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cat-scarr · 3 years

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A Deconstruction of The Flame Keeper’s Circle & The Audience’s Common Complaints | Catgirl

As the title states, I’ve been reminded of a couple complaints made about this episode that stem from a large portion of the audience’s general disliking of the way both Ben and Julie were handled during the run of Ultimate Alien. In fact, I recently read a "review" of “The Flame Keeper's Circle,” or, more of a parody, actually, since a review would actually have some kind of substance to it and not just...a slew of insults thrown at a show you claim to like. It's almost like you're looking for something to be mad at, but anyway.

One of those was the OP actually asking someone to (probably joking, but anyway) explain "how Ben's mind works" to them.

And I was like, gladly!

According to the comments under the review, it seems like the general audience didn't really like this episode all that much when it first aired. Which, I bring up because, I on the other hand, actually did. And for a reason: because it proves my previous defence points right.

There's a lot of talk about Ben coming off as a “jerk” or a “douchebag”...but, in a situation such as the one presented within “The Flame Keeper’s Circle,” I would argue he did exactly what he should have done. So that's where I beg to differ.

This episode puts Ben in a position where he, once again, needs to deal with the overlap of a romantic relationship and his priorities as a superhero. The only reason there is conflict here is because they are both important to him.

A bad boyfriend would only care about himself, but Ben clearly cares about not only the safety of his (clearly, quite naive) girlfriend, but also the safety of the rest of the earth. Which, as I’m going to be stating several times, should be something expected of him considering everything else within the series that establishes who he is as a character.

So, on the topic of things that are important, ask yourselves, why would Ben prioritize going along with Julie's idea of joining a cult more than keeping her, and the rest of the world, safe when he realizes the trouble she could potentially be getting herself into?

Throughout the episode, and the fandom’s discussions from what I’ve seen, there is so much focus on "oh, he laughed at her idea so he's a douchebag and therefore a bad boyfriend" and not enough focus on the fact that he's not blindly following an alleged “good cause” because he isn't naive and that's in character based on everything we know about him as a character.

Context matters. And this kind of thing only further makes me question the people who want to cry "inconsistent" writing or characterization because he's acting the way he's been conditioned to.

Arguably from the age of ten, Ben's been dealing with situations where he needed to fight to survive and decide who to trust. Sometimes he trusted the wrong person, which wasn't done out of any other reason besides wanting to help and do the "right thing."

For example, Michael Morningstar in the episode “All That Glitters,” who fooled Ben and his team into thinking he was innocent all while abusing school girls for their life energy and almost killing Ben's cousin.

Or, Simian in “Birds of a Feather," who fooled Ben into thinking he was royalty and into helping him steal something that would aid the Highbreed in their mass murder plot.

In that way, Ben and Julie could have related in this situation because they were both trusting people in the interest of doing something “good.” Both Michael and Simian made Ben believe that they had something in common, or a common goal they could work together to reach. But, he trusted them blinded by his ambition and drive to save the world. Much like Julie is blinded by the promise of being a part of a group trying to make the world a better place.

As such, Ben has made the mistake before, so he's extra weary of how things could go very wrong. He's not against his girlfriend just to be a “jerk” - he's been through things like this before, and we’ve seen him go through those things.

Furthermore, the situation in which Julie is trusting The Flame Keeper’s Circle involves her indirectly agreeing to work with Vilgax. Who, as anyone familiar with Ben should know, is one of if not Ben’s biggest, and more importantly, most dangerous enemy.

Again, she, at the beginning didn’t know that he was involved, or what Ben had gone through already to make him act the way he does in this situation, but she does know what his job entails at this point in the series. She should probably infer that he’s suspicious for a good reason, as should the audience.

Not trusting people blindly is something he learned from being the leader of his team, while trying to protect the earth, namely from the Highbreed invasion back in Alien Force when he was putting together a stronger team. It would only make sense for him to then apply that to a situation in which his significant other gets roped into that which he fights against.

Speaking of fighting against, that brings me to another odd criticism of the writing of this episode. It’s no surprise that the flawed belief of Ben coming off as an alleged “sociopath” is brought up again, considering this episode takes place after The Ultimate Kevin arc. And yes, I realize the problematic connotations of using that term as a borderline insult as part of the issue here. But that aside, in this episode, the fact that he begins to fight Vilgax in his apparent “weakened” state is what is being attributed to that description.

Besides the fact that defending Vilgax is questionable in itself, he’s never needed water to survive for the many times he actually tried to kill Ben. I can’t find a solid answer from a writer that knows for certain if his need for water is genuine except for one who is only assuming that is the case when he’s in this state.

But regardless, (since he clearly survived long enough to morph with Dagon and become a bigger threat to the earth later on) we are still defending Vilgax the LITERAL INTERGALACTIC WARLORD.

Y’know, the guy who’s only in this position because of his own immoral actions? Who absolutely would not hesitate to take advantage of his opponent's weakened state in order to further get away with his immoral actions? Such as he is in this very episode, taking advantage of the people wrongfully worshiping him?

If we are trying to imply that Ben is “just as bad as Vilgax,” then I would assume you’d easily find the flaw in that being Ben’s motivation for incapacitating a dangerous offender who is, at the moment, manipulating naive humans to work for him and help him continue get away with his immoral actions. Which is, needless to say, not the same as Vilgax, at all.

Again, you’d think that’d be obvious.

The Flame Keeper’s Circle’s mission is to end human suffering and find a solution to certain issues happening across the globe with the help of alien technology that is much more advanced than what everyday people are used to. And, while the end goal seems like a good cause, even something Ben as a superhero would be all for, the means through which they attempt to get there aren’t a good idea, at all.

A lot of people find it hard to navigate the use of technology considered advanced by human standards in the real world, so you can only imagine the various things that could go wrong if those kinds of people were suddenly exposed to something much more powerful. In short, a lot could go wrong.

Again, Ben has been in that exact position as soon as he was armed with the Omnitrix. Which is exactly why he’d see the flaw in what these people are trying to do, and therefore not be convinced that it’s such a good idea to allow them to continue, much less endorse it.

This is why I love when the writers actually allow Ben to speak for himself instead of cutting him off for drama or plot. Once he actually gets a word in, or more accurately, has his moment of heroic monologue, he makes himself very clear and, I think, only further proves what I’m trying to say about him.

Here he is, explaining exactly what I’ve been trying to highlight throughout this body of work:

Ben: “Even if Dagon was real, using alien technology to accelerate a planet’s natural development won’t bring utopia, it’ll bring disaster. It’s happened before. Why do you think the Plumbers have those laws? But even that’s not the point, because that isn’t Dagon! His name is Vilgax. He’s not a hero, he’s a selfish, evil warlord who’s using you. And if you let him get in his ship, he’s going to fly off and start an interstellar civil war.”

It’s not that only he can use alien technology to save the world, it’s that his status as a hero proves that he knows what he’s doing, unlike these businessmen in fancy robes leading a cult for profit.

That is not what I would have assumed reasonable people would consider “douchebag behaviour.” That’s actually smart, and going back to my first point, exactly what he should be doing in a situation like this.

The actual episode does end off on a positive note for both Ben and Julie, which is omitted from the review and most of the comments I have read from others on the topic. And, I bring it up because it’s actually vital to wrap up everything brought up within this episode that I have just expanded on. Not only because they make up and seem to understand each other’s perspective after all is said and done, but because they both agree to be open to further discussion on the topic, as Ben offers to go out for dinner.

Which, needless to point out I hope, but once again, is not “douchebag behaviour.”

#new essay to make up for all the drama lately #enjoy ben 10 protection squad <3 #ben 10 #ben tennyson #ben 10 ultimate alien #the flame keeper's circle #benlie #julie yamamoto #ben 10 uaf #essay files #and yes new essay title format cuz reasons :P

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mallowstep · 3 years

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I'll toss you a character suggestion to feed the brain bugs today just because you've got me wondering: how was Tawnypelt's testimony?

hello thank u brain bugs r hungry

cw: sexual assault, child abuse, cults

no idea what's coming up but yeah.

okay so to recap, tigerstar is on trial for:

...something wrt organized crime?

uhh something to do with murder (stonefur)

forging a death certificate (also stonefur; there's more but i'm going to leave it at these two)

multiple counts of third degree sexual assault (hell if i know how "unknown number of times" is handled by the courts but frankly it's not super relevant)

...whatever bullshit he pulled with mudfur

child physical, sexual, and emotional abuse, and child medical neglect

violating his custody agreement with goldenflower (okay that's not criminal court i don't think but shhhhhh)

and probably loads more

so. while feathertail and mistyfoot are Important, they're not actually the only parts of this case that are going after. not sure why i went through all that considering tawnypelt is going to focus on herself, feathertail, and mistyfoot.

right. okay. so she's going to...y'know i'll have better luck if i just write things up. let's try that fancy chat feature, shall we?

Prosecution: Can you state your name for the record?

Tawnypelt: Tawnypelt, daughter of...uh...sorry, do you want...

P: You can explain.

TP: Tawnypelt, daughter of Tigerstar, but we're filing to change it to Goldenflower.

P: Could you say a little about why you're here?

TP: Yeah. Um. I left...I was living with my father for -- the past few years.

P: For how long?

TP: Since I was nine.

P: And how old are you now?

TP: Fifteen.

P: Thank you. Can you explain how you're connected to this case?

Defence: Objection, asked and answered.

Judge: Sustained.

P: Did you witness child maltreatment while you were living with Tigerstar?

TP: Yes.

P: What's the first instance you remember?

TP: When I was nine or ten, um...Featherpaw and Mistyfoot were...okay, so...Sorry.

P: Take your time.

TP: Right. I was nine or ten, and Featherpaw and I had been sharing a bedroom. And then, without warning, Featherpaw's bed and things and all were gone. So I asked Father, and he said that he moved her, because he didn't want her to...corrupt me. Um. I found out a day or two later that he meant she was supposed to stay in...it used to be a storage closet.

P: How big was the room?

TP: I'm not sure. It's probably on the house blueprints...

P: You can estimate.

TP: I never went in, when they were there. I think it had...it was big enough for maybe a mattress, a dresser? Not much space.

P: Was this move permanent?

D: Objection, leading.

J: Overruled. You can answer the question, Tawnypelt.

TP: Yeah, it was.

P: How often would you say you witnessed any kind of child mistreatment?

TP: Every day. There were...Father had high standards. So if we didn't finish our schoolwork, y'know, we'd be punished.

P: Punished how?

TP: It depended. He'd do...I was usually given extra chores, at least when I was younger. He got more frustrated with other things. Or other kids. When...Featherpaw was, he targeted her a lot. He jumped straight to corporal punishment with her.

P: Can you expand?

and i'm going to take a breath here because i've written bits of feathertail's testimony and we know this part pretty well. after they've established a baseline, the questions turn to key incidents.

(oh, and because i'm not sure how much i've mentioned it, but they do also discuss sunday punishment circle. that's...not what it was called they just called it a confession, but y'know. that's what it was.

it's one of the more fucked up parts of this. um. like not all of the really fucked up stuff, but a lot of it. a tawnypelt snippet and a mistyfoot snippet from unpublished pieces. (i'd include a feathertail snippet but frankly this is the least of what she goes through, so it doesn't tend to come up.)

Sunday afternoons, all of them gathered in the Great Room. She would listen to Tigerstar ramble about sin and cleansing; she would watch as adults kneeled before him and asked for his forgiveness.

(canvas)

"It's alright," he says, softly. He uses his hand to force her to hide her face against him. "See?" he asks, louder. "They start testing you -- remind them why you're in charge, and then they'll be easy to manage." He has one arm wrapped over her knees, the other one pressing her head against his chest. "Now, who's ready to confess?"

(ephesians 5:22)

(also if you happen to recognize that bible verse, points to you.)

so yes, very fucked up. those Particular snippets were actually me cutting before or after the more bad part of it.)

(also covered is that tigerstar often forced tawnypelt to "discipline" featherpaw, for which i provide this:

"The trick to children," Tigerstar says, "is to make them listen." He takes a fistful of Featherpaw's hair. "See? Now I have her attention." Tigerstar throws Featherpaw back, and she stumbles. "Alright," he says, "now you try."

(canvas)

there's more to this too, ofc.)

anyway. tawnypelt giving her most memorable incident wrt feathertail isn't super helpful, because it's "that time tigerstar burned featherpaw but with actual fire this time," which was dramatic but doesn't really match any of feathertail's highest moments because all things considered it's pretty low.

plus like, she got to see mudfur after that. well. "got to." she retains mixed feelings on the matter. but like. she was solidly decided that there were way worse things going on.

her most memorable incident with regard to herself is probably a particularly brutal hot sauce incident from when she was fairly young. maybe ten. like it's a recurring nightmare.

and she goes through it, yeah. children are real sensitive to that shit, and this is memorable because he's discovered tabasco habanero. it's. um. it doesn't go well for her.

compounded by the fact that when she throws up, she is further punished.

so. after that, they end up transitioning to discussing mistyfoot, and i must include the following additional cw for the rest of the post:

cw: exposing child to inappropriate sexual situations; direct discussion of rape

right. um. tawnypaw is not...intentionally exposed, but tigerstar has very little regard for what is and is not appropriate around children, and tawnypaw is no exception.

i think as of now, the worst published example of this is probably the scene in (bed sheets) with mudfur. it's too long to copy and paste here, i think, so i'll select a paragraph...

She could adjust the blanket, cover some amount of herself, but it seems pointless. Tigerstar is profusely affectionate, his hands drifting across her. Usually, they rest on her stomach.

but this is implied in that hair brushing scene, in this line:

Mistyfoot doesn’t know why they bother knocking. She’s pretty sure this room isn’t in use unless she’s in it, and Tigerstar has never told someone not to come in. She could be naked on the bed and he’d say the same thing.

y'know. tigerstar has 0 qualms about raping mistyfoot in public. women deserve privacy and dignity unless they're mistyfoot. and he's not going to check if tawnypaw is around.

he's also married to mistyfoot, and again, is very, very abusive. i mean i don't think i have to explain that but at the same time, like, y'know he carries her across the house completely naked after spending roughly ten years drilling the concept of modesty so hard that she felt uncomfortable around leopardstar (someone she's known her whole life) when she was wearing shorts and a tank top.

so he circles this back to tawnypelt...y'know he's not even...he's implying the implication of "your future husband -- soon to be husband -- might treat you like this and that's normal and fine."

y'know a combo of "this is how i treat my wife," "you are going to be someone's wife soon," etc., that basically adds up to "if your husband (chosen by me, tigerstar) wants to strip you naked in a public place and fuck you, you better just fucking do it."

(it's not even that he would be right to do that -- it's certainly a major transgression on the part of a fictional husband. but. the expectation is not that tawnypelt is the one to stop it.)

now a lot of this would be speculation, so it's a pretty carefully thought through examination, but it's a really strong piece of evidence that no one else can really provide wrt this. the closest anyone else can get is feathertail recounting tigerstar mocking her for...basically for not going through puberty? y'know because her body doesn't have the resouces for that?

and like mistyfoot and feathertail, tawnypelt does this all as tigerstar is watching her.

"He told me he was in the process of chosing my husband," Tawnypelt says. She's ignoring him. Not looking at him. "He said complete obedience was required of a wife. Wouldn't it be so much easier if Mistyfoot just stopped fighting back? If she would just submit. You better learn to submit, Tawnypaw.

"Do you want me to repeat the question?" the prosecution asks, and Tawnypelt says yes. She can see the slight shake in tigerstar's eyes as he looks to her, and she has to turn away.

"Can we take a break?"

It's the first she's asked for, but she thinks if she has to sit with his eyes pouring into her any longer, she might shut down completely.

alright it's my get ready for sleep time but i hope you enjoyed.

#ask #aerial jace #human misty au #cults #cults cw #abuse #abuse cw #tawnypelt #tigerstar #feathertail #mistystar #mine #i'm going to bed but #if people want other testimonies #i'll be happy to do that tomorrow #friend tag

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theculturedmarxist · 3 years

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Below is the story of my day touring Tema with Prince Philip, in this chapter from my book “The Catholic Orangemen of Togo”. You may be surprised to read that I rather liked him.

The African Queen

One morning I was sitting in the lounge at Devonshire House, with its fitted wool carpets and chintz sofas. I was drinking the tea that our steward, Nasser, had brought me. I heard movement in a corner of the room, and thought it must be Nasser cleaning there. But looking round, I saw nobody. Puzzled, I got up and walked towards that corner. Rounding a settee, I nearly stood upon a thin, green snake. About four feet long and just the thickness of your thumb, it was a bright, almost lime green colour. There was not much wedge shape to its head, which rather tapered from its neck. Its tongue was flickering toward me, perhaps a foot away, its head raised only slightly off the floor. I took a step backwards. In response it too retreated, at surprising speed, and zipped up the inside of the curtains.

I stood stock still and yelled “Nasser! Nasser!” This brought Nasser hurrying into the living room with Gloria, the cook. “Nasser, there’s a snake in the curtains!” Nasser and Gloria screamed, threw their arms in the air, and ran together into the kitchen and out the back door of the house. This was not altogether helpful.

I remained where I was to keep an eye on the snake, not wanting it to be lurking inside the house unseen. After a while the front door opened and somebody, presumably Nasser, threw in Nasser’s scruffy little dog. The dog was normally banned from the house, and celebrated this unexpected turn of events by immediately urinating against the hall table. Then the dog too ran into the kitchen and out of the back door.

Abandoning my watch, I went out and recruited the reluctant gardeners and gate guards. They armed themselves with long sticks and came in and beat the curtains until the snake fell onto the floor. As it sped for cover under a sofa, Samuel the youngest gardener got in a solid blow, and soon everyone was joining in, raining down blows on the twitching snake. They carried its disjointed body out on the end of a stick, and burnt it on a bonfire.

Everyone identified it as a green mamba. I was sceptical. Green mambas are among the world’s deadliest snakes, and I imagined them to look beefy like cobras, not whip thin and small headed like this. But a search on the agonisingly slow internet showed that indeed it did look very like a green mamba.

The important question arose of how it had entered the house. With air conditioning, the doors and windows were usually shut. Nasser seemed to have solved the mystery when he remarked that a dead one had been found last year inside an air conditioner. The unit had stopped working, and when they came to fix it they found a snake jammed in the mechanism. That seemed the answer; it had appeared just under a conditioner, and it seemed likely the slim snake had entered via the vent pipe, avoiding the fan as it crawled through the unit.

This was very worrying. If anti-venom was available (and we held a variety in the High Commission) an adult would probably survive a green mamba bite. But it would almost certainly be fatal to Emily, and possibly to Jamie.

A week or so later, I was constructing Emily’s climbing frame, which had arrived from the UK. A rambling contraption of rungs, slides, platforms and trampolines, it required the bolting together of scores of chrome tubes. I was making good progress on it and, as I lifted one walkway side into position above my head, a mamba slid out of the end of the tube, down my arm, round my belly and down my leg. It did this in no great hurry; it probably took four seconds, but felt like four minutes.

There was one terrible moment when it tried an exploratory nuzzle of its head into the waistband of my trousers, but luckily it decided to proceed down the outside to the ground. It then zig zagged across the lawn to nestle in the exposed tops of the roots of a great avocado tree. Again the mob arrived and beat it to death with sticks. I persuaded them to keep the body this time, and decided that definite action was needed.

I called in a pest control expert. I was advised to try the “Snake Doctor”. I was a bit sceptical, equating “Snake Doctor” with “Witch Doctor”, but when he arrived I discovered that this charming chubby Ghanaian really did have a PhD in Pest Control from the University of Reading. As Fiona had an MSc in Crop Protection from the same Department, they got on like a house on fire and it was difficult to get them away from cups of tea to the business in hand.

He confirmed that the dead snake really was a green mamba. We obviously had a colony. They lived in trees, and he advised us to clear an area of wasteland beyond the boundaries of our house, and build a high boundary wall of rough brick at the back, rather than the existing iron palings. He also suggested we cut down an avenue of some 16 huge mature trees along the drive. I was very sad, but followed this sensible advice. That removed the mamba problem from Devonshire House. But I continued to attract mambas on my travels around Ghana.

The second half of that first year in Ghana was to be almost entirely taken up with preparations for the State Visit of the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh in November 1999. A huge amount of work goes into organising such a visit; every move is staged and choreographed, designed for media effect. You need to know in advance just where everybody is going to be, who will move where when, and what they will say. You need to place and organise the media to best advantage. You need to stick within very strict rules as to what the Queen will or will not do. Most difficult of all, you have to agree all this with the host government.

I had been through it all quite recently, having paid a major part in the organisation of the State Visit to Poland in 1996. That had gone very well. The Poles regarded it as an important symbol that communism had been definitively finished. It was visually stunning, and at a time when the Royal Family was dogged with hostile media coverage, it had been their first unmixed positive coverage in the UK for ages. I had handled the media angles, and my stock stood very high in the Palace.

