he laid eyes on the car, he knew that he had to have one of his own – not just as a trophy to be admired, but as a weapon to be wielded on the racetrack.

With unwavering determination, Markus set out to acquire a 904 of his own, scouring the globe for the perfect specimen. When he finally found one, he spared no expense in restoring it to its former glory, pouring his heart and soul into every nut and bolt until it gleamed like a diamond in the sun.

But for Markus, the true beauty of the 904 lay not just in its appearance, but in the way it performed on the track. With him behind the wheel, the car came alive, its engine roaring to life with a ferocious growl as it tore down the straights and carved through the corners with surgical precision.

As Markus crossed the finish line, the checkered flag waving triumphantly in the air, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and satisfaction. For in the beauty of his Porsche 904, he had found not just a car, but a companion – a symbol of speed, power, and the unyielding pursuit of excellence.

#porsche 904 #Porsche #car #cars #Porsche 904 Carrera GTS #Carrera GTS

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

In the Air by Christopher Nevinson, 1917. Lithograph.

Today is Armistice Day, commemorated every year on 11 November to mark the end of the First World War and the armistice signed.⁠ ⁠

In this work by Christopher Nevinson the abstract patchwork of fields is laid out under the wing of a military aircraft, the sharp angles of the composition emphasising the dizzying height of the plane.⁠ During the war, the world was being seen from entirely new angles, inspiring artists to experiment and to depict landscape in new, unexpected ways.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

November 11, 2023

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

NOV 12, 2023

In 1918, at the end of four years of World War I’s devastation, leaders negotiated for the guns in Europe to fall silent once and for all on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. It was not technically the end of the war, which came with the Treaty of Versailles. Leaders signed that treaty on June 28, 1919, five years to the day after the assassination of Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand set off the conflict. But the armistice declared on November 11 held, and Armistice Day became popularly known as the day “The Great War,” which killed at least 40 million people, ended.

In November 1919, President Woodrow Wilson commemorated Armistice Day, saying that Americans would reflect on the anniversary of the armistice “with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country’s service and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations…."

But Wilson was disappointed that the soldiers’ sacrifices had not changed the nation’s approach to international affairs. The Senate, under the leadership of Republican Henry Cabot Lodge of Massachusetts—who had been determined to weaken Wilson as soon as the imperatives of the war had fallen away—refused to permit the United States to join the League of Nations, Wilson’s brainchild: a forum for countries to work out their differences with diplomacy, rather than resorting to bloodshed. 

On November 10, 1923, just four years after he had established Armistice Day, former President Wilson spoke to the American people over the new medium of radio, giving the nation’s first live, nationwide broadcast. 

“The anniversary of Armistice Day should stir us to a great exaltation of spirit,” he said, as Americans remembered that it was their example that had “by those early days of that never to be forgotten November, lifted the nations of the world to the lofty levels of vision and achievement upon which the great war for democracy and right was fought and won.” 

But he lamented “the shameful fact that when victory was won,…chiefly by the indomitable spirit and ungrudging sacrifices of our own incomparable soldiers[,] we turned our backs upon our associates and refused to bear any responsible part in the administration of peace, or the firm and permanent establishment of the results of the war—won at so terrible a cost of life and treasure—and withdrew into a sullen and selfish isolation which is deeply ignoble because manifestly cowardly and dishonorable.” 

Wilson said that a return to engagement with international affairs was “inevitable”; the U.S. eventually would have to take up its “true part in the affairs of the world.” 

Congress didn’t want to hear it. In 1926 it passed a resolution noting that since November 11, 1918, “marked the cessation of the most destructive, sanguinary, and far reaching war in human annals and the resumption by the people of the United States of peaceful relations with other nations, which we hope may never again be severed,” the anniversary of that date “should be commemorated with thanksgiving and prayer and exercises designed to perpetuate peace through good will and mutual understanding between nations.”

In 1938, Congress made November 11 a legal holiday to be dedicated to world peace. 

But neither the “war to end all wars” nor the commemorations of it, ended war.

Just three years after Congress made Armistice Day a holiday for peace, American armed forces were fighting a second world war, even more devastating than the first. The carnage of World War II gave power to the idea of trying to stop wars by establishing a rules-based international order. Rather than trying to push their own boundaries and interests whenever they could gain advantage, countries agreed to abide by a series of rules that promoted peace, economic cooperation, and security. 

The new international system provided forums for countries to discuss their differences—like the United Nations, founded in 1945—and mechanisms for them to protect each other, like the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), established in 1949, which has a mutual defense pact that says any attack on a NATO country will be considered an attack on all of them. 

In the years since, those agreements multiplied and were deepened and broadened to include more countries and more ties. While the U.S. and other countries sometimes fail to honor them, their central theory remains important: no country should be able to attack a neighbor, slaughter its people, and steal its lands at will. This concept preserved decades of relative peace compared to the horrors of the early twentieth century, but it is a concept that is currently under attack as autocrats increasingly reject the idea of a rules-based international order and claim the right to act however they wish.

