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epubdlcom · 1 year

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World of Words Ebook is a fascinating book written by Leopold Wagner, which is a comprehensive guide to the world of languages and linguistics. The book is a culmination of Wagner's decades-long career as a linguist and language enthusiast, and his extensive knowledge and expertise in the subject are evident throughout the text. In this book, Wagner takes the reader on a journey through the complex and captivating world of language, exploring various topics related to linguistics, including the evolution of languages, the differences and similarities between various languages, the importance of language in human society, and much more. The book is written in a simple and accessible style, making it suitable for both language experts and enthusiasts alike. One of the most striking features of "World of Words!" is its global perspective. Wagner's exploration of languages goes beyond the traditional focus on European languages, and he delves into the diverse and fascinating languages of Asia, Africa, and the Americas. The book also features fascinating stories of individual languages and the people who speak them, providing a glimpse into the rich and diverse cultural heritage of different regions. Overall, "World of Words!" is a must-read for anyone interested in languages and linguistics. Whether you are a language expert or simply someone who is curious about the intricacies of language, this book offers a wealth of knowledge and insights that will leave you captivated and inspired. Excerpt: FLOWERS The name of Forget-me-not originated in the following legend: A German knight and his lady were walking on the bank of the Danube, when the fair one saw a beautiful tuft of Myosotis palustris growing in the water, and expressed a wish to have it. With chivalrous alacrity the knight at once plunged into the river and gathered his prize; but before he could regain the steep and slippery bank, encumbered as he was by his heavy armour, he was drawn by the treacherous eddy into a deep pool. Finding he could not save himself, he threw the flowers ashore to his mistress as he sank, and uttered with his last breath the words “Vergess mein nicht!” (“Forget-me-not!”) Hence this flower has come to be universally regarded as the emblem of fidelity. Mignonette, the diminutive of Mignon, the French for “darling,” is so called on account of its delicate fragrance. The Carnation owes its name to the Latin caro, flesh, in relation to its colour. Geranium comes from the Greek and Latin geranos, a crane; this genus of plants having a beak-like torus, or receptacle. It is also known as Crane’s-bill for the same reason. Pansy is an Anglicized form of the French pensée, “thoughts,” this being the sentiment expressed by the flower. The Camellia was named after G. J. Camelli, the German botanist and missionary (died 1690), by whom it was introduced into Europe from the East; the Dahlia, after Andrew Dahl, the Swedish botanist, who discovered it in Mexico in 1784; and the Fuchsia, after Leonard Fuchs, who brought it from Mexico about the year 1542. The Victoria Regia was so called because it was introduced into this country from British Guiana soon after the accession of Queen Victoria. The Adonis is said to have sprung out of the blood of Adonis, the beautiful youth who was gored to death by a boar; and the Hyacinth is supposed to have originated in a similar manner after Hyacinth had fallen a victim to the jealousy of Zephyr. The Aspasia bears the name of Aspasia of Miletus, the mistress of Pericles. The term Orchid comes from the Greek orchis, a testicle, all plants of this family being distinguished by double testicles. The Sweetbriar is literally a “fragrant thorn”; the Lilac betrays its Eastern origin in the Turkish leilak, and Persian lilaj; while the term Lavender is derived from the Latin lavere, to wash, because the essential oil obtained from this shrub enters into the composition of a favourite scent. The Do

g-rose was so called by the Greeks from the belief that the root of this particular rose-tree was efficacious in curing the bite of a mad dog. The Damask-rose was brought to England from Damascus by Dr. Linacre in 1540. The Cabbage-rose is thick and compact like a cabbage. The Christmas-rose makes its appearance about Christmas-time. The word Primrose, agreeably to the Latin prima rosa, signifies the first rose, or flower, of spring. The Mayflower, otherwise the Hawthorn, the Anglo-Saxon for “hedge-thorn,” appears in flower in the month of May, while Gilly-flower is merely a corruption of “July flower.” The Tiger-flower is streaked like a tiger. Daffodil is a corruption of “d’Asphodele,” the French name of this flower. Hollyhock is not “Holy Oak,” but the Anglo-Saxon holi-hoc, or marshmallow. The Noon-tide, or Noon-flower, closes its petals at noon; the Convolvulus, so called from the Latin con, together, and volvere, to roll, does the like at sunset, in common with the ordinary field Daisy, which owes its name, a corruption of the Anglo-Saxon doeges-eaye, literally “the day’s eye,” to this circumstance. The Buttercup was originally so designated in accordance with an old-established idea that the yellow hue of butter was attributable to the fact of these flowers being eaten by cattle. However, as the buttercups are invariably avoided by the cattle, the proverbial wisdom of our forefathers must for once in a way be discredited. Cowslip is a corruption of “cows’ leek.” The very common supposition that the Sunflower inclines towards the sun is entirely erroneous, as has been proved by observation. This flower merely takes its name from its form and colour. On the other hand, if its etymology be correct, the Heliotrope does actually turn towards the sun, the word helios being Greek for sun, and tropos, to turn. The Goldylocks is so called on account of its tufts of yellow flowers; whereas the Marigold, which bears yellow flowers, was named in honour of Queen Mary. Both these, with the Sunflower, belong to the Chrysanthemum (Greek chrusos, gold, and anthemos, flower) family. The word Rhododendron, we may add, comes from the Greek rhodon, rose, and dendron, tree. The Passion-flower symbolizes in its tints and several parts the various attributes of Christ’s Passion, as follows:—The white tint, purity; the blue tint, heaven; the leaf, the spear; the five anthers, the five wounds; the tendrils, the whips and cords; the column of the ovary, the pillar of the cross; the stamens, the hammers; the three styles, the nails; the fleshy thorns within the flowers, the crown of thorns; the calyx, the nimbus, or glory. In addition to the foregoing the passion-flower remains open for three days, and this is supposed to correspond with the three years’ ministry of the Redeemer. Lastly, the flower known as the Stock received its name from the fact that it was principally sold in the old STOCKS MARKET displaced by the building of the present Mansion House in the year 1737; the market itself having derived its title from a pair of stocks that stood there. Download EPub Download PDF Read Online

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five-rivers · 3 years

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the Knights and the Dragon

A short original fiction piece that’s been kicking around in my head for a while.

A good knight climbs the mountain to slay the dragon.

The road, what little of it there is, is steep and treacherous. He leaves his beloved horse in the village, not wanting to risk the mare breaking a leg or, if worst should come to pass, being eaten by the dragon.

The village headsman, a minor noble, landed gentry, if barely, scowls at the knight as he leaves on foot. His daughter was the last one taken by the beast.

“Preparing for failure?” he asks, face crumpling into a sneer around bloodshot eyes.

The knight shrugs. The man is grieving, and he has no desire to delay his journey. Privately, he thinks he would be fool not to prepare for failure.

He has seen many men and women die. Some left him with inheritance, with curses, with benedictions, with pleas. Some left him with nothing but the wetness on his blade.

The knight wonders if, should he fail to slay the dragon, he will leave the beast with anything but a full stomach. A storyteller he once heard claimed that dragons were the equal of any man when it came to wit, and more than equal in magic. But he’d heard otherwise, as well. Perhaps they varied. Perhaps they were like dogs, where one breed may seem like another animal entirely in comparison to another.

On the ragged, rock-strewn path, he has no way of telling. All he knows is that the creature has carried off two women, each the day before their respective weddings. All he knows is that there is a threat to the people of the king he has sworn to serve. All he knows is that his sword is straight, his armor sound, and he has faced things much worse than a dragon.

(Do not ask him what things those are if you are wise.)

Halfway up the mountain there is a smoking cave. Around the mouth of that cave is the detritus of life and fresh washing. The knight spends several long moments staring at it, at a loss for why a dragon might need laundry, of all things. Laundry made up of petticoats, at that.

Then a woman walks from around the next bend in the path, carrying a basket of herbs. She stops when she catches sight of him and calls out. Soon, seven more women emerge from various hiding spots.

Their clothes are simple, and they wear their hair in long braids. Two of them are from the village the knight had come through, and the knight wonders at the fact that they are alive at all.

At length, at a hand-carved table in the cave, only a few yards from the dragon’s hoard, it is explained to him that the dragon iss away and would most likely return with a new young lady in tow in a few. The dragon, the women say, did not eat them all at once, but keeps them as servants until one of them should displease it.

Their words paint a picture that make the knight’s heart stir with horror.

“You should leave,” he says. “While the dragon is away. Then, even should I fail to slay it, you shall be safe.” He finds his eyes on the woman he first saw, the herb-gatherer. She is no beauty, but her eyes are a green that captivates.

“Sir Knight,” she says, voice deep and sad, “would that we could. But should we leave while the dragon yet lives, he will go back to our homes and gobble up our families. We cannot go.”

“You are the one who should leave,” says the eldest woman, who is of an age with the knight’s eldest sister. Her eyes, too, are green. “This dragon has eaten many knights. Look.” She points at the dragon’s hoard.

There is more iron and steel in it than gold, all of it brightly polished. The knight recognizes some of the sigils, and although none of them belong to men he counts as friends, he could acknowledge that they are strong. Were strong.

The sight sends a chill down his spine. He turns away.

“I will not run,” he says. “Surely, you want your freedom.”

“That is all any of us have ever wanted,” says the first woman. “One we would pay for, gladly. But, as you will not flee, neither shall we.”

The knight is silent at that. To refuse to flee from such a creature, and none of them with any weapon, any defense beside their wit… The knight must say they are braver than he.

He would, he thinks, be a fool not to use that.

“Then,” he said, “for your freedom, help me slay this dragon.”

Her name is Roxanne, he learns as the week passes. She is, he thinks, someone he could come to love. But she is promised to another, he learns. All the women are.

The knight keeps his distance, even as the nine of them plot and plan, even as he aids them in their daily chores, even as he learns their names and lives and little habits.

He is not, perhaps, keeping his distance very well.

As they climb into the mountain meadow above the cave to harvest what plants they may, he and Roxanne discuss the dragon. Its claws. Its fangs. Its head. Its eyes. Its tail. Its wings. Its belly. Its heart. She speaks most of its heart, and how the knight might pierce it, his sword sliding through the weaker armor of its belly as she and the other women pick clean its scales.

She shows him a rabbit trap she had set the other day. She dresses the kill with a fine bone-handled knife.

The knight thinks he may be in love.

He has been saving a sachet of foreign spices for himself as a treat. They go very well with the rabbit. The ladies applaud him.

Two more weeks pass, and the knight wonders if, perhaps, the dragon fell afoul of some misfortune. Misfortune for it, that is.

“It has been gone for longer before,” said Roxanne. “Two months, once, before it brought Anor.” She nods at one of the younger women, who is from a town in the next valley over. Anor returns the nod in agreement. “Be patient.”

He is patient, but he is, perhaps, somewhat concerned for his horse.

It is another two weeks before the women reveal their ruse, and the knight both wonders why he didn’t see it before, and why they did not kill him on any of the nights he slept among them, undefended.

“We did not come here to be killers,” says the eldest. “Only to live our lives free.”

“And what of the shields and armor?” he asks. “What of the hoard?”

Roxanne shrugs in a way most would proclaim to be unladylike. “The mountain is steep. It isn’t our fault if they fall from their horses.”

The knight elects not to broach the subject again. As he said, the men who once wore that armor were not his friends.

“I should leave, in that case,” he says, bowing. “I thank you for your hospitality and apologize for my intrusion.” For intrusion it was and is.

“Leave?” asks Roxanne.

“I assure you, I will tell no one of what you do here.” He smiles and hopes it comes off as charming. “Perhaps I will say the dragon enchanted me.”

“I mean,” she says, coming closer, “you intend to leave by yourself.”

“I had thought—” begins the knight. “You would come with me?”

“I would.”

“I have no inheritance,” warns the knight. “It all went to my older brother. I carry with me all I own, save my horse.”

Roxanne smiles, and her smile is charming. And sharp. “My dowry,” she says, indicating the cave and all that lies within, “will be more than enough, I think.”

For the second time, the knight does not ride away from the village. Instead, he leads his horse forward, Roxanne perched rather nervously on top. She is not as used to travel as he is, and they intend to settle far, far away.

A knight rides up the mountain to slay the dragon. This is a different knight from before. He comes months after the good knight and Roxanne have left.

He stops to rest his mount. He has no great affection for the beast, but it is valuable, and the road is difficult.

The stolen women, he thinks, each gone on their wedding day, are most likely dead, eaten by the beast. Not that it particularly matters to him, except that each victim increases the glory he will receive when he kills the dragon.

He is very concerned with glory. It is how he will rise from his present station. Experience, too, is important to him. Should he slay this dragon, he may slay others. There is a great dragon in the north, and the king will exchange his daughter for its heart. Or so they say.

But, first, this small one.

He urges his mount higher. He comes across the women at their washing.

It is a stroke of luck, he thinks. Another note in his story. He speaks to them of their luck. Of the fortune they have received with his arrival.

He comes up with a plan. He shall lie in wait while the women distract the dragon, and, when the time is right, he shall kill it in one blow.

They say the dragon will return in the night when the moon is highest. The knight prepares. He sharpens his sword, tightens his armor, hides his horse. He takes the first serving of the supper the women prepare. It is bland and bitter, and he salts it from his own pouch.

He settles behind the dragon’s hoard to wait.

Outside, while the moon rises, the women take each other’s hands and move in a circle. Faster. Faster. Faster. Each was taught the steps to this dance by those who came before them, and the steps are old, old, old.

They are the head of the dragon.

The eyes.

The wings.

The claws.

The tail.

The belly.

The heart.

In the cave, the knight sleeps. The women know their herbcraft. The knight would be no match for the dragon, even awake, but why take the risk? They would be fools to do so.

“I think we should leave this mountain, soon,” says the eldest, cleaning blood from her mouth. “It has been too long. Too many knights.”

“I should think, more knights are better,” says the dragon’s eyes, brushing her hair. “For food, treasure, and love.”

“There are too few of us for love,” argues the dragon’s claws. “I am glad for Roxanne, but the magic will not work for six.” She looks at the heart. “Though, I certainly wish you luck with love.”

“I think we should go, as well,” says the heart. “South, perhaps. I liked the spices Roxanne’s knight had from there.” She licks her lips. “I’ve heard it is a rich country, full of gold.”