I am a republican personally; I was just doing my job. The Palace staff knew I was a republican, not least because I had turned down the offer of being made a Lieutenant of the Royal Victorian Order (LVO) after the Warsaw visit. I had earlier turned down the offer to be an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) after the first Gulf war.

Rawlings was delighted that the Queen was coming. He craved respectability and acceptance in the international community, which had been hard to come by after his violent beginnings. But he had turned his Provisional National Defence Council (PNDC) into a political party, the National Democratic Congress (NDC), and had fought elections in 1992 and 1996 against the opposition New Patriotic Party, which had an unbroken tradition running back to Nkrumah’s opponent J B Danquah and his colleague Kofi Busia. There were widespread allegations of vote-rigging, violence and intimidation, and certainly in 1992 the nation was still too cowed to engage in much open debate.

Even by 1999, social life was still inhibited by the fact that nobody except those close to the Rawlings would do anything that might be construed as an ostentatious display of life, while Rawlings had sustained and inflated the personality cult of Nkrumah still further (he is known as Osagyefo, “the conqueror”.) Open discussion of the disasters Nkrumah brought upon Ghana was almost impossible. It is still difficult for many Ghanaians today, after decades of brainwashing. As Rawlings had gradually liberalised society, the increasing freedom of the media, particularly the FM radio station, was giving a great boost to democracy. But there was still much prudent self-censorship. The media was particularly reticent about investigating governmental corruption.

The NDC government was massively corrupt. There was one gratuitous example which especially annoyed me. A company called International Generics, registered in Southampton, had got loans totalling over £30 million from the Royal Bank of Scotland to construct two hotels, La Palm and Coco Palm. One was on the beach next to the Labadi Beach Hotel, the other on Fourth Circular Road in Cantonments, on the site of the former Star Hotel. The loan repayments were guaranteed by the Export Credit Guarantee Department, at the time a British government agency designed to insure UK exporters against loss. In effect the British taxpayer was underwriting the export, and if the loan defaulted the British taxpayer would pay.

In fact, this is what happened, and the file crossed my desk because the British people were now paying out on defaulted payments to the Royal Bank of Scotland. So I went to look at the two hotels. I found La Palm Hotel was some cleared land, some concrete foundations, and one eight room chalet without a roof. Coco Palm hotel didn’t exist at all. In a corner of the plot, four houses had been built by International Generics. As the housing market in Accra was very strong, these had been pre-sold, so none of the loan had gone into them.

I was astonished. The papers clearly showed that all £31.5 million had been fully disbursed by the Royal Bank of Scotland, against progress and completion certificates on the construction. But in truth there was virtually no construction. How could this have happened?

The Chief Executive of International Generics was an Israeli named Leon Tamman. He was a close friend to, and a front for, Mrs Rawlings. Tamman also had an architect’s firm, which had been signing off completion certificates for the non-existent work on the hotel. Almost all of the £30 million was simply stolen by Tamman and Mrs Rawlings.

The Royal Bank of Scotland had plainly failed in due diligence, having paid out on completion of two buildings, one not started and one only just started. But the Royal Bank of Scotland really couldn’t give a toss, because the repayments and interest were guaranteed by the British taxpayer. Indeed I seemed to be the only one who did care.

The Rawlings had put some of their share of this looted money towards payments on their beautiful home in Dublin. I wrote reports on all this back to London, and specifically urged the Serious Fraud Office to prosecute Tamman and Mrs Rawlings. I received the reply that there was no “appetite” in London for this.

Eventually La Palm did get built, but with over $60 million of new money taken this time from SSNIT, the Ghanaian taxpayers social security and pension fund. Coco Palm never did get built, but Tamman continued to develop it as a housing estate, using another company vehicle. Tamman has since died. The loans were definitively written off by the British government as part of Gordon Brown’s HIPC debt relief initiative.

That is but one example of a single scam, but it gives an insight into the way the country was looted. The unusual feature on this one was that the clever Mr Tamman found a way to cheat the British taxpayer, via Ghana. I still find it galling that the Royal Bank of Scotland also still got their profit, again from the British taxpayer.

So while the State Visit was intended as a reward to Jerry Rawlings for his conversion to democracy and capitalism, I had no illusions about Rawlings’ Ghana. I was determined that we should use the Queen’s visit to help ensure that Rawlings did indeed leave power in January 2001. According to the constitution, his second and final four year term as elected President expired then (if you politely ignored his previous decade as a military dictator). We should get the Queen to point him towards the exit.

Buckingham palace sent a team on an initial reconnaissance visit. It was led by an old friend of mine, Tim Hitchens, Assistant Private Secretary to the Queen, who had joined the FCO when I did. We identified the key features of the programme, which should centre around an address to Parliament. A walkabout might be difficult; Clinton had been almost crushed in Accra by an over-friendly crowd in a situation which got out of control. A school visit to highlight DFID’s work would provide the “meet the people” photo op, otherwise a drive past for the larger crowds. Key questions were identified as whether the Queen should visit Kumasi to meet Ghana’s most important traditional ruler, the Asantehene, and how she should meet the leader of the opposition, John Kufuor. Rawlings was likely to be opposed to both.

The recce visit went very well, and I held a reception for the team before they flew back to London. Several Ghanaian ministers came, and it ended in a very relaxed evening. Tim Hitchens commented that it was the first time he had ever heard Queen and Supertramp at an official function before. It turned out that we had very similar musical tastes.

Planning then took place at quite high intensity for several months. There were regular meetings with the Ghanaian government team tasked to organise the visit, headed by head of their diplomatic service Anand Cato, now Ghanaian High Commissioner to the United Kingdom. We then had to visit together all the proposed venues, and walk through the proposed routes, order of events, seating plans etc.

From the very first meeting between the two sides, held in a committee room at the International Conference Centre, it soon became obvious that we had a real problem with Ian Mackley. The High Commissioner had been very high-handed and abrupt with the visiting team from Buckingham Palace, so much so that Tim Hitchens had asked me what was wrong. I said it was just his manner. But there was more to it than that.

In the planning meetings, the set-up did not help the atmosphere. There were two lines of desks, facing each other. The British sat on one side and the Ghanaians on the other, facing each other across a wide divide. The whole dynamic was one of confrontation.

I have sat through some toe-curling meetings before, but that first joint State visit planning meeting in Accra was the worst. It started in friendly enough fashion, with greetings on each side. Then Anand Cato suggested we start with a quick run-through of the programme, from start to finish. “OK, now will the Queen be arriving by British Airways or by private jet?” asked Anand. “She will be on one of the VC10s of the Royal Flight” said Ian. “Right, that’s better. The plane can pull up to the stand closest to the VIP lounge. We will have the convoy of vehicles ready on the tarmac. The stairs will be put to the door, and then the chief of protocol will go up the stairs to escort the Queen and her party down the stairs, where there will be a small reception party…” “No, hang on there” interjected Ian Mackley, “I will go up the stairs before the chief of protocol.” “Well, it is customary for the Ambassador or High Commissioner to be in the receiving line at the bottom of the aircraft steps.” “Well, I can tell you for sure that the first person the Queen will want to see when she arrives in the country will be her High Commissioner.” “Well, I suppose you can accompany the chief up the steps if you wish…” “And my wife.” “Pardon?” “My wife Sarah. She must accompany me up the steps to meet the Queen.” “Look, it really isn’t practical to have that many people going on to an already crowded plane where people are preparing to get off…” “I am sorry, but I must insist that Sarah accompanies me up the stairs and on to the plane.” “But couldn’t she wait at the bottom of the steps?” “Absolutely not. How could she stand there without me?” “OK, well can we then mark down the question of greeting on the plane as an unresolved issue for the next meeting?” “Alright, but our side insists that my wife…” “Yes, quite. Now at the bottom of the steps Her Majesty will be greeted by the delegated minister, and presented with flowers by children.” “Please make sure we are consulted on the choice of children.” “If you wish. There will be national anthems, but I suggest no formal inspection of the Guard of Honour? Then traditional priests will briefly make ritual oblations, pouring spirits on the ground. The Queen will briefly enter the VIP lounge to take a drink.” “That’s a waste of time. Let’s get them straight into the convoy and off.” “But High Commissioner, we have to welcome a visitor with a drink. It is an essential part of our tradition. It will only be very brief.” “You can do what you like, but she’s not entering the VIP lounge. Waste of time.” “Let’s mark that down as another issue to be resolved. Now then, first journey…”

The meeting went on for hours and hours, becoming increasingly ill tempered. When we eventually got to the plans for the State Banquet, it all went spectacularly pear-shaped as it had been threatening to do. “Now we propose a top table of eight. There will be the President and Mrs Rawlings, Her Majesty and the Duke of Edinburgh, The Vice President and Mrs Mills, and Mr and Mrs Robin Cook.” Ian positively went purple. You could see a vein throbbing at the top left of his forehead. He spoke as though short of breath. “That is not acceptable. Sarah and I must be at the top table”. “With respect High Commissioner, there are a great many Ghanaians who will feel they should be at the top table. As we are in Ghana, we feel we are being hospitable in offering equal numbers of British and Ghanaians at the top table. But we also think the best plan is to keep the top table small and exclusive.” “By all means keep it small,” said Ian, “but as High Commissioner I must be on it.” “So what do you suggest?” asked Anand. “Robin Cook” said Ian “He doesn’t need to be on the top table.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Neither could Anand. “I don’t think you are being serious, High Commissioner” he said. “I am entirely serious” said Ian. “I outrank Robin Cook. I am the personal representative of a Head of State. Robin Cook only represents the government.”

I decided the man had taken leave of his senses. I wondered at what stage can you declare your commanding officer mad and take over, like on The Cain Mutiny? Anand was obviously thinking much the same. “Perhaps I might suggest you seek instruction from headquarters on that one?” he asked. “Anyway, can we note that down as another outstanding item, and move on to…” I don’t know whether Ian secretly realised he had overstepped the mark, but he didn’t come to another planning meeting after that, leaving them to me and the very competent Second Secretary Mike Nithavrianakis.

The most difficult question of all was that of meeting the opposition. Eventually we got the agreement of Buckingham Palace and the FCO to say that, if the Queen were prevented from meeting the opposition, she wouldn’t come. But still the most we could get from Rawlings was that the leader of the opposition could be included in a reception for several hundred people at the International Conference Centre.

I had by now made good personal friends with several Ghanaian politicians. Among those who I could have a social drink with any time were, on the government side John Mahama, Minister of Information and Moses Asaga, Deputy Finance Minister, and on the opposition side John Kufuor, leader of the opposition, his colleagues Hackman Owusu-Agyemang, Shadow Foreign Minister, and Nana Akuffo-Addo, Shadow Attorney General.

In the International Conference Centre the precise route the Queen would take around the crowd was very carefully planned, so I was able to brief John Kufuor exactly where to stand to meet her, and brief the Queen to be sure to stop and chat with him. As he was the tallest man in the crowd, this was all not too difficult.

Once the Queen arrived and the visit started, everything happened in a three day blur of intense activity. Vast crowds turned out, and the Palace staff soon calmed down as they realised that the Queen could expect an uncomplicated and old fashioned reverence from the teeming crowds who were turning out to see “Our Mama”.

The durbar of chiefs in front of Parliament House was a riot of colour and noise. One by one the great chiefs came past, carried on their palanquins, preceded by their entourage, drummers banging away ferociously and the chiefs, laden down with gold necklaces and bangles, struggled to perform their energetic seated dances. Many of the hefty dancing women wore the cloth that had been created for the occasion, with a picture of the Queen jiggling about on one large breast in partnership with Jerry Rawlings jiving on the other, the same pairing being also displayed on the buttocks.

After the last of the chiefs went through, the tens of thousands of spectators started to mill everywhere and we had to race for the Royal convoy to get out through the crowds. Robin Cook had stopped to give an ad hoc interview to an extremely pretty South African television reporter. Mike Nithavrianakis tried to hurry him along but got a fierce glare for his pains. Eventually everyone was in their cars but Cook; the Ghanaian outriders were itching to start as the crowds ahead and around got ever denser.

But where was Cook? We delayed, with the Queen sitting in her car for two or three minutes, but still there was no sign of the Secretary of State or his staff getting into their vehicle. Eventually the outriders swept off; the crowds closed in behind and we had abandoned our dilettante Foreign Secretary. Having lost the protection of the convoy and being caught up in the crowds and traffic, it took him an hour to catch up.

Cook was an enigma. I had already experienced his famous lack of both punctuality and consideration when kept waiting to see him over the Sandline Affair. His behaviour now seemed to combine an attractive contempt for protocol with a goat-like tendency – would he have fallen behind to give a very bland interview to a male South African reporter? He was also breaking the tradition that the Foreign Secretary does not make media comments when accompanying the Queen.

When we returned to the Labadi Beach Hotel, there was to be further evidence of Cook’s view that the World revolved around him. He was interviewing FCO staff for the position of his new Private Secretary. Astonishingly, he had decided that it would best suit his itinerary to hold these interviews in Accra rather than London. One candidate, Ros Marsden, had an extremely busy job as Head of United Nations Department. Yet she had to give up three days work to fly to be interviewed in Accra, when her office was just round the corner from his in London. Other candidates from posts around the World had difficult journeys to complete to get to Accra at all. I thought this rather outrageous of Cook, and was surprised nobody else seemed much concerned.

The port town of Tema, linked to Accra by fifteen miles of motorway and fast becoming part of a single extensive metropolis, sits firmly on the Greenwich Meridian. As far as land goes, Tema is the centre of the Earth, being the closest dry spot to the junction of the Equator and the Greenwich Meridian. You can travel South from Tema over 6,000 miles across sea until you hit the Antarctic.

There was in 1999 a particular vogue for linking the Greenwich Meridian with the Millennium. This was because of the role of the meridian in determining not just longitude but time. Of course, the two are inextricably linked with time initially used to calculate longitude. That is why Greenwich hosted both the Naval Academy and the Royal Observatory.

The fascination with all this had several manifestations. There was a BBC documentary travelogue down the Greenwich meridian. There was a best-selling book about the invention of naval chronometers, Longitude by Dava Sobel, which I read and was as interesting as a book about making clocks can be. There were a number of aid projects down the meridian, including by War Child and Comic Relief. Tema and Greenwich became twin towns. And there was the visit of the Duke of Edinburgh to Tema.

I think this was the idea of my very good friend John Carmichael, who was involved in charity work on several of the meridian projects. It was thought particularly appropriate as one of the Duke of Edinburgh’s titles is Earl of Greenwich – though the man has so many titles you could come up with some connection to pretty well anywhere. We could make it a new game, like six degrees of separation. Connect your home town to the Duke of Edinburgh.

Anyway, Tim Hitchens had warned me that the Duke was very much averse to just looking at things without any useful purpose. As we stood looking at the strip of brass laid in a churchyard which marks the line of the meridian, he turned to me and said: “A line in the ground, eh? Very nice.”

But we moved on to see a computer centre that had been set up by a charity to give local people experience of IT and the internet (providing both electricity and phone lines were working, which thank goodness they were today) and the Duke visibly cheered up. He was much happier talking to the instructors and students, and then when we went on to a primary school that had received books from DFID he was positively beaming. The genuinely warm reception everywhere, with happy gaggles of people of all ages cheerfully waving their little plastic union jacks, would have charmed anybody.

We returned to Accra via the coast road and I was able to point out the work of the Ghanaian coffin makers, with coffins shaped and painted as tractors, beer bottles, guitars, desks, cars and even a packet of condoms. The Prince laughed heartily, and we arrived at the Parliament building in high good spirits. There he was first shown to a committee room where he was introduced to senior MPs of all parties. “How many Members of Parliament do you have?” he asked. “Two hundred” came the answer. “That’s about the right number,” opined the Prince, “We have six hundred and fifty MPs, and most of them are a complete bloody waste of time.”

The irony was that there was no British journalist present to hear this, as they had all thought a meeting between Prince Philip and Ghanaian parliamentarians would be too boring. There were Ghanaian reporters present, but the exchange didn’t particularly interest them. So a front page tabloid remark, with which the accompanying photo could have made a paparazzi a lot of money, went completely unreported.

On a State Visit, the media cannot each be at every occasion, as security controls mean they have to be pre-positioned rather than milling about while the event goes ahead. So by agreement, those reporters and photographers accredited to the visit share or pool their photos and copy. At each event there is a stand, or pool. Some events may have more than one pool to give different angles. Each journalist can probably make five or six pools in the course of the visit, leapfrogging ahead of the royal progress. But everyone gets access to material from all the pools. The FCO lays on the transport to keep things under control. Organising the pool positions ahead of the event with the host country, and then herding and policing the often pushy media in them, is a major organisational task. Mike Nithavrianakis had carried it off with style and only the occasional failure of humour. But he had found no takers for Prince Philip in parliament, which proved to be fortunate for us.

I should say that I found Prince Philip entirely pleasant while spending most of this day with him. I am against the monarchy, but it was not created by the Queen or Prince Philip. Just as Colonel Isaac of the RUF was a victim of the circumstances into which he was born, so are they. Had I been born into a life of great privilege, I would probably have turned out a much more horrible person than they are.

Prince Philip then joined the Queen in the parliamentary chamber. Her address to parliament was to be the focal point of the visit. I had contributed to the drafting of her speech, and put a lot of work into it. The speech was only six minutes long (she never speaks longer than that, except at the State Opening of Parliament. Her staff made plain that six minutes was an absolute maximum.) It contained much of the usual guff about the history of our nations and the importance of a new future based upon partnership. But then she addressed Rawlings directly, praising his achievements in bringing Ghana on to the path of democracy and economic stability. The government benches in parliament provided an undercurrent of parliamentary “hear hears”.

But there was to be a sting in the tale: “Next, year, Mr President,” the Queen intoned, “You will step down after two terms in office in accordance with your constitution.” The opposition benches went wild. The Queen went on to wish for peaceful elections and further progress, but it was drowned out by the cries of “hear hear” and swishing of order papers from the benches, and loud cheers from the public gallery. There were mooted cries of “No” from the government side of the chamber.

I had drafted that phrase, and it had a much greater effect than I possibly hoped for, although I did mean it to drive home the message exactly as it was taken.

For a moment the Queen stopped. She looked in bewilderment and concern at the hullabaloo all around her. The Queen has no experience of speaking to anything other than a hushed, respectful silence. But, apart from some grim faces on the government benches, it was a joyful hullabaloo and she ploughed on the short distance to the end of her speech.

Once we got back to the Labadi Beach Hotel, Robin Cook was completely furious. He stormed into the makeshift Private Office, set up in two hotel rooms. “It’s a disaster. Who the Hell drafted that?” “Err, I did, Secretary of State” I said. “Is that you, Mr Murray! I might have guessed! Who the Hell approved it.” “You did.” “I most certainly did not!” “Yes you did, Secretary of State. You agreed the final draft last night.”

His Private Secretary had to dig out the copy of the draft he had signed off. He calmed down a little, and was placated further when the Queen’s robust press secretary, Geoff Crawford, said that he took the view that it was a good thing for the Queen to be seen to be standing up for democracy. It could only look good in the UK press. He proved to be right.

The State Banquet was a rather dull affair. Ian Mackley’s great battle to be on the top table proved rather nugatory as, in very Ghanaian fashion, nobody stayed in their seat very long and people were wandering all over the shop. There were a large number of empty seats as, faced with an invitation to dinner at 7.30pm, many Ghanaians followed their customary practice and wandered along an hour or so late, only to find they would not be admitted. This caused a huge amount of angst and aggravation, from which those of us inside were fortunately sheltered.

Mrs Rawlings had chosen a well known Accra nightclub owner named Chester to be the compère for the occasion. His bar is a relaxed spot in a small courtyard that features good jazz and highlife music, and prostitutes dressed as Tina Turner. It was a second home for the officers of the British Military Advisory and Training Team (BMATT).

Chester himself was friendly and amusing, but amusing in a Julian Clary meets Kenneth Williams meets Liberace sort of way. Chester says he is not gay, (regrettably homosexuality is illegal in Ghana) but his presentation is undeniably ultra camp. It is hard to think of a weirder choice to chair a state banquet, but Chester was a particular pet of Mrs Rawlings.

Chester was stood on the platform next to the Queen, gushing about how honoured he was. His speech was actually very witty, but the delivery was – well, Chester. I turned to Prince Philip and remarked: “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two Queens together before.” To give credit to Chester, I gather he has been telling the story ever since.

High camp was to be a theme of that evening.

Fiona and I accompanied the Royal party back to the Labadi Beach Hotel to say goodnight, after which Fiona returned home to Devonshire House while I remained for a debriefing on the day and review of the plans for tomorrow. By the time we had finished all that it was still only 11pm and I retired to the bar of the Labadi Beach with the Royal Household. The senior staff – Tim and Geoff – withdrew as is the custom, to allow the butlers, footmen, hairdressers and others to let off steam.