In 1954, to honor the armed forces of wars after World War I, Congress amended the law creating Armistice Day by striking out the word “armistice” and putting “veterans” in its place. President Dwight D. Eisenhower, himself a veteran who had served as the supreme commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force in Europe and who had become a five-star general of the Army before his political career, later issued a proclamation asking Americans to observe Veterans Day:

“[L]et us solemnly remember the sacrifices of all those who fought so valiantly, on the seas, in the air, and on foreign shores, to preserve our heritage of freedom, and let us reconsecrate ourselves to the task of promoting an enduring peace so that their efforts shall not have been in vain.”

—

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#first world war #armistice #Letters From An American #Heather Cox Richardson #Dwight D. Eisenhower #war #peace #war and peace #soldier #soldiers #veterans #history #WWI #WWII

[mournfulminds]

𝐖𝐇𝐎: Nari / 「 @cigvrettedvet 」

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: Spring / 2024

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: Harnew School

By the time the last bell had rung denoting the end of the period, Thomasin watched as the tired faces staring at her for the past fifty minutes shuffled out, leaving a slew of papers from the latest pop quiz in their wake. Her only saving grace was her favourite student (despite some teachers never admitting to such a thing) who stayed behind to help her collect the quizzes from the desks and pile them in a neat stack at the front, "Thank you, you didn't have to. Will I see your parents tonight?" Thomasin inquired, watching as a sense of disquiet released from the young girl before she replied that her older sister might be coming. All she could do was offer her a light smile before nodding and sending the student on her way so she could get home before dark. The hazy sort of purple that dusted the sky set the evening in motion since the season still brought an early sunset; the blonde regarding it from under the bleachers in a cloud of smoke as she took the last drag of a cigarette she had confiscated off a senior ages ago.

When 6:45 rolled around, the sun had already set in its ways and taken any trace of serotonin with it as Thomasin tried everything in her power to bring back her sanity ─ warm lighting, soft jazz, and now a cup of tea to hopefully wake her up a bit in time for her next meeting. She was falling asleep (when did she get so old?), on a lent copy of Annals of the Former World when the faint sound of a footpath in the hall made her straighten in her chair. Thomasin made for a flash of her watch before standing up to smooth the wrinkles from her slacks as she made a beeline for the door. "Oh, Ms... Geum?" She presumed, almost coming in contact with the other, her eyes falling onto the younger woman and her lips falling slightly open as she felt something akin to familiarity coiling in her stomach. But she was sure she had never seen this woman before, she definitely would have remembered someone who looked as if they stepped out of a modelling pictorial. A swift flush forded across the canvas of her face as she realised she had been staring, before holding out her hand in order to do anything but just stand there like an idiot, "Ms. Abercorn, nice to meet you. Please, come in, and have a seat, I'm glad you could come in today. This should be pretty painless as your younger sister is just a marvel to have in class, as reflected by her grades. I feel she's very passionate about the sciences, but of course, you know this. She's lucky to have a sister like you... because obviously you uh, care about her a lot. To come here, I mean, and be here." She had to restrain herself from blabbing further on too much as her gaze finally dared to meet the others again.

#cigvrettedvet #thread: thomasin & nari (001) #character: abercorn / thomasin #abercorn / thomasin: interactions

[beneaththebrim]

Lie Huo Jiao Chou Vol.2 Simplified Print Extra

Prepare for Lingyuan baby lore.

Caveat: This, like all my translations, is a learning translation, relies heavily on dictionaries, and likely contains some mistakes--I appreciate corrections/feedback! This extra contains spoilers through Book 4.

The year myriad beasts tramped iron-hooved over Nanming Valley, Nanming’s fires cast down, burning the world map to tatters. The arrogant last emperor’s blood quenched the land, leaving his former retainers of wealth and influence to scatter anchorless. As madness descended upon both man and yao, the mixed-blood Human Sovereign was born in a run-down thatched hut in the countryside.

An evil produced in the wake of chaos, his pupils bore flames by nature, a Vermilion Bird clan sigil graced his forehead, and he was born laughing. Outside the window, flocks of birds descended at the sound of his laughter and perched in utter silence—as though waiting for something, or perhaps in some silent mourning. Just as Empress Chen and her thousand midwives and maidservants stood around cluelessly, a flame streaked across—the Bifang clan had dispatched an “assassin” to “opportunely” steal away the newborn princeling.

As recorded in the Qingping Annals, History of Qi: All the midwives, maidservants, and twenty-one bodyguards who had been on the scene to witness the abnormal phenomena that day—apart from Empress Chen herself and her trusted confidante Lady Ma—“succumbed to the wicked yao’s evildoing.” There were no survivors.

The Bifang clan, those silly birds, had arrived under the Vermilion Birds’ ordinance, risking death to retrieve the “bloodline of the Vermilion Bird,” and hence blundered into carrying this great black pot. It wasn’t until returning and looking more closely that they discovered, this “bloodline of the Vermilion Bird” was a mixed-blood half-yao.