“South it is, then,” says the eldest, the dragon’s head. “Now, what should we do with the horse?”

That night, if any who lived around the mountain looked up, they would have seen something that, if you squinted, might have been a dragon carrying a horse. They did not look up.

The good knight wakes to a rather strange sight in the morning. The number of his horses doubled overnight. The second horse looks to his eyes to be rather… anxious.

“One more bride gift, it seems,” says Roxanne, leaning against him.

The knight frowned. “How…” The question trails away as he looks into Roxanne’s too-green eyes.

Well.

He would be a fool, to look a gift horse in the mouth, wouldn’t he?

#original fiction #my writing #my original fiction #fantasy

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willownoir1112 · 3 years

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Hello beautiful people of Tumblr! Wyn here with day one of White Rose Week 2021 to break my silence! I hope everyone enjoys, and I'll see you tomorrow with day 2!

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Love Bites

Summer Rose vanished, and Ruby suffered.

All her life, all Ruby has ever wanted was to belong. She tries so hard to fit in, first with her older sister's friends. But, they all told her to go away. That she's a baby compared to them. "Why would I want to bring you too?" Yang would always declare. "You're still just a baby!" Her friends would laugh with her, call her names as well, and leave her behind just like Yang did.

Her sister's words hurt her, and destroyed any chance of them having a sisterly relationship.

She tried so hard to be a good daughter. But, her father spent more of his time worrying about his troops, his responsibilities, his duties to Goddess and Country. "One day you will understand, Ruby." He would always tell her. "One day, you'll have to make the same sacrifices for a family of your own." His words never changed, nor his actions. He would be gone constantly, leaving her and Yang alone for weeks or even months at a time, meaning she had to grow up far too quickly.

Her father's priorities hurt her and robbed her of her childhood.

She tried so hard to be a good student. But, subjects like english, history, anything really to do with reading simply didn't make sense to her. She could stare at the page of a book for hours and all she could see is a jumble of letters. Everyone called her simple, stupid, a waste of time. "Oh look, it's little Stupid Ruby!" Cardin Winchester would declare every day at school. He and his cronies would torment and belittle her, and once even cut her long hair off. She suffered in silence, her arms the only evidence of her inner pain. Arms she always kept covered even in the worst heat of summer.

Her peers hurt her with their words, with their actions, and made her withdraw further into herself.

She finally stopped being a good sibling. She shut her sister out of her life first, Yang never noticing that Ruby stayed closeted in her room constantly. She was the bright shiny sun of everyone else's lives, with her outgoing and boisterous personality. Everyone's but Ruby's. If Yang is the bright sun, then Ruby has become the darkest moon of the family, and she likes it that way now.

She finally stopped being a good daughter. She did her chores without complaint and without needing to be told, save late at night when her father would already be in bed or Yang too preoccupied with her latest significant other. He never noticed that his younger daughter dresses in nothing but blacks and reds, or that she never let her hair grow back longer than above her shoulders. The career he chose to continue to support his family had a long ago casualty, and Ruby keeps it that way.

She finally stopped being a good student. She kept going to school, despite all but failing in everything. She went through the motions, ignored everyone when they called her things like Queen of Darkness or Salem's heir, or even worse. She ignored the shoves, the bullying, everything done to her until they all finally grew bored of it and her. She was finally left alone to sit in the deepest corner of all her classes, doodling to pass the time until she could return to her room and her solitude.

But then Ms. Peach, the choir director, invited the secretly shy and lonely girl to her class one day and encouraged her to sing. From the moment she heard the piano play, her soul became exultant, and her voice rose in response. Even Principle Ozpin, who was walking by at that moment stopped and listened as the shy, moody, rather dark girl who kept to herself was in possession of a voice that could bring even him to tears. Peach was enthusiastic in teaching her how to read music, how to project her voice, how to truly appreciate her hidden talent for music.

But, Taiyang finally noticed when he was forced to retire. He noticed the true state of his family, and decided to take firm control. He destroyed her growing dreams when he declared she and Yang both were to join Beacon Military Academy to finish school. That they needed discipline and not freedom to thrive like he once did. That neither of his children will follow in his long disappeared wife's footsteps, and lack the discipline needed to succeed where she obviously failed.

He was furious when Glynda Goodwitch admitted her as Ruby, allowing her to keep that one small bit of freedom.

She suffered like never before at Beacon. She was admitted two years early as a favor to her father, and she hated it. Her hate translated itself into her becoming a powerful fighter with her chosen weapon, a red and black fifty caliber sniper scythe she named Crescent Rose, and soon where she was once either dereided or ignored, she was now feared. Even her own sister fears her now, and that makes her happy.

She is the Darkest Reaper of Vale, and she hates them all.

But one person did not fear her. One person saw past her pain, her grief for her denied life. Weiss was from Atlas, a mysterious, inclusive land far to the north, where they say even the Grimm do not tread. A land of dark magic, of creatures even fouler than the enemy of the world. A land even the demiurge Salem has forsaken. Weiss did not fear the Darkest Reaper, and took an odd delight in hearing the whispers about her, about them both.

She has her own secrets, secrets Ruby will know all too soon.

She cannot help but to feel an attraction to the white haired girl from the north. Her porcelain skin is always smooth and cool to the touch. Her brilliant blue eyes are like the clear blue skies she would once sit under with her long departed mother while they laugh and imagine whimsical beasts and imaginary places. Her long white hair moves like the finest of silk curtains as she walks from class to class, her nose turned up to their peers as if they are all beneath her. All except for her. She treats the Reaper with respect, with courtesy, and after a time, holds out a hand of friendship to her, one she takes willingly.

She finally has a friend, a real friend. Someone who cares for her, Ruby Rose.

But certain things stand out to her as well. The way she barely eats anything but meat, and even then almost bloody and nearly raw. The way she approaches every mock battle with the cunning of a predator on the hunt. The skill with which she wields her rapier, a dust revolver styled weapon she has named Myrtenaster, with near lethal intent even during the simplest of spars against anyone willing to challenge her. She is the only one who can stand against her, her own formidable rage and loathing a match for the heiress's feral cunning and ferocity.

But one late night, during a restless night they both secretly shared, a truth is told, and their lives are changed forever.

She herself couldn't sleep. It was the one thing she could always count on being able to do. It was her refuge from the reality of her world, and she retreated to it every chance she could. But tonight, she tosses and turns, she begs and pleads with the treacherous brain that won't stop thinking, and finally surrenders and gets dressed. Taking up her scythe, she easily steals away into the Emerald Forest, the guards ignoring her out of fear. She runs deeply into the darkened woods, no fear for the Grimm that hide in the shadows as well as whatever other creatures may dwell within.

She never realizes that a pair of blue eyes follow her, belonging to the single person who doesn't fear her. The only person who is beginning to secretly adore her.

She finally stops near the old temple to the Brother of Light, which has been long abandoned when he left Remnant to it's fate. Sitting down, she begins to cry deep tears of pain and sorrow. She hates her life now, she hates being taught to kill, to end the lives of others. She despises the fact that she is good at it. She never wanted this. All she ever wanted was to be a good sibling, a good daughter, a good student. All she ever wanted was to belong, to love a certain white haired girl and be loved in return.

She almost screams in terror when the great white furred head lays in her lap, with sad blue eyes that reflect her pain.

She stares at the great beast, marveling at the fact that a wolf has appeared here. One of the few things she has managed to remember from her poor studies is that the Grimm killed all the wolves when they first came to Vale. None were spared, and somehow she knows this one knows that. To her surprise, she begins to pet the wild creature, smiling softly at the way it's tail begins to wag as it whines. And then she begins to talk to it. She talks about her mother, her father, her sister, her life. She is soon sobbing in grief at the sadness of her life thus far, and is surprised to see tears in the white wolf's eyes as well.

But she forgot that sorrow is a feast for the Grimm, and they soon gather around her and the white wolf both.

She makes her decision. She throws her scythe to the ground and gives in completely to her sorrow. She is so tired. She is so tired of being turned into someone she wants nothing to do with. She's so tired of hoping people will finally love her instead of hate her or fear her. She is so tired of dreaming of a pair of blue eyes that will never look lovingly at her. She is ready, and the Grimm will feed well on her. But she doesn't expect the snarling, the sudden sounds of battle. Opening her silver eyes, they widen as she sees the once four legged wolf has vanished, a naked Weiss snarling in her rage as she wields Myrtenaster against the foul creatures.

"YOU KILLED THEM ALL!"

She stares at the rage filled young woman. She's never seen her fight with this much savagery, this much hate. Even in battles in which she is outclassed or outnumbered, she is still controlled. She uses superior tactics, the icy calm she is infamous for, and her obviously hidden rage to still rip victory from the jaws of defeat.

"ALL THE PACKS OF VALE ARE DEAD!"

She picks Crescent Rose back up. The white haired girl is beginning to frighten her, and she does not frighten easily. She watches in growing terror as an Alpha Beowolf appears, howling in challenge, Weiss's answering howl frightening her to her very soul. She watches as the white haired woman tosses her sword to the side and begins to growl as she grows. She listens to the popping of bone and sinew as fur begins to spring from her bare skin. She stares on in horror as the one friend she has ever made turns into…

A werewolf. A creature from Remnant's darkest stories has come to life before her, and is defending her while taking vengeance for the long dead wolves of Vale.

"You will not hurt my Ruby…"

She screams as Weiss leaps towards the Alpha, her fangs bared and her still hand shaped front paws slashing at the creature of darkness. The Alpha charges her as well, it's own jaws wide open to bite and tear at the white werewolf, it's own claws slashing at her unarmored and exposed flanks. She hears her friend's scream of pain as the Alpha strikes harder than she can, and causes more damage than she can possibly manage in return, and she finally leaps into action. Weiss is the first person to be her friend. She is the first person to treat her like a person. She is the first person she's allowed herself to start having feelings for in her short life.

She may be ready to die, but she will not let Weiss die for her own selfish desires.

Crescent Rose strikes the Beowolf quickly, breaking the Alpha and the werewolf apart as the Grimm leaps back to avoid the deathblow Ruby aims at it. But Ruby is enraged now. She sees the bright red blood upon the moonlit ground, and it adds to her fury. She hears the whimpers of the injured wolf, and it increases her rage. She roars in her righteous anger as her scythe becomes a blur, the Alpha soon howling in pain before Ruby's final blow comes in her scythe hooking around its neck before she pulls the trigger, decapitating the beast with one final roar of triumph. It takes her a moment to calm herself, a long moment in which she has forgotten her anger, her sorrow, her self loathing. And then she finally remembers Weiss. In a panic, she begins to look for her friend, desperate to ensure that she is safe.

It doesn't take her long to find her, and her scream of anguish can be heard back at Beacon.

Weiss has managed to get back to a small cave, her clothes as well as some supplies stacked neatly in the back. She herself is panting heavily as blood flows steadily from her injuries. But her tail thumps on the ground weakly as Ruby slides to the ground in front of her. She doesn't hesitate, but begins to treat the slashing wounds, bandaging them carefully while doing her best to ignore the pain filled shrieks from the badly injured werewolf.

"Oh Goddesses, I'm so sorry, Weiss. I'm so so sorry!" Is her litany as she keeps at her work, until the blood finally stops. Until the white wolf goes silent save for her panting.

The sun rises, then sets once more, but Ruby has yet to leave the white werewolf's side. Weiss has slept the entire time, but she has stayed awake. She is too scared to close her eyes, terrified that if she relaxes her vigil for even a moment, she will lose the most important person in her life. But her body's needs will not be denied, and she finally falls asleep, the large canine head still in her lap and her grip firm on Crescent Rose's handle.

She dreams of white fur and sky blue eyes. Of days spent watching the skies and laughing. Of feeling loved once more, and being confident in being able to return that love.

She moans as she feels the urgency of the lips on her own. Of the feeling of cold skin upon her own now bare skin. Of cold hands exploring her body and her own hands wandering across smooth, uninjured skin in return. She moans in longing as lips caress her skin with feather light kisses. As her own fingers discover places on the other willing body that bring moans of pleasure from a voice she has come to adore since beginning at Beacon.

But she moans loudly as teeth sink into her collarbone, a tender, almost loving bite from the woman she knows she loves deeply.

"Ruby…" Her voice is husky as she releases the love bite, full of longing and need. She can feel a certain heat against her leg that is foreign to the cold that the rest of her skin belies. She herself feels so hot, so needed. She has never felt like this before, and she wants more. She needs more. But her eyes widen as she catches her lover's hands as they grab at the hem of her panties, her face full of fear once more.

"Weiss… I…"

"I know, Ruby." Weiss smiles softly at the Reaper. "I know what you are. But I have wanted you for months now. Since I saw your strength for myself. Since I got to know the real you, and not your mask of anger and self loathing that you hide behind."

"Weiss…"

"Ruby, I am the last of my pack." The werewolf informs her sadly. "I came to Vale seeking the packs that once roamed here, hoping to join them and be safe." She sighs sadly, her blue eyes dimming. "I am beginning to fear I am the last of my kind."

She sits up and pulls the werewolf into her arms. She knows all the signs of sorrow, being well acquainted with them herself. "I… Weiss I'm damaged. Why would you want someone like me?"

Their eyes meet, quicksilver staring into sky blue. "Because I have been alone since I was a child. But you make me feel like I am home now." She cuddles deeper into the Reaper's arms. "I feel safe with you, and I know I can trust you with my secret."

Ruby takes a moment to think, to gather her thoughts while considering everything she has been told. But her thoughts always return to a pair of sky blue eyes she loves to look into. Coming to a decision, she lifts the werewolf's face by her chin with a single finger and kisses her deeply, while her free hand pulls her even closer.

This may be a mistake, but it is going to be the best one she ever makes.

The cavern is soon filled with their moans, their cries of pleasure, their whispered words of love, their need for one another. Their lovemaking is tender at times, frenzied at others, and intense throughout. Morning found them once again asleep, this time in each other's arms and in a tangle of limbs, a part of Ruby still inside the white werewolf, who smiles as she sleeps deeply. They wake upon that glorious morning and decide that Beacon has nothing left for them, and decide to seek their fortunes elsewhere. Someplace where no one knows either of them.

Someplace where their future children can grow up safely…

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Weiss declares her love for her, and for the werewolf, she will throw everything away for a future with her...