The party appeared, to a man, to be gay. Not just gay but outrageously camp. The Labadi Beach, with its fans whirring under polished dark wood ceilings, its panelled bar, displays of orchids, attentive uniformed staff and glossy grand piano – has the aura of a bygone colonial age, like something from Kenya’s Happy Valley in the 1930s. You expect to see Noel Coward emerge in his smoking jacket and sit down at the piano, smoking through a mother of pearl cigarette holder. It is exactly the right setting for a gay romp, and that is exactly what developed after a few of the Labadi Beach’s wonderful tropical cocktails.

We had taken the entire hotel for the Royal party, except that we had allowed the British Airways crew to stay there as always. Now three of their cabin stewards, with two Royal footmen and the Queen’s hairdresser, were grouped around the grand singing Cabaret with even more gusto than Liza. Other staff were smooching at the bar. All this had developed within half an hour in a really magical and celebratory atmosphere that seemed to spring from nothing. I was seated on a comfortable sofa, and across from me in an armchair was the one member of the Household who seemed out of place. The Duke of Edinburgh’s valet looked to be in his sixties, a grizzled old NCO with tufts of hair either side of a bald pate, a boxer’s nose and tattoos on his arms. He was smoking roll-ups.

He was a nice old boy and we had been struggling to hold a conversation about Ghana over the din, when two blokes chasing each other ran up to the settee on which I was sitting. One, pretending to be caught, draped himself over the end and said: “You’ve caught me, you beast!” I turned back to the old warrior and asked: “Don’t you find all this a bit strange sometimes?” He lent forward and put his hand on my bare knee below my kilt: “Listen, ducks. I was in the Navy for thirty years.”

So I made my excuses and left, as the News of the World journalists used to put it. I think he was probably joking, but there are some things that are too weird even for me, and the lower reaches of the Royal household are one of them. I have heard it suggested that such posts have been filled by gays for centuries, just as harems were staffed by eunuchs, to avoid the danger of a Queen being impregnated. Recently I have been most amused by news items regarding the death of the Queen Mother’s long-standing footman, who the newsreaders have been informing us was fondly known as “Backstairs Billy”. They manage to say this without giving the slightest hint that they know it is a double entendre.

The incident in parliament had made the Rawlings government even more annoyed about the proposed handshake in the International Conference Centre reception between the Queen and John Kufuor. My own relationship with Ian Mackley had also deteriorated still further as a result of the Royal Visit. I had the advantage that I already knew from previous jobs the palace officials and Robin Cook’s officials, and of course Robin Cook himself, not to mention the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh. All in all, I suspect that Ian felt that I was getting well above myself.

As the party formed up to walk around the reception in the International Conference Centre, Ian came up to me and grabbed my arm rather fiercely. “You, just stay with the Queen’s bodyguards” he said. I did not mind at all, and attached myself to another Ian, the head of the Queen’s close protection team. I already knew Ian also. Ian set off towards the hall and started ensuring a path was clear for the Queen, I alongside him as ordered. Suddenly I heard Sarah Mackley positively squeal from somewhere behind me: “My God, he’s ahead of the Queen! Now Craig’s ahead of the Queen.” If I could hear it, at least forty other people could. I managed to make myself as invisible as possible, and still to accomplish the introduction to John Kufuor. The government newspaper the Daily Graphic was to claim indignantly that I had introduced John Kufuor as “The next President of Ghana.” Had I done so, I would have been in the event correct in my prediction, but in fact I introduced him as “The opposition Presidential candidate”.

As always, the Queen’s last engagement on the State Visit was to say farewell to all the staff who had helped. She gives out gifts, and confers membership of the Royal Victorian Order on those deemed to merit it. Only once in the Queen’s long reign had she ever been on a state visit and not created our Ambassador or High Commissioner a Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order – that is to say, knighted him. Ian and Sarah were to become Sir Ian and Lady Sarah. This seemed to me to mean the world to them.

The day before, Tim Hitchens had turned to me as we were travelling in the car: “Craig, I take it your views on honours have not changed.” “No, Tim, I still don’t want any.” “Good, you see that makes it a bit easier, actually. You see, the thing is, we’re trying to cut down a bit on giving out routine honours. The government wants a more meritocratic honours system. We need to start somewhere. So, in short, Ian Mackley is not going to get his K.” I was stunned. Tim continued: “And as well, you see, it hasn’t exactly escaped our attention that he has … issues with the Ghanaians, and some of his attitudes didn’t exactly help the visit. Anyway, if you were to want your CVO, then that would be more difficult. Ian Mackley is going to have one of those. So that will be alright.”

No, it won’t be alright, I thought. You’ll kill the poor old bastard. For God’s sake, everyone will know.

I wondered when the decision had been taken. The kneeling stool and the ceremonial sword had definitely been unloaded from the plane and taken to the hotel: that was one of the things I had checked off. When had that decision been reached?

We were lined up in reverse order of seniority to go in and see the Queen and Prince Philip. I queued behind the Defence Attaché, with Ian and Sarah just behind me. She was entering as well – nobody else’s wife was – because she was expecting to become Lady Mackley. Tim was going to tell them quickly after I had entered, while they would be alone still waiting to go in.

You may not believe me, but I felt completely gutted for them. It was the very fact they were so status obsessed that made it so cruel. I was thinking about what Tim was saying to them and how they would react. It seemed terribly cruel that they had not been warned until the very moment before they were due to meet the Queen. I was so worried for them that I really had less than half my mind on exchanging pleasantries with the Queen, who was very pleasant, as always.

If you refused honours, as I always did, you got compensated by getting a slightly better present. In Warsaw I was given a silver Armada dish, which is useful for keeping your Armada in. In Accra I was given a small piece of furniture made with exquisite craftsmanship by Viscount Linley. Shelving my doubts about the patronage aspect of that (should the Queen be purchasing with public money official gifts made by her cousin?) I staggered out holding rather a large red box, leaving through the opposite side of the room to that I had entered. Outside the door I joined the happy throng of people clutching their presents and minor medals. Mike Nithavrianakis and Brian Cope were Ian Mackley’s friends, and they were waiting eagerly for him. “Here’s Craig” said Mike, “Now it’s only Sir Ian and Lady Sarah!” “No, it’s not, Mike”, I said, “He’s not getting a K” “What! You’re kidding!” It had suddenly fallen very silent. “Ian’s not getting a K, he’s only getting a CVO.” “Oh, that’s terrible.” We waited now in silence. Very quickly the door opened again, and the Mackleys came out, Ian with a frozen grin, Sarah a hysterical one beneath the white large-brimmed hat that suddenly looked so ridiculous. There was a smattering of applause, and Sarah fell to hugging everyone, even me. We all congratulated Ian on his CVO, and nobody ever mentioned that there had been any possibility of a knighthood, then or ever.

Personally I don’t understand why anyone accepts honours when there is so much more cachet in refusing them.

#prince phillip #prince phillip death #prince phillip is dead #craig murray #ghana

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kidofthekat · 4 years

Text

The art club and a certain reporter save the day.

Contrary to popular belief, Marinette, was not, in fact, constantly positive. Sometimes it all got a bit too much and this was one of those days. Her class had grown used to her ‘off days’, having learnt a long time ago not to talk to her during them and just give her some space, which ways easy as these days were few and far between. Or at least they used to be.

The class were absolutely baffled when Marinette came in for the second time that week, and fifth that month, with her body language screaming ‘leave me alone’ which in itself was unusual as she would normally emanate ‘don’t speak to me’ vibes not those of a frightened animal.

So when their class president, hunched over and slightly shaking, sat, not in her seat, but right at the back, her eyes glancing around with the air of a paranoid creature, they were more than a little worried. Her behaviour reflected that of a girl on the run, they just had no idea who she was running from.

“Um, M,” Alya ventured, attempting the hide her hurt from Marinette choosing not to sit together. “Why are you sitting way back there?”

Jumping slightly when she realised she was being addressed, she avoided eye contact but still answered her friend’s question, “Lila thought it would be good if we switched seats for a bit.” Marinette gave a small and feeble smile before turning her attention to the door, and eyeing it with fierce hope, that faded quickly as Lila sauntered in.

“Oh Marinette, I’m so glad you agreed to my little idea,” her sickly sweet voice holding an unidentifiable edge, “I hope you don’t mind Alya.”

Alya wanted to say she did, she wanted to sit next her best friend, she really did, but she only had to glance behind her to see Marinette furiously shaking her head, her eyes pleading with her, for her to agree, determined to get the story later.

She didn’t. She had posted various friends at each exit for the school, but she still missed the girl at both lunch and after class. Marinette, who had somehow managed to get in and out of school through a route no-one knew, was nowhere to be seen.

Wondering aimlessly around the school, Alya drooped slightly.

Why had Marinette gone as far as to switch seats with her mortal enemy just to avoid me? Am I the reason she is so terrified?

She slumped against the wall, her head resting on the cool brick. Everything had gone wrong so quickly, and only now was she realising that something was off. More than off. She scrunched her eyes tight, attempting to fight the burning tears, eventually succumbing, and letting them fall, praying to whatever God was listening that Hawkmoth was busy.

Having just been let out, the art club chatted loudly on their way out of the school building, almost missing the saddened reporter.

“Yo, Als, are you okay?” Alya rubbed at her eyes, only succeeding in making them redder, and let out a resigned affirmation.

“Are you sure?” Rose lowered herself to the brunette’s level and gave her a tight hug, refusing to let go.

“I’m just worried about Marinette, you know?” Nathaniel and Marc pulled her to her feat, and Alix led the bewildered girl back to the art room.

“Sit here.” Rose pointed to a stool, and in silence the other’s pulled out stool’s in front of hers so that all four were facing her.

She shivered, remembering Marinette’s cult-like description of the art club, but decided against running. They stayed silent until Alya had taken a seat.

“Marinette missed art club today.” Alix stated observing Alya for a reaction, “She never does that, not even on ‘off days’.”

“Oh.”

“Something is wrong.” Rose narrowed her eyes.

“She is scared.” Nathaniel added.

“Of everything.” Marc’s tone was ominous to say the least.

“We are worried too.” Alix finished.

Ignoring their icy gazes and terrifying synchronisation, Alya nodded in agreement, “What do you think happened.”

Once more Alya found herself deliberately writing off the art-club’s weird actions as they simultaneously lost their creepiness and became their normal selves, not cult members.

They all got up and sat around one of the tables, Alix unrolled a large sheet of paper and gave each of them a marker, writing ‘what happened to Marinette?’ in a big circle and a line off it.

“It has something to do with Lila,” everyone agreed, though Alya was a little begrudging to, as she scribbled ‘Lila’ at the end of her line, “Discuss”.

“She openly hated Lila at first, but then she just stopped,” Nathaniel offered, mainly for Marc’s benefit as he was in a different class than him.

“I thought it was just jealousy and her stopping so suddenly strengthened that for me.” Alya admitted.

Rose nodded, “That does follow her previous actions, it’s logical to think so.”

“Thanks Rose, I mean, she and Kagami are pretty hood friends now and I know the other day Lila came out of the bakery.”

“Really?” Alix added a couple things to the ever increasing spider diagram and looked around for more suggestions.

“Um guys, what if we ask her?” Marc backed down slightly from their collective gaze, but quickly cleared his throat and prepared to say more, “I mean, we are cousins, she might talk to me cause of the whole family thing.”

Relived by their smiling faces and agreement, Marc quickly phoned his cousin, putting it on loudspeaker when asked but adding he will turn it off if she says something private.

“Marc?”

“Hey Marinette, uh, you weren’t in art club today, are you okay?”

“Heh, I’m, I’m fine.”

“So, uh, Marc, what’s up with you?”

“The usual.”

“Oh, so doing something with Nathaniel.”

Marc and Nathaniel blushed as Marinette giggled.

“Why are you calling me Marc? You normally just text.”

Sighing, Marc stood up and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Marinette, please tell me the truth, are you okay?” The silence before she chose to reply lasted too long for either of them.

“No, Marc I’m not. Everything is slipping through my fingers, all of it, both lives, it’s all going to hell and I can’t stop it!”

Marc quickly turned his phone off of speaker. Marinette had accidently revealed her second identity when he had asked to use her as Ladybug’s dual identity for his comic and he wasn’t about to let anyone else know. He gave Marinette a few soothing words and promised to be at the bakery in a couple minutes before hanging up and leaving his confused friends behind.

“Both lives?” Alya questioned, still dazed by Marc’s rushed departure.

Alix shook her head in an attempt to clear it, “I have no idea, but evidently Marc knows something, and we aren’t getting anywhere with this now, let’s meet back up here tomorrow lunch.”

They all agreed, leaving in various states of deep thought and bewilderment.

Alya stumbled into the classroom seconds before the bell, surprised to see Marinette still at the back. Actually, she was surprised to see her at all. Once again, Marinette had managed to get into the building unnoticed by her, or any of the art club if the looks on their faces as they too reached the classroom late were of any indication.

Unable to question each other or Marinette due to Mme Bustier arriving, they all took their seats, Alya slightly cringing at the sight of Lila in the seat next to hers.

When class finally finished, Alya tailed her best friend through the halls to the locker room, counting herself lucky that she had managed to hide each time Marinette looked behind her.

“Marinette.” Alya hid behind one of the lockers, instantly recognising Lila’s voice.

“Where have you been,” Lila stared Marinette down as she hunched against her locker.

Alya had never heard Marinette so scared as when she answered, “Please Lila, I just want to get my stuff.”

Alya heard a slap. Followed by a punching sound, though there was no scream of shout or cry, just more hitting. She pulled out her phone and rounded the corner.

Recoding the scene in front of her, Alya was close to tears and ready to intervene.

“Please Lila, please.” Marinette begged.

“I’ll stop if you hit me back.”

“I, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Alya stopped in her tracks shocked, Lila simply sneered, “You? Hurt me?” She laughed tauntingly and kneed the designer in her side, “You’re weak, just like the sheeple you call friends.”

They both saw the moment Marinette snapped, her eye’s narrowing and Alya would always swear that her irises became impossibly bluer. She pulled back her fist and punched Lila dead in the nose. Sweeping her legs around while Lila recovered from her surprise, effectively knocking her down.

From her place on the ground Lila held her bleeding nose, and with a nasally voice, threatened to go to the teacher as she now had evidence. Alya saw one shudder travel through her friend and stepped in, unable to take it anymore.

“I filmed it all, I have proof what Marinette did was in self-defence. You hold nothing over her.” Lila scowled and picked herself off the floor. Growling in Marinette’s direction, she stormed off, not before giving the pair one last dirty look.

Marinette glanced at her best friend and collapsed onto her knees in tears.

“Marinette! Why are you crying?”

“She’ll go after you now, you have to apologise to her, please Alya, please!” Marinette begged, clutching at the bottom of Alya’s shirt and sobbing loudly.

Prying Marinette’s hands off her shirt, Alya knelt beside her and pulled her into a hug, whispering assertions to calm the girl down.

“I’m not scared of that liar, Marinette, we can defeat her together.”

Masterpost.

#mlb #miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #alya cesaire #the art club

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autumn-foxfire · 3 years

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I might be wrong 🤔 but I've seen a few people talk about mental health issues and how people get completely free from their crimes because of them... I don't personally agree or prefer not to involucrate myself with mental health having such a big influence on these discussions about the LOV charges, because... First, I know nothing about that, and second, doesn't that depends of what you were experiencing and your country? Not that I don't think it shouldn't be taken into account because that wouldn't be true, but it isn't an instant fix to your crimes, imo. From what I know... it happens when the person who commit that crime wasn't in the best place mentally, like if you had a schizophrenic attack or you had a severe panic attack at the moment. But people like Toga, Spinner, Shigaraki... they would probably be charged either way, I think? Along with Dabi and Compress. Yeah, sure, right now Dabi isn't in the best place and Shigaraki was manipulated, but what about past crimes? Because... Those were actual, personal decisions that were technically planned. The only thing is that their decisions came from a warped version of the world and I don't think that counts as much. It is my belief that usually, people that commit these crimes aren't in the best place, mentally.

I mean, in therapy, when a client confess to murder, the psychologist (depending of the country) usually can't say this kind of information, but if you are someone who is in danger, you have a reason to believe that your client is planning something or your client is probably going to hurt themselves, the first one doesn't really matter and you should call the police. And during Law, I think it also doesn't necessarily eliminate your responsabilities, it only changes the way you are prosecuted-- Like, instead of going to jail, they sent you to a hospital. Something quite similar? Doesn't it depends heavily of those factors?

In Argentina, just like almost every other country from America, I think the Law is or used to be terrible about this and you can walk free out of a lot of crimes, but jus because these things happens it doesn't means that it should 👀 I'm asking since you are a Law student dkdkjd my guess is that there must be a general idea of how the Law works in that area or a common response, even if every country applies it differently-- but I don't really know

Hmmm, in a probable attempt of putting my foot in my mouth and prove I have clue what I’m talking about when it comes to law (...I may be a law student but I never said I was a good one), I always find the discussion of mental health defences for the league to be interesting because while we in the UK have them, it’s not exactly as clear cut as one might think.

Who’s ready for a shoddy UK (EDIT: It’s actually only England and Wales these defences apply to and being a good student I completely forgot this :D) Criminal Law lesson!! (Please note that these defences are for the UK and UK alone and so would probably not apply in any other country, I just think the knowledge might give people a clearer look at how the law handles mental health when it comes to murder).

As you’re probably aware or can guess, murder is the most (or one of the most? I really need to go back over my criminal law stuff T-T) serious charge in criminal law. To be charged with murder in the UK you must have both high actus and mens rea (want to commit the act and having attempted to done so). However, in some cases, you can apply partial defences to the act of murder that mitigate the sentance.

There are two know partial defences in the UK:

- Diminished Responsibility

- Loss of Control

Loss of Control despite what it may sound like doesn’t just include mental health, in fact is has a rather objective element that a reasonable person would have done the same thing in the same circumstances. This usually covers qualifying triggers or fear of violence.

Diminished Responsibility as you can tell by it’s name covers mental health. This defense is entirely subjective as it assumes that the person with the defence has a mental condition that explains why they did what they did. As such, it doesn’t need to the same requirements that Loss of Control needs to be met. In recent years, the scope of Diminished responsibility has been tightened with new laws requesting that their needs to be medical evidence of the mental illness for this defence to be used.

Now... To get to the point. In the case of the League, the defence used for them would be diminished responsibility (because loss of control would probably be shot down in a matter of minutes due to the fact that most of their plans are premeditated) however the issue sadly would be trying to prove to the Judge and Jury that the League have official medical diagnosis that would apply in order to use this defence.

Really, it sounds horrible when you think about it because these defences don’t really seem to cover enough or extreme circumstances (like say those raised in cults or the way Shigaraki was raised?).

My point being that even though the League’s circumstances would surely be considering, because of the extremity of their actions, I actually don’t think any of the applicable murder defences would do them any good.

I think one of the biggest debates brought up when it comes to criminal law is the subjective meaning of “reasonable person”, especially because when murder usually happens, people who commit those murders usually aren’t in the best places mentally to begin with. What’s the cut off? How can we decided that? These are all argument brought up when discussing the issues of our current laws and it’s certainly interesting to think about.

The League’s cases are really interesting because they seem to fall into that grey area of law that doesn’t really have much coverage because to try and cover it could cause floodgates to open that would cause more issues for the courts in the long run.

Truthfully, I don’t think the League have the best bet when it comes to murder defences though there might be certain case law out there that I can’t remember that could help them (at least in the UK justice system.)

Of course, this is just for the UK. BNHA takes place in Japan and their murder defences are probably a lot different.

#bnha #thanks for the ask!!#I probably just put my foot in my mouth #if I did blame my notes that I went over to refresh myself with T-T #bu-2-ny

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shoogharashk · 3 years

Text

30 February 3988

Our story continues! We arrived this morning in the nation of Greentide, in one of their northernmost towns of Port Reice. Upon our arrival, Pog advised us that Sullivan was coming to meet us in person that evening with additional information about one of our leads here. He would meet us at The K’Orc Room, an inn and winery on the cliffs north of town. Sullivan had also paid for lodging there for us for the night.

Port Reice was hidden behind a long key island that buffered the view of the city from the sea. There were low buildings that basically disappeared behind the palm forest on the key, which had an intriguing mixture of families playing on the bayside beach and formidable naval defences including a row of scorpions pointed inland -- presumably to quickly dispatch any enemy vessels that found their way into the bay.

As we docked, Isolt pulled us aside and said that while they are getting used to Garnet’s presence, she and Augmak didn’t trust her to wander yet. Garnet seemed quite disappointed, but agreed to stay in her humanoid form on the ship while the rest of us disembarked. I privately offered to take her along in my pack in her true form, but she refused, saying that she wanted to be trusted and would do as asked.