Yaokind had always discriminated against half-yaos, which they took for the lowest of slaves. In wartime, the half-yaos’ situation was even worse off; most of them were put to death or abandoned at birth. But, this half-yao bore the bloodline of the vanquished divine bird, and all the winged kinds had no choice but to revere him as a young ruler. What were they to do? The Bifangs sheltered this hot potato, neither killing nor worshiping it.

Pulling long faces, the big pheasants all put together their walnut-sized brains, and, propped up on their singular legs[1], discussed the matter for days on end, only to discuss themselves into a bowl of mush: Since it was a matter of carrying out the Vermilion Birds’ order, they had to receive him with proper courtesy. But, half-yaos were inauspicious, so they couldn’t help but remain on their guard.

Thus, they simultaneously gave this kid the “young ruler” treatment and regarded him as disaster incarnate. Estranged, they exalted him. Coldly, they waited upon him. They let him have whatever he desired, but never got too close.

What kind of good egg might this sort of rotten henhouse have incubated?

Hence, when Danli brought back the “missing” crown prince, he got himself a tyrannical, crafty, insidious, and overbearing little hellion.

Yaokind was different from humankind; yaokind’s juvenile stage would stretch long, but lack an ignorant stage of infancy; upon birth, the young could run and scamper about. Half-yaos lay between human and yao; at two-some years, half-yaos would have already completely cast off their yao form, and appear no different from a human child. Their intelligence, however, was around that of a seven- or eight-year-old human.

Being forced to return to humankind, the young crown prince initially feigned an adorable sort of ignorance. Then, taking advantage of a moment when his guards weren’t paying attention, he’d poison the entire cluster of bodyguards into a tizzy. Upon being dragged back after his aborted attempt, he’d play the same act again, with an innocent look like he’d never done anything. This little hellion fled four times in three days, inflicted surprise stab wounds upon two among his retinue, poisoned them once, and set fire to them another time—up until he finally realized that Danli was simply playing cat-and-mouse with him for his own amusement.

The young Sheng Lingyuan looked rather like an immortal youth in a painting, yet was unable to speak even a word of human speech. All he uttered was birdspeak, and moreover filthy birdspeak. Danli rather amusedly listened as the kid verbally tortured him to death and dismembered his corpse, poured His Loquacious Highness water to wet his lips, and when the boy was done drinking, pinched him unconscious—at which point he sighed in exasperation: The winged clans were truly uneducated and dull-witted; for a child to have been raised over two full years to this sort of quality, their end was inevitable.

Fortunately, the Cauldron of Heaven and Earth was already in place, and he could still be remolded. To kill the body and become a demon was to be born anew; another round of cooking, and this little thing wouldn’t have any memory of his “prior life” in the Bifang clan.

As for his temperament…

Danli pinched the child’s face in his hand, giving him a careful once-over. This kid’s face was just like Royal Lady Wanfei’s, while his profile retained a shadow of Emperor Ping—nary among them a good person.

Danli thought: Perhaps it wasn’t all the Bifangs’ fault; this kid is likely just no-good by nature.

Fortunately, he was not planning to provide humankind with a benevolent Son of Heaven for the ages. As a tool, to be a sharp blade was enough.

Eighty-one of humankind’s masters sacrificed, flesh recast in the Cauldron of Heaven and Earth, and the heavenly demon was merely a vessel, but hadn’t yet taken shape.

The heavenly demon was humankind’s means of pulling a fast one on yaokind to refine a “living Chiyuan.” Its sea of consciousness being interconnected with Chiyuan, this heavenly demon’s body would be at the receiving end of all the world’s hostility. As long as he couldn’t wield it freely, all the resentment and hatred of those unable to rest in peace would be absorbed into his sea of consciousness, either to be consumed by the heavenly demon, becoming his very first “nourishment,” or, while the heavenly demon was still weak, to contaminate the place and consume his divine consciousness in turn, taking hold of his body—just like cultivating gu.

Resentment accumulated bit by bit. Although it wasn’t a single whole, the convergence of tens of thousands of droplets would pour into a sea, and could even drown out a juvenile heavenly demon’s divine consciousness. Danli reached out to press against the as-yet-unconscious young heavenly demon’s scalding forehead to peep into his sea of consciousness: Within was a black expanse like any ghostly netherworld of legend, countless “shadows” hovering therein. Those “shadows” were the dread of the dying, were all-encompassing resentment, were unbearable pain and bone-deep rancor.

Danli felt this little whelp wasn’t likely to survive, in which case things would prove simple—the heavenly demon’s body would lie dormant for three to five years, just in time for the “heavenly demon sword spirit” lodging therein to form consciousness enough to wake. Vermilion Bird overcame demon by nature; when the time came, the last little Vermilion Bird in the world could easily subdue the pack of demons and take hold of this spiritual vessel.

After all, what was a “Human Sovereign” really? No more than the sentiment of those fools toward that prophecy Wanfei had trumped up, a tool begot of vain hope. As long as the heavenly demon’s body was present, souls were all the same. The Vermilion Bird harbored inside would thence be able to make use of humankind’s sentiment to revolt against yaokind; each side would have what it wished.