Ruby opens one silver eye, smiling at the blue eyed pup staring back at her eagerly as she whines. Sitting up, she yawns as she stretches, her mouth opening wide as her fangs gleam in the light of the morning sunlight. Bowing her head down low, she nuzzles the white haired silver eyed pup tenderly before the two of them leave the comforts of the small, modest home she and Weiss have built together. It has been a decade since she and the white werewolf left Vale far behind and traveled to Mistral. To their surprise, as they explored the deepest parts of the wilds of Anima, they encountered a village full of others like Weiss, led by a lioness named Pyrrha Nikos and her own mate, a human woman named Nora.

She had heard of Pyrrha, who had been reported killed in a massive battle at Haven Academy. A report fabricated by the woman herself so she too could escape with her own mate and their hard won freedom...

They had met so many others, who had fled the destruction of their own packs and prides, their own groups and hutches. They met Velvet, who was a kind and gentle soul of a wererabbit and her mate Coco, who was the heiress of Mistral's largest corporation and their secret benefactor. They met Blake, a panther who loves to read, and her chameleon mate Ilia. There had even been a tearful reunion between Weiss and her older sister Winter, who had also barely survived the destruction of their pack and had also fled. They even met a pair of birds who squabbled constantly, an overly violent Raven and her dusty, drunken Qrow of a brother.

But the biggest shock comes when they reach one small cabin in particular, where a lonely woman lives. A lonely woman long thought vanished by the young woman, but who in truth had been forced to leave by the man she thought loved her.

Ruby sobs as she rushes into her mother's arms, Summer Rose holding her tightly as she too weeps in joy. A mother and her daughter are reunited to their eternal joy, and Weiss cheers in her happiness for them both.

They talked late into the night, the white werewolf asleep in her mate's lap as mother and daughter catch themselves up on years of their lives. Summer is livid at how Ruby has been treated, how she has suffered for so long because of her absence. Ruby had been furious to discover that her mother had been driven off due to a twist of fate, as she had been bitten by another werewolf during a mission. She had been bitten to save her life, and had been punished for it.

Ruby made her own decision that same night, and smiled as her beloved sank her fangs into her skin in a love bite that would change her forever. She turned willingly, determined that Weiss, her sister, and her own mother will not be the last of their kind.

She quietly cheered her mother onward as she found the courage to move on with Raven, who adored her and treated her with kindness, respect, and love. She had happily held her baby sister when she was born two years later, Weiss still at her side and a smile on her own face to match the look of peace in her eyes. She and Weiss had themselves celebrated the birth of their twin pups a year later, naming them after both their mothers.

But the biggest surprise is still to come.

She still checks her scroll from time to time, she and Pyrrha both agreeing that they cannot remain ignorant of the outside world. There is still danger out there, both from the humans and faunus as well as the Grimm, and all while quietly offering safe haven to others like them, as well as their families. They as well as Raven and Nora are the defenders and leaders of their small community, and they take their responsibilities seriously. But Ruby had been surprised to find an email waiting for her one day, when she had travelled far to the south before turning it on, a feat she can accomplish with ease thanks to her semblance and now enhanced senses and superior stamina.

She never expected to hear from her sister ever again.

Downloading it, she returns to the village and her mate, asking her to read it for her. Weiss of course does so, having been the one who finally helped the Reaper figure out that she was not stupid like everyone in her life claimed, but struggled with severe dyslexia. She and Summer have been helping her learn to finally read and write, but it is a slow process, one she still finds herself getting frustrated with as well as embarrassed. Opening it, she soon stops to summon Summer, the two of them sobbing at the state of the brawler's life since they fled. Tai has placed his blame on his eldest for her disappearance, and she has suffered greatly for it. Her life is a disaster now, and she has already been in a failed marriage. She begs Ruby to at least reassure her that she is alive, that she is at least doing well, that her suffering is worth it if it means that the sister she long ignored is finally happy.

That they have traded places, and that her sister is finally whole in spirit and at peace.

Pyrrha does not hesitate to give her permission to bring Yang back. To allow them to reunite, so that she can see for herself that her wishes are indeed true, and that Ruby is happy and thriving. She goes and meets Yang at Mistral's airship port, where the two of them meet in a long overdue hug between sisters, and not the strangers they have been all their lives. They return together, where Yang is also overjoyed to be reunited with her own mother, Raven. Ruby herself nods in satisfaction that her sister is on her way to a peace of mind she now enjoys, and is grateful that she too settles into life in their village, calling it home as well.

Only she and Weiss bear witness to Winter sinking her fangs into Yang's flesh, the two of them falling in love in this place they too call home.

Summer and Luna play happily with the other children, who include their cousins and their aunt. They are gentle with their younger brother, and fiercely protective of their newborn sister. Ruby and Weiss have slowly become the leaders of their still growing safe haven, and lead both by excellent example as well as with hard learned wisdom and knowledge. They share a deep, beautiful commitment to one another that many envy, one forged in mutual understanding and undying love.

Weiss Schnee came into Ruby's life, and she has prospered...

#White Rose Week 2021 #white rose #ruby rose #weiss schnee #Day One #werewolf Weiss #Trans Ruby #here we go!

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bustakay · 2 years

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The Men Who Come Behind

There’s a class of men (and women) who are always on their guard — Cunning, treacherous, suspicious — feeling softly — grasping hard — Brainy, yet without the courage to forsake the beaten track — Cautiously they feel their way behind a bolder spirit’s back.

If you save a bit of money, and you start a little store — Say, an oyster-shop, for instance, where there wasn’t one before — When the shop begins to pay you, and the rent is off your mind, You will see another started by a chap that comes behind.

So it is, and so it might have been, my friend, with me and you — When a friend of both and neither interferes between the two; They will fight like fiends, forgetting in their passion mad and blind, That the row is mostly started by the folk who come behind.

They will stick to you like sin will, while your money comes and goes, But they’ll leave you when you haven’t got a shilling in your clothes. You may get some help above you, but you’ll nearly always find That you cannot get assistance from the men who come behind.

There are many, far too many, in the world of prose and rhyme, Always looking for another’s ‘footsteps on the sands of time.’ Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind; And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that come behind.

If you strike a novel subject, write it up, and do not fail, They will rhyme and prose about it till your very own is stale, As they raved about the region that the wattle-boughs perfume Till the reader cursed the bushman and the stink of wattle-bloom.

They will follow in your footsteps while you’re groping for the light; But they’ll run to get before you when they see you’re going right; And they’ll trip you up and baulk you in their blind and greedy heat, Like a stupid pup that hasn’t learned to trail behind your feet.

Take your loads of sin and sorrow on more energetic backs! Go and strike across the country where there are not any tracks! And — we fancy that the subject could be further treated here, But we’ll leave it to be hackneyed by the fellows in the rear.

#henry lawson #oz lit #CGTT

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parasite-core · 3 years

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@faunscozyspace so here’s the looong answer

So Draven was a regular poor farm kid in Mendev, the country unfortunate enough to be next to a demonic rip in reality called the Worldwound. Because of it the land is mostly fallow so farming is not lucrative. His parents supplemented it by fishing in the Lake of Mists and Veils, but the lake is treacherous and they had to be cautious with their expeditions. His father also did odd jobs around town, helping to fix roofs and tools or tend to cattle, and was all around generally well liked, so they got by because of their community.

Then one day demons broke through the Wardstone barrier protecting the rest of the world from the Worldwound. This demon raiding party came across Draven’s family farm, and they tortured and slaughtered everyone inside. They were not fast about it, and at one point Draven lost consciousness from the pain and trauma of what was happening around him. He was saved by some local retired crusaders who’d heard the commotion and grabbed their old arms and armor to slay and chase off the abyssal scourge. Unfortunately, Draven was the only survivor. He was in a coma for close to a month while his wounds healed—all but a terrible mark on his left arm, the Mark of Deskari, the demon lord of Locusts and Pestilence, which never closed and scarred, but festered and bled. The cleric’s finally had him bandage it and told him to keep it hidden, as others would jump to the wrong conclusions about such a thing.

Unfortunately rumors had already begun to spread, and by the time he was taken into the Light-Oath Orphanage, owned by one of the retired crusaders, former captain Scarlet Jules, the children had heard of him. The boy who had survived what no one should have. The boy whose body had become strangely hardy since the ordeal, despite having been a somewhat scrawny kid in his youth. The boy who might have made a deal with a demon. The boy who might have demonic blood inside of him. The boy marked by evil. The boy who might not be a boy as all, but a demon in disguise. All kinds of rumors followed him, and it left him isolated from his peers.

Until Leto Jules held out a hand of friendship.

Leto was a brilliant golden tiefling, abandoned to the orphanage with no record of who his mother and father were. He was roughly the same age as Draven, maybe a little younger. He understood being shunned for rumors and connections to demons you had no control over. So he tried to invite Draven to play with him. At first Draven was hesitant. He had never met a tiefling before, and his appearance with his sharp fangs and twisted horns brought to mind the monsters that had killed his family and tortured him. He refused. But Leto did not relent. He kept trying to befriend Draven, taking every opportunity he could to try to include him. He wouldn’t force the subject when Draven said no, but he would always come back when another opportunity arose. Eventually Draven warmed up to his presence, and then grew fond of it. After a year together the two of them became inseparable. Draven in time grew to think of Leto as a surrogate brother. Leto in turn grew very protective of Draven, despite Draven seeing himself as the one who needed to protect those around him.

And as those two grew close, Leto’s natural charm began drawing others to them as well. Gabrielle, a kindhearted aasimar cleric, whose instructors feared she was too soft for the work of a field medic. Sophia, an orphaned Kellid girl who lived up to her people’s reputation for battle. She was fierce and vicious, but she had a clear soft spot for Gabrielle, who also worried over her in combat and tended to favor healing her—sometimes to the detriment of others. Everyone in the group knew Sophia had a crush on Gabbie and vice-versa—it was only a matter of time until those two boneheads came out and admitted it. Issac, the youngest of the group and the only one besides Draven who didn’t came to the orphanage as an infant. Issac lost his parents in an accident he didn’t like talking about when he was 13. He was quiet, shy, extremely unsure of himself despite his clear skill with magic, and always a bit droopy-eyed, like she was about to fall asleep. He was also the only religious skeptic in the group, despite being a celestial blooded sorcerer. And last but certainly not least was Lorette, a bard who was seeking for his friends to make big names for themselves so he could be the one to write the ballads and tales and earn a name for himself in that manner. He was a short blond man whose large personality made up for his stature. He was always the most boisterous in the room, always the center of attention, and generally pretty well liked by the sorts who enjoy his kind of big personality.

So these six made an adventuring party, and when Draven was 20 they headed out to the Crusader city of Kenabres to enlist.

Things…didn’t go well. About an hour outside of the city, a demon broke through the Wardstone again. Draven felt the Mark of Deskari on his arm begin to burn and bleed severely, and he immediately knew something was wrong. There was no time to warn his friends before all hell broke loose. They had trained together, they knew how to fight…in theory. But they had never been in a real battle. And they didn’t have cold iron or good aligned weapons, so even when they did hit the target it did nothing. The demon ripped them apart. Gabrielle—innocent and sweet, aimed at for being an aasimar, never saw it coming. Sophia—flying into a hopeless rage over the love she’d never confessed to’s corpse, before falling beside her. Issac, terrified, trying to draw on his celestial power in one breath and cursing the gods that had turned his life into this mockery in the next. He fell silent with barely a whimper. Lorette tried to flee, all grandeur lost. He didn’t get far.

Draven tried to defend Leto with his shield. He felt claws rake across his face, there was a terrible pain and then a terrible cold, and then the next thing he remembers is waking up in a temple’s healing center in Kenabres. Somehow Leto had gotten them to safety, the lucky bastard. But not before Draven had lost his left eye.

He had to spend the next year relearning the sword and shield with only one eye, regaining his hand eye coordination and relearning to tell distances, and in that time he ended up relegated to the lowest most looked down upon branch of the crusades: The Raven Corps. And there he remained.

Until the fateful day the Wardstone was destroyed, he and six others were tossed into the caverns below Kenabres, and by the end of it his recent friend and mentee from the Raven Corps, Auriel Answerer, died in battle against a Baphomet Cultist who had been leading a conspiracy to infiltration the Church of Iomedae, after dealing her a crippling blow. Auriel we discovered after his death had been meant to be Iomedae’s Chosen One, the Paladin to wield the intelligent holy sword Radiance. However since Auriel’s spirit vouched for Draven, both the honor and the burden or wielding Radiance fell to Draven. Radiation was not pleased—they did not come off as terribly fond of their replacement wielder who wasn’t even a true Paladin.

Not longe after we met an eldritch archer magus in the sewers looking after some orphans. So our party became Luna the innocent accused serial killer The Butcher of Balestreet, Melody the Inquisitor of Shelyn who followed a holy songbird to find us, and Hiskaria a convicted murderer who was supposed to be in the Raven’s Corps as community service under orders of her land’s kind Kevoth-Kul after all forms of execution failed. So Draven has Hiskaria as his responsibility now whether he likes it or not (she grows on him)

Since then long story’s short: we met The person Draven hero worships, Commander Irabeth Tirabade, got a mission from her to destroy the final shard of the Wardstone before the cultists could turn it into a weapon of mass destruction. So we did. And Draven got closer to the party after spending a long time holding them at arm’s length because they risked everything to keep Leto safe after Draven saw a scry that he was in danger and that if they retreated now he might not make it back safely. Hiskaria avoided our entire boss fight by tapping the Wardstone shard with a rod of cancellation while we had her distracted and it blew up and tore the enemies apart. We had some visions of what was meant to happen—all bad—but we broke fate and made a better reality. Then we got the power of the Wardstone and became mythic.

After that we’ve met Iomedae the Inheritor, Draven’s goddess, herself and got three boons from her for helping to cleanse her temple of the Deskari cultists and their desecration. Then we met the Queen of a Mendev who was somehow equally cool. She knighted all of us and promoted Draven whether he likes it or not. So after naming his new Legion he is now Sir Draven Imani, the One-Eye’d Knight, Commander of the Adamant Shield Legion.

A Legion strong enough to stand unyielding before the forces of the Worldwound like an Adamantine Shield to protect the innocent of the world outside.