We disembarked and began to explore the town. A large statue of a human woman ripping a pirate flag in half was explained to me as being of Reice, the town’s namesake and folk hero, who was best known for single-handedly defeating an invasion of over fifty pirates. The dwarf who told me the story didn’t seem to know many details, but I’ll certainly keep my ears open for more information as she sounds quite fascinating. We visited a couple of shops -- the first was Tik Tok’s Timely Arcane Armory offered custom ordering of magical items, with dwarven, gnomish, and goblin craftsmanship and optional delivery by a rather formidable-looking mechanical eagle. The second was a rather shady looking pawn shop run by a fellow called Shylock. He had a number of mysterious items, the majority of which were well out of my price range, but Thea picked up a nice pair of boots that were completely silent on her feet! Will be nice for any sneaking around that needs done. Throckmorton also stopped in there after we did and picked up a small feather token.

Interestingly, the gang of miscreants that gave us trouble in Glory Fall seems to have a presence here. Wanted posters around the town suggest they’ve been responsible for a number of muggings in the area, and showed the same symbol I’d previously noticed on their rings. They are apparently known as the Red Oyster Cult. A reward was offered for a thousand gold pieces in exchange for information leading to an arrest, so we will have to see if we see any further signs of them here.

As sunset approached, we made our way towards The K’Orc Room. A main kitchen/tavern building in the front of the property was dwarfed by the large outdoor bar area in the back with several cabanas and a central bar. Strange lizards whose throat sacs glowed in the dark filled the trees between the tavern and the outdoor area, which fascinated Hyla, and she nearly got her nose bitten off by a lizard who was not amused by her staring and note-taking. I picked up a glass of wine from the bar and was quickly distracted by the band performing.

The band called themselves the Three Scales, and they were composed of a high elf playing a gold-stringed fiddle, a rock gnome playing a little copper finger-harp, and a dwarf with a sparkling silver drum. Their instruments and clothes were clearly quite fine and ornate, which initially caught my eye from across the bar before I could even properly hear them. But when I could. Oh, when I could. My dear friend. They were singing. In. Draconic. I have NEVER heard another bard do this, and their approximation of dragonsong was quite remarkable for beings without the appropriate physiology. I was utterly captivated, and completely lost track of time for a while until well after dark when I saw Pog and Sullivan making their way into the bar.

The two were accompanied by a halfling woman, and I heard a brief discussion in which the woman (who Sullivan called Bettencourt) thanked him for alerting her to information about a fugitive who was hiding in their town, and said she’d keep his apartment under watch in case he returns. She quickly departed without joining our table, and Sullivan sat down at the cabana we had selected. He inquired about our well-being, and about the incident in Marspeck with the necromancer. We gave him a quick synopsis, and him being a well-connected fellow, I asked if he’d heard of the Apocryphage, the group that the necromancer had aspired to join. He advised he hadn’t, which was a disappointment, but hopefully we will hear no more of them regardless.

Sullivan advised us that he’d learned more about Amell Maddock, the smuggler mentioned in Clever’s diaries. He was a former law officer in Emryn, and had fled his post years ago to join his “found family” here. He used his former skills and contacts to become a smuggler and information broker here. He is a wanted man back in Emryn. He said while he had found this information while digging into the name, he didn’t have any further information on Amell’s current location.

Our mission, he said, remains the same. Track down the location of the Fountain of Youth mentioned in Clever’s journals, and bring back whatever we can -- its location, more of the water, evidence of it or even of what causes the fountain’s power. It was during this discussion that he directed our attention back to the bards. They were singing, still in Draconic, but now a song that spoke of the Fountain -- a wellspring in a cave behind a waterfall, where eternal youth was granted for a terrible price. He then left us to our evening, saying he’d be staying at the local embassy if we needed him for anything.

As the band wrapped up their performance and were packing up for the evening, before we turned in for the night, I introduced myself and (quite embarrassingly) gushed for a moment about the rarity of encountering fellow speakers of my native tongue. The elf was called Pascal, the gnome Cabarot, and the dwarf Mogrem. They said they’d learned from a male copper dragon who had stayed at their bard college for a year, and they had learned the song about the Fountain there. While they assured me that it is quite real, and is a place where seekers of the fountain face great trials and must test their resolve against the water itself or never be heard from again, they admitted that they’d never actually heard of anyone coming back from seeking it. However, they also were confident that the fountain was located just upriver from this very town, deep in the jungles and along the cliffs by the River Dauntless. They mentioned several adventurers, after hearing their song, had gone in search of the Fountain and not returned.

Throckmorton made a quick trip back into town to check the local historical records, and did find a pattern of a number of adventurers (not many, maybe half a dozen in the last century, though three were in the last 20 years or so) which had stayed at the K’Orc Room, and who had later disappeared into the forests upriver and never been heard from again.

This will certainly be worth investigating in the morning. However, it is nearly midnight and time for rest. We will continue our search at sunrise.

-NS

#episode 4

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vaguely-concerned · 4 years

Text

I am reading the Rogue One visual guide and I’m going to ramble at you about it

Starting with Baze and Chirrut facts because nothing is more important than Baze and Chirrut

- The Guardians of the Whills believe very deeply in the Force but their cosmology doesn’t center any fight between light and dark and they believe mortal minds can ‘encompass the totality of the Force’ with the right training (seemingly even for non-Force sensitives). *thinks of a little green baby who’s going to need some help with his place in the universe one day and how reductive the light/dark side dichotomy can be* good to know good to know. yes everything eventually comes down to baby yoda and his poor stressed out dad. protect them

- “Opposites in balance. Chirrut Îmwe and Baze Malbus share a homeworld and a history, although they strike a compelling contrast. Baze is a hardened pragmatist, while Chirrut’s faith flourishes even in trying times. They both claim to act as the protector of the other.”

in every way they are #goals. bffs/partners to lovers is Everything. ‘They both claim to act as the protector of the other’ is very funny and very sweet and very true; my favourite thing

- this book describes chirrut as baze’s ‘best friend and moral compass’, which is a funny way of spelling ‘husband of 30 years’ but who am I to criticize

- baze is just. he’s so good. they say here pragmatism is his biggest trait but you can tell how much love has been at the center of him (and probably continues to be under it all) from the totality of his rage. I don’t think you can be this deeply hurt without loving just as deeply first. (like chirrut says, he used to believe more than anyone and now he’s thrown aside literally everything about the guardians except chirrut) it’s like he’s suffered a moral wound just seeing what’s happened to his home and it won’t heal and it never does, he just loses chirrut too and then at least it’s over. jesus christ it’s so soul crushingly sad in a quiet undramatic way

- “Though both are Guardians of the Whills, Baze and Chirrut could not be more different in their approach to combat. Traditionalist Chirrut still carries weapons associated with the ancient order, while Baze adopts an implement of modern warfare. Their methods suit them individually, and both are effective extensions of their distinctive personalities. Though Baze may chide Chirrut for his antiques, and Chirrut may decry Baze’s reliance on soulless tools, they trust each other’s defences to such weapons.”

THEY TRUST EACH OTHER’S DEFENCES TO SUCH WEAPONS. YOU HAD TO WORD IT LIKE THAT HUH. YOU HAD TO GO AND MAKE IT CLEAR THEY’RE EACH OTHER’S MOST IMPORTANT THING IN THE WHOLE WORLD. WHAT. THE FUCK

- it’s implied baze’s hair used to be shorter when he was a Guardian! he’s just let it grow past what’s customary for them (and an excellent choice too his hair is wonderful)

- his repeating blaster is described as ‘modified and highly illegal’ hahaha

it also weighs 30 kg and is meant to be mounted on a tank

baze is the best

- chirrut built his own lightbow! apparently used to be a thing the guardians did to symbolize the end of their training. I wonder if baze used to have one too? even more I wonder if they’ve always been part of the same uh ‘divisions’ or what have you within the guardians, because I think there are some implications that baze has been more of an assassin/focused on violent conflicts even before the empire came and chirrut hasn’t

- this book does not adequately capture chirrut’s trickster/funny side, making me wonder how much of that was an addition by the actor and how much was planned out

- honestly... more baze & chirrut (well baze/chirrut let’s not play here) prequel books WHEN. what does their living room look like (because we do know they live together) how did they meet, when exactly did baze lose his faith and chirrut his sight, what was their first kiss like

inquiring minds want to know (it’s me I want to know)

- unless the wording is deliberately misleading here chirrut was not born blind (though he won’t discuss how he ended up this way) and he’s learned his current fighting technique over a prolonged period of time

- bodhi is a bit of a gambling addict! and specifically one who’s pretty good at it; even after the empire knows he’s a defector he gets past their restrictions because he’s saved up all the credits/favours/even id-vouchers he’s owed by other imperial grunts fsdhfksdjf precious I love him

- saw gerrera’s medical droid a) has been modified so its programming won’t stop it from being able to dispense drugs at dangerous intervals, b) professes sheer bafflement that saw is still alive and c) is ‘frequently deactivated to prevent it from building an ethical case to discontinue treatment’. I find the whole thing darkly hilarious.

- there are literally whole subplots going on in the crowd scenes on Jedha about a mad evil surgeon who ‘decraniates’ people (essentially turning them into mindless servile husks with all of their head above the nose cut off, somehow), a masked cop from the Milvayne Authority who’s gone rogue to do the right thing and hunt him down against orders, a death cult, a bunch of different religious sects, a translation droid who has befriended a group of local orphans and shares his credits with them so they can eat and he’s SAVING UP FOR A PROCESSOR UPGRADE SO HE CAN BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND THE NATURE OF SPIRITUALITY ;_____; what the fuck I want a tv-series about this droid IMMEDIATELY

- this book shows you just how crucial K-2 is as an asset and what a masterstroke cassian’s reprogramming of him is... and it says some very, very sweet things about cassian as a person under all the trauma and spy stuff that he essentially treats him as his best friend instead of a tool. cASSIAN he deserved to survive and have SO much therapy ;_____; ah well at least we’re getting a prequel series about him right? pls be good

- oh cassian was a proper separatist during the clone wars! he probably has some very interesting points of view about the republic pre- and post empire huh (this is what I love about the clone wars era; they have built SUCH a believable and interesting political world here, all shades of grey. there were separatists with very valid points even thought they were lead by a guy named COUNT DOOKU played by CHRISTOPHER LEE, the first sign that you should look inwards and ask yourself... wait are we the bad guys)

- it’s so much more understandable to me now who in the rebel leadership is for following jyn’s plan and who is not. (namely: the ministers of finance and industry are both Not Into challenging the empire directly, kind of understandably)

in depth description of weapons technology... I sleep. deep dives into the political structure of the alliance leadership and their backgrounds and motivations? I have never been happier

(this. sort of should have been in the actual movie tho things would have made more sense)

- BAIL ORGANA Leia’s actual dad out there lookin’ fiiine, being righteous and good, almost making me forget he’s going to die SO SOON oh fuck :(

- orson krennic is, presumably straight faced, described as ‘a cruel but brilliant man’ which is PATENTLY LUDICROUS because krennic is by literally every indication a fucking idiot, he needs galen to do all the real work for him, he mouths off to DARTH VADER and then tarkin just effortlessly swoops in and fucks him over in the end, easily outmaneuvering him... orson krennic is a fucking loser I don’t care if he’s the one who introduced brutalist architecture to coruscant

lol lol lol *arrow pointing towards krennic’s head* ‘Keen mind dissects architectural puzzles and conspiratorial plots’ okay I see what happened here orson krennic wrote this book

- oh galen erso is kind of one of the most interesting and heartbreaking characters in all of star wars. (and I do not say this just because of mads mikkelsen’s cheek bones) he’s incredibly intelligent but from a really poor family and wanted to eliminate the difference between rich and poor and invent a new form of infinitely renewable energy... and technically he did achieve that, except his old college buddy orson krennic immediately found a way to use his technology for genocide and he didn’t realize until it was too late :’) there is something so comforting in the fact that in the end galen still got the last laugh in the most epic but unsung way. he’s the sort of quiet Magnificent Bastard who doesn’t even care he’ll never get the credit as long as it worked. u did good on that one jyn

also several of the scientists galen is leading on eadu are in the same category as him -- captured and forced to work for the empire. so that’s great and not at all upsetting

- galen and lyra’s falling in love story is kind of sweet (though naturally it pales against baze and chirrut’s whole deal but then who could compare) and the sheer effort and detail that’s gone into building the farmstead in the beginning we end up seeing for 5 minutes... dude (it feels very convincingly like somewhere a family would live though)

- *sees that ‘databook’ is a concept that exists apparently; groans in fic research I thought ‘holodisc’ might do the job but maybe this is a better fit*

- I will say that my largest gripe with this movie is how glaringly unnecessarily male it is. there’s literally no reason for most of the rebels and ESPECIALLY all of the scientists to be male but here we are.

well the stormtroopers could all canonically be any gender behind the armor so uh that’s. something lol

- despite being all desert-y jedha is apparently quite cool! temperature-wise I mean though the huge ancient statues lying everywhere are pretty awesome too

- wow stormtrooper armor really does just suck huh. it’s like ‘well it might protect you from a blaster bolt if you stand upwind and angle yourself just right, who knows’. I guess this is why everyone and their grandmothers are drooling over mando’s beskar lol

- star wars’ insistence on sticking to single-biome planets is so silly and I love it. stick to that incomprehensible world building decision lucasfilm I respect you

- mon mothma! basically the most important character in the star wars universe who most people won’t know about lol she’s like the anti-palps. for the most part she is one of the most Big Goods in all of star wars (along with bail) but also she’s played by the actress who voices moira in overwatch so I do instinctively distrust her whenever I hear her talk haha. called palpatine a ‘lying executioner’ to his face which is both admirably bold and remarkably restrained, considering all the things palpatine is.

- oof the two people mentioned the most on anakin/vader’s pages are palpatine and obi wan. that’s. hurtful and bad and awful. the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was making me watch ‘clone wars’ because watching ‘clone wars’ actually made me care about anakin skywalker :(

-ah shit this is a lot of pages about pasty empire dudes i’ll uh come back to these lol

#first post of 2020! keeping it on rambling brand into the new decade #star wars #rogue one #baze x chirrut #meta #if you're here for information about baze's hair and how overwatch has coloured my view of a star wars character...#boy have I got a post for you lol

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sirro85-blog · 5 years

Text

Dark Horses 6

So, what are the Xhost? Now, so long after they have left the stars it's a question that can be asked.

The Xhost were an idea that became a cult, if humans are more durable and Rhul are faster and Biviladi are more adaptable to environmental changes what if instead of celebrating the diversity we examined the discrepancies and found a common ground?

A noble thought, corrupted, corrupted into the Xhost where races were genetically modified to be a bit of everything, differences were no longer celebrated as part of a more fantastic whole but instead were vilified as non-conforming.

To the Xhost purity was required, variation was the enemy.

Kovac sat against the wall looking at his friends, Wolf shook his head and turned to Dorman for support.

"No," said Kovac, " you both have opinions and you're both entitled to them, but you're wrong.

It's as simple as this. Iron man is the greatest superhero, all those with superpowers built in can fuck right off, if your solution to a problem is punching harder then you're not a solution. Iron man's super power is thinking better than all of the others, he figures stuff out, after that his inventions win fights. All the other smart guys either have powers or their limited, I mean Batman isn't a one man army. Reed Richards works stuff out then relies on being Mr Fantastic to solve the problem.

Also Tony fights butt naked and the rest don't."

Kovac looked at his friends and smiled at their faces, "look it's this simple, your mind, the human mind is the greatest weapon in the galaxy. Now the second lesson I have to teach you is this simple, no matter what your taste in music one song needs special attention."

"We Will Rick You, by Queen will be remembered as a Pride song but it shouldn't be. What really matters is the solo or fade out; that piece of guitar play by May...everything else is just delivery for that.

Finally, if you're not happy, watching bad television at 0400 with you're partner then you're relationship won't last, if their presence doesn't bring you joy then move on.

Right that's about it, that's my life time knowledge, guess we should see this out then." Kovac stood.

Outside the Xhost forces had swept across the continent.

"Major, you know that the General will mobilise to defend us, even with the bones of a brigade. Major General Michaela Jones will be here," Wolf said.

"I know Wolf, the question has always been how do we drive the Xhost back? They control more sectors than the Rhul and the Flet together, they control more planet's than the Korlax."

"They've never defeated the Galactic Council forces though." Dorman countered.

"Well that's not strictly true, they've never won a war against the GCDF but they've always required mobilising core divisions and I hate to say it but that means human troops, we're the backbone of the GCDF without our presence the Xhost have seen success."

"You really don't think we can save the Towoli? Or the EDC?" Wolf asked morose.

"With a squadron of combat engineers? No." The Major was terse in his response.

Captain Becca looked out at the gathering darkness, "three days to capture the Towoli and secure the cities, so on the fourth day they turn around and hit the EDC, they're dug in now, so they last, maybe another four days and then it us. In this position we can last, maybe three days. That gives the Major-general two weeks, to raise at least a brigade and to get to us..." the question hung in the air unasked.

Kovac puffed out his cheeks, and rubbed his right forearm. "Remember in the 88th there became this belief that I'd pull it out of the fire, everytime it looked impossible odds you'd hear the men, "trust in kovac" I have that faith in Michaela Jones. Our only job right now is to keep open this beach head so she can land the troops. Now I've shared my life's wisdom with you, who has any other nuggets to share?"

Sergeant Major Panther had her own meeting with her sergeants, the needs of various troops and sections were discussed and the talk turned to how long they could hold out, "Captain says three at a push, but knowing the Major, if say closer to five."

"It'll take them a week to roll the Towoli and the EDC so by the end of the second week it'll be all over," said Sergeant Webb.

"No, you're forgetting Webb, we've got Kovac, 'keep calm and trust in Kovac' I've been saying that for over ten years now and I'll keep saying as long as he keeps earning my damn faith." Knickers glared at her fellow sergeants, "what was it he always said? It's us, it's us the 88th, well now it's us the Dark Horses but it's still us, we're still the real first in last out and we're still fighting fit and fucking ugly, Kovac will know what to do and when he asks us to do the impossible we'll deliver."

Panther grinned, "Exactly, so get out there and tell that to the men, wipe their little faces, help them blow their noses and smack the heads that need smacking, we are the Dark Horses and we will do what is needed."

"Except the Major is sitting there saying the same about the General," Webb said, "you all know I love the man, he's personally saved my life four times that I can count, if anyone can save us he can...but he isn't trying to. He's not even mentioned trying to save the Towoli and the EDC, he's said we use them as cannon fodder. Our hope is that we get rescued by the woman we walked away from to follow Kovac."

The sergeant-major stared at her sergeants, she seemed at a loss for what to say.

"I'll keep my faith thank you Webb. You're not wrong, yet, but I'll put my trust in Kovac."

Corporal Grey was growing weary of banging heads, the men were despondent and grumbling. The leader they trusted beyond all others was finally cornered and they could all see it. He watched as Captain Dorman walked away from the Major looking down-trodden, after a few steps the officer managed to organise himself and he straightened his shoulders and put his head up...keeping up appearances.

"I hear you're out of ideas and we're all fucked," said a coarse voice behind Kovac.

"Hello RQ," said Kovac without turning round, "and do you believe it?"

"Of course not, you need extra arms for all the tricks up your sleeves," scoffed the Quartemaster, "but they do, the rank, which I'm guessing is the point."

"They're good people, good people don't become monsters without falling down first, I need them to be monsters, they have to lose hope so when I throw them a cobra for a life line they grab it."

"What's the plan troop?"

"The secret to Xhost success is that the Xhost have their own supply of fuel, took us a while to realise what it was, now they use a variety of tricks but the basic component is Phosphene gas, toxic and smells like rotten fish half the time. So the finest galactic scientists looked at how they could inhibit their engines, how they could stop the Xhost fuelling their war machine, they failed. Then a human looked at it, her solution was deemed too heinous, the very suggestion caused humanity some problems, as we were suddenly seen as viscious and evil."

"What was her solution?"

"Chemistry, it's beyond me but...have you ever heard of White Phosphorus?"

The Qm blanched, "really!? That's your solution?"

"Turn their fuel into chemical weapons, I just need men desperate enough to agree to it."

"Kovac..."

Kovac turned to look at the Qm, "first time you've ever called me that, look, we can sit here and let the Xhost slaughter the Towoli and the EDC or we can act, to save innocent lives, maybe we need to be less innocent."

The Qm was quiet a moment and then sighed, "you think we have to?"

"I do."

"Alright then," she touched his arm and left him.

Kovac stared into the gathering gloom, "Clausewitz never finished and Ludendorff was a bastard who lost," he seemed to mutter to himself.

Later Kovac would say it was almost sad how quickly his men agreed to his plan, but they did. So within 6 hours his troops were prepared and moving out.

Before dawn the Dark Horses had returned to their fortifications, none of the normal a activities were on display, showing pride in a job we'll done. Instead the attitude was grim, an unpleasant job but one needing done.

Outside in the skies and on the ground, the Xhost burned, White Phosphorus burns on contact with air and it can burn even human flesh to the bone. Steel melts at half the temperature of burning white phosphorus.

I've seen artists renderings of the human construct of hell, the day the Xhost burned was brighter, hotter and there was more smoke. The issue of demons I'll leave to other scholars.