But there was a “what if” to everything. What if Wanfei’s bastard son inherited her viciousness along with Emperor Ping’s greed and arrogance, and truly could consume all the demons, or find another way… This truly was a bit pesky.

Danli stroked the soft hair at the crown of the child’s head. Recalling that face of Wanfei’s that wouldn’t close its eyes even in death, he sighed, and spoke into his ear: “No one is looking forward to your birth. You haven’t even seen the light of day, and have already incurred this much hatred, why take the trouble? Far too painful, why not just go; perhaps in the next life you shan’t be cast into such a bullheaded mold.”

His words fell into the heavenly demon’s sea of consciousness, rousing a chorus of ghostly wails. However, the living person in the sea of consciousness couldn’t understand human speech, and curled up in a corner. Vaguely sensing his malice, he practically shrank away into nothing.

On the third day of the heavenly demon body’s refinement, the young heavenly demon’s divine consciousness woke.

Initially, the young heavenly demon instinctively wanted to retract his body’s five senses. As soon as he did so, he came face-to-face with two floating “shadows” in his sea of consciousness. Their unbridled resentment pierced the juvenile divine consciousness like the tip of a blade, nearly rending him to pieces on the spot. Danli watched the tiny divine consciousness still itself for a moment, perhaps coming to, and then, with a start, it scurried frantically into the deepest depths of the sea of consciousness.

Observing him, Danli withdrew his hand and thought to himself: As expected.

After all, as a mere wisp of intelligence in the sea of consciousness, the young heavenly demon rapidly learned how to avoid those “shadows.” In the ten days that followed, he grew more and more nimble; in the first couple days he’d still accidentally be knocked over by those “shadows” every now and then, while later on he learned to come and go like a specter.

The “newborn” heavenly demon didn’t remember anything, but his level of intelligence remained. To seek gain and avoid harm required no instruction; after suffering one “beating,” he naturally learned his lesson. Lest he again endure hardship, the little thing would begin to hide himself away and no longer dare to strain himself trying to wield control over his sea of consciousness. But if he couldn’t handle taking the initiative to consume the shadows and condense his divine consciousness, he’d miss his only opportunity.

In no more than a month, the resentment passing from Chiyuan to his sea of consciousness would grow denser and denser, and he’d no longer have anywhere to hide.

When that time came, even a master who’d cultivated their divine consciousness a century would find it difficult to carry on, let alone a mere child whose memory was a blank expanse.

Ignorant of these matters, the little heavenly demon had no idea that his fate was already set in stone.

This most revered bloodline of both human- and yaokind had crystallized, only to perish at the tender age of two, alas.

The no-faced incarnation of the divine image lacked capacity for sorrow or joy. Gently, he kneaded the young heavenly demon’s lockstitched brow, knowing that he no longer had to pay heed to this little thing. In comparison to the suspenseless matter of the heavenly demon body’s ownership, the missing Cauldron of Heaven and Earth and Vermilion Bird remains were far more pressing. These two matters were inextricably connected to Meng Xia, but unfortunately, he shouldered the Sacrifice of Blazing Light, and couldn’t publicly break face with Wanfei…

The eleventh day, Danli went to the front line for good, and the hiding place of the young heavenly demon trapped in “Chiyuan” was changed.

He remained hidden for the twelfth day, the thirteenth day…

However, on the seventeenth day of his hiding away, a surprise attack was mounted upon humankind’s principal tent by a young nightmare beast. The dream-urging technique it released spread far and wide, and the exhausted little heavenly demon was briefly dragged into a nightmare.

In his flailing, he was captured by the ever-thickening shadows in the heavenly demon sea of consciousness.

The young heavenly demon awoke with a start amidst a flurry of resentment painful as being dismembered alive. The backlashing shadows threw themselves over like a moth to a flame and scrabbled mindlessly at him, tearing at him, gnawing at him.

He had no way to avoid them, and in the end, at this hopeless impasse, the little heavenly demon’s innate ferocity was ignited. A raging hatred overtook him; his heart beat madly, and his thirst-driven fangs and claws sprang out in counterattack. It was then that another shadow threw itself fiercely at him. Some other commoner slaughtered by cultivator or great yao, their hatred and bitter pain trickled over his entire body, and the fledgling divine consciousness silently struggled—

Kill them all…

I have to kill them all…

“Wummm—”

A hum emanated out from his spinal column, answering its master’s powerless wrath.

The heavenly demon sword spirit was endowed with life through the death of the mixed-blood half-yao. To fool the eighty-one human cultivators offered as sacrifice, Danli did not mess with the contract between heavenly demon and heavenly demon sword—as long as the heavenly demon’s divine consciousness lived, he would indeed be the sword spirit’s master. In any case, the sword spirit forged of a Vermilion Bird heavenly spirit ought not have matured enough to awaken for another three to five years. By that time, whether the heavenly demon’s divine consciousness had already perished or suffered heavy injuries after repeated “lessons,” he would have well and properly given way for the sword spirit.