Since then we’ve led Draven’s army to liberate a number of fortresses. Had some insubordination that almost ended really badly when some of the men went to desert—and then they were snatched up by gargoyles. We fought through hordes of ghouls, gargoyles, a half-fiend gargoyle inquisitor, an incubus, and a nabasu to get to them. The nabasu killed Melody, but by a miracle there was a scroll of resurrection with the healing supplies kept under the podium behind the podium of what was once a church of Iomedae, Draven isn’t powerful enough to cast this magic consistently, so he had to take a gamble…and it worked. With Iomedae and Shelyn’s blessings the spell worked, and we had Melody back. For the first time ever Draven’s curse did not take hold.

The three crusaders we saved were ashamed after we’d literally put our lives in the line for them, and they returned to camp. Draven later spoke to their ringleader Arles. He explained he knew were Arles was coming from—mourning caused people to act irrationally. He just hoped it wouldn’t cause them more problems in the future. Arles gave Draven a book of tactics to look over to try to be a better commander in future battles, which from an inscription inside of the cover Draven discovered was originally from Arles’ love Jellel, who had died under Draven’s command in his first real battle leading an army. He committed Jellel’s name to memory, ashamed that he had been so new to command that he hadn’t known anything about them before they died because of his imperfect orders. From here out he became much more focused on his soldiers. He prioritizes what will be best for his men, he doesn’t want to betray the trust of people who are putting their lives on the line for him. Legit if it ever comes down to a choice between doing something that will protect his army or something that protects the party, I don’t know which side of the coin he’ll land on. But I’m heavily leaning protect his men. The others can take care of themselves. His army relies on him, he’s the one with mythic power leading them, if he were to abandon them he’d be choosing the deaths of hundreds or thousands of people and he couldn’t live with himself if he did that.

Fun fact: One of Draven’s mythic abilities is called Divine Source. It gives him two domains as if he were a god, and people who follow him can prepare spells from him as if he were a god. He has *no idea* he has this ability, beyond suddenly having a few new spell-like abilities he didn’t before, but he’s just chalking that up to ‘Wardstone weirdness’ same with him suddenly learning to speak celestial (and he’s going to freak when he suddenly learns Abyssal next level 😈) I look forward to the day someone in his army spontaneously starts getting protection domain spells from him and it’s like “that’s not Iomedaen. Draven we’ve seen you cast this on Melody before do you know what this is?” And Draven will nope out of existence because he didn’t want to be a commander he definitely doesn’t want to be a god or god adjacent, Melody can be the party’s demi-god thanks.

Anyways he led his army to march on the Citadel city of Drezen, which had been captured and held by demons for 100 years. No one had managed to get close to taking it back since, everyone who had tried died.

The party took it back in three days. One to clear out the exterior defenses. One to clear out the first floor and kill the army’s commanding officer and show off his severed head in the most dramatic way Draven could think of to make the enemy army retreat, and one to go into the basement and kill a Shadow Demon and save their friend who he was possessing.

And then the demon general Aponavicious almost cut Draven’s head off through a portal, if he hadn’t activated the magical Sword of Valor—the banner once wielder by Iomedae herself—at just the right time. It closed the portal and saved his life. But things weren’t over. She couldn’t teleport directly in, but she could teleport her army outside and march on Drezen. And that’s what she began to do. With an army of thousands upon thousands of demons.

Until a single figure in shining silver armor stepped out from behind Aponavicious. A golden tiefling. He spoke to her, then viciously wrapped her in spiked chains. Words were had, and then the army retreated.

Leto looked across the battlefield at Draven, held up his right hand, and Draven felt the mark on his left hand began to react. He heard Leto’s voice in his head. “Don’t worry. I won’t let them hurt you.”

Then he teleported away, too.

So Draven was nearly catatonic for a bit after that revelation of his brother working with the enemy. He tried Sending Leto but only got a response that wishes come true when you least expect them, and to meet him at the Ivory Labyrinth. And that he would protect him.

So Draven is extremely confused. Then a few days later it turned out Melody is actually the demigod child of Desna and Shelyn, so there’s that on top of things. Then Draven had some more self revelations a few days later.

None of them good.

They’d been asked by Irabeth, who’d been promoted to Lord Captain of Drezen, to look into stopping some raiders who were attacking their supply lines. Easy right? Just people, no cults, no demons, just desperate people in the Worldwound making bad choices. We could deal with that.

Or so we thought, until the party got lost in a petrified forest in the way to the raiders fortress, and Draven’s mark started acting up, so consistently that they could use it as a compass pointing the way to their destination. So clearly there was more to this than met the eyes.

Luna discovered that the raiders were being held here and forced to continue their raids at threat of death by their leader Marhokev. Luna promised if he led them to their leader, she and her friends would take care of him so they could go free. He warned that if it came down to a fight, Marhokev would force us to fight the raiders. Luna assured him that we had a lot of resources in our side to keep them safe. The raider placed his faith in us, and after working out how to get the entire party past the alarms Luna had passed via Invisibility, we were led inside.

There Draven met a large raider man who immediately locked eyes with him and grinned, referring to Draven as kin. Seeing Draven’s confusion he explained they both shared Lady Jerribeth’s blood. And they had both made a wish. Draven was confused and trying not to give into his first instinct to just go on the offensive, instead shakily explaining that he didn’t know what the man was talking about. Marhokev laughed, realizing Draven didn’t remember what he had wished for. So he told Draven a story. About his own life. His family had lived faithfully in Mendev for generations. And all it had saddled him with was demonic taint in his blood. He’d lived with a violent temper his entire time. He’d found it impossible to make a name for himself, or to keep down any sort of respectable position.

Then one day Lady Jerribeth came to him, and offered him anything he could desire. So he wished for power. And now he had it. Power and people to lord it over. He was living the life of a king as a raider. So, when given the chance to have it all, he took it. And it appeared when Draven was given the same chance, he’d squandered it away on something he couldn’t even recall. A pity. But Mahokev still felt something for their kinship, so he was willing to open his arms to let Draven join his band.

Draven said absolutely not, and that the time for talking was over. That was his final answer. He saw now what sort of man Mahokev was, and hr wasn’t one Draven could do anything for.

The raider flew into a mindless rage and attacked Draven, but Draven reflected him off his shield. Draven managed to hit the raider, but his rage powers activated to begin healing the damage, leaving Draven’s average sword arm virtually useless as-is.

While he had his stand off, Hiskaria blasted the raider’s pet ice drake with a scorching ray and peppered it with arrows, quickly finishing the beast before it was a terrible threat.

And Melody began dancing, distracting the other raiders so that the party wouldn’t have to hurt them.

Hiskaria and Luna began helping Draven to damage the raider, their much more respectable damage output doing a number on him. He made a break for it, aiming for Melody to try to snap his minions out of their trances.

Draven was having none of that. He was aiming to stop him in his tracks—but he stopped him alright, with a blade right through the rib cage and into the heart. Marhokev fell.

It appeared the battle was over. Melody ended her performance with a flourish, the raiders were grateful that we hadn’t killed any of them and that now they could leave the Worldwound and return to the places they’d once been from, or make new homes elsewhere.

None of the party were paying Marhokev’s corpse any mind. Not until his marked arm had ripped itself from its socket, and clamped onto Draven’s throat. He failed his save and suffocated, being knocked unconscious immediately despite his frankly absurd number of hit points. Melody ran over and yanked the hand off Draven. Burnt flesh pulled away from where the hand met skin, and underneath a second Mark of Deskari was emblazoned across his neck.

Draven’s had a lot to think about since then. His feelings about having demon’s blood in his veins in general, as well as his feelings about it being Jerribeth’s blood specifically, the architect of Drezen’s fall, likely the cause of his family’s deaths, likely the Glabrezu who made Leto start acting strangely, and a demon with untold amounts of innocent blood on her hands. He’s wondering exactly what he wished for—he assumes as a terrified tortured child who just saw his family tortured and killed that he probably wished for it to end and to be safe, but he doesn’t know the exact wording, which with these things the exact wording is important. He’s going to wait to talk to Nurah to try to regain his lost memories for that. He’s also really worried about what sort of wish Leto made. And he’s worried that he’s compromised, that when he meets Jerribeth in person no matter how much he hates her she’ll be able to worm her way into his mind and make him do what she wants because of him being so bound to her. Plus the foreboding feeling about having a new mark of Deskari, and the fact he feel like more power began to awaken within him when he received it. The fear that his soul is bound for Deskari no matter how faithful he is to Iomedae, and had been since he was a child. There’s just…a lot.

He also just really wants to kill Jerribeth.

#draven imani #long post #my ocs #i went overboard #I wasn’t kidding that I’m really bored lol #pathfinder #pathfinder wotr spoilers #pathfinder wotr

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

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Welllp These Are Books: the February 2021 Edition

Most of my last month was spent on deadline and waiting for people to respond to my emails, which meant I did not have the time (or energy) to write much of anything, but had plenty of time to read, quite frankly, an absurd number of books. Some of which were very good, some of which were very cheesy, and some of which I have now told multiple people was quite possibly the worst book I have ever read. As always, though, what are my opinions if I am not sharing them with the internet? Ridiculous headlines, links, and those aforementioned opinions under the cut. As always, part two, feel free to send me any and all recommendations. It cannot possibly be worse than this one book. Seriously, you’ll understand in a second.

———

Quite Possibly the First Book I’ve Gone Out of My Way to Buy On Release Day Since Breaking Dawn, Which Says a lot About Me. As a Person.

A Court of Silver Flames by Sarah J. Maas

Nesta Archeron has always been prickly-proud, swift to anger, and slow to forgive. And ever since being forced into the Cauldron and becoming High Fae against her will, she's struggled to find a place for herself within the strange, deadly world she inhabits. Worse, she can't seem to move past the horrors of the war with Hybern and all she lost in it.

The one person who ignites her temper more than any other is Cassian, the battle-scarred warrior whose position in Rhysand and Feyre's Night Court keeps him constantly in Nesta's orbit. But her temper isn't the only thing Cassian ignites. The fire between them is undeniable, and only burns hotter as they are forced into close quarters with each other.

Meanwhile, the treacherous human queens who returned to the Continent during the last war have forged a dangerous new alliance, threatening the fragile peace that has settled over the realms. And the key to halting them might very well rely on Cassian and Nesta facing their haunting pasts.

Against the sweeping backdrop of a world seared by war and plagued with uncertainty, Nesta and Cassian battle monsters from within and without as they search for acceptance-and healing-in each other's arms.

I’m not kidding when I tell you that I was counting the days until this came out. I was kind of indifferent to Nesta after the original ACOTAR books, but intrigued enough that I was like, I need to read this, and then I did read this and now I care quite a lot about Nesta. And how in love with Cassian she is. And vice versa. Because, let’s be honest, dude is in l o v e. There were some parts of the story I was not super into — namely, Ferye having to die in childbirth. Like, you’re telling me Cassian could have his guts hanging out at one point and we don’t know how to do a c-section? Nah, that ain’t it. Also, pregnancy as a storyline is not always my favorite thing, but more on that in a second. Also, also, here’s a bunch more words about ACOSF.

A “Huh, So That Happened” Sort of Ending. Which Was Disappointing.

A Vow So Bold and Deadly by Brigid Kemmerer

Emberfall is crumbling fast, torn between those who believe Rhen is the rightful prince and those who are eager to begin a new era under Grey, the true heir. Grey has agreed to wait two months before attacking Emberfall, and in that time, Rhen has turned away from everyone--even Harper, as she desperately tries to help him find a path to peace.

Fight the battle, save the kingdom. Meanwhile, Lia Mara struggles to rule Syhl Shallow with a gentler hand than her mother. But after enjoying decades of peace once magic was driven out of their lands, some of her subjects are angry Lia Mara has an enchanted prince and a magical scraver by her side. As Grey's deadline draws nearer, Lia Mara questions if she can be the queen her country needs.

As the two kingdoms come closer to conflict, loyalties are tested, love is threatened, and an old enemy resurfaces who could destroy them all, in this stunning conclusion to bestselling author Brigid Kemmerer's Cursebreaker series.

I loved the first book in this series. Absolutely adored it. So much so that I pretty quickly got the second one and read it. Enjoyed that on its own, but like I said in that one ask, I’m fairly certain A Curse So Dark and Lonely could have very easily been a standalone story. Should have been a standalone story? There was just SO MUCH going on here, and not nearly enough of it was resolved. Plot points just hung by the end of the trilogy, I was not ever entirely convinced Rhen and Harper were actually in love, let alone liked each other, and I thought Rhen got the very short end of an exceptionally cracked stick by the time the whole story wrapped up. Really, I think this tried to do too much in not enough time and there should probably be another book. Also Lia Mara getting pregnant was dumb. There I said it.

Free Books On Amazon Unlimited That Were Better Than Expected, But Also Read Like Fic

The Bargainer Series by Laura Thalassa

Everyone knows that if you need a favor, you go to the Bargainer to make it happen. He’s a man who can get you anything you want … at a price. And everyone knows that sooner or later he always collects.

Callypso Lillis is a siren with a very big problem, one that stretches up her arm and far into her past. For the last seven years she’s been collecting a bracelet of black beads up her wrist, magical IOUs for favors she’s received. Only death or repayment will fulfill the obligations. Only then will the beads disappear.

But for one of his clients, he’s never asked for repayment. Not until now. When Callie finds the fae king of the night in her room, a grin on his lips and a twinkle in his eye, she knows things are about to change. At first it’s just a chaste kiss—a single bead’s worth—and a promise for more.

For the Bargainer, it’s more than just a matter of rekindling an old romance. Something is happening in the Otherworld. Fae warriors are going missing one by one. Only the women are returned, each in a glass casket, a child clutched to their breast. And then there are the whispers among the slaves, whispers of an evil that’s been awoken.

If the Bargainer has any hope to save his people, he’ll need the help of the siren he spurned long ago. Only, his foe has a taste for exotic creatures, and Callie just happens to be one.