Ten days later Major General Michaela Jones landed with the 3rd army of the Galactic Defence Force to discover a smoking planet and the Towoli and EDC talking about burning skies and enemies vaporized in a wall of heat.

The Dark Horses, grim of face and closed in demeanour said nothing, they simply boarded and left with the advance ships into Xhost territory.

There is a phrase amongst those who study human kind, it's taken from their own old language, a term itself bastardised from an even older tale, "humans are space-orcs"

To humans it's funny, "the human can withstand the loss of a limb and is capable of feats of strength near impossible to other races, they fix metal into their mouths and inject their skins for aesthetic purposes...ha ha, fuck yeah we're space-orcs"

But to those of us who study, it means something different, orcs are the monsters of human fiction, rewritten and redefined they are brutal, barbarous and backwards. Their savagery and their lack of humanity is common in all their iterations. Orcs are the monsters humans see in themselves.

We space going species forget that humans may be like us in their hunt for answers but they got to this technology not through global cooperation but through war-driven advances and international tensions and competition.

They have only recently become the advanced global society we know, just under the surface lies the monster. Humans are Space Orcs.

○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

So I know the Chemistry is a bit hinky here according to a chemist friend of mine what I've said is possible but not easily but...hey It's sci-fi.

Anyway this one ends in a dark place but it's where it went and I can't really pretend I know what I'm doing.

As always feedback is appreciated.

#humans are space australians #humans are insane #humans are space orcs #space orcs #space australia #space faerie #earth is a deathworld #earth is weird #dark horses #this is why i call kovac daddy #kovac

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imagineyourguidingkey · 5 years

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Hey! I saw your post and I was wondering if you could do an imagine for Ienzo and sora (or only Ienzo if you only write for one at a time) finding their s/o in a terrible state from doing something that they were warned not to do. Maybe going to a fight and they were told that it wasnt worth it but they go anyway and return in bad shape so they have to be healed up. Thank you!

Hiya thanks for being the very first person to send me a request. I am happy to do both characters, but I decided to do just Ienzo for now and do Sora a bit later. When reading that I had a sudden idea, based from a kingdom hearts character I made back, and altered it to fit with the idea. The story is based around/in whichever way to say it in kingdom hearts three, which I hope won’t be a spoiler for you, but I thought I might alter a scene, which I hope is alright. I do hope you enjoy reading it and hopefully it was something along the lines of what you expected. If you liked it or not please tell me and if you want a part two or another request on something else, I will be happy to do it for you. It’s been a while since I got back into writing scenarios and this one was fun to write.

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Ienzo x injured s/o

They should have listened. They weren’t strong enough, they weren’t a keyblader, though that didn’t stop them from wanting to find him. Ever since the day, kingdom hearts was opened and the nobodies who decided not to join Xehanort had turned to somebodies. Ienzo’s significant other wanted to know what had happened to him. To Even… Vexen. While you had all been in the organisation you were chosen to help Vexen create a living puppet, due to their ability in forming puppets out of clay. Their skill could have helped the scientist further and from what they remember it did, but it was still foggy in their mind what truly happened, during that time though they had grown to hold a sort of connection to the long blonde-haired man, and they were determined to find him, even if it meant sneaking out of the castle in radiant garden in the middle of the night, hiding from Aeleus and Dilan, who might have dragged them back, knowing that their ability they once had, had weakened, once an impenetrable fortress of clay figures had become just ordinary clay lumps.

“It’s not safe S/o.” Ienzo was looking through the computer as the group stood around having a discussion on Ienzo significant other going on a search for Vexen.

“But he could be there!” His significant other continued, before Dilan, who leaned one of the walls beside the door spoke up himself.

“He could still be part of the organisation.” He pointed out.

“And you think he would hurt me?” They signalled to themselves. “I’ve spent so long with him when I was a nobody, on the same mission. He wouldn’t do that.”

“That may be so S/o, but outside twilight town itself at this time, there are swarms of heartless there.” Ienzo tried to reason. His s/o was now the weakest one out of the room.

“I still have magic abilities.” They defended themselves moving closer to Ienzo. They didn’t really care if Aeleus or Dilan disagreed, but they wanted the go-ahead from Ienzo himself. “If Pence and his friends can get to the mansion with no powers then, I’m sure I can do it.” They tried to reassure.

“It is still dangerous. You were skilled in defence and your defences have gone.” He was being honest with them, which they would always appreciate and respect, and they both knew he was saying this out of worry. Ever since they met as nobodies, they seemed to have spent most of their time together, if his s/o wasn’t helping Vexen.

“S/o. no one can go with you, We have duties here.” Dilan spoke again.

“I don’t need someone to go with me.” They looked over to him. “I can take on those weak heartless, without my puppets easily.” They held confidence in their skill, against the heartless in Twilight Town, which she had scouted multiple times, during the year Ienzo and Aeleus both faded. His s/o never liked thinking back to that time. “What use I am here, just sitting on the sidelines.” They brought up. “My memories. Their too foggy to help with the reconstruction, we need Vexen, not me.”

“You are perfectly capable of helping with the construction, it was a joint effort.”

“He was the head of the operation. I just helped him with skill, which we have already pointed out are too weak as of now.”

“S/o you are not going to Twilight Town.” Dilan spoke in what seemed like an order.

“I can decide my own choices, it would be nice to have some faith in me, that I can survive one trip out of the castle.” His S/o let out, frustrated before heading towards the door annoyed.

“Wait...S/o...” Ienzo started, but it was to late as they were already gone.

They felt bad for leaving behind their back, but they had magic, and they weren’t planning to get into a fight if there was no reason to. They were smart, they know when it was a lost cause. They needed answers and they wanted to see him again, it had been too long. Apart from Dilan, who they never really interacted with until after the organisation, they were left alone. All of them had perished in castle oblivion, it was only them for so long, or it was what they remembered. They knew the pang in their heart would be there until they had spoken at least to Ienzo again, but it wasn’t going to stop them. She was determined to find him. Luckily for them, they managed to get away from the castle quite quickly, thankful to the rare stories Lea had told them how he and Isa could sneak into the castle. Dilan and Aeleus didn’t know they knew. They couldn’t stop now, they thought as they head to the world that held a lead for them to go on, Twilight Town.

What they didn’t expect once they arrived though, after meeting Hayner, Pence and Olette, was to encounter both Ansem the wise and Xehanort’s heartless. Out of the four of them, Ienzo significant other was the strongest, and while they had planned to keep their promise about not getting into a fight they couldn’t win. Ansem was important, more important than them, so they thought. They chose to be the distraction, even if they knew they weren’t strong enough to go against the seeker of darkness.

“Have you seen S/o? They couldn’t have gone could they?!” Panic was in Ienzo’s voice as he had gone to look for his S/o.

She couldn’t really have left to go. He should have known once they were passionate and determined about something then they wouldn’t hold back, but every second he thought about them being gone worried him more. They weren’t really much of a fighter back in the organisation and mostly always hoped to get recon instead of missions going head to head with a heartless. He felt the need to contact Pence, he needed to know they were there. He knew he wouldn’t be able to convince them to come back now, he just hoped that she was alright. Though it seemed he had reason to worry. When a portal suddenly opened from behind in revealing his old master, and while he would be surprised to see Ansem, he was more focused on the person in his arms. It seemed that Vexen was there and was able to save them in the knick of time, for a final blow, only it would have been better if he was quicker. It was easier to see the fear in his eyes when he first laid eyes on them. He wondered if everyone wasn’t against them going, would have changed things. They may not have gone as quickly as they did missing Xehanort’s heartless. Anything that he was going to plan on doing today, finding ways to create a body for Roxas all took backstage. S/o was his main focus as of now.

They didn’t know what happened but the next thing they knew they were laying in a familiar bed in Radiant Garden. They began to move, only to feel stiff and weight on one of their knees. The stiffish coming from what seemed to be bruised that traced their body. It seemed even with healing magic wouldn’t heal all of it. It looked like they needed another dose of Curaga. As they remembered where the bruises came from, their eyes looked down to where they noticed a glimpse of purple and they felt part of their heartbreak even more, when they understood what had happened. They didn’t mean to get hurt and realised what they had done. Maybe they weren’t used to having their heart back yet. Being alone for almost a year without the people they were close too, they had forgotten just how bad the repercussions could be. Whenever they were last injured within the Organisations it seemed like they didn’t care, apart from one… one, there was someone in the back of there mind, but couldn’t pinpoint it. Guilt flowed within the emotions, maybe they shouldn’t have been rash and stubborn, even if they got what they wanted. He was there, though he now didn’t seem to be the focus for them. They placed a hand gently on the males head. Fingers brushing his bluish toned lilac locks. It looked like he hadn’t slept for long, which only caused more guilt to build up. They had to get use to being a somebody again, away from the cult that was never the same once they were gone, when he was gone.

~Master Ankh~

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go2harsha-blog · 5 years

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Krishna on the Beach

Harsha Prabhu wanders on a beach in Goa and stumbles upon the God of Love

Arambol, Goa, August 2019

The Photoshoot

It was the weekend of the global protest against the destruction and burning of the forests in the Amazon basin, aided and abetted by the Brazilian government.

A few of us decided to hold a pop up demonstration at Arambol beach against this act of environmental vandalism that threatened the livelihood of the indigenous people of Brazil - and 20% of the world’s oxygen supply. The demo would be in the form of a photo shoot, with people holding placards that spelt: SOS Amazon! We needed a quorum of 12 people to hold the placards. Seemed easy enough.

But it wasn’t. It took us a full hour of hustling on the beach to get the magic 12. Many we asked begged off for one reason or another: they did not understand what I said (Russian tourists); they were waiting for someone; they had to be somewhere else; they had to discuss it with their group before agreeing to participate. Some of these procrastinators were clearly entitled, middle class Indian tourists from major metros, visiting Goa as part of a package tour, sporting t-shirts with the tour logo. Somehow, we managed to find 12 souls willing and able to be a part of the the visual petition against the Amazon destruction.

After the photoshoot I wandered along the beach. Then I heard the sound of bells. Turning, I saw a group of men striding down the beach. One of them was carrying something on his head; the others were playing zills and chanting “Radhe Krishna ki jai!” (Hail Radha and Krishna).

The man who was carrying an idol of Krishna - Bal Krishna, Krishna as a child - placed it on the beach. His companions dug holes in the sand and placed incense sticks, to light which they borrowed my lighter. Slowly, people gathered around the idol; bits of camphor were burnt as offerings; prayers offered.

There was a large group of young boys who were playing in the sand nearby. Ever the opportunist for a photo grab, I went up to them and, addressing the biggest boy, asked: “Have you heard of the burning of the forests in the Amazon in Brazil?” “Yes” , he replied “ I saw it on the news.” “Would you like to help us stop it?” I asked him. “How?” he asked. “Simple. Just join with your friends in holding these placards,” I replied, “ I’ll take a photo and send it to the Brazilian government.”

“Yes, yes,” he shouted and turned to explain to the rest of his friends what was proposed. Before I could say ‘Krishna’ I had 12 eager and willing young participants in the photoshoot. In an attempt to get them all in the frame I almost stumbled onto the Bal Krishna image on the sand.

Krishna Lila

It was only then that I realised the young boys where part of a group that had come to participate in the Krishna ritual on the beach. In my mind’s eye, I saw them as the gopas (cow-herders) of Vrindavan, Krishna’s accomplices in his childish pranks, which, to the devotee, is an expression of the God’s ‘Lila,’, life as play.

And play they did, that evening on the beach, first the young boys, then the older youth and some men joining in. Games of tag, of skill and strength and guile. Then they attempted to smash the ‘Dahi Hundi’, the pot of yogurt - an object of mischievous fascination for Bal Krishna, called ‘Maakhan chor’, the butter-thief - held tantalizingly out of reach by a man wielding a rope and pully. Both groups of young boys and older youth managed to smash the Hundi, splattering themselves and those nearby with yogurt.

Where were the gopis (milk-maids) in all this play? Some stood by watching, like the ladies from Rajasthan, looking, with their aquiline features, nose rings and veils, like they had stepped out of a Kishangarh miniature, the 18th-century school of painting from Rājasthan, celebrating Krishna as a lover. Other gopis, possibly tourists from interstate or overseas, cavorted in the sea, holding hands in the water, playing their water games, framed by the setting sun.

Then it was time for more prayers and - as the sun set and the horizon turned maroon - time for the ‘Visarjan,’ the ritual immersion of the Krishna idols - the Bal Krishna being joined by a Krishna playing the flute - in the sea.

Who is Krishna?

Yesterday was Gokulashtami , the birthday of Krishna. Today is Visarjan. Who is Krishna, this God who was born yesterday and is committed to the waters the very next day?

Who is Krishna? This question bedevilled Arjun, the hero of the Mahabharata war, contemplating the field of battle. Is he my charioteer? My devoted friend and wise councillor? Or is he a God whose true face I dare not see?

There are many Krishnas; you can pick and choose.

There’s the culture hero of the Ahir, a tribe of pastoralists found in north and western India. The Ahirs are mentioned in the Mahabharata and some Ahir claim descent from the Yadava clan of Krishna.

There’s Bal Krishna, the baby Krishna, whose exploits form the material of songs mother’s sing to their children, whose devotion parallels the cult of baby Jesus.

There’s Krishna the lover, flirting shamelessly with the gopis of Vrindavan, all the while knowing his heart is with Radha, another man’s wife, in an erotic wheel-within-wheel of transgression, celebrated in much Indian song, dance and art.

There’s the Krishna of the Bhagvad Gita, Arjun’s initiator into the terrifying mysteries of cosmic time, including the need to do one’s caste-defined, destiny-propelled duty, regardless of the consequences (nishkamakarma).

This was the Krishna that troubled M K Gandhi, possibly the greatest Vaishnav (Krishna devotee) of them all in recent times. The arguments in the Geeta rationalising violence, no doubt the work of Brahmins versed in the arts of sophistry in defence of the status quo, stuck in Gandhi’s throat. Gandhi would have agreed with D D Kosambi, polymath and Marxist historian, who said: ‘This slippery opportunism characterizes the whole book. Naturally, it is not surprising to find so many Gita lovers imbued therewith. Once it is admitted that material reality is gross illusion, the rest follows quite simply; the world of "doublethink" is the only one that matters.’

Bhakti

There’s the Krishna of the Bhakti saints, the social movement that was anti-caste, that talked up love for one’s fellow human as the highest goal.

The Bhakti saints came from all castes. Nammalvar was a peasant. Namdev was a tailor. Gora was a potter. Cokha Mela was Dalit. So was Ravidas, guru of Mirabai and contemporary of Guru Nanak. Jyaneshwar, who introduced the Gita to Marathi-speakers, committed ritual suicide. Tukaram, the greatest Marathi Bhakti poet of them all, was a peasant, who ran afoul of Brahmins, and is supposed to have drowned himself in the river Tungabhadra. There’s more than a hint that he was murdered by caste Hindus. Luckily, his abhangas (poems) survived…

What made Bhakti so radical?

Here is Chandidas, the 15th century Bengali poet:

"Shobar upor manush shotto tahar upore nai,” (“Above all is humanity, none else”).

Or Kabir, possibly the greatest of India’s many poet-saints, also from the 15th century, and a Muslim to boot, though not a practicing one by the looks of it. He wrote in the vernacular and, even to this day, his poems explode in the face, like existential firecrackers.

Saints I see the world is mad.

 If I tell the truth they rush to beat me,

 if I lie they trust me. — Kabir, Shabad 4, Translated by Linda Hess and Shukdeo Singh

Or this:

Saints I've seen both ways. 

Hindus and Muslims don't want discipline, they want tasty food. 

The Hindu keeps the eleventh-day fast, eating chestnuts and milk. 

He curbs his grain but not his brain, and breaks his fast with meat. 

The Turk [Muslim] prays daily, fasts once a year, and crows "God!, God!" like a cock. 

What heaven is reserved for people who kill chickens in the dark?… 

— Kabir, Śabda 10, Translated by Linda Hess and Shukdeo Singh

Or this one:

If God be within the mosque, then to whom does this world belong?

 If Ram be within the image which you find upon your pilgrimage, then who is there to know what happens without?… 

— Kabir, III.2, Translated by Rabindranath Tagore and Evelyn Underhill

Interestingly, Kabir ran afoul of both Muslims and Hindus during his lifetime. It is said that, upon his death, both sets of believers fought over his corpse. When they lifted his shroud, all they found were flowers.

Knowing the pain of others

Here is Narsi Mehta, the 15th century Gujarat poet-saint, with a song that was a favourite of M K Gandhi:

Vaishnav jan to tene kahiye je/ Peed paraayi jaane re /Par-dukhkhe upkaar kare toye /Man abhimaan na aane re

Only he is a true Vaishnav Who knows the pain of others Does good to others without letting pride enter his mind.

Indian PM Modi also claims to love ‘Vaishnava jan to.’ He launched a version of the song in October 2018, sung by artists from 40 different countries, as the start of the year-long celebration of the 150th birth anniversary of Gandhi.

Does Modi know the pain of others?

This was his reply to a Reuters journalist in 2013, when asked what he felt about the communal carnage in Gujarat that lead to over a thousand deaths, mainly, but not only, Muslims, and the displacement of many more while he was CM in 2002: “If someone else is driving a car and we’re sitting behind, even then if a puppy comes under the wheel, will it be painful or not? Of course it is.”

Does Modi know the pain his policies, including demonetisation and high GST rates, have caused his people? The pain of all those who have lost their jobs due to an economy in shambles, largely due to the wreaking-ball of his government’s own policies? Does he know the pain of the farmers who commit suicide due to failing crops, drought and the inability to pay back loans? Or the pain of all the human rights defenders and tribals who languish in jail on trumped up charges? And what about the pain of the Kashmiri people?

What about the pain of Gandhians? The fact is that M K Gandhi himself was assassinated by a Hindu ring wing terrorist, a member of the Hindu Mahasabha, an off-shoot of the RSS, the very organisation that Modi belongs to.

What about the pain of all those people - mostly Muslim, Dalit or Christians - who have been lynched in India by mobs yelling “Jai Shree Ram”?

In July this year, eminent writers, filmmakers and intellectuals wrote an open letter to PM Modi, beseeching him to act, saying: "It is shocking that so much violence should be perpetrated in the name of religion! These are not the Middle Ages! The name of Ram is sacred to many in the majority community of India. As the highest Executive of this country, you must put a stop to the name of Ram being defiled in this manner.”

Modi has yet to respond to the letter.

Clearly, when it comes to knowing the pain of others, Modi has a lot of catching up to do.

Krishna the Redeemer

The Krishna story should make all tyrants everywhere worried.

For Krishna is also the redeemer. He comes to deliver the people of Dwarka from the rule of the evil tyrant Kamsa. Indeed, all tyrants dream of everlasting rule, but Kamsa himself hears a voice that tells him his end is near. This sets into play the whole Krishna myth, of the child abandoned by the palace, like Moses was among the bullrushes, a foundling fostered by another family, who grows up to avenge wrongs and claim his rightful throne.

According to Joseph Campbell: ‘The work of the incarnation is to refute by his presence the pretentious of the tyrant ogre.’

Further, Krishna, as the God of Love, refuses to allow himself to be weaponised by the armies of the Hindu Right, as opposed to the fate of poor Ram, where “Jai Shree Ram” has become a rallying cry of the lynch mobs.

Ironically, the actual form of greeting in parts of North India is “Jai Sia-Ram”; ‘Sia’ being a short form for ‘Sita’. But there’s no use for Sita, the Goddess of the Earth and Ram’s wife, in the hyper masculine world of Hindutva politics. The Goddess - and women - are the first casualties in Hindutva’s Raas Lila (sacred dance, dedicated to Radha-Krishna), where rape is a political tool to terrorise and subjugate people, sanctioned by V D Savarkar, the father of Hindutva ideology.

For Krishna devotees, Krishna is nothing without Radha; therefore it’s always “Jai Radhe-Krishna.” Behind Krishna stands the Mother Goddess. Vrindavan, the scene of the Krishna idyll, is the sacred grove (vana) of the Goddess Vrinda, another name for the Tulasi (holy basil) tree. To this day, the marriage of Krishna to Tulasi is celebrated every year in Vrindavan as Tulasi Vivaha. And even in Goa, for my landlord, Pritesh, was married to three Tulasi trees before he got a wife. Thus does the Great Mother break through Hinduism’s patriarchal bonds.

And it’s not just Hindus who worship Krishna.

According to literary critic Kuldeep Kumar, writing in The Hindu: ‘Many Muslim poets, the most notable among them being Raskhan, wrote devotional poetry to celebrate the Krishna legend and to rejoice in his bhakti. Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khana, who is known in Hindi literature simply as Rahim, wrote many Barwais, Dohas and Sorthas in praise of Krishna. For example, this couplet is worth reading.

Jihi Rahim man aapno keenho chandra chakor Nisi baasar laago rahai Krishna chandra kee or (The way chakor always looks at the moon, similarly my face is always towards Krishna’s face that is as beautiful as the moon is). ‘ Chakor is a kind of partridge.