However, because this heavenly demon sword spirit was “endowed with life” by the master of the sword, the connection between sword spirit and sword master was far more intimate than Danli could have imagined—that in that moment, the sword master’s powerful killing intent would awaken the sword spirit ahead of time.

A flame abruptly streaked across the young heavenly demon’s pitch-black sea of consciousness. The densely-packed shadows scattered as though in fright, while the flame rushed at him like a fledgling swallow toward its nesting grove.

The young heavenly demon had no time to hide. Startled, he was smacked head-on by the flame. That moment, an ineffable warmth wrapped around him, and he heard another heartbeat which pulsed along with his own intention.

The flame turned into a hazy-edged ball, rubbing against him like a clingy child. As the invisible connection between sword master and sword spirit intertwined the pair of ignorant souls, an abrupt, rootless concept arose in the young heavenly demon’s mind.

Dazedly, he thought: Is this… for me?

He’d no memory of his past, but seemed to vaguely know, there’d never been anything in the world he could call his own.

The human cultivators repelling the nightmare beast panted back over. Afraid the as-yet unconscious heavenly demon had been affected, they hurriedly employed talismans to dispel the remaining illusion technique, but saw that the corners of the child’s eyes were dripping tear-like blood which trickled down and soaked the hair at his temples.

All the heavenly demon’s tears were but false affection; when he genuinely cried, he’d only cry blood.

The sword spirit had been roused ahead of schedule, and understood neither human nor yao speech. Other than crying, he’d only make chirping “ji-ji” sounds. The young heavenly demon didn’t know what he was either, and so simply called him “Ji.” “Ji” this and “Ji” that, the sword spirit connected to the heavenly demon’s mind understood that this was referring to himself, and in his muddleheaded state, took it henceforth as his name. Only ever “Ji,” for three thousand years.[2]

The sword spirit was leagues apart from the sharp claws and fangs the young heavenly demon imagined, but he wasn’t entirely unhelpful; upon touching a shadow, he’d run into his master’s arms and bawl, and upon bawling, the flame would grow more intense, and the pitch-black sea of consciousness full of flickering shadows would gain a light source. Those shadows would have nowhere to hide in the light; it seemed they’d never gain the upper hand again.

Three days later, having been alerted about “His Highness the crown prince’s abnormal state,” Danli hurried over. It took him a great deal of time to probe the heavenly demon’s sea of consciousness before he withdrew his fingers. Beneath the mask, no one could make out his expression.

After a long pause, he said softly: “No need to worry, it’s simply that the sword spirit has awoken ahead of schedule… This signals a predestined affinity between sword and sword master.”

Ignorant of the truth, the human cultivators erupted in joy. Only Danli sighed in silence.

Over a span of three thousand-some years, crossing past numerous life-and-death entanglements, fate was indeed set—yet it was unclear for whom it was destiny, for whom it was calamity.[3]

Notes:

1) Bifangs are one-legged.

2) This is 叽, meaning “to chirp,” homophonic with Xuan Ji’s childhood nickname 鸡 - “chicken” and his usual name 玑.

3) The word for “calamity” is 劫, the same as the word Xuan Ji uses for Sheng Lingyuan in the Thousand Yao Handbook.

#烈火浇愁 #lie huo jiao chou #drowning sorrows in raging fire #sheng lingyuan #xuan ji #danli #the emperor and his chicken #my translation

[allovertheworldblog]

Not finished with Japan?

When I was in Fukuoka I could have taken the ferry to South Korea.

I didn’t.

I’m not sure if I was apprehensive about going to a new country, one I didn’t know much about, or whether I felt I wasn’t finished with Japan.

From Fukuoka I took a bus to Nagasaki.

The bus was up on an elevated motorway at times, so we got good views of Japan from above.

There was an ugliness about the place, the over-planned nature of the countryside, not a blade of grass out of place, every line perfectly straight.

This was something I felt a good few times as I travelled throughout the country, the need to conquer nature, to be the master. 

Nagasaki turned out to be one of my least favourite places in Japan. It was interesting nonetheless.

I think the hostel I stayed in coloured my unfavourable memories of the place.

The bedbugs and cockroach that were among the delights of the hostel didn’t help this.

Like Hiroshima the city was destroyed at the end of World War II by a nuclear bomb, this one was called ‘fat man’, on account of the shape of it. 

The project that led to the creation of these bombs (The Manhattan Project) was one of the biggest, in terms of people employed and the cost involved, ever in the history of mankind. 

The Manhattan Project resulted in two types of bombs, both atomic. The first type was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6 1945. It scorched the city off the face of the earth. The second type of bomb was dropped on Nagasaki three days later on August 9 1945. 

People still question why the Allies needed to drop two bombs.

Some say it’s because the Japanese didn’t surrender immediately after Hiroshima.

Others say that the Allies wanted to test both bombs, in effect 'get their monies worth’.

I went to the Bomb Museum in Nagasaki.