No one is going to be able to convince me this wasn’t ACOTAR fan fic. I don’t care about timing or dates, or whatever. The similarities just...did not stop. In all three books, even. There were three books in this series, by the way. Most of which I really enjoyed. I read them all in like four days of email waiting, so they must have been doing something right. Des was a good love interest and I really liked the flashbacks in the first book. Also Callie didn’t super annoy me. That being said, whoever edited this book. Oof. Some of the prose was so goddamn cringe, I literally lol’ed. Right out loud. Every now and then it was like we had to be reminded that Des was a BAD GUY ™ but it felt very Edward “I’m a killer, Bella” Cullen, and Callie’s internal monologue was occasionally hysterical. Not in a good way. Also Temper was the worst. She was so annoying. Every time she talked, I was like, oh, her again. The first book was the best one.

HITTING ALL MY ROM COM BOXES! BASEBALL! ROMANCE! PINING! ONLY VAGUELY UNCOMFORTABLE WHEN THEY HAD SEX IN THE PORT JEFF DUGOUT BECAUSE I’VE BEEN IN THE PORT JEFF DUGOUT.

Fix Her Up by Tessa Bailey

Georgette Castle’s family runs the best home renovation business in town, but she picked balloons instead of blueprints and they haven’t taken her seriously since. Frankly, she’s over it. Georgie loves planning children’s birthday parties and making people laugh, just not at her own expense. She’s determined to fix herself up into a Woman of the World... whatever that means.

Phase one: new framework for her business (a website from this decade, perhaps?)

Phase two: a gut-reno on her wardrobe (fyi, leggings are pants.)

Phase three: updates to her exterior (do people still wax?)

Phase four: put herself on the market (and stop crushing on Travis Ford!)

Travis Ford was major league baseball’s hottest rookie when an injury ended his career. Now he’s flipping houses to keep busy and trying to forget his glory days. But he can’t even cross the street without someone recapping his greatest hits. Or making a joke about his… bat. And then there's Georgie, his best friend’s sister, who is not a kid anymore. When she proposes a wild scheme—that they pretend to date, to shock her family and help him land a new job—he agrees. What’s the harm? It’s not like it’s real. But the girl Travis used to tease is now a funny, full-of-life woman and there’s nothing fake about how much he wants her...

Living her best life means facing the truth: Georgie hasn’t been on a date since, well, ever. Nobody’s asking the town clown out for a night of hot sex, that’s for sure. Maybe if people think she’s having a steamy love affair, they’ll acknowledge she’s not just the “little sister” who paints faces for a living. And who better to help demolish that image than the resident sports star and tabloid favorite.

Legit, I saw the description for this and I was like—did I write this? Kind of. (Shameless plug to read my own rom com, it also has baseball and pining) It didn’t matter, I loved it. Seriously, it hit all my rom com boxes: childhood friends, best friend’s sister, coming back home under duress, FAKE DATING and, let’s be honest, I am not immune to the use of “baby girl” as an endearment. Every time Travis called Georgie “baby girl” I was like, oh, ok, this is cool. It was cool! I only have two quips. One, that the fake dating didn’t last a little longer. The pacing of the story felt very quick, but that’s also this genre’s style. So I kind of get it. And two, that it happened in Port Jefferson, which is a town in Suffolk County that I have not only been to, but have spent significant time in. Meaning I could picture every single thing, knew exactly where they were and have used the exit on the Northern State Parkway that the final moments of the book took place at. The Port Jeff girls basketball team won a Long Island championship last weekend. In real life, not the book.

In Which Spinoffs Continue to be my Kryptonite. Especially Well-Written Ones

Mistletoe and Mr. Right by Sarah Morgenthaler

Lana Montgomery is everything the quirky small town of Moose Springs, Alaska can't stand: a rich socialite with dreams of changing things for the better. But Lana's determined to prove that she belongs...even if it means trading her stilettos for snow boots and tracking one of the town's hairiest Christmas mysteries: the Santa Moose, an antlered Grinch hell-bent on destroying every bit of holiday cheer (and tinsel) it can sink its teeth into.

And really...how hard could it be?

The last few years have been tough on Rick Harding, and it's not getting any easier now that his dream girl's back in town. When Lana accidentally tranquilizes him instead of the Santa Moose, it's clear she needs help, fast...and this could be his chance to finally catch her eye. It's an all-out Christmas war, but if they can nab that darn moose before it destroys the town, Rick and Lana might finally find a place where they both belong...together.

I mentioned The Tourist Attraction in my January list, and this is the second in the Moose Springs trio. And it’s so good! I wish people were all as nice to Lana as Rick was. It’s what she deserved! More small-town antics, more kissing, another moose. This one was just as cute as the original book, especially because it brought back original characters and Zoey and Graham were so goddamn adorable as a committed couple I genuinely feared for the state of my teeth.

Enjoy the View by Sarah Morgenthaler

Former Hollywood darling River Lane's acting career is tanking fast. Determined to start fresh behind the camera, she agrees to film a documentary about the picturesque small town of Moose Springs, Alaska. The assignment should have been easy, but the quirky locals want nothing to do with River. Well, too bad: River's going to make this film and prove herself, no matter what it takes.

Or what (literal) mountain she has to climb.

Easton Lockett may be a gentle giant, but he knows a thing or two about survival. If he can keep everyone in line, he should be able to get River and her crew up and down Mount Veil in one piece. Turns out that's a big if. The wildlife's wilder than usual, the camera crew's determined to wander off a cliff, and the gorgeous actress is fearless. Falling for River only makes Easton's job tougher, but there's only so long he can hold out against her brilliant smile. When bad weather strikes, putting everyone at risk, it'll take all of Easton's skill to get them back home safely...and convince River she should stay in his arms for good.

Wrapping up the Moose Springs trio, this one might have been my least favorite, but that’s not really saying much. Since I loved them all pretty equally. River and Easton’s banter was grade-A, top-notch, which is a one-way ticket to my reading-heart. Maybe part of the problem (I say problem like there really was one) was that most of the story took place on a mountain. I kind of wanted more small-town shenanigans, and updates on the condos and the state of the town and Graham being mayor. Still, this was very cute. I swooned multiple times. I’ll probably read anything Sarah Morgenthaler writes from here on out.

Seriously, What Is YA? Does Anyone Know?

The Beautiful by Renee Ahdieh

In 1872, New Orleans is a city ruled by the dead. But to seventeen-year-old Celine Rousseau, New Orleans is a safe haven after she's forced to flee her life as a dressmaker in Paris. Taken in by the sisters of the Ursuline convent in the middle of the carnival season, Celine is quickly enraptured by the vibrant city, from its music to its fancy soirées and even its danger. She becomes embroiled in the city's glitzy underworld, known as La Cour des Lions, after catching the eye of the group's enigmatic leader, Sébastien Saint Germain.

When the body of one of the girls from the convent is found in Sébastien's own lair--the second dead girl to turn up in recent weeks--Celine battles her attraction to Sébastien and suspicions about his guilt along with the shame of her own horrible secret.

After a third murder, New Orleans becomes gripped by the terror of a serial killer on the loose--one who has now set Celine in his sights. As the murderer stalks her, Celine finally takes matters into her own hands, only to find herself caught in the midst of an age-old feud between the darkest creatures of the night, where the price of forbidden love is her life.

Like I said last month, I put a hold on pretty much everything Renee Ahdieh had written in my library. And this was just as good as the last series I read. Her world building is just—chef’s kiss, gorgeous. I dream of writing this airy, magical way, that makes you feel like you’re in New Orleans. That being said, I do not know what kid is reading this because apparently this is YA and I had to read every single word to figure out what was going on. Now, I know there are two more books in the series, but this one felt like a lot of set up and I spent most of it being like...will this make sense eventually? It did, but only during a very rushed climax of final few chapters. The sequel isn’t available on Kindle at the library, and I haven’t bought it yet. So, that’s probably kind of telling.

In Which You Cannot Always Depend On Old Favorites

No Judgments by Meg Cabot

When a massive hurricane severs all power and cell service to Little Bridge Island—as well as its connection to the mainland—twenty-five-year-old Bree Beckham isn’t worried . . . at first. She’s already escaped one storm—her emotionally abusive ex—so a hurricane seems like it will be a piece of cake.

But animal-loving Bree does become alarmed when she realizes how many islanders have been cut off from their beloved pets. Now it’s up to her to save as many of Little Bridge’s cats and dogs as she can . . . but to do so, she’s going to need help—help she has no choice but to accept from her boss’s sexy nephew, Drew Hartwell, the Mermaid Café’s most notorious heartbreaker.

But when Bree starts falling for Drew, just as Little Bridge’s power is restored and her penitent ex shows up, she has to ask herself if her island fling was only a result of the stormy weather, or if it could last during clear skies too.

I love Meg Cabot. That should be stated upfront and at the very beginning because for a very long time I have claimed that being Meg Cabot was my dream job. I’ve read pretty much every book Meg Cabot has ever written and was fairly certain I’d be into these once I did read them. Only I was...not. Not really. Everything in this book happened so quickly, I felt like I was the one in the hurricane. People were kissing and then they were having sex and there was a storm and pets and then—it was over? The pacing was all over the place, I had no idea why Drew and Bree liked each other, some guy kicked a dog at one point?? It was weird. Which leads us to—

No Offense by Meg Cabot

A broken engagement only gave Molly Montgomery additional incentive to follow her dream job from the Colorado Rockies to the Florida Keys. Now, as Little Bridge Island Public Library’s head of children’s services, Molly hopes the messiest thing in her life will be her sticky-note covered desk. But fate—in the form of a newborn left in the restroom—has other ideas. So does the sheriff who comes to investigate the “abandonment”. When John Hartwell folds all six-feet-three of himself into a tiny chair and insists that whoever left the baby is a criminal, Molly begs to differ and asks what he’s doing about the Island’s real crime wave (if thefts of items from homes that have been left unlocked could be called that). Not the best of starts, but the man’s arrogance is almost as distracting as his blue eyes. Almost…

John would be pretty irritated if one of his deputies had a desk as disorderly as Molly’s. Good thing she doesn’t work for him, considering how attracted he is to her. Molly’s lilting librarian voice makes even the saltiest remarks go down sweeter, which is bad as long as she’s a witness but might be good once the case is solved—provided he hasn’t gotten on her last nerve by then. Recently divorced, John has been having trouble adjusting to single life as well as single parenthood. But something in Molly’s beautiful smile gives John hope that his old life on Little Bridge might suddenly hold new promise—if only they can get over their differences.

This isn’t a sequel SEQUEL, but another one of those “exists in the same universe,” or same town, as it were, and it was better than No Judgments. Molly and John actually had a few legitimate conversations before they started kissing. The conflict was still weird and sort of forced, this was not Meg’s usual banter (I fell like I can call her Meg at this point, y’know?) and, again, the ending just felt like it...happened. I don’t know guys, maybe I should just reread The Boy Is Back. Or that quasi Persephone-Hades series. It’s been awhile. On that one, at least. I read The Boy Is Back like six months ago.

ABSOLUTELY INFURIATING ROM COM THAT I CANNOT BELIEVE I FINISHED, SOMEONE GIVE ME A PRIZE FOR FINISHING THIS

Fight or Flight by Samantha Young

The universe is conspiring against Ava Breevort. As if flying back to Phoenix to bury a childhood friend wasn't hell enough, a cloud of volcanic ash traveling from overseas delayed her flight back home to Boston. Her last ditch attempt to salvage the trip was thwarted by an arrogant Scotsman, Caleb Scott, who steals a first class seat out from under her. Then over the course of their journey home, their antagonism somehow lands them in bed for the steamiest layover Ava's ever had. And that's all it was--until Caleb shows up on her doorstep.

When pure chance pulls Ava back into Caleb's orbit, he proposes they enjoy their physical connection while he's stranded in Boston. Ava agrees, knowing her heart's in no danger since a) she barely likes Caleb and b) his existence in her life is temporary. Not long thereafter Ava realizes she's made a terrible error because as it turns out Caleb Scott isn't quite so unlikeable after all. When his stay in Boston becomes permanent, Ava must decide whether to fight her feelings for him or give into them. But even if she does decide to risk her heart on Caleb, there is no guarantee her stubborn Scot will want to risk his heart on her...

When I tell you guys that this was the worst book I have read in recent memory, I am not kidding. Might actually be the worst book I have ever read. Bar none. And that’s saying something because one time I had to read Ender’s Game in college and that, like, physically pained me. This was awful. Awful people. Awful plot. Awful resolution. AWFUL. Where to start? Well, I’m not going to apologize for spoilers, because God help us all, do not read this book. Ava has been through so many horrible things in her life it was like someone was trying to set a record. Bad parents, cheating ex-boyfriend, dead former best friend who was former because of the cheating ex-boyfriend. Naturally, this made her a control freak because—of course, or something. And Caleb! Oh my God, fucking Caleb Scott. The dickwad. I’ve never rooted for anyone to not get the girl more. When Ava “broke up” with him (they were never really together) I might have cheered. Shitty things does not give you an excuse to be a dick, and Caleb was a dick. Seriously, he started crying about how his ex-fiance KILLED THEIR BABY and I was like—this cannot possibly be a real book. It was! With lots of abortion opinions out of FUCKING nowhere, and weird possessive behavior from, like, every dude in it. Both Ava AND her best friend (not the dead one, a different one) got assaulted at one point. I kept reading solely because I was desperate to see how they rationalized Ava and Caleb getting back together at the end and they didn’t. He showed up on her flight when her boss came up with a fake work trip so he could sit next to her on the plane. What? WHAT?? It was so dumb. So bad. I can’t believe I read it.

#book recs #fiction rec #rom com recs #fantasy recs #laura reads books #i swear i do other things besides read #really #welllp these are books

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imjustthemechanic · 3 years

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The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage

We all knew Peggy was going to go look for Steve one way or the other.

Peggy’s call to Daniel was very brief. “It’s me,” she said to him. “I’m coming home.”

“You are?” He was surprised. “What about Dottie?”

“Thompson seems to believe he has everything well in hand. He certainly no longer needs me around to be somebody who ‘thinks like these Russian girls’.” She held the receiver away from her mouth as she heaved a frustrated sigh, not wanting to subject Daniel’s ears to the roar. “This is going to blow up in his face and I want to be as far away as possible when it happens, so that nobody can claim it was my fault. You don’t happen to have anything that needs investigating in Australia, do you?”

“No,” said Daniel. “The platypus is very odd, but scientists assure me it evolved on this planet.”

It wasn’t much of a joke, but jokes were not Daniel’s forte, and Peggy chuckled appreciatively regardless. “I have such a story to tell you, darling,” she said.