Passion Play

The passion play I witnessed on the beach was part of an ancient story, of the birth and sacrifice of a God. Like the Greek hero, Achilles, Krishna dies when an arrow pierces his heel, betraying his tribal, pagan origins. The culture hero dies, but the energies of an archetype never die, but live on, forever green in the hearts of men and women.

Surely Krishna - the hero with a hundred faces - will come to the aide of his people, wherever they may be, on a beach, in a temple, in the factories, on the land, in the forest, the vana, his favourite playground - or at the next political or environmental protest.

In a time of human-induced climate chaos and species extinction, driven by corporate fascism’s dystopian republic of greed, ruled by the global police state, the Radha- Krishna myth - of the world as a garden of plenty, as a playground for the divine erotic impulse to manifest, of love as the highest form of worship - is a very compelling counter-image.

Another world is possible. Krishna tells us it is.

While lovers of radical equality and seekers of bliss rejoice, tyrants everywhere better beware. Even as we speak, Krishna is on his way to Dwarka…

Pics: Harsha Prabhu

A note on the photoshoot:

Amazon photoshoot, Arambol, Sat 24 Aug 2019

SOS AMAZON! SOS CLIMATE EMERGENCY! Arambol, Goa, India Sat 24 August 2019

Members of Extinction Rebellion Goa staged a pop up demonstration at Arambol beach in solidarity with the native people of Brazil’s Amazon basin, whose forests are being burnt by the Brazilian government to facilitate development projects, including roads and big dams, in an ecologically sensitive bio region.

The burning forests of the Amazon are also a matter of grave concern as they supply 20% of the world’s oxygen. These forests are characterised as the lungs of the planet, taking in carbon dioxide and breathing out oxygen.

In addition, this wanton destruction feeds into the cycle of human-induced climate change. With the accelerated melting of the Greenland ice field via global warming predicted to raise sea levels by a frightening 25 feet, coastal communities like Goa are at special risk of being inundated by such irresponsible actions.

Activists also pointed out that India’s environmental record too was a scandal, with the continued destruction of forests, especially in the Western Ghats, leading to flooding in several states, including Goa, Maharashtra, Karnataka and Kerala. In Mumbai, the Aarey Forest in the centre of the city, also earmarked for development, and coastal mangrove destruction, are causing environmental stress on one of the world’s mega cities, also subject to periodic flooding.

India ranks among the bottom five countries on the Environmental Performance Index for 2018, according to a biennial report by Yale and Columbia Universities and the World Economic Forum. India also has the dubious distinction of overtaking China and Russia as the world’s top sulpha dioxide polluter, according to a Greenpeace report released on 19 August 2019. Sulpha dioxide is a by-product of coal-based electricity generation. Fossil fuels are also the key culprits in the global warming feedback loop and the proliferation of plastic pollution world-wide, including on Goa’s beaches.

With extreme weather events - like drought followed by floods in India - the norm, activists worldwide are calling upon governments to address the climate emergency, stop the reliance on fossil fuels and rapidly move towards adopting sustainable solutions to meet world energy needs.

The Brazil solidarity action - which included Arambol youth and local and international visitors - was part of a global weekend of similar demonstrations to put pressure on world governments to act now before it’s too late!

Pic: Harsha Prabhu, Design:Camelia Oberoi

#SOSAmazonia #SaveOurForests #ClimateEmergency #extinctionrebellion #extinctionrebellionindia #extinctionrebelliongoa #arambol #goa #DeclareClimateEmergency #SaveAareyForest #SaveWesternGhats

#sosamazon #krishna #radharani #lila #gokulashtami #gopi #gopa #bhakti #photography #goa #arambol #climate emergency #species extinction #extinctionrebellion

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mrpotatobrown · 6 years

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36. Gagging From Gaga

I didn’t take first class or pay for extra leg room when I booked my plane ticket; I just booked in a suitcase, sat inside it and let them pack me in. I have everything I’d need in this cosy little box on wheels. Brought in my zesty fertiliser, a bubbly bottle of pop and my little Potato sized laptop for all my Blogging needs; that’s all I need.

I super-understand that wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea though. Most people have legs or want to ogle the flight attendants, but I want to do neither for I am a Potato. I wouldn’t contest someone to follow my preferences though for I know everyone likes their Tea different: it’s down to taste.

Just like a holiday destination for example. My preference? Venice, for once a year a festival of films is held here, aptly named The Venice Film Festival.

Which brings me to the first film I saw In the Venice film festival. First, a foreword on how this festival is set up:

Basically, lots of Cinemas; It’s an arrangement of multiple screens strewn across part of the city separate from mainland Venice which I coined as Film Island. You take a boat out there daily, out and back again, as accommodation is mainland. While different films are scheduled and different cinemas at different times, many in contending for best film at this festival. Getting in here is a chance to see many films premier before they’re shown to the masses, allowing you to build a truly first up opinion before the reviews rattle out and awards are given.

And very quickly, might I add, did I find out how different my opinions are from others, for overwhelmingly positive reviews rolled out barely hours after the initial watch of a certain premier; a certain film which has already built up a hype train; a movie a little too big for its boots which I personally would relish seeing rearing off the tracks to its fiery doom. The press loves it; I didn’t.

Yes, this comes down to taste you could argue like I myself said before, but what dictates taste? Well, who knows. I’m a Potato. I eat cow poo and drink the rain. Who am I to say.

So let's bounce back for a moment, let's talk about the film mentioned before. I film I saw?

A Star Is Born.

Things I loved:

Bradley Cooper’s acting in a lot of places.

The first 20 minutes or so.

Lady Gaga’s singing.

Things I didn’t:

Welcome to the rest of the essay.

Don’t worry though, Mr Potato here is keeping this spoiler-free, because I’m not really doing a review; I’m super not interested in lampooning my film opinion round like it’s going to make a difference by sticking some abstract number of stars on the end as if it’s a functional way of demonstrating a film’s quality in comparison to others. I would rather use the film to discuss my real problem: Critics.

Well, not all of them, I’d hate to generalise all critics (there are some who write incredibly insightful pieces), but most certainly many self-proclaimed experts in the field who sprout out opinions like fact, their ‘objective’ break down of films and their partaking in a race to stay relevant yet stay with the pack. Many critics just have no idea what they’re talking about, which is why I’m going to LABEL this column with an important preface before I start discussing this film: It’s my opinion. And I’m not stating that in some defencing stance so people can’t argue their believes but rather because I don’t want this to be taken as a review. It’s not. I watched it, here’s what I thought and here’s why a lot of critics who are praising it to the heaves are pretty oblivious.

Because I’m starting to come to the thought that while it’s all opinionated there’s some objective jazz going on as well, not in determining a film’s quality per say but in why people would like certain films. It’s unfair to state objectively why some films are good or bad (the only objective element really rocking up is historical importance and influence), but we can certainly say what films are doing, if they’re doing it efficiently and why audiences will click with that; I think that’s pretty darn fair to say.

This is my official stance on it I guess: Films do half the job, audiences do the other half, and we meet half way.

If a film doesn’t meet halfway then it’s far harder to gel with; if it does then an audience needs to meet it, which if an audience member doesn't (say it’s a football film and that watcher has a prejudice against that sport for certain deep emotional reasons) then the film will also fail. So I think it’s a collaboration.

I like to think I always put in the effort to meet halfway, to try where I can to open my starchy mind and give it a fair chance; with topic matter, actor choice, style and the way it’s written. I’d hate to be close-minded and in the process not say hi to a film that was waiting at the meetup point for me. I love films that play it by the book and films that go crazy and make up their own rules, it just comes down to one word for Mr Potato right here: Function.

And I believe, with all the starch in my heart, that A Star is Born isn’t functional. And if it did do what it truly intended to do, if the messages I saw were the ones it wanted to express, then god help their souls, because it’s a pretty dreadful theme to propagate.

But my biggest gripe is once again not with this film, but really with the critics who at the time of this post going live LOVE IT! And it’s for all the surface level, star-studded, indulgent reasons that are going to make this film a hit; then in a years time (and quote me on this), it will be forgotten.

So, to take this full circle, it’s the critics who I mainly have a jive with. There’s this realm of peer pressure to all like something, that you won’t be the ‘cool kid’ if you don’t appreciate the new ‘cult’ film or upcoming star fest; that if your opinion doesn’t match the general mass then there’s something wrong with you.

And so this gives birth to the strangest way of justifying your opinion which I heard when someone asked my top film I watched that day: What was my fave film and what did I think was the best film?... Like they were different things.

This is bizarre, and not at all an uncommon thing to think. It’s a way to feel safe in what you like. You can have the guilty pleasure of appreciating Space Dogs 3 (Not a real film, but I wish it was) while retain your dignity by having the respectable film opinion of loving Citizen Cane (Not that there’s anything wrong with loving that film, just that I think people love it for insincere reasons). Why Can’t favourite mean best?

Well, because people can love very questionable films, and others want a more concrete way of shooting those films down and feeling secure in their own taste. But this shouldn’t be a measure of quality, for liking a film because it feels “quality” can be liking films for superficial textural reasons, similar to being friends with a surface level intellect who actually has no idea what they’re on about; it’s an empty gesture because you're not actual friends.

Liking films for honest reasons is why we watch films in the first place. Screw BFI lists and IMDB top 100, just ask yourself: Do you enjoy that film?

Which brings me to my biggest point, because I don’t want to take away from film discussion. I love love LOOOOVE film discussion and I hate hate HAAAATE the excuse “Well, that’s just your opinion”, because if someone threw a yoghurt into a kid’s face and you argued it was wrong, it would not be fair for them to say: “Well, that’s just your opinion”. People’s opinions say a lot about that person.

If you love films that state sexist, woman-hating views at the expense of females then perhaps you have misogynistic views; if you don’t like watching films if there is no white cast perhaps you are racist; if you like macho punching male dominant gun ho emotionally detached movies perhaps you aren’t in touch with your own feelings. I’m not saying it’s as simple as that to draw those conclusions, but you can’t discredit that enjoying things in a certain way must say something about you as a person.

Which is why people try to distance themselves from “guilty pleasures” and won’t state their favourite films are the best films because that’s opening up about what you truly like; it makes you vulnerable.

Which brings me back to my previous point: Films do half the job, audiences do the other half, and we meet half way.

Films have to do their job to a certain quality to express their ideas and we have to have an awareness, understanding and openness to accept them. Every person likes things a certain way, but films can only do so much to open up to people. If both sides can do their best to open up to each other then so many people could love so many films.

Of course, this is a hard line to walk; it’s hard to figure out if something is at fault with the film or with yourself. And people want to be safe on what they like and don’t like, because they don’t want to be vulnerable; and yes, I am now talking about many critics, who don’t want to figure out where the film ends and their own preferences begin.

Many critics need to start opening up about what they truly like, why they like it and why those things they like could be enjoyed by others. Stop this objective talk, open your heart and speak from it, because that’s what the best films do and you have to meet them halfway.

Which is absolutely how you should approach people. It’s not about telling people what they should watch, and why their opinion is wrong. It’s about opening up your feelings and meeting halfway.

Which brings me to the:

Prologue

On my flight, I didn’t choose first class or pay for extra leg room. When I booked my plane ticket I just booked in a suitcase, sat inside it and let them pack me in. I have everything I’d need in this cosy little box on wheels; my zesty fertiliser, bubble pop and my little laptop; that’s all I need.

I super-understand that wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea though. Most people have other needs, needs different to mine as I’m a Potato. I wouldn’t contest someone to follow my preferences though for I know everyone likes their Tea different:

Because it’s down to taste.

#writing #writer #writers #my writing #young authors #writerblr #writers on tumblr #storytelling #blogs #blogger #blog #potatoes #venice #venice film festival #film

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techcrunchappcom · 4 years

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New Post has been published on https://techcrunchapp.com/premier-league-predictions-surprise-arsenal-stalemate-football-news/

Premier League predictions: Surprise Arsenal stalemate? | Football News

A first 0-0 in four years at home for Arsenal? Our betting expert ‘Jones Knows’ makes his Premier League predictions to find some angles to consider for the weekend action.

Southampton vs Everton, Sunday, – 2pm, live on Super Sunday

This should be a fine way to start your Sunday of live sport.

Both teams are playing with bags of confidence in forward areas and seemingly have plenty of faith in what their respective managers are trying to achieve.

Since beating Watford at the end of November, only Liverpool, Man City and Man Utd have won more points than the Saints while Everton have won 43 points from Carlo Ancelotti’s 25 Premier League games in charge – again only Liverpool, City and United have taken more.

So, this could be defined as a ‘top-six’ clash based on current form.

Richarlison, James Rodriguez and Seamus Coleman have all been ruled out for Everton though which does slightly tip the scales in favour of Saints but once again then it’s the price of the draw that makes most appeal at 12/5.

One area Everton will find joy will be from set-pieces. No team has scored more goals than them from corners and free-kicks this season (6) and no team has created more chances from such situations (12).

Michael Keane and Yerry Mina are big threats, especially Mina, who is one of the best in world football at attacking a high ball. The 18/1 for him to score with a header is an insult to his prowess and is firmly on my betting radar this weekend.

JONES KNOWS PREDICTS: 1-1 (5/1 with Sky Bet)

ALSO LOOK OUT FOR: Yerry Mina to score a header at 18/1

Wolves vs Newcastle, Sunday – 4.30pm, live on Super Sunday

When Newcastle took an early lead against Manchester United last weekend, they shot up to fourth in Premier League table.

Yet, at the full-time whistle after a 4-1 defeat, #BruceOut was trending across social media.

It’s a narrative that will be shot down by ‘football people’ within football circles but there is a reason the Toon are fourth favourites to get relegated this season despite a healthy return of seven points. The performance metrics show that Newcastle have faced the most shots on target (38) and shots per game (17.2) in the Premier League this season.

Can Steve Bruce defy the data once again? Only time will tell.

But for this weekend, Wolves look a reasonably solid proposition to take maximum points at around 4/5 with Sky Bet. No team has won more Premier League games since February 23 than Wolves, who are the kings of getting the job done in their pragmatic style. An edgy 1-0 win with a winner coming in the second half makes sense.

JONES KNOWS PREDICTS: 1-0 (5/1 with Sky Bet)

Sunday 25th October 4:00pm Kick off 4:30pm

Arsenal vs Leicester, Sunday – 7.15pm, live on Sky Sports Box Office

This fixture just screams low scoring.

Mikel Arteta is without question a shrewd cookie and is getting the best out of the players at his disposal. But I’m yet to fully buy into the long-term prospects of this controlled style of football that doesn’t result in many big chances being created. For example, only Crystal Palace and West Brom have had fewer shots than Arsenal this season. And as Adam Bate wrote earlier this season regarding shot data: “The reality is that shot volume matters. It is an excellent predictor of future performance, far more so than conversion rates.”

A developing angle to keep in mind too is the drop off in the performance levels of Pierre Emerick-Aubameyang in front of goal. In four matches since signing his new deal, he’s yet to find the net and his expected goals data is also underperforming against his usual standard.

Meanwhile, Leicester could still be without their four best players for this one, with Wilfred Ndidi, Ricardo Pereira, Caglar Soyuncu and Jamie Vardy, who could pass a fitness test, all in the treatment room. It’s certainly affecting their attacking prowess. Against West Ham, they mustered just an expected goal figure of 0.57 and followed that up with a 0.61 return in the defeat to Aston Villa.

At the prices, I’m happy to side with a goalless draw, which would be the first 0-0 in an Arsenal home league game for exactly four years!

JONES KNOWS PREDICTS: 0-0 (12/1 with Sky Bet)

Brighton vs West Brom, Monday – 5.30pm, live on Sky Sports Box Office

I’d be worried for West Brom’s defence through the middle in this one.

Branislav Ivanovic coped relatively well on his Premier League comeback against the brutish Burnley attack but will face a completely different test up against Neal Maupay, Aaron Connolly and Leandro Trossard. At 36, he may lack the pace to stop a talented Brighton front-line. Plus, West Brom have yet to register an expected goal figure above 1.00 in any of their first five games. This looks a straightforward home win if Brighton turn up.

An angle to note is the likely match-up between Grady Diangana and Tariq Lamptey as the West Brom man is the most fouled player in the Premier League this season. Lamptey isn’t afraid of a challenge, shown by his 11 fouls conceded this season which is the fourth most in the league. The 4/1 on him to be booked looks juicy.

JONES KNOWS PREDICTS: 3-1 (12/1 with Sky Bet)

ALSO LOOK OUT FOR: Tariq Lamptey to get booked at 4/1 with Sky Bet

Burnley vs Tottenham, Monday – 8pm, live on Sky Sports

Burnley have started the season slowly, but their performance metrics are still similar to last season where they were a solid mid-table team. Defensively, there has been encouragement for Sean Dyche’s men – only three teams have faced lower expected goals in the Premier League, while they are top for duels won and aerial duels won.

The problem for them this Monday will be the current form of Harry Kane, who performed like the best striker in world football against West Ham. Kane has seven goals in eight Premier League appearances against Burnley – it’s hard to see Dyche’s men stopping him.

JONES KNOWS PREDICTS: 1-2 (13/2 with Sky Bet)

Pitch to Post Preview podcast: Mata exclusive, Everton latest, Coady’s rise at Wolves

Juan Mata is the special guest on this week’s show, and he tells Peter Smith about Man Utd’s return to form, looks ahead to their clash with Chelsea, and shares his views on the work being done off the pitch by Marcus Rashford.

Plus, we have more fallout from the Merseyside derby with Alan Myers explains Everton’s perspective, Johnny Phillips discusses cult hero Conor Coady’s importance to Wolves and Sky Sports Data Editor Adam Smith delves into the numbers behind the Premier League’s goal rush, and makes a bold Pitch!

Listen to the Sky Sports Pitch to Post Podcast on: Spotify | Apple | Castbox

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#arsenal #league #predictions #premier #stalemate #surprise #Sports

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quar17 · 4 years

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17-09-2020 / The Fault In Our Czars – Of Political Alignments & Malformed Perceptions!

I would like to begin with congratulating His Hon’ble PM N.D. Modi on his 70th birth anniversary. Coincidentally my tryst with politics also begins with BJP, his party and the current incumbent one; and it is quite an odd one!

The second time late Shri A.B. Vajpayee took oath as the PM of India, I was a mere half a decade old. My parents were ardent admirers of him, and they were busy watching the swearing in ceremony. It was those times when there were no easy recordings available (and definitely no YouTube), so to relive that moment was only through memory, and my parents were fondling etching the moment into theirs. And there I was creating ruckus all around and in the heat of the moment, as my mother vividly describes it, while Vajpayee ji was about to take oath I stood firmly in front of the TV and choose that moment to disobey all verbal orders. As what follows, when you do that is less verbal and more active – it was the first, and the only time, when I got a slap from any of my parents! I don’t remember a thing about it, but it’s a lore which I have fondly embodied.

Till 2009 politics for me was just general knowledge. It was the who’s who which I had to know to crack Olympiads and I was quite good at it. I used to have discussions with my grandparents (and I bet you the treasure trove that they were, can’t possibly be matched by anyone) regarding their times and lives, but it was mostly stories which I loved to hear. At home, my parents and their friends actively debated the various political scenarios and stances; and overhearing those framed my early ideas of my political world.

What polished these initial ideas were a facile reading of some contemporary issues – issues like the 1962 & 1971 wars, the emergency, the short reigns of the alternative governments and the Ayodhya as well as the Godhra issues. A dive into these matters, let however shallow, helped shape the clay that was being moulded. Something changed in 2009 – the vote counting day in my earnest mind I was rooting for BJP to win. I did not know the dynamics of election, the moods, the waves, the incumbency, and any jargons – I just rooted for them, no different from how I would have rooted for India in a cricket match (unless it is against Australia! – Call a guy, Abhijit Mishra, quite popular, goes by the name of Homiii, and ask him to explain, & then I am sure I am being lynched), or for the Undertaker in WWE.

The vase that was being shaped in 2009 got its final form in 2014.

Let me take this moment to make it transparent that I am a proud Hindu – I take pride in my Gods, religion, traditions, texts, cultures, and every variation it has to offer. That doesn’t necessarily mean that I deride other faiths, I believe they are important, their teaching sacrosanct and their preachers and professors equally sagacious. However, that doesn’t deviate me from mine. I am now and was then too fairly convinced that Hinduism in its truest from is a lifestyle, and as each of us has a genre preference we live, harmoniously, accordingly. Hindutva as a concept of negative connotation and ideology isn’t something, I have viewed it with nor will I. Those who both preach differently or practice violently, as well as those who are convinced enough of the ill and the evil may differ from me, but I firmly stand by my own faith. What differs is my religious sentiments and my political alignments.