It dealt with how the city and it’s inhabitants were affected by the bomb.  

Aside from the bombing, Nagasaki has reasons of its own to feature in the annals of Japanese and world history. During Japan’s self imposed isolation from the world, until the mid 19th century, Nagasaki was the only port in the county open to international trade.

A small settlement (Dejima) of Dutch traders took over a former  Portuguese settlement.

The Portuguese were kicked out because the Jesuits who followed them introduced Christianity, which in turn led to a rebellion by Christian converts.

The Portuguese were held to have helped the rebels.

A recreation of the settlement looks so different from anything Japanese of the same period.

The former Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank stone building is on a small scale, smaller than provincial, but quite impressive all the same.

After a couple of days in the city I’m ready to move on.

Hearing a few Finnish guys in the hostel talk about the town of Aso, which is in the biggest volcano caldera in the world, makes me want to go check that out.

I get to Aso after two trains, a ferry, a bus and finally a another train.

Before I board the ferry I’ve got some time to sit around the terminal building and gaze in awe at the cloud covered volcano behind Shimabara, a down at heel town.

In the terminal building there’s some kind of gambling place.

It’s full of older gents with small folded up newspapers playing the horses or whatever. 

After what feels like an exhausting day I get to the small town of Aso at 20.30.

#travel #culture #photography #history

[axl-ul]

Lore Corner: Children of the Penitent

General

Children of the Penitent were a cult established by the Great Prophet (also known as the Mad Priest) which centered its attention around the ideology of refusing the body alongside its mortality and the decay which comes with the death of the individual as it was viewed as the proof of a sin, as one of their main preachings said:

“Weakness of the flesh is that it becomes the cradle of filth, sin and decay. Yet, the rot itself is a gift as it shows the truth of how imperfect the flesh is. One should only wish for a body that is not of this world, a body that is created, that is built on the eternal dream and knowledge, the one that does not forget the origin and shall witness the rise of memories, those which were, which are and even those which shall only come to be.“

History

Established by a former Master Embalmer, whose name is long fortgotten within the annals of history, the cult was at first only a small local religion around the area of the Prosperous City. The main temple was known as the House of the Penitent, it also served as the residence of the cult's leader and his most loyal scholars. However, it soon spread all over the other tribes of bat demons. Cavernous cities became the homes of the cult's numerous shrines and temples which were dedicated to the teachings and practices, mainly the purifying of vrupirs/bat demons who sought to ascend above their “primitive senses and to grant such fate to the next generations if they themselves fail to achieve it“. Although it gained a lot on its popularity, many objectors also appeared among vrupirs and other demon clans and tribes.

Many Embalmers and deities swore to destroy the cult as it promoted self-harming practices and the ideology of producing a perfect infant, one that would be from the Blackworld (a non-physcial place which devours anything that enters the place). These infants would be the ending line of all clans with their parents being already blessed by the never-ending wisdom shared with the others (a collective hive mind).

The original cult ceased to be once the Great Catastrophy in the Prosperous City occured. This event left the remaining shrines and followers without a leadership and the cult soon disintegrated which took a great boulder off of the Embalmers' shoulders.

Nowadays, there's a handful of cults which mimic the ideology, practices and try to restore the lost records. However the number of followers and their grasp on the knowledge is so thin, they no longer pose a threat and are easily discovered by the deities, the Embalmers and their successors.

Goal

The purifying rituals served as a way to open the subconscience of the followers and to see beyond the physical spere of the world. Only then they would understand their purpose and the collective wisdom of those who decided in the similar way. The preachings were built on the idea that they body is a shame and the true value doesn't lie within the life nor death but somewhere beyond, somewhere where the bodyless mind can see the true knowledge of existence.

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Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added): @vanessaroades-author @rubywrite @aohendo @rbbess110 @jgmartin @outpost51

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Here's also a list of other previous episodes of Lore Corner related to worldbuilding and/or characters:

The Mad Priest

The Geminis

Human Cocoons

Embalmers

The Children of the Penitent

#writeblr #writing community #writeblr community #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #writing #my writing #lore corner #The Legends of No-man's Land #Children of the Penitent #worldbuilding

[ednyfedfychan]

“Accounts of the life of Anne Boleyn (c. 1500–1536), the second wife of England’s King Henry VIII, have hovered between biography and fiction since  more than 125 years before the former term entered the English lexicon and  over a half-century before the latter became a recognized genre. A riveting  amalgam of invention and fact, the pivot between the oldest definitions  of ‘fiction’ and chronicle life-writing, has dominated her story since the  final years of her life. The historical Anne has merged with a succession of exemplary characters who share her name and ostensibly inhabit her world, but speak primarily to and about women from subsequent eras. In a 2012 television documentary on the rise of young Anne Boleyn fans, the ‘biggest-selling female historian in the United Kingdom,’ Alison Weir, explains that ‘[t]here are cults around Elizabeth the First, but not the way  there are around Anne Boleyn […] Anne Boleyn has been highly romanticized […] and this is the fault of some historians as well’. Anne’s influence, she continues, has been drastically overstated since the 1960s by scholars as well as novelists and film-makers when during her life ‘her only power came from a man’. Such valorization is hardly a product of the past half-century. Shortly after her execution in 1536, Anne was already the subject of international mass-media speculation (Carles). By 1842, British historian and poet Agnes Strickland could assert that ‘[t]here is no name in the annals of female royalty over which the enchantments of poetry and romance have cast such bewildering spells as that of Anne Boleyn’ (Strickland, p. 148). [...] Like Weir, culture critic Susan Bordo argues that it is not only novelists and film-makers who blend fact and fantasy about Anne “[b]ut few historians or biographers acknowledge just how much of what they are doing is storytelling” (Bordo, p. 4).”