“Maybe you can tell it over dinner,” he suggested. “It’s been a while since we did anything outside of work. We’ve both been busy with the Underwood case, and now that it’s out of our hands maybe we can relax a bit.”

Peggy’s first reaction would have been to say that she was tired and annoyed and not looking her best, and to request that they put it off until later… but Daniel was right, it had been a long time. Peggy was not very good at ‘dating’. She was simply not the sort of person who could turn herself off for a romantic evening when there were other things weighing on her mind. She and Steve had never dated – they had worked together, enjoying each other’s company in that context until they came to an agreement that they wanted to continue doing so for the rest of their lives. It had been the same with Daniel. The ordinary sort of courting rituals were a bit of an afterthought.

“Dinner sounds lovely,” she said. “But nowhere fancy, please. I’m still not looking my best and I don’t want to have to dress up.”

“Just good ordinary food, I promise,” Daniel told her. “Tomorrow night?”

“It’s a date.”

Before she headed for the airport, Peggy did try to drop in at the Automat to let Angie know she had to leave again, but unfortunately Angie was not working. One of her co-workers, an older lady called Pearl, promised to pass on the message.

By the time she finally got off the last plane in Los Angeles, it was very late, and all Peggy wanted to do was take a long, hot bath and collapse into bed. She decided to forgo the former in order to give her face one more day, but unlike the night she’d first been sprayed, she managed to put off the latter until she’d at least changed into her nightclothes.

In the morning she did feel very much better, and since it was three hours earlier on the west coast than the east, she even managed to wake up at a reasonable hour. She took her bath, which stung only a little, and by the time of her dinner date with Daniel, Peggy was well on the way to feeling like herself again. As he’d promised, they didn’t go anywhere formal, just a little diner that served hamburgers and chips with milkshakes.

“You said you had a story to tell me,” Daniel said.

“Mmm,” Peggy agreed, her mouth full of strawberry milkshake. “Do I ever! I assume Thompson gave you at last some details of what happened at Sing Sing.”

“Only the bare bones.”

“Right.” She dipped a chip in mayonnaise. “Well, I and two men sat guard outside Fenhoff’s cell half the night, only to hear a fuss at the room next door. They determined the next day that she’d made herself a suppressor out of lipstick tubes…”

“That sounds like something you’d do,” Daniel observed with a smile.

“I am a bit hacked off she thought of it first,” Peggy agreed. She went on to tell him how Lake had been taken into custody more or less by accident, and the embarrassing interview that had followed. Then she told him something else.

“I went back in the middle of the night,” she said. “You see… when Lake came to see me here, pretending to be Agent Russel, she left a letter in my purse. I got fingerprints off it to compare to the ones we found in her room at the Botticelli Gardens so I know it was her. It had six numbers and a drawing.” Peggy grabbed a napkin and wrote them out, with the doodle of the shield below them, and pushed it across the table for Daniel to see.

“Does that mean what I think it means?” he asked.

“It can hardly mean anything else, can it? But it does – I spoke to her about it.” Peggy took the napkin back and stuffed it in her purse, intending to destroy it later as she had the original letter. “She said she’d been there, and she described the crash and the wreckage, and how we would find him if we looked. I know it’s a trick of some sort,” she added. “I asked her why she was telling me this and she insisted it was out of the goodness of her heart, which obviously isn’t suspicious at all… but she wouldn’t make it sound suspicious unless she wanted it to, and so…” She shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what to make of it all.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “And now it’s going to haunt you,” he said.

“It already is.”

“Peg.” He reached for her hand. “I know you’re still in love with him…”

She shook her head and pulled away. “Don’t start, Daniel. I’ve told you before, it’s not a competition. Steve will always have a place in my heart but he’s dead, and I love you. I’m not ‘settling’ for you, I’m not…”

“Peg,” he repeated, holding up a hand. “I’m not trying to compete with him. I’m just saying…”

“Sometimes I wonder if I even do remember him,” Peggy said, “or whether I’ve just overlaid him with some childish fantasy. A man who isn’t there can be anything I want him to be.”

“I’m not trying to compete with him, I know I can’t do that,” Daniel said, “but I also can’t ask you to forget him, and I know you won’t feel like you’ve done right by him if you don’t make every attempt you can to bring him home.”

Peggy hung her head. She knew that was where he’d been going, and she’d been hoping that if she talked about other things long enough, he’d give it up. She should have known better. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “Every so often I tell myself I have forgotten, I tell myself I’m over it, and then something happens like this, or like that bloody vial, and I find myself thinking…” She had not worn makeup, and now she was glad of that as she reached up to scrub treacherous tears out of the corners of her eyes. “Was there something I could have said or done to change his mind? It’s not that I didn’t try, but he didn’t need to die like that! Life could have gone on. Even if it wasn’t life with me, he gave so much, and he deserved so much more…”

Daniel wordlessly handed her a handkerchief. She blew her nose.

“So it’s… it’s not so much that I’m still in love with him,” she managed… though if she’d said she wasn’t she would have been lying. “It’s just that I listened to a good man die, and there was nothing I could do. He said it was his choice, but it wasn’t the same as Barnes. It just wasn’t. So I stood there at the Stork Club wearing that red dress he liked and hoping for a miracle but feeling like a fool. And of course, he never came.”

Daniel reached for her hand again, and this time she let him take it. “I think a lot of us were hoping for a miracle,” he said. “He’d been missing before and he’d reappeared, so it didn’t seem possible that this really was it. I always promised myself I’d find some way to thank him properly for saving my life, and then I never got the chance.”

Peggy didn’t trust her voice not to break if she tried to speak again, so she just nodded miserably.

“If I do want to repay him,” Daniel added, “I can think of worse ways to do it than by bringing his body back.”

She looked up sharply. “Daniel…”

“It’s a trick, I know, you said it’s a trick,” he held up a hand. “And I know you think the best thing to do is leave it alone, even if that’s not what you want to do, but now that we have this information, I don’t think we can just do nothing with it. Our job is to defend the security of this country, and if there’s a possibility the Soviets know where Captain Rogers’ body is and we don’t, that security is at risk.”

Peggy shook her head. “If they know, they have him already. They wouldn’t risk letting that leak to us.”

“Then we need to determine that,” said Daniel. “And honestly? If we don’t do something…”

“… it’ll eat at both of us for the rest of our lives,” she finished for him, wiping her nose again. “I wish I hadn’t told you.”

“No, I’m glad you did.” He paused. “You didn’t tell Thompson, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay, good.”

“The problem is, I’m pretty sure this is exactly what she planned,” Peggy said. “It’ll drive us batty until we go and check, and when we do there’ll be nothing there. We’ll have wasted the government’s time and money and we’ll look like fools.”

“So we’d need to secure private funding, then,” Daniel said thoughtfully.

Peggy’s eyes narrowed – there was only one thing that might mean. It was hardly an unreasonable idea. Howard had already spent months of his own time searching for Steve, and he still occasionally revisited the quest with new ideas and technology. He certainly had the money. There was just one problem. “If you think I’m going to let Stark go about this unsupervised you’re mad, Daniel Sousa – and you and I both know that I am out of vacation days.”

“You still have sick days,” he said.

“I’m not sick.”

“You were injured in the line of duty.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Peggy shook her head.

“You were attacked with a chemical weapon…”

“It was essence of paprika, Daniel, I will live!”

“… with a chemical weapon,” he went on in mock outrage, “and Thompson didn’t even offer you time off to recover! I am going to insist you take at least two weeks, to make sure there are no long-term side effects. Imagine what that stuff might have done to your lungs!”

“You’re hopeless!” Peggy informed him, but it was difficult to sound angry when she was actually so relieved. Daniel knew her far too well – it would have just gnawed on her mind until she finally had to sneak off and see for herself. She would be bitterly disappointed, she knew, when she got there and found nothing but ice and ocean, but at least she would know. “So… if we find the crash site, we take the credit, whereas if we don’t, Stark takes the blame? That’s very underhanded. Have you ever considered going into politics?” Her joking had just the narrowest edge of hysteria on it, but if that were what kept her from lapsing back into tears, so be it.

“Wow,” he said. “That may be the meanest thing you ever said to me.”

“You deserve it for taking me from tears to laughter and nearly back again in a single dinner!” Peggy waved a chip at him. “I’ll call on Stark in the morning. Heaven knows, if somehow he finds out about it through some other channel I won’t have to worry about whether I can sleep at night because he’ll never give me a moment’s peace about it as long as he lives.”

“Just tell him to keep it on the down-low,” Daniel said. “You don’t need a bunch of press following you. And we definitely don’t want Lake knowing we fell for it.”

“Don’t worry about Stark, he’s as subtle as an angry hippopotamus,” Peggy snorted. “And as for Lake… something tells me she already knows.”

That night, Peggy decided to try that bath she’d been wanting, and found it not too terrible. She felt an odd mix of dread and elation, a weight off one shoulder and a new and worse one on the other. Dottie really was still her responsibility, but she was so fed up with the affair that there was a level on which she thought if Thompson wanted the case, he could bloody well have it. As for the matter of the coordinates…

No matter how much Peggy wanted to hope they might find him at last, in her heart she knew whatever was at that spot in the arctic, it wouldn’t be the mortal remains of Captain Steve Rogers. The question was what it would be. The best possible outcome was just barren ice. The worst was… something Peggy probably wouldn’t be able to think of and couldn’t prepare for if she tried. She would just have to be ready for anything.

#fanfic #captain america #agent carter #peggy carter #steve rogers #steggy #fix it fic

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tomorrowedblog · 3 years

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Friday Releases for September 17

Friday is the busiest day of the week for new releases, so we've decided to collect them all in one place. Friday Releases for September 17 include Prisoners Of The Ghostland, Deltarune Chapter 2, Montero, and more.

Prisoners Of The Ghostland

Prisoners Of The Ghostland, the new movie from Sion Sono, is out today.

In the treacherous frontier city of Samurai Town, a ruthless bank robber is sprung from jail by a wealthy warlord, The Governor, whose adopted granddaughter has run away. Strapped into a leather suit that will self-destruct within five days if he doesn’t find the missing girl, the bandit sets off on a journey to find the young woman — and his own path to redemption.

The Nowhere Inn

The Nowhere Inn, the new movie from Bill Benz, is out today.

From real-life friends Annie Clark (a.k.a. GRAMMY award-winning recording and touring artist St. Vincent) and Carrie Brownstein (Portlandia, Sleater-Kinney) comes the metafictional account of two creative forces banding together to make a documentary about St. Vincent’s music, touring life, and on-stage persona. But they quickly discover unpredictable forces lurking within subject and filmmaker that threaten to derail the friendship, the project, and the duo’s creative lives.

The Eyes Of Tammy Faye

The Eyes Of Tammy Faye, the new movie from Michael Showalter, is out today.

THE EYES OF TAMMY FAYE is an intimate look at the extraordinary rise, fall and redemption of televangelist Tammy Faye Bakker. In the 1970s and 80s, Tammy Faye and her husband, Jim Bakker, rose from humble beginnings to create the world’s largest religious broadcasting network and theme park, and were revered for their message of love, acceptance and prosperity. Tammy Faye was legendary for her indelible eyelashes, her idiosyncratic singing, and her eagerness to embrace people from all walks of life. However, it wasn’t long before financial improprieties, scheming rivals, and scandal toppled their carefully constructed empire.

Blue Bayou

Blue Bayou, the new movie from Justin Chon, is out today.

Blue Bayou is the moving and timely story of a uniquely American family fighting for their future. Antonio LeBlanc (Chon), a Korean adoptee raised in a small town in the Louisiana bayou, is married to the love of his life Kathy (Alicia Vikander) and step-dad to their beloved daughter Jessie. Struggling to make a better life for his family, he must confront the ghosts of his past when he discovers that he could be deported from the only country he has ever called home.

Copshop

Copshop, the new movie from Joe Carnahan, is out today.

Screaming through the Nevada desert in a bullet-ridden Crown Vic, wily con artist Teddy Murretto (Frank Grillo) hatches a desperate plan to hide out from lethal hitman Bob Viddick (Gerard Butler): He sucker-punches rookie officer Valerie Young (Alexis Louder) to get himself arrested and locked up in a small-town police station. But jail can’t protect Murretto for long. Viddick schemes his own way into detention, biding his time in a nearby cell until he can complete his mission. When the arrival of a competing assassin (Toby Huss) ignites all-out mayhem, mounting threats force Viddick to get creative if he wants to finish the job and escape the explosive situation.

Cry Macho

Cry Macho, the new movie from Clint Eastwood, is out today.

From Warner Bros. Pictures come director/producer Clint Eastwood’s uplifting and poignant drama “Cry Macho.” The film stars Eastwood as Mike Milo, a one-time rodeo star and washed-up horse breeder who, in 1979, takes a job from an ex-boss to bring the man’s young son home from Mexico. Forced to take the backroads on their way to Texas, the unlikely pair faces an unexpectedly challenging journey, during which the world-weary horseman finds unexpected connections and his own sense of redemption.

Wife of a Spy

Wife of a Spy, the new movie from Kiyoshi Kurosawa, is out today.

The year is 1940 in Kobe, on the eve of the outbreak of World War II. Local merchant and amateur filmmaker Yusaku (Issey Takahashi) senses that things are headed in an unsettling direction. Following a trip to Manchuria, he becomes determined to bring to light the things he witnessed there, and secretly filmed. Meanwhile, his wife Satoko (Yû Aoi) receives a visit from her childhood friend, now a military policeman. He warns her about Yusaku’s seditious ways and reveals that a woman her husband brought back from his trip has died. Satoko confronts Yusaku, but when she discovers his true intentions, she is torn between loyalty to her husband, the life they have built, and the country they call home.

Lady of the Manor

Lady of the Manor, the new movie from Christian Long and Justin Long, is out today.

Past and present collide in this supernaturally funny buddy comedy when stoner-slacker Hannah (Melanie Lynskey) is hired to portray Lady Wadsworth (Judy Greer), a Southern belle who died in 1875, in a tour at Wadsworth Manor. Hannah, a hot mess, figures she can fake it —until the ghost of Lady Wadsworth appears! Lady Wadsworth tells Hannah it’s time to change her wild ways — and she’ll haunt her until she does — in this hilarious movie costarring Justin Long and Ryan Phillippe.