By 2014 I was well into my adulthood and I had a sense of basically what inherently I am. I had read and researched, however flippantly, and from whatever I understood, I rooted for a party that was politically right winged and economically centre-left. Now this wasn’t something that came to me academically or through my pursuit of knowledge, but awoke inside me as I had thoughtful talks with my friends and family, had a working knowledge of how things in the world and India were through various forms of news & media, as well as importantly one Dr. Jagadish Prasad Mishra (his story is a blog of its own! Someday I will definitely visit those higher echelons of anecdotes that he is).

Neither I was nor am I know driven by religion into politics, however people say me otherwise. I have my appraisers as well as my detractors – and for none of them am I a Bhakt – a bhakt of, say Lord Jagannath or Hanuman or Ganesh, surely; but of an ideology, a cult, a party or a person; Never! That will go against my constitution. But in these times, a support is seen as fervour, a defence as condoning and a genuine likeness as sycophancy.

What we have forgotten, we all, is that we all can agree to disagree. It is a matter of identifying yourself with a particular set of attributes. Shashi Tharoor, Omar Abdullah, Prakash Karat, Pranav Mukherjee, Sarad Pawar, and many others have never belonged to the ideology that I rooted for, not religious but political, and yet I revered them for their traits, and not their loyalties. Similarly, whom I support when they blunder, I do believe in vehemently opposing them as in case of CAA, or horse-trading to bring down elected governments or even when they have pitched the religious fork – those have been equally condemned.

We have easily accepted the acceptance of humans having varied sexual orientation, and yet its hard for us to digest how can the other person’s ideological stance, political loyalty or simple religious faith be any different from ours. That’s where we go fundamentally wrong, our convictions make us rigid and we being stiff boughs, either break or beat.

In the end, to quote, Dr. Shashi Tharoor, “… the whole point is that India is the nationalism of an idea. It's the idea of an ever-ever-land, emerging from an ancient civilization, united by a shared history, but sustained, above all, by pluralist democracy. That is a 21st-century story as well as an ancient one. And it's the nationalism of an idea that essentially says you can endure differences of caste, creed, colour, culture, cuisine, custom and costume, consonant, for that matter, and still rally around a consensus. And the consensus is of a very simple principle, that in a diverse plural democracy like India you don't really have to agree on everything all the time, so long as you agree on the ground rules of how you will disagree.”

– And that, sums it all!

#covid #covidquarantine #politics #india #bjp #vajpayee #modi

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promin-blog · 7 years

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The New Shadow – Morgoth and Human Sacrifice?

Regarding Tolkien's unfinished story The New Shadow, Christopher Tolkien wrote: "it will never be known what Borlas found in his dark and silent house, nor what part Saelon was playing and what his intentions were."

I offer my (textually-backed up) speculations on the possible development of The New Shadow. Also, I discuss some of the philosophical implication of this story and its thematic connections with (or better said ‘fractalic reiterations’ of) other parts of Tolkien's opus, mainly the Ainulindalë.

The New Shadow was published for the first time in HoME 12. It is unfinished and has two fairly short fragments that don't differ greatly in content.

For those less familiar with this story, I will give a quick recap. It takes place during the Forth Age, in Gondor, during the reign of Aragon’s son, Eldarion. Borlas, an old man, is sitting in his garden with Saelon, a young man who is a friend of his son.

While sitting there they have a discussion on the nature of Evil in the world, or more precisely, on both the re-appearing nature of this Evil:

‘Deep indeed run the roots of Evil,' said Borlas, 'and the black sap is strong in them. That tree will never be slain. Let men hew it as often as they may, it will thrust up shoots again as soon as they turn aside. (HoME 12)

and it's omnipresence:

For a man may have a garden with strong walls, Saelon, and yet find no peace or content there. There are some enemies that such walls will not keep out; for his garden is only part of a guarded realm after all. It is to the walls of the realm that he must look for his real defence.

Both of those ‘characteristics’ can be traced back to the Music of the Ainur and Melkor’s discords, which the story actually insinuates by mentioning the Great Theme:

I do not doubt that many of those we spoke of would use words as solemn as yours, and speak reverently of the Great Theme and such things - in your presence.

as well as the discords of Melkor, and Eru creatively ‘overgrowing' them:

My judgement as one of them you know already. The evils of the world were not at first in the great Theme, but entered with the discords of Melkor. Men did not come with these discords; they entered afterwards as a new thing direct from Eru, the One, and therefore they are called His children

It seems that the new identifiable spurt from this ‘tree of Evil’, that is, Melkor’s discords which are both “nowhere absent” (HoME 10, p422, while talking about ‘the Melkor-ingredient’ in matter) and reiterating, is someone named Herumor:

'Why!' said Saelon. 'We have hardly begun. It was not of your orchard, nor your apples, nor of me, that you were thinking when you spoke of the re-arising of the dark tree. What you were thinking of, Master Borlas, I can guess nonetheless. I have eyes and ears, and other senses, Master.' (…) 'You have heard then the name?' With hardly more than breath he formed it. 'Of Herumor?'

Borlas's and Saelon's discussion could be considered as a kind of an reenactment of the Music on the micro-level, with Borlas and Saelon offering their arguments 'one atop of the other', like in a singing duel. Saelon is even "humming softly” during their discussion.

Plotwise, Saelon insinuates that he is in some way in contact with Herumor and/or those dissatisfied with the way things are in Gondor after ‘the King’ (meaning Aragorn) has died. We are led to believe by Saelon that these men make Herumor's following. Saelon offers Borlas to come with him tonight if the wants to 'learn more'.

Let's now take a look at what Tolkien said about the plot of The New Shadow:

I did begin a story placed about 100 years after the Downfall [of Sauron], but it proved both sinister and depressing. Since we are dealing with Men it is inevitable that we should be concerned with the most regrettable feature of their nature: their quick satiety with good. So that the people of Gondor in times of peace, justice and prosperity, would become discontented and restless - while the dynasts descended from Aragorn would become just kings and governors - like Denethor or worse. I found that even so early there was an outcrop of revolutionary plots, about a centre of secret Satanistic religion; while Gondorian boys were playing at being Orcs and going round doing damage." (HoME 12)

My speculations:

1) Herumor and his 'cult' are practicing human sacrifice, which would make them ‘satanists’, by Tolkien’s definition. Morgoth accepting human sacrifice as the proper way of worship goes back to the Tale of Adanel:

Then in fear lest he (Morgoth) should hear them and punish us all, we slew them (those who spoke against worshiping Morgoth), if we could; and those that fled we hunted; and if any were caught, our masters, his friends, commanded that they should be taken to the House and there done to death by fire. That pleased him greatly, his friends said; and indeed for a while it seemed that our afflictions were lightened. (HoME 10)

2) Herumor would turn out to be a Sauron-type evil leader, but human, claiming to be Sauron reincarnated, like Sauron claimed to be Morgoth reincarnated, after the fall of his master:

"At least in the Elder Days, and before he was bereft of his lord and fell into the folly of imitating him, and endeavoring to become himself supreme Lord of Middle-earth." (HoME 10)

The connection with Sauron could also be deduced from the title of the story - The New Shadow. Throughout LOTR Sauron is referred to as ‘the Shadow’, and the chapter of Fellowship in which Sauron is for the first time mentioned in LOTR is titled ‘The Shadow of the Past’. Sauron is even mentioned as ‘the Shadow’ in-story, by Saelon:

I do not mean of wild men only, or those who grew "under the Shadow", as they say.

Why do I think Herumor is human, and not Sauron returned?

There are two reasons why. Firstly, if Sauron (or Morgoth) was to return in this story, Tolkien would not, according to C.Tolkien, talk in this way:

‘I could have written a "thriller" about the plot and its discovery and overthrow - but it would be just that. Not worth doing.' (HoME 12)

The second, stronger, reason is this:

Sauron was a problem that Men had to deal with finally: the first of the many concentrations of Evil into definite power-points that they would have to combat as it was also the last of those in "mythological" personalized (but non-human) form.' (HoME10)

Sauron was the last ‘non-human power-point of Evil’ Men would fight against. From that follows that Herumor must be a human Evil power-point.

In accordance with the Sauron-model, Herumor would probably be presiding over human sacrifices in a manner of an ‘evil priest’, like Sauron did in Númenor (therefore we definitely have here also some shades of the Akallabêth).

3) Borlas gets sacrificed, or more probably, almost gets sacrificed

Why Borlas would not join Saelon, you ask? Perhaps Borlas would turn out to be a Morgoth worshiper, in the end. I don’t think so, and there are two reasons for that: the first one is that Borlas held fast to his arguments in his philosophical discussion with Saelon and the second one is that Saelon is described in very sinister tones, treats Borlas with almost open contempt and has a grudge against the old man because Borlas berated him when he and some other boys picked unripe fruit to play with.

Just look at Saelon talking about that presumably very humiliating event and how he wants Borlas to have a taste of the ‘Orc-work’:

It was a mistake, Master Borlas. For I had heard tales of the Orcs and their doings, but I had not been interested till then. You turned my mind to them. I grew out of petty thefts (my father was not too easy), but I did not forget the Orcs. I began to feel hatred and think of the sweetness of revenge. We played at Orcs, I and my friends, and sometimes I thought: "Shall I gather my band and go and cut down his trees? Then he will think that the Orcs have really returned.”

Saelon would not want to work together with Borlas. He still wants revenge for the perceived mistreatment. Even Borlas picks up on this one:

(...) there was something disquieting in the young man's tone, something that made him wonder whether deep down, as deep as the roots of the dark trees, the childish resentment did not still linger. Yes, even in the heart of Saelon, the friend of his own son, and the young man who had in the last few years shown him much kindness in his loneliness. At any rate he resolved to say no more of his own thoughts to him.

No, Saelon probably doesn’t want to convert Borlas to Morgoth worship. But an old man would surely make an easy victim for a human sacrifice. Moreover, Borlas would make a very appropriate victim, since he is an ‘orthodox’ believer, in a sense, like those first human sacrifices made to Morgoth in The Tale of Adanel had been. And like the Faithful of Numenor, who were also deemed by Sauron as 'appropriate' human sacrifices.

Even Borlas seems to think he might end up sacrificed because of his beliefs:

And yet - why invite me to go with him? Not to convert old Borlas! Useless. Useless to try: no one would hope to win over a man who remembered the Evil of old, however far off.

What is also interesting here is that we have some justification for Borlas tolerating Saelon’s insolent tone throughout their discussion - “the young man (...) in the last few years (has) shown him much kindness in his loneliness”, much like Melkor did in Valinor, for some fifty years (see Annals of Aman in HoME 10, p106), after his own humiliation ‘at the feet of Manwë ’:

But fair-seeming were all the words and deeds of Melkor in that time, and both the Valar and the Eldar had profit from his aid and counsel, if they sought it (...) it seemed to Manwë that the evil of Melkor was cured. (Silmarillion)

I dare say that we get a glimpse at Melkor’s ‘psychology’ through these Saelon’s words:

Even then you were not content to let ill alone: to deter me with a beating, or to strengthen your fences. No. You were grieved and wanted to improve me. You had me into your house and talked to me.

Well, Manwë certainly took Melkor into his house and wanted to improve him. And Melkor definitely saw this as a humiliation and wanted revenge for this ‘slight’.

So, that is why Saelon gives off a sinister vibe - he is Melkor under the magnifying glass - that is, some of the previous ‘mythological’ events (like ‘the song of the Ainur’ or ‘the unchaining of Melkor’) get reiterated on the smaller level in The New Shadow, also shedding some ‘new light’ onto those past mythological events, fleshing them out, so to say, furthering our understanding of them.

EDIT: @feanorus-rex : Yeah, I didn't really address the actual cliffhanger, lol, that is, I didn't try to identify the 'intruder' in Borlas's house. But I don't think anything really crucial was about to happen at that point of the story.

Remember, it is already established at that point that Borlas is really shaken by his conversation with Saelon:

For some while after Saelon had gone Borlas stood still, covering his eyes and resting his brow against the cool bark of a tree beside the path. As he stood he searched back in his mind to discover how this strange and alarming conversation had begun.

It even takes some time for him to recover and get back to the house. I think that his mind is somewhat susceptible to play tricks on him at that point, so that he, kind of, convinces himself that he actually smells that ‘old Evil’, the Orcs:

Suddenly he smelt it, or so it seemed, though it came as it were from within outwards to the sense: he smelt the old Evil and knew it for what it was.

He also becomes afraid that he might end up dead himself:

He was to be lured to some place where he could disappear, like the Shipmen?

However, he does find the doors of his house open. If the doors weren't forced open, it might be his son, Berelach, that came home. But I think that the real danger was supposed to come a little later, at full dark, when Saelon returns. I was more intrigued by where Saelon might take Borlas.

#silmarillion #melkor #thenewshadow #meta

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ahrorha · 4 years

Text

Flame of Winter

Chapter 26

Skyhold was in chaos with the Inquisitor suddenly returning without the army. Chances were high that Corypheus would retaliate after their victory in the Arbor Wilds, and as a precaution, every soldier left at the fortress was in a high state of alert. Preparations were made, and defences were strengthened in case Corypheus would attack. Whole flocks of messenger birds came and went, directing Cullen and his troops to return as quickly as possible. With Corypheus' forces defeated, they needed to confront the ancient magister himself, but first, they needed to find him. Every outpost, scout, spy and ally at their disposal was alerted to look for him. Ryan, aided by Josephine, Leliana and Morrigan, spent days sifting through the numerous reports to find any trace of Corypheus. They spent hours locked up in the War Room discussing theories and ideas, but they had yet to come up with a solid lead.

During these days, Eirlana felt uneasy. As she had feared, most people had no problem with how Ryan had handled the events at the Temple of Mythal. After their abrupt return, it didn't take long for wild tales to emerge about the strange elven cult the Inquisitor encountered, a group of fanatic elves that had no place in this world. There were rumours about them performing dark rituals and human sacrifices. It made her sick to her stomach to hear them.

She couldn't understand how everyone could be okay with the senseless murder of the Sentinels? Her friends within the Inner Circle didn't seem to care, they were more concerned about the effects of the Well. There were discussions about if Ryan had made the right choice by not drinking from the Well himself. Except for Solas, there was only one other person who was bothered by the slaughter of the ancient Elvhen, and that was Dorian.

Eirlana was in the rotunda wanting to talk to Solas when, in the library above them, a huge argument between Dorian and Ryan broke out. The discussion was fierce and soon turned hostile. For a moment, Eirlana was afraid that they would get into a physical altercation. Dorian even threatened to leave, and Ryan hadn't any objections. But to her relief, Dorian said he would stay until the end, just to make a point that one mage of Tevinter stood against this madness. He stormed off after that.

Worried Eirlana hurried after him, as always shadowed by a templar guard. She found him in his chambers, pacing back and ford.

“Dorian, are you all right?”

“No, I am NOT.” he snapped at her. “For all my talk about wanting to change my homeland, I do nothing but sitting here and watching this buffoon shape the world. I watch as he carelessly destroys what is left of an ancient culture. We could have learned so much, but NOOOOO. His cause was more important, as always.” He took a deep breath and let out an even longer sigh. “The only reason I am staying is, so at least one Tevinter stood against Corypheus. To prove that we are not all power-hungry madmen.” he leaned onto the table in his room. “But once this is over....”

“You go back.”

He looked over his shoulder to her. “Yes, I will go home.” he straightened up. “I will do everything within my power to change Tevinter. If that buffoon can shape the future, how could I aspire to do any less?”

Although Eirlana understood why he wanted to leave, it made her sad thinking about it. Suddenly she realised things would soon change. Their campaign against Corypheus was coming to an end, and Dorian wouldn't be the only one who would leave the Inquisition. Everyone had their own lives to return too, everyone except for her. The only life she knew apart from being a slave was serving and helping the Inquisition. She had no idea what she would do after their task was finished. She had always assumed she would follow Solas. They sometimes had talked about travelling together. Revisiting some regions to explore and uncover the past, but that was back then when she didn't know who he really was. Now she had no idea what Solas' plans were and if she was even part of them.

Dorian rummaged under his bed and grabbed a bottle of wine. “Come. Let's find Iron Bull and enjoy a drink. I desperately need one and good company.”

It had been six days since their return to Skyhold when Ryan called everyone of the Inner Circle to a meeting. Eirlana stood in the back with Solas at her side. She glanced at him, he looked tired. Since the events at the Temple of Mythal, he was on edge, and he had emerged himself into his work. He spent all his time in the rotunda, translating ancient texts and sifting through ancient tomes. Often he wouldn't even return to their room but fall asleep at his desk. With the constant presence of their templar guards it was difficult to find a private moment with him. Especially since the templar's scrutiny had intensified after they both had objected to Ryan's decisions at the Temple.

She looked over her shoulder where Garrick and two other templars were watching them. Garrick smiled at her, shrugging his shoulders. He had told her when she treated him for his lyrium withdrawal, that he found this whole situation ridiculous. Smiling back at him, she turned her attention back to the meeting. With a sigh she gathered her resolve, today would be her chance to speak to Solas.

With everyone gathered, Ryan began to explain the plan to defeat Corypheus. They needed to kill his dragon first in order to kill Corypheus himself. Apparently, Corypheus had invested a part of his being into the dragon. If they managed to kill it, the power Corypheus wielded would be disrupted and hinder his ability to leap into other bodies. They could kill him for good. All they needed now was to find the creature, but so far their search had been unsuccessful.

Listening to Ryan, Solas glanced at Morrigan, who stood next to Ryan. He was agitated after the events at Mythal's Temple. At first, he had feared that the Well would tell Morrigan who he really was, but the witch hadn't even glanced at him since their return. For now, his secrets were still safe. What had him more on edge was Ryan's total disregard and violent mindset towards the Sentinels at the Temple.

Once again, the cruelty and wrongness of this world had been confirmed to him. It was, now more than ever, crucial that he regained possession of his orb. There was no telling what would happen if Ryan or Morrigan would take hold of it.

At the Temple, he hadn't sensed his orb on Corypheus, but he had no doubt that Corypheus would bring it when he would confront Ryan. And judging by the anger, Corypheus displayed at the Temple, this confrontation would come soon. With his armies lost and the Well of Sorrows snatched away from him he wouldn't sit still for long. Furious, he would feel the need to demonstrate his power and superiority to the world. He would focus all this anger and frustration on Ryan and strike swift and brutal.

In preparation Solas had worked feverishly since their return to wrap up his affairs within the Inquisition, he needed to be ready to reclaim his foci when Corypheus would attack.

“Solas, do you have a moment? I need to talk to you.”

Ryan had finished the meeting, and Solas blinked a few times before he could give his full attention to Eirlana.

“Of course vhenan.”

Shadowed by their guards, he followed her as she walked outside. He noticed she was slightly fidgety as if she was nervous about something. He knew the events at the Temple had shaken her. Like him, she had been forced to fight against the Sentinels. He knew she had tried to save as many of them as she could, and he hoped she had succeeded. Especially in saving Abelas, who hadn't deserved to die like that.

He also could imagine that it was difficult for her to see the people she thought of as friends disregard and trample all over something she found important. He felt guilty he hadn't spent much time with her since their return. Not that he hadn't thought about her.

He had spent hours trying to decide what he should do with her when he reclaimed his orb. A part of him wanted to take her with him, but he knew that wasn't an option. She couldn't follow him in his fate. But he was still considering where he would take her instead. There was also the issue of his identity. Part of him wanted to tell her the truth, but another part of him wanted to stay Solas in her eyes.

In thought, he followed her as she led him towards the battlements above the stables, and he wondered why she had picked this part of Skyhold. Suddenly she took his hand and turned towards their escort smiling sweetly.

“Garrick, could you give us a moment? I..., we need a little privacy.”

There was a slight blush on her cheeks, and if Solas' didn't know her better, he would be fouled at believing she had something romantic in mind.

Garrick hesitated. “Eh...”

“We will be just over there in the corner, you would still see us.”

“All right, but be quick. I don't want any trouble.”

“Thank you.” Eirlana beamed and happily pulled Solas along. They easily made their way over the gap in the wall, that still hadn't been repaired.

Eirlana held onto Solas' hand as she turned and faced him. Over his shoulder, she could see the templars watching them, but they were relaxed. A gust of wind tugged at the strands of hair that had escaped her braid. Good she thought, the wind would prevent anyone from hearing them. Not that anyone was here at this abandoned spot of Skyhold. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, she squeezed his hand, hoping that this conversation would end well.

“Solas I... I need to tell you something.” she spoke elven just in case anyone would listen.

“What is it, vhenan?” he looked concerned at her.

“I know.”

A chill went through him. “You know?” he asked cautiously.

“I know who you are. That you are Fen'Harel.”

The world froze for a moment as shock and dread filled Solas. How?

How did she know? Was it something she had discovered at the Temple? Or had he made a mistake?

A wave of panic washed over him, he wasn't prepared for this. What should he do now? Should he deny it? Or should he spin one of his tales? No! He shook his head, he wouldn't lie to her any longer, he needed to face this.

Eirlana studied him not knowing what to expect. She saw his expressions change in rapid succession. But as his eyes refocussed on her, she could see the determination within them. Suddenly they looked so much older as if the enormous weight of the countless ages he carried resurfaced.