— Linda Phyllis Austern, Anne Boleyn, Musician: A Romance Across Centuries and Media, in “Authorizing Early Modern European Women Book Subtitle: From Biography to Biofiction” (eds. James Fitzmaurice, Naomi J. Miller, Sara Jayne Steen)

#ab tag #anne boleyn #fandom tag #austern tag

[mediaevalmusereads]

The Left Hand of Darkness. By Ursula K. Le Guin. Ace Books, 1969.

Rating: 4.5/5 stars

Genre: science fiction

Series: Hainish Cycle #4

Summary: A groundbreaking work of science fiction, The Left Hand of Darkness tells the story of a lone human emissary to Winter, an alien world whose inhabitants spend most of their time without a gender. His goal is to facilitate Winter's inclusion in a growing intergalactic civilization. But to do so he must bridge the gulf between his own views and those of the completely dissimilar culture that he encounters.

Embracing the aspects of psychology, society, and human emotion on an alien world, The Left Hand of Darkness stands as a landmark achievement in the annals of intellectual science fiction.

***Full review below.***

Content Warnings: nonconsentual drugging

Overview: A few friends and I have started a book club, and the first pick for September is this marvelous specimen by Ursula K. Le Guin. I read LHoD a while back, but it was nice to have a refresher (plus I realized I never actually wrote a review). Overall, this is a monumental, impactful work of science fiction, full of Le Guin's characteristic focus on gender, nationalism, psychology, balance, etc. It is less concerned with detailing political intrigue than it is developing the relationship between two very different (and yet the same?) people, and the worldbuilding is complex and nuanced - so much so that it prompts readers to rethink their own constructs of things like prode and gender. While I can see how this book might give some readers trouble, I am deeply impressed and deeply moved by Le Guin's work, so this book gets 4.5 stars from me.

Writing: Le Guin writes in a way that feels effortless. Sentences and paragraphs flow together very naturally, and there is just the right balance of telling and showing. Le Guin also uses very vivid imagery, inserting beautiful, almost lyrical descriptions of the world and its people that stands out in contrast to some of the more mundane passages. For example, the opening scene features our protagonist, Genly Ai, at a parade, and Le Guin describes the crowds as a "shoal of brown, round pebbles, mica-glittering with thousands of watching eyes." I not only felt immersed in the world, but I felt the love and care that Le Guin put into her craft.

However, I do think that Le Guin's world can be difficult to navigate, especially if this is readers' first introduction to the Hainish Cycle. Le Guin's world is complex and the author doesn't provide a lot of support. By this I mean a lot of names are thrown at you and not all of them are significant or explained, so they can feel meaningless. I understand why this is done, however; Le Guin isn't interested in holding the reader's hand but drops them in the world just as Genly is dropped in, and they must mingle among the locals to find their way.

Plot: The plot of this book follows Genly Ai, an envoy from the confederation of planets known as the Ekumen, as he tries to convince the inhabitants of the planet Gethen ("Winter" in our language) to join them. To do so, he appeals first to the nation of Karhide, but when that fails, he travels to Orgoreyn, where he has a very different reception.

Intertwined with this mission is his developing relationship with Estraven, the former advisor to the king of Karhide. Estraven initially encourages the king to hear Genly out, but Genly's mission is put in jeopardy when Estraven is ousted by a rival, Tibe, and exiled for treason. But Estraven does not disappear; instead, he is always keeping an eye out for Genly, which, it turns out, is very much needed.

What I liked most about this plot is the various explorations of things like gender and nationalism. Gethenians are not binary sexed beings, you see, but are ambisexual (and androgynous) until they enter a phase called "kemmer," in which they take on more male or female characteristics in order to copulate and reproduce. Le Guin uses kemmer to explore gender difference and imagine a world in which gender does not structure society. However, there is one glaring oversight in that when people enter kemmer, they usually find partners of the opposite sex. There is no exploration of same-sex desire, which I think is a shame.

I was also very much intrigued by the depiction of emerging nationalism and the characters' conceptions of patriotism. Estraven, in particular, thinks a lot about how one can "love" a country and if that "love" actually stems from the hate of the Other. There's also a lot of meditation on the role of mass media and how it shapes people's sense of patriotism, and both Karhide and Orgoreyn have a kind of competing notion of what it means to be a "developed nation."