Best Sellers

Best Sellers, the new movie from Lina Roessler, is out today.

In a last-ditch effort to save the boutique publishing house her father has left her, an ambitious young editor (Plaza) goes on a book tour with a bitter, booze-addled author (Caine) who put the publishing house on the map decades ago.

Squid Game

Squid Game, the new TV series from Dong-hyuk Hwang, is out today.

Hundreds of cash-strapped players accept a strange invitation to compete in children’s games. Inside, a tempting prize awaits — with deadly high stakes.

The Morning Show S2

The second season of The Morning Show, the TV series from Jay Carson, is out today.

Picking up after the explosive events of Season 1, this season finds the Morning Show team emerging from the wreckage of Alex (Jennifer Aniston) and Bradley’s (Reese Witherspoon) actions, to a new UBA and a world in flux, where identity is everything, and the chasm between who we present and who we really are comes into play.

Deltarune Chapter 2

Deltarune Chapter 2, the new game from Toby Fox, is out today.

Fight (or spare) alongside new characters in UNDERTALE's parallel story, DELTARUNE...!

TOEM

TOEM, the new game from Something We Made, is out today.

Set off on a delightful expedition and use your photographic eye to uncover the mysteries of the magical TOEM in this hand-drawn adventure game. Chat with quirky characters, solve their problems by snapping neat photos, and make your way through a relaxing landscape!

Severed Steel

Severed Steel, the new game from Greylock Studio and Digerati, is out today.

Severed Steel is a single-player FPS featuring a fluid stunt system, destructible voxel environments, loads of bullet time, and a unique one-armed protagonist. It's you, your trigger finger, and a steel-toed boot against a superstructure full of bad guys. Chain together wall runs, dives, flips, and slides to take every last enemy down.

Montero

Montero, the new album from Lil Nas X, is out today.

#Games #Movies #TV #Music #News

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arwenofrph · 3 years

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hihi !! i know i’m really knew to the rph / rpt scene but i was really hoping to maybe get some input on which plot to do ?? they’re described under the cut and you can find the poll RIGHT HERE !! tw: the following plots briefly discuss the subject of murder and death as well as the mention of blood

plot a : loosely based on the red queen series and the everless series

ever since the beginning, children have gone missing. It didn't matter if you locked your doors at night, or kept watch as your daughters slept; some way, somehow, they'd disappear. In time, it became a way of life. When your child was stolen, you blamed it on one of those creatures from your grandmother's old stories. You cried, you mourned, and you moved on. There was no time for anything more. And they, the noble Blue Bloods in their towering castles and pretty clothes, turned a blind eye to the misery that plagued their people simply because it was never their children missing. After all, what's a simple peasant girl's life worth? They ignored whispers that it was the Enchantress stealing away the children to drain the girls of their time and beauty to keep herself young and immortal. But that was only a nightmare, a scary story to keep your little ones in bed. The Enchantress didn't exist, never did. The deaths were simply the result of bleeders, preying on the vulnerable, easy targets. That was, until now. Five months ago, Elara Ululo disappeared from her room in Espea. Two months later, Maren Sansano from Doissa vanished during a ride with her guards. And if that wasn't worrying enough━ three weeks ago, Allynna Demito of Celygus went missing while her own brother was keeping watch in her chambers. Fear had finally managed to settle within the Nobles; tormenting them with the very idea that whatever this thing was that had been tormenting the poor, unsightly villages might even consider taking one of them. Will you survive in Dolos, and discover the secret behind the kidnappings? Will you be one of the lucky ones; and keep your time and blood long enough to grow old? Or will you fall victim to the darkness that plagues the lands and watch your time run out? There's only one way to find out.

plot b : an element - inspired plot drawing from original canon

The country of Silvera is separated into five kingdoms. To the East, lay the airbenders and the Kingdom of Wista; ruled over by the noble Joralei. To the West, is the kingdom of Meririwen where the waterbenders live. The North is the home of the earthbenders in the kingdom of Brerith, while the South is home to Calere where the firebenders live. And at the very center of Silvera, lay the home of the spiritbenders: Setta. Since the beginning of Silvera's creation, the five kingdoms have been at peace. Working together to ensure that all of their country flourished. They even arranged marriages between their ruling families. But all that changed when the heir to Calere, Prince Tarron Magdithas, was found slaughtered in his bedroom a mere month before he was meant to wed Neia Helenen of Meririwen. The window was found open. Broken glass was found around his lifeless body, and dirt at the foot of his bed. King Aubron Magdithas, who's mental state was already fractured, completely shattered and he blamed all the other kingdoms for the death of his favorite child. He's declared war on the rest of Silvera and will not rest until those he blames responsible are but a pile of ash and Silvera is nothing more.

plot c : loosely inspired by ever after high , the children of the storybook heroes and villains must attend school together but murder and secrets threaten the peace attempted to be made

In the beginning, there were two warring countries: Atria and Tamion. They were separated by a treacherous mountain range over two thousand miles long, save a single pass no bigger than ten feet wide. It was a road very few dared to travel, and those that did; disappeared.

Tamion lay to the left of the mountain. A dark and dreary place where the wicked and proclaimed-villains were forced to live. The sun rarely shone, the lands were barren, and what little did grow was bitter and never enough. Smiles and happiness were foreign there, and as their magic could not work; they were forced to live in squalor. It was a well-known fact that anyone in Tamion was a monster of the most devious kind. You were never supposed to trust anyone from there, and if you were unfortunate enough to meet one, it might be the last thing you do.

To the right of the mountains lay the beautiful Atria. A bright, wonderful place by the sea where all the fairytale heroes lived out their happily-ever-after. Things were storybook perfect there, with bountiful harvests, balls nearly every weekend and not a care in the world. Thoughts rarely strayed to their neighbors to the east, and if they did, it was met with a chill and terror. Unlike their neighbors, no one ever got sick, went hungry, or longed for anything. If anyone from Atria showed up on your doorstep, you could breathe a sigh of relief for no one from there could be anything but kind and lovely.

The two countries went on with great unease for many years; each deciding to leave the other alone and do their best to forget.

Then the sickness came. In less than a day, the fields in Atrion withered to dust. Within a month, their people had gone through the stores and were starving. Their closest trading partner would takes weeks to send assistance, and even what they could send wouldn’t be enough. The greatest minds came together, wizards and godmothers and fairies from all over Atrion tried their best, attempted to come up with any cure to the sickness that plagued their land to no avail.

They were lost. Until the Snow Queen spoke up with a dreadful suggestion. A Queen from Tamion known as Grimhilde, had a known proclivity for potions, curses, and poisons. She could provide an answer, and maybe even a curse, from the terrible infection that was one the verge of obliterating their kingdom.

Very few supported her proposed plan, saying that if anyone from Tamion knew just how weak Atria was, they could attack and win. But still the Snow Queen insisted, reminding their council that they could either keep their pride and cost their citizens their lives, or they could be the rulers their people thought they were, and ask for help. Even if it was from Tamion.

Lengthy discussions were had, plans drawn and ignored, before finally they all relented and their five most powerful, skilled rulers embarked on the journey to Tamion.

It took almost two weeks of meetings with Grimhilde to even consider helping Atria, for her hatred for the little princess who banished her and stole away the kingdom that was rightfully hers, had grown with every passing year. Yet eventually, with the promise of making things right by all those in Tamion, she consented to lend her skills.

But only for a price. Grimhilde wanted a chance at a fair life for her unborn babe; that none of Grimhilde’s sins would counted against the child. Or any of the children born in Tamion, for they were innocent of their parent’s misdeeds.

That night several deals were struck. Atrion would allow for Tamion to be one of their trading partners, and allow for a section of the mountain range to be removed so that they could reach the sea and sun themselves. Tamion would pledge to never engage in war with Atria, and come to their aid should they ever be in need. In addition, a place would built for both the children of Tamion and Atria, where they would all receive and equal education and then decide where they wished to live.

But perhaps the most important part, was the one Grimhilde arranged to ensure that Atria kept their end of their bargain. Eight children, each a child from the rulers of Atria, no matter if they were already born, was to marry a child from a ruler in Tamion. An attempt at peace, hoping that one day the two countries may become one and return them to true power.

They accepted, but only on the condition that the children were not to learn of their betrothals until they left T’Atria. Satisfied, Grimhilde provided a solution the next day, and within a week, Atria returned to its flourishing state.

As promised, they began construction on the promised school with help from both sides. It was built on top of the mountain range, ensuring that it was truly neutral and fell under neither’s reign. Named T’Atria, it was the most beautiful creation either country had ever seen and the children couldn’t wait to attend.

It was all anyone could talk about, and finally, it opened and it was unlike anything anyone had ever seen. Barriers broken, no one seemed to care about who came from where or who’s parents did what. They went off exploring and meeting each other, claiming others as friends and taking them with them as they took in everything T’Atria had in store.

For an entire season, it was nothing but excitement. A new adventure awaiting them every day.

But as anyone from Tamion could have told you, nothing good lasts forever.

Princess Rose of Escarla was the first to discover the gruesome sight the morning after the winter solstice, her screams so loud they woke everyone in the school. At the base of the main staircase lay Princess Aoife of Llyr; her body so badly beaten it was near impossible to identify her at first. And if that wasn’t horrifying enough, a message was written on the wall behind her in her blood; warning that this was only the beginning.

It’s been a week since her body was found, and the students are trying their best to move on. There’s too much as stake for them to just return home, too much risk.

But the threat of this murderer still being out there looms of the them, dark as the sky of Tamion. Will this mystery killer claim another victim? Will war break out when their parents learn of this treachery? What could have brought this on?

Join us, and find out exactly what happens after, happily ever after.

#rph #rpt #medieval rp #period rp #rpc #i want to do all of these eventually #but i want to know which one sounds more exciting tbh #and hopefully get some help running them to #because these do not seem like easy ones to run #artemis speaks #tw blood #tw death #tw murder

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ibtk · 3 years

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Book Review: OUTLAWED by Anna North (2021)

(Full disclosure: I received a free e-ARC for review through Netgalley. Trigger warning for mental illness, homophobia, misogyny, and rape. Caution: there are vague spoilers ahead!)

In the year of our Lord 1894, I became an outlaw. Like a lot of things, it didn’t happen all at once. First I had to get married.

“When someone believes in something,” Mama said, “you can’t just take it away. You have to give them something to replace it."

“We may be barren in body, dear Doctor, but we shall be fathers of many nations, fathers and mothers both. You see, when we found this land, I knew it was promised not just for us, but for the descendants of our minds and hearts, all those cast out of their homes and banished by their families, all those slandered and maligned, imprisoned and abused, for no crime but that God saw fit not to plant children in their wombs. I knew that we would build a nation of the dispossessed, where we would be not barren women, but kings.”

The eldest of a midwife's four daughters, and her mother's apprentice at that, seventeen-year-old Ada Magnusson is more scientifically-minded than most in the small town of Fairchild. Yet she's still subject to their superstitions, which are turned on Ada in full force when she fails to become pregnant after a year of marriage. Things go from bad to worse when an outbreak of the German measles results in three miscarriages. The people of Fairchild need someone to blame - and Ada has become their newest witch.

Ada's mom sends her off to a convent, the Sisters of the Holy Child, which is mostly populated by barren women like herself. It is here that Ada begins her life of crime, copying illicit books in the storeroom under the library in exchange for coins to spend on yet more books. Ada is determined to unlock the secrets of her "treacherous" body - to find out why some women are incapable of bearing children - so that she may save other unlucky women from ostracism, jail, or the gallows.

It's here that she learns of Mrs. Alice Schaeffer, a doctor studying infertility, and her call for research subjects in the west. But in place of Pagosa Springs, the Mother Superior gives Ada a choice: the habit or the Hole in the Wall. Ada chooses the latter, a notorious gang of outlaws led by the Kid, " a man tall as a pine tree and as strong as a grizzly bear, who once shot a deputy’s hat off his head while riding backward on his horse."

The Hole in the Wall Gang is not what Ada expected: a seven-member found family of "deviant" women (some of them queer, and arguably nonbinary), all cast off from society like Ada. Here Ada - christened "the Doctor" - finds a tenuous sort of kinship, even as she longs for Mrs. Schaeffer's promise of knowledge. But the Gang is always a few botched jobs away from starvation, even as the Kid's grand dreams threaten to steer them towards implosion.

The world created by Anna North in OUTLAWED is fascinating, at once both wholly familiar and eerily strange - almost like an Uncanny Valley of space and place. The book feels like historical fiction but is really alternative history: in this version of the American West, a Great Flu ravaged the country in the 1830s, killing 9 out of 10 men, women, and children.

The new Christianity that rose out of the wreckage celebrates fertility: women are encouraged to have as many children as possible, and doing so grants them "special" rights. For example, a woman may divorce her husband after having three children, and a woman with four children is practically unimpeachable. Premarital sex isn't necessarily a bad thing - but if you run around with a guy for long enough without becoming pregnant, your barrenness (not your promiscuity) will become the grist of rumor mills.

This obsession with BABIES! and women's bodies is all downsides, of course: being childfree is not a valid lifestyle choice, and women who don't have kids are branded as witches. And of course, abortion is illegal - even in cases of rape and incest.

OUTLAWED feels a bit like a Western spin on THE HANDMAID'S TALE, save for these little details; it's rather disconcerting, like everything is off by four or five degrees, and the ground is all wibbly wobbling under you. And I kind of love it. The setting is its own character.

I also adore the Hole in the Wall Gang - no surprise there! - the dynamics of which are messy and complex and wonderful. The Kid, Cassie, Elzy, Texas, Lo, News, Agnes Rose - if I was going to take on the white supremacist patriarchy, I'd want them by my side.

The big score - aka the Kid's plan to rob the Fiddleback bank and then use the proceeds to buy the whole gorram town - is as daring as it is full of holes, but damned if I wasn't rooting for it. And while it doesn't go down quite like in the Kid's imagination, the ending is so much more grounded and inspiring than I might have hoped for. (I started 2021 with a new RGB calendar, and January's quote seems apropos: "Fight for the things that you care about, but do it in a way that will lead others to join you.")

OUTLAWED is an odd, unexpected, thoughtful, heartfelt feminist tale about trying to make the world a better place - even as tries its damnedest to grind you down. So, like, the kind of story we need now more than ever.