It was true. What she had seen in the Fade was the truth. He really was Fen'Harel.

He stared at her, shaking his head slightly. “How?”

“I have seen you. I have seen Fen'Harel in the Fade, and it was you.”

“Where have you seen me? Was it here at Skyhold?”

“No. It was at the small Temple the Venatori took me. You were there with Falon'Din.”

Solas expression hardened when she mentioned Falon'Din.

Suddenly the air rumbled, and in the distance a massive wave of magical energy blasted into the sky, blinding everyone in a flash of green light. Perplexed, they both watched as the magic crashed into the Veil, reopening the Breach. Corypheus had finally decided to make his move.

Everyone watched in shock and disbelief as the Breach grew before their eyes.

“To arms! To arms!” Ryan came running out of the keep. He was still in the process of fastening his weapons belt around his waist. “Everyone with me!”

Solas cursed loudly in elven. He looked a few times between Eirlana and the Breach. Cursing again he let go of her hand. “Come, we need to go. I get our weapons. Meet me at the stables.”

In a blink he disappeared, fade stepping to the catwalk leading to the rotunda and hurried inside.

Eirlana squeezed her eyes shut. Why was this happening now? Muttering curses of her own, she jumped over the gap in the wall and ran past the templars, who were confused at what they should do now. Ignoring them, she ran down the stairs to the stables to get the mounts ready.

“Never a dull moment around here.” Dorian remarked as he joined her.

He grabbed a saddle and stepped into the stable of his mount. Having finished with her own Eirlana turned to Solas' hart. Dorian noticed the three templars coming down from the walls and being pushed to the side as more people came to ready the mounts.

“Ah, I see your lovely escort has trouble to determine what is more of a threat. You or a huge hole to the world of demons. Some things never change.”

She couldn't help but snort at his remark. She would really miss him if he went back to Tevinter.

Ryan, already on his horse, looked grim at the sky. The Anchor on his hand was crackling violently. “Corypheus knows that the bulk of our forces hasn't returned yet. We need to stop him once and for all! Morrigan are you sure you can match the dragon?”

“Yes, Inquisitor.” Morrigan looked up at the Breach. “And we best make haste, or that madman will rip the skies apart and destroy the world.”

Solas appeared beside Eirlana. “I have grabbed some potions and bandages from your table.” He handed her her staff, leather coat and pack.

Varric was the last to sprint into the stables, loudly complaining that Corypheus was interrupting Bianca's nap-time. “Can we go one week without something going to shit?”

With everyone gathered, Ryan yelled. “Let's make haste!”

He and the others urged their mounts into a gallop, and they rushed out of the gates. A few scouts accompanied them as they raced towards the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Their journey was speeded up by the road that Ryan had commissioned to build to give pilgrims a safer route to visit the memorials raised at the ruins of Haven and the Temple.

During their hastened journey Eirlana and Solas kept glancing at each other. Though she noticed, he was averting his eyes every time theirs met. It made her extremely anxious, and she wondered what was going through his mind at this moment.

Solas' thoughts were in overdrive, both because this would be his chance to reclaim his foci, and because of the revelation, she knew his true identity. She had known for some time.

In his head, he kept replaying the events from the last couple of weeks. How she had become distant to him, and how she didn't talk or share her feelings with him. How she had retreated herself, evaded his touch, her fearful stares at him. They all made more sense now.

And he had pushed her in his effort to comfort her, she must have felt conflicted every time he embraced her. He shook his head. Now he finally could place all those moments of doubt and confusion he sensed within her.

He didn't know what she had witnessed in the Fade, but that it had been an interaction with Falon'Din didn't bode well for him. Falon'Din always managed to get under his skin and pull out his worst character traits. In the past, they always tried to degrade and belittle one another. Being both too proud and stubborn, their conversations would often end in hostile arguments.

It was no wonder Eirlana wasn't her usual self. Seeing him in his true form must have been a shock to her. He was not the humble apostate she loved but a supposed god, arrogant, cocky and powerful. An ancient being who is responsible for the downfall of the Elvhen people. A supposed protector of the People, who he had failed. And who had failed her and their child.

His heart clenched when he realised what her actions meant, she was rejecting him. Rejecting him like any sane person would in her place. He had lied to her, he had accepted her love and affection without telling her the truth about himself. And she didn't even know all what he had done or what his plans were. If she knew, she...

Solas squeezed his eyes shut as he realised he had lost her.

He had lost his one love. A love he never thought he would find in this corrupted and twisted world.

They galloped through the whole day. During their hastened journey, the storm surrounding the Breach intensified. Green, magically charged, lightning crackled through the sky, and thick clouds gathered above their heads, that swirled around the Breach. The Breach itself was slowly growing bigger and pieces of rock were falling out of it, crashing towards the earth.

As they hurried up the mountain towards the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, boulders and pieces from the mountain began to float up into the air. With the storm and the green lighting from the Breach, it created an eery atmosphere. Up the path, they encountered a group of Inquisition soldiers that were stationed here. They were battling demons that had appeared. Quickly they dismounted to aid them.

They fought their way up to the ruined entrance of the Temple, where Corypheus was waiting for them. He stood there with his arms wide open in a mockingly welcome. The foci floated above his hand and was crackling red with corrupted magical energy.

“Why don't you call upon your Maker?” Corypheus jeered. “Call Him. Call down His wrath upon me.”

The ground began to tremble under their feet as more boulders took to the air.

“You cannot, for he does not exist.” Corypheus continued. “Bow now before your new god and be spared.” The foci rose into the air and floated above him.

“Never! It ends here, Corypheus!” Ryan stepped forward, his sword drawn.

“And so it shall.”

A huge energy wave erupted from Corypheus, knocking them off their feet. The ground began to shake violently as the whole mountaintop broke apart and took to the sky. Cutting Ryan off from most of his companions.

Shaken Eirlana scrambled back to her feet. The wind was whipping in her face as she carefully looked down. The ground was hundreds of yards up in the air. With the Breach illuminating everything in a greenish colour, it almost looked like she was back in the raw Fade. Close by she could hear Corypheus' booming voice and she hurried towards him, he needed to be stopped before this would get any worse.

“You have been most successful in foiling my plans.” Corypheus snarled at Ryan. “But let us not forget what you are. A thief, in the wrong place at the wrong time. An interloper. A gnat. We shall prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of godhood.”

Ryan stood prideful before him, trying to stare Corypheus down. “I'm the Maker's chosen!”

A low rumbling growl filled the air. Corypheus smirked as Ryan stepped cautiously back from the dragon that prowled slowly over the broken-down wall towards him. Just when it leapt forward to attack, Morrigan, who had morphed herself into a dragon, dropped from the sky and slammed into the creature. Violently they clawed at each other and fell over the edge into the air.

“You dare!” Corypheus snarled at them. A new wave of energy pulsed from him, sending everyone flying backwards again. “A dragon. How clever of you. It will avail you nothing. You will fall as a warning to those who oppose my divine will! I shall sear you from the very heavens!”

Getting back to her feet, Eirlana saw Ryan and Iron Bull forming a tight front as several demons appeared all around them. They didn't hesitate to attack and carve their way towards Corypheus. She quickly threw her barriers around them. To her right from behind a boulder, she could hear the familiar clicking of Varric's trusted crossbow, as he released arrow after arrow. To her right was Solas, who unleashed his magic, hitting Corypheus again and again. Keeping an eye out on everyone Eirlana attacked also. Several times she needed to dodge spikes of red lyrium that shot out from the ground trying to impale her.

Suddenly Corypheus teleported onto the remains of a balcony above their heads and assaulted them with a beam of corrupted energy. The beam swept over the battlefield, and they all jumped behind the rubble surrounding them to take cover.

“After him!” Ryan yelled and climbed up some broken stairs to the next raised part of the Temple. He was followed closely by Iron Bull and Solas.

Eirlana was the last one to hurry after them. Above her head, Morrigan was battling the dragon fiercely. Both dragons let out bone-shattering roars as they chased each other through the sky. As she reached the top of the stairs, her vision was blocked by remnants of the Temple's walls and piled up rubble. She caught glimpses of the others moving between them in their chase of Corypheus. She could hear the corrupted magister taunting them not far away from her.

“You dare to touch an avatar of divinity!”

Another beam of his foul magic swooshed over the battlefield, and she was just in time to take cover.

“Ha!” Iron Bull laughed as he found Corypheus, but the ancient magister teleported again. “Stay here, you piece of shit!” Bull yelled after him.

“You are a fool to come Qunari. You shall be slaughtered like your namesake.” Corypheus mocked him.

Making Iron Bull laugh again. “Big threads from a coward. Come and face me!”

“A beardless Stone-worshipper?”

“Here come the dwarf jokes.” Varric countered.

“Run as fast as your little legs can take you.”

“Is that all you got? I have heard much better.” Varric aimed Bianca and repaid Corypheus with a perfect shot, splintering off some of the red lyrium attached to his face. “Bianca, that was beautiful!” he cheered.

Corypheus screamed in outrage. “I will end you all!” and teleported again.

Solas Fade stepped to Eirlana's side when Corypheus reappeared behind her.

“Are these ragged mages other allies? Some rattus emerged from the garbage. I shall wear their ears as a trophy.”

Solas summoned a stone fist and slammed it into Corypheus. “You cannot win.”

Corypheus disappeared again.

“This fucker is annoying.” Iron Bull grunted.

“We will get him. Stay together.” Ryan yelled.

They all gathered and sprinted further up the remains of the Temple in their pursuit of Corypheus.

The higher they went, the more it looked like that they were in the Fade. All around them pieces of the mountain floated in the air, but they appeared to have structures on them now. They were erratic shaped buildings with countless lit windows. Some of the structures even stood on the underside of the pieces of the floating mountain, hanging upside down, just like they had seen in the raw Fade.

They were running over the remnants of a wooden floor, to make their way to the next piece of the floating ground, when the dragons swooped past them. Their powerful wing strokes created a massive gust of wind that threw them almost of their feet.

Eirlana watched as the dragons were clawing and biting one another. They both were bleeding from several wounds, and she was worried that at this rate, Morrigan wouldn't be able to defeat Corypheus' dragon.

Ryan led their group further until they finally found Corypheus again.

“Enough!” Corypheus bellowed. “I will destroy you where you stand!” He summoned a wave of demons. “If you desire death, you shall have it!”

Suddenly a loud shriek sounded above their heads. One of the dragons had smashed into a piece of the mountain, creating a rain of rocks that crashed down all around them. Eirlana watched as the dragons crashed into one another and tumbled down from the sky, followed by a blood-trail.

“Watch out!” she yelled as she ran to the side, trying to avoid them.

With a violent crash, both dragons hit the plateau that they were standing on. Dust and debris filled the air.

Eirlana coughed as she tried to find her bearing. Not far from her Morrigan, who had shifted back into a woman, was crawling, trying to stand up. But she collapsed and was bleeding heavily from her wounds. Eirlana sprinted towards her to help her.

Corypheus had again vanished and was nowhere to be seen. His dragon growled and struggled back to its feet. It was also injured. One of its wings was broken and it was bleeding from several bite and claw wounds.

Not hesitating Ryan ran towards the beast; his swords raised high. But Iron Bull charged past him, smashing his warhammer into the dragon's face. “Oh yesss!” he yelled, as always excited when he could fight a dragon.

Eirlana felt the familiar tingle of Solas' barrier wash over her as she tried to safe Morrigan's life.

The battle with the dragon wasn't tricky but draining. The beast kept jumping around the battlefield, forcing the warriors to run towards it over and over again. Solas focussed on his electrical and ice magic in the hopes to slow it down. Varric in the meanwhile tried to hit the same nasty gash in its right shoulder repeatedly, burying his arrows deep into its flesh.

Ryan managed to bash his shield several times into the dragon's face. Furious the dragon released its deadly corrupting fire-breath onto him. Ryan took cover and managed to dodge most of it behind his shield. With the dragon's attention on Ryan, Iron Bull whirled around, swinging his war hammer again and again against the dragon's front leg until it faltered and the beast slumped over.

Immediately Ryan moved in to strike, but he had to dodge into a combat roll as the dragon tried to bite him. He came out of the roll exactly next to its neck. Giving a shout, he buried his sword deep into it, delivering the final blow. The dragon reared its head, shrieking loudly while vast amounts of blood shot out from the wound. With a loud thud, it collapsed; finally, the dragon was dead.

Immediately a mass of red energy emerged from the dragon's corpse, forming a glowing ball. It took to the sky and flew towards Corypheus, who had reappeared on another part of the Temple above them.

The energy merged with him, and he furiously cried out. “Let it end here. Let the skies boil. Let the world be rent asunder.”

The Breach above them began to rumble.

Varric ran towards Eirlana and Morrigan. “How is she?”

“She will live.” Eirlana stood up, for now, she had done al she could.

“We will need to come back for her.” Solas said. “We need to hurry and stop this.”

Ryan wiped the dragon's blood off his face. “The Breach is getting bigger! Hurry!” and they all ran after him.

“I need only moments more!” Corypheus yelled.

Solas gritted his teeth when they caught up with the ancient magister again. His foci was floating in the sky, and Corypheus' corrupting magic was clinging to it like the blighted disease it originated from. He tried to call for his orb, but it wouldn't respond.

They jumped down onto the plateau Corypheus stood on and attacked with everything they got. Magic flew through the sky as both Solas and Eirlana fired spell after spell, while Ryan and Iron bull tried to press Corypheus into a corner so he couldn't escape again. The familiar clicking of Bianca sounded above them, as Varric stayed on the elevation to get a better shot.

Solas kept glancing at his orb that was glowing brighter with each passing moment. It was overpowering itself, and wild magical charges were escaping from it. He needed to end this now before his orb would destroy itself.

Heavily bleeding Corypheus threw them all of their feet as he released another wave of force. He staggered towards the orb and reached for it.

“Not like this!” he yelled. “I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages... Dumat! Ancient ones! I beseech you! If you exist – if you ever truly existed – aid me now!”

Ryan managed to get to his feet first and activated the Anchor. The orb immediately reacted to the magic and flew out of Corypheus' hands and towards Ryan. Corypheus' corrupting energy disappeared from it like snow in the sun, and it hovered above the Anchor, resonating with its power.

The orb in hand, Ryan stared at the Breach. “I need to close that thing.”

Determined he activated the Anchor and with it the orb. They connected with the Breach, and in a bright beam of light, the orb flew towards it.

“No!” Solas looked in shock what was about to happen, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. He could only watch as ages, and ages of magical energy disappeared in the blink of an eye. With a blinding flash, a massive magical discharge occurred, the air trembled from its force and green lightning flashed through the sky.

Standing close to each other, Solas pushed Eirlana out of the way as one of the lightning bolts came down from the sky, crashing directly into him.

Shocked Eirlana stared at him as he was illuminated for a second with the green magical energy. His eyes flashed with power, and for a moment it wasn't Solas who stood there but a man she didn't know. It was over in an instant, but Solas looked at her sorrowful.

Above their heads, the Breach was closed once again. The orb fell to the ground with a dull thud. It was completely grey now, like any other carved stone. Its magical energy totally depleted.

The ground below their feet began to shake. With the magic of the orb gone, gravity was taking its course, and all around them, boulders fell from the sky.

Ryan stepped towards Corypheus, who was on his knees.

“You wanted into the fade?” He sneered at him and opened a rift. With a cry, Corypheus was sucked into it and then he was gone.

Suddenly the platform they stood on plummeted out of the sky.

“Find cover!” Ryan shouted and ran.

Solas jumped towards Eirlana and pressed her to the ground. He erected his strongest barrier around them, as they crashed to the ground.

Dust and debris filled the air as everything went quiet. Solas let his barrier disappear and got to his feet. He looked around and saw his orb lying on the ground, not too far from him. Staring at it, he walked towards it and knelt down. It had broken apart, and every trace of the magic it once contained had gone. In shock, he picked up one of the pieces.

“Solas?” Eirlana quickly followed him.

“The orb....” he whispered and fell silent.

His voice was filled with sorrow, and she could tell he was in shock.

“So that thing is broken.” Ryan stepped towards them, brushing dust and debris out of his hair. “Well, it doesn't matter. Corypheus is dead, that's important.” He looked around for the others.

“Yet so much has been lost.” Solas whispered.

“Inquisitor! Are you alive!” Cassandra called for him from a distance.

“I am over here!” Ryan answered and walked in her direction.

“Eirlana!” Iron Bulled yelled in the distance.

Eirlana looked behind her to where he called from. It sounded urgent. She hesitated, she didn't want to leave Solas alone.

“Eirlana! Quick!” Iron Bull shouted again.

She looked once more at Solas. Biting down a curse, she ran towards the direction the call came from. She found him kneeling beside a boulder below her. Ryan and Cassandra were standing around him. Blackwall was also there trying to calm down a cursing Sera.

Iron Bull looked up. “There you are. Come. It's Varric! We must hurry.”

Only now she saw that Varric was lying on the ground. He was pinned under the boulder with his legs. Blood was oozing from under the stone. Immediately she rushed down the rubble towards them. Quickly she crashed down onto her knees and checked on Varric. He was still alive, but they needed to get him out fast.

“We will try to push the boulder aside. You and Sera have to drag him out from under it.” Iron Bull instructed.

Solas watched as they struggled to get Varric out. With sorrow, he looked at how Eirlana worked rapidly to stem the flow of blood, desperately trying to save her friend's life.

Her existence was changing everything, but he knew deep in his heart that everything couldn't be changed. And now he had lost his orb, he needed to begin anew and find another way to harness the power he needed to bring down the Veil.

Knowing what he must do, he looked one last time at Eirlana. Softly he whispered something in the wind. His heart screamed in pain as he Fade stepped away with the knowledge he wouldn't see her again.

Varric coughed as he sat with his back against the boulder. His trousers were totally ruined, they were ripped apart and stained with blood where the boulder had crushed his legs. He was never so glad in his life that he could wiggle his toes again.

“Thank you, Snowflake.” he laughed. “For a moment, I thought I would be gone.”

Eirlana and the others sighed in relief as the burly dwarf picked up his Bianca. “You okay sweetheart?” he blew some of the dust from her. “You poor thing. I will get you cleaned up again, don't worry.”

Eirlana laughed with the others seeing Varric fretting over his crossbow. Glad that he would be okay.

A soft gust of wind blew past her ear. “Farewell, ma lath. I will never forget you.”

She froze, and her smile immediately faded away.

“Snowflake?” Varric asked her when he noticed her expression suddenly change.

Eirlana jumped to her feet and pushed herself past the others. She ran as fast as she could back up the ruins towards the place she had left Solas.

“Solas!” she called out to him.

She couldn't see him. The orb still lay broken on the ground, but Solas had gone. Frantically she looked around. “Solas?!” she yelled, but he didn't answer.

She ran further, scrambling over loose stones, looking behind pieces of debris. “SOLAS!”

This wasn't happening, she started to tremble in her panic. Desperate to find him, she concentrated on the Veil to find his magic, but the Veil was broken and fragmented after being breached twice. There were too many remnants of the giant magical discharge that just happened. There was no chance to find any trace of him.

Varric and the others looked puzzled at each other as they listened to Eirlana desperately calling for Solas.

“Ah, there they are.” Dorian and Vivienne came walking towards them. “Sorry, it took us a while to find you in this mess.”

He looked past them as he heard Eirlana calling. “What happened?” he asked.

“I don't know Sparkles.” Varric shook his head.

“Solas! Vhenan.” Eirlana called out again. Desperately she looked around, but there was no trace of him here nor in the Veil. He had simply vanished.

“Eirlana!” Dorian hurried towards her. Seeing her in a state of panic, he looked around. “Is he buried under these rocks somewhere?”

She shook her head. “No.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “He just left.” She blinked rapidly, she couldn't cry now. She needed to find him.

Dorian took her in his arms, trying to calm her, he also looked around for the bald elf.

Varric limped closer. “Where could Chuckles have gone. Ryan said he was just here.”

The others gathered around them.

“Why doesn't this surprise me?” Vivienne said, earning her a glare from Dorian.

“What?” Vivienne, she snapped at him. “He is an apostolate. Who knows what his motives were of joining the Inquisition. It does bewilder me he even stayed this long.”

Looking grim Ryan picked up the shattered pieces of the orb. “At least he didn't get this. Let's head back and warn Leliana that he has escaped.”

“This is not helping!” Dorian huffed glaring at all of them.

Varric raised his hands to shush the situation. “Lets spread out and look for him. Maybe he just needed to walk something of.”

“We can't linger.” Ryan began to move. “With this rubble, it will take some time to get out of here. We need to return to Skyhold.”

Most of them followed Ryan. Dorian and Varric stayed with Eirlana who had become silent.

“He will show up again.” Varric tried to console her. “Come, we can't stay here.”

With Dorian still having his arm around her, she followed them reluctantly. She kept looking back over her shoulder in the direction she had last seen Solas.

#flame of winter #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age solas #Solas #solas romance #solas x oc #eirlana #fanfic

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