Lastly, I really enjoyed puzzling out Le Guin's concept of shifgrethor. Shifgrethor is an "untranslatable" term that describes the interpersonal reactions of the Gethenians, and it means something akin to pride (but "pride" means something very different than what we think). I still can't quite wrap my head around it, but the puzzle is compelling rather than frustrating.

TL;DR: The Left Hand of Darkness is a monumental work of science fiction that plunges readers into a deeply alien world in order to question the concepts of gender difference, patriotism, and pride/balance. Though the rich details may leave some feeling lost, this is a book that demands rereading and critical engagement, and it absolutely deserves inclusion on lists of greatest sci fi works of all time.

Characters: Genly, our protagonist, is interesting to follow because he basically acts as a filter for the audience. Being from Terra, Genly holds a lot of ideas about gender that will be familiar to a Western, English-speaking audience, so seeing Gethen through his eyes highlights how deeply engrained gender is to our culture and worldview. Genly is also somewhat endearing because he genuinely seems to want to learn and make real connections with people; it makes him a little naive at times, but he has a fierce determination that makes it easy to admire him.

Estraven, the former advisor, is also interesting in that his motives transcend the political squabbles of Gethen's nations. Estraven appears to be playing a political game, but Genly soon discovers that he acts for the sake of humanity and the future of his planet rather than for political power in any one nation. It makes for a more magnanimous character, and I loved the way Estraven grapples with the concept of patriotism.

Supporting characters were crafted specifically to show the intricacies of the world and the political stakes at play. Karhide's king, Argaven, is said to be "mad" and full of fear; I liked how his fear constituted one form of nationalism and how it left him vulnerable to the influence of Tibe, a rival councilor whose ideas are much more rooted in today's concepts of patriotism. There are also political actors in Orgoreyn, which showcase the national differences, and they do their job just fine.

[mariacallous]

The International Telecommunication Union (ITU) has been described as “The most important UN agency you have never heard of.” The ITU’s upcoming quadrennial Plenipotentiary Conference, to be held in Bucharest, Romania this September 26th through October 14th, will host the most important election you have never heard of.

The ITU was founded in 1865 as the International Telegraph Union for the purpose of facilitating cross-border operations of the new technology. Since then, it has become a key standard-setter for telecommunications networks. The ITU proudly proclaims, “Every time you make a phonecall via the mobile, access the Internet or send an email, you are benefitting from the work of ITU.”

Technically, the statement is correct since the standards for fiber optic cable and mobile networks are a part of the ITU process. It is a bit hyperbolic, however, when it comes to the internet where the ITU has played a less determinative role.

The internet grew apart from the ITU. The standards by which the internet operates are not ITU standards, but were developed by a “multistakeholder process” in which technologists, companies, civil society, and governments reached consensus. The vehicle for such internet standards is the Internet Engineering Task Force, one of several voluntary institutions that together maintain the internet as we know it. Now, Russia and China are seeking to move internet governance to the ITU where bottom-up design of internet standards could be replaced with top-down decisions based on the politics of nation-states.

Atop the agenda for Bucharest is the selection of a new ITU Secretary-General. The election — decided by votes of the member nations — is shaping up as a tussle between a candidate who is American and one who is Russian. The American, Doreen Bogdan-Martin, is a veteran of almost three decades of experience at the ITU, and the first woman to head one of the agency’s three major bureaus. The Russian candidate, Rashid Ismailov, is a former deputy minister in the Russian Ministry of Telecom and Mass Communications, and a former Huawei executive. Full disclosure: I know Doreen and have seen her skills at work.

Lurking behind the scenes in this election is much more than simply who will occupy the Secretary-General’s spacious office in Geneva. It is a competition between two visions of the internet: an open internet, or a kind of state-controlled internet that resembles Russia’s and China’s.

International tension over internet policy was illustrated at the ITU-sponsored 2012 World Conference on International Telecommunications (WCIT). After the majority of nations voted to, among other things, increase ITU’s authority over the internet, the United States refused to sign the resulting treaty.

In June 2021, the leaders of China and Russia signed a pact which is now manifesting itself at the ITU. The agreement explained its purpose as “ensuring that all States have equal rights to participate in global-network governance, increasing their role in this process and preserving the sovereign right of States to regulate the national segment of the internet.” The language may be lofty sounding, but its effect is low-down. The call for nation-states to take over internet governance is a call to de-democratize the world’s most important network. “In the annals of diplomatic hypocrisy, this accord is a stunner, even by Russian and Chinese standards,” observed The Washington Post’s David Ignatius.

As if politicizing the internet is not sufficient, the Russians and Chinese also seek to force the redesign of the internet’s underlying standard. Currently, the internet is built on the lingua franca of a common technical standard called “internet protocol” or “IP.” China has proposed a new standard — called “New IP” — that would give governments more control over internet activities, including the individualized determination of who gets on and what they can do. They want that standard to be driven by the ITU.

The ITU has 193 voting member nations. The most important election no one has ever heard of for the most important network of the 21st century will be by secret ballot.