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/3727120876

https://www.librarything.com/work/25210685/reviews/187450275

#books #reviews #anna north #outlawed #feminist #western #aternative history #historical fiction #lgbtq

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monsterywriting · 4 years

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Demon Boyfriend (Dirrath) - pt 9

Read Part 1 Here

Read previous part here

word count: 2,560

...

“Hold this to the wound! She’s bleeding out…”

Your eyelids fluttered as you struggled to stay conscious, feeling numb despite knowing you had been stabbed. You could hear someone respond to the strangely clear voice you heard before, but couldn’t make out what they were saying exactly.

“Stand back. We don’t have long before the sedative wears off so we’ll have to be quick.”

“Mother?” You wheezed, certain you could hear her giving you instructions but unable to focus on anything in the room.

“Shit, she’s still up, hurry up and give her another dose or something!”

You felt a sharp pinch in your neck before your vision began to swim with black, your eyes lolling back and your body going completely limp as you blacked out fully.

...

You woke again with a start when you felt someone lift the hem of your shirt, your hand flying up from your side to grab their wrist before even opening your eyes.

Standing over you was an elven woman in a long white smock, her surprised expression quickly melting into a determined one as she took your hand off of her and continued to study your stomach.

“Who are you?” You ask, but make no move to interrupt her examination.

“I will have to change your bandages,” She ignored your question, and as your own surprise at the encounter subsided, you began to feel the dull throb that worked its way through your lower abdomen.

After helping you sit up and unraveling the strip of cloth around your wound, the woman finally answered your question, “I’m the royal physician, Myanthe.”

You didn’t reply, instead examining the room you were in. You were obviously still in Roquechade’s castle, if the ostentatious design choices were anything to go by. It was similar to your room in Roquechade’s castle, with a bed and matching sofas and armchairs filling the empty space. However, various shelves lined the edges of the room filled with strange devices and jars of unknown substances and herbs, more similar to the infirmary back at the castle in Altruria. You guessed a physician was a type of healer.

You hissed in pain and turned back to Myanthe as she pulled off the bandages stuck to your wound and threw the russet stained bundle of cloth on a metal table behind her.

You examined the wound yourself, initially startled by the green tinge to the wound and surrounding skin before realizing it wasn’t infection, likely just a stain from whatever salve the physician used. Your muscles tensed as Myanthe pressed a wet rag to the skin around your wound, the green color running with the water as you suspected.

Once the wound was clean, you could see thick black stitches holding the edges together.

“It doesn’t appear too serious,” you hummed, feeling around your back before moving your hand to the stitches themselves, “The sword didn’t go completely through, and the fact that I’m already conscious means he didn’t slice through anything too important. I would’ve sewn animal thread underneath but the top layer is decent. Without magic they can be removed in two weeks and I should be fine to ride in one of the wagons until we reach the border…”

Myanthe appeared surprised once again as you appraised your wound, her ears perking upwards as she listened to you, though you didn’t blame her. You had quickly learned in your single evening among the local royalty that “princesses” in the outside world were a far cry from what you were used to. Every servant you’d encountered thus far expected you to be as completely dependent on them for every basic task as the royal family.

“You’re right, but with this,” Myanthe paused as she grabbed a wooden bowl from the table behind her and scooped out a dark paste with her fingers, immediately slathering it on the wound, “The wound should heal a bit quicker.”

You cursed loudly at the sudden burning sensation as the paste touched the raw skin, a pulsating feeling emanating from wherever it touched. Your face twisted in pain but you managed not to flinch as Myanthe continued to spread the substance around.

“The sayerba may not be as fast as the magic of your home country, but it’s the best we have here,” Myanthe washed her hands in a metal basin before drying them with the front of her smock, grabbing a new roll of bandages and beginning to wrap them tightly around you, “so try not to move around too much.”

You make no argument while the physician tied off the end of the bandages at your side, pulling down your shirt as Myanthe disposed of the bloody bandages in a metal container.

“Are you ready for visitors?” Myanthe asked you, “The king wished to speak to you once you woke up and your guard has been pestering me about your condition all morning.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” You nodded, surprised when she immediately walked out and called for Roquechade to come in.

Roquechade walked in, a somber expression on his face and guilt flashing in his eyes as he met your gaze.

Olek was close behind him, the relief evident in his face as he stood guard silently by the door.

“I’m glad to see you well so soon, princess,” Roquechade said, sounding exhausted, “I apologize on behalf of my son. His actions were… foolish.”

“I wouldn’t call them foolish, Roquechade. Manipulative or treacherous, perhaps,” you said, in too much pain for politeness, “Where is Silais?”

Roquechade sighed, looking much older than he had seemed just the night before at the banquet, “He is being held in his room. Under heavy guard, off course.”

“I take it you plan for that to be the extent of his punishment?” You scoff, unable to believe that Silais wasn’t in the dungeons. Or already dead.

“Please understand, princess, he is my son,” Roquechade half pleaded, but you found it hard to feel sorry about your bluntness, “I offer my sincerest apologies for his actions, but to end my own son’s life…”

You decided against pointing out the fact that the prince effectively put his entire family’s lives at risk in trying to kill you, the inevitable war that your death would have caused apparently worth whatever Silais’ end goal was. However, another idea formed in your mind, and your mouth opened before you could think twice.

“I will not push the matter of punishment,” you paused after the statement, both Roquechade and Olek looking at you in shock, “if you accept the High Queen’s proposed changes for the old trade agreement.”

You in no way expected the king to agree to such extreme terms without further negotiations. However, you decided you may as well benefit from the situation at hand, if only to wipe your hands of this godsforsaken kingdom and return to Altruria.

Even if Roquechade didn’t agree to your request, at the very least his guilt would make for a fairly decent starting point. And while you by no means held the power to call for a war, Silais’ actions were more than enough to incite one if the High Queen were to learn of them.

Roquechade looked anguished as he mulled over your offer, clearly weighing his options. Just as you began to grow anxious that he would take offense to the thinly veiled blackmail, the king sighed once again, deflating as he sank into one of the room’s many armchairs.

“I’ll have the contract drawn up today,” he said with a nod, slowly standing, and it took all you could not to let your jaw drop.

Olek looked similarly shocked, but neither one of you said anything as you waited for the king to break his serious expression and tell you that it was just a joke.

“I wish you a speedy recovery,” Roquechade bowed and hurriedly made his leave, leaving you and Olek in stunned silence.

“Gods above and below,” you let out a breathy laugh in disbelief, unable to contain your giddiness at your change of fortune, “I should be nearly assassinated more often.”

“Please don’t joke of such things, Princess,” Olek scolded, earning an eye roll from you.

“Where’s Dirrath?” You decided to change the subject, noting how Olek suddenly appeared nervous at your question.

“He helped carry you to the infirmary, but unfortunately he disappeared shortly after your condition stabilized, Princess.”

“Good,” you sank into your pillow and sighed in relief, “He can’t complain I didn’t hold up my end of our deal. We’re leaving to Altruria as soon as this trade business is done and these stitches are out.”

“You made a deal with-?” Before Olek could open that can of worms, you were saved by Myanthe popping her head back into the room, her ears twitching as she realized Olek was in the room.

“The princess needs to rest now,” she said, waiting for Olek to leave the room before entering fully with a servant carrying tray of food.

While you were grateful at first for the convenient save from Olek’s questioning, you soon realized you were far from tired, itching to get up and move around after hours of laying down. Once you finished your dinner, you found yourself incredibly bored

There wasn’t much you could do, however, as you body made it abundantly clear it wouldn’t tolerate you getting up, much less walk around the room. It would be a while yet before you could get up without risk of tearing your wound wide open, and you had dealt with plenty of patients who never listened to your mother’s orders for bedrest. But now that you were on the receiving end of those very same orders, you could see the temptation

After a few hours passed consisting solely of you tossing and turning in the bed after multiple failed attempts to fall asleep, you decided you simply had to get up, your only source of light the moon’s entering from the windows.

Your sheer determination won over your stab wound, slowly making your way to the windowsill, your joints still somewhat stiff from being still for so long. Just as your awkward shuffle improved to a more normal gait as you grew more confident that you wouldn’t tear your stitches, you heard the quiet click of the room door being opened.

You stood completely still, half expecting Myanthe to scold you for completely ignoring her orders. Instead, as you turned around, Dirrath was standing at the doorway, looking just as shocked to see you as you were to see him.

“I was under the assumption that you were still bedridden,” Dirrath said stiffly, remaining at the entrance of your room. You immediately noticed that Dirrath was back in his human form, though you don’t remember putting the glamor back up.

“And I was under the assumption that you were long gone,” you retorted, motioning for Dirrath to enter the bedroom, “Hurry up, I’m not supposed to have any visitors.”

The demon stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, though you paid him no mind as you made your way to one of the loveseats in across from him and collapsed into it.

“If you’re here to try and say I somehow didn’t hold up my end of the deal, don’t bother,” you warned, too drained from you cross-room excursion to put the bite behind your words you wanted, “Olek already told me they couldn’t find you after I was taken to Myanthe, so it isn’t my fault if you didn’t take escape then!”

Dirrath stared at you for a moment in confusion, his nose crinkling slightly as his lip curled into a slight sneer, “No, that deal is done. But earlier, you were able to do something no one else has and I need to know if you can do again.”

“And that would be what, exactly?”

“Take off my glamor.”

You blinked slowly, digesting Dirrath’s answer, though it came across as more of a demand. Dirrath was no longer awkwardly standing, his eyes boring into your own with determination.

“The High Queen took off your glamor before,” you said finally, deciding to play dumb to the fact that there had definitely been a difference when you took off Dirrath’s glamor. The two forms had been entirely different, the demon appearing much more beastly last night than he had months ago. And Dirrath just all but confirmed to you that it wasn’t a trick of your memory.

Just as Dirrath pointed out, you had no obligation to help him since your original deal was over. And he was a demon after all, the probability that he had some heinous plans for his true form was high. However, the desperate way in which Dirrath looked at you made you hesitate before immediately turning him away. It wasn’t a dangerous type of desperation, at least, for the moment, but there was a sense of… hope?

Besides, you reasoned, it was only getting rid of a glamor. That is purely a cosmetic change, likely the result of whatever magic user who summoned him forcing Dirrath to appear human.

“Alright.”

“Alright?” The disbelief that coated Dirrath’s tone was almost enough to make you laugh, if the pure look of relief that fell over his face wasn’t too bust pulling at your heartstrings. You blamed your weakened physical state for your newfound sentimentality.

You nodded, “Sure, just get rid of this pesky wound for me and you’ll be… furry again in no time.”

“I… can’t” Dirrath sighed, frustration flashing across his features.

“What do you mean you can’t?” You snapped, “You healed me just fine after the bandit attack before.”

“I can’t heal physical wounds,” Dirrath snapped back at you, “Your wounds then were from using magic. You still had all your other scrapes and bruises afterwards”

Thinking back, you realized what Dirrath told you was true, though you remained annoyed.

“Fine. Then you can just be my nurse until I can use magic again,” you smirked, fully intending to drive Dirrath crazy as a patient, if only as punishment for not being useful.

“What the hell is a nurse?” Dirrath grunted, eyeing you suspiciously.

“They’re apparently physicians’ assistants. Myanthe told me the castle is currently shorthanded on them,” your smirk grew into a full on shit-eating grin as you saw the inner conflict behind Dirrath’s eyes.

Finally, just as you were about to rescind your offer and think of something else to get in return for helping the demon, Dirrath began to nod slowly, exhaling through his nose in exasperation.

“As humiliating as it may be… I agree to your terms,” Dirrath’s voice took on a warning tone, “but if you can’t get rid of the glamor I will end your miserable mortal life myself.”

The corners of the demon’s mouth ticked upward as you tried and failed to contain your excitement, though your expression quickly twisting into a grimace at the sudden strain on your wound. Once you finally regained your composure, Dirrath held out his hand, a clear signal for you to seal your abrupt deal.

After a moment’s hesitation, briefly wondering one last time how wise it would be to help a demon, you reached out and took Dirrath’s hand in a firm shake.

You’ve gotten this far, too late to go back now.

#exophilia #monster boyfriend #reader insert #demon boyfriend

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thestreamofconsciousness777 · 3 years

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The desire of the meek ones you will certainly hear, O Jehovah. You will prepare their heart. You will pay attention with your ear, to judge the fatherless boy and the crushed one, that mortal man who is of the earth may no more cause trembling...

“The sin of Judah is written down with an iron stylus. With a diamond point it is engraved on the tablet of their heart, and on the horns of their altars, when their sons remember their altars and their sacred poles beside a luxuriant tree, upon the high hills, [on] the mountains in the field. Your resources, all your treasures, I shall give for mere plunder—your high places because of sin throughout all your territories. And you let loose, even of your own accord, from your hereditary possession that I had given you. I also will make you serve your enemies in the land that you have not known; for as a fire YOU people have been ignited in my anger. To time indefinite it will keep kindled.”

This is what Jehovah has said: “Cursed is the able-bodied man who puts his trust in earthling man and actually makes flesh his arm, and whose heart turns away from Jehovah himself. And he will certainly become like a solitary tree in the desert plain and will not see when good comes; but he must reside in parched places in the wilderness, in a salt country that is not inhabited. Blessed is the able-bodied man who puts his trust in Jehovah, and whose confidence Jehovah has become. And he will certainly become like a tree planted by the waters, that sends out its roots right by the watercourse; and he will not see when heat comes, but his foliage will actually prove to be luxuriant. And in the year of drought he will not become anxious, nor will he leave off from producing fruit.

“The heart is more treacherous than anything else and is desperate. Who can know it? I, Jehovah, am searching the heart, examining the kidneys, even to give to each one according to his ways, according to the fruitage of his dealings. [As] the partridge that has gathered together what it has not laid is the one making riches, but not with justice. At the half of his days he will leave them, and in his finale he will prove to be senseless.”

There is the glorious throne on high from the start; it is the place of our sanctuary. O Jehovah, the hope of Israel, all those who are leaving you will be put to shame. Those apostatizing from me will be written down even in the earth, because they have left the source of living water, Jehovah. Heal me, O Jehovah, and I shall be healed. Save me, and I will be saved; for you are my praise.

Look! There are those saying to me: “Where is the word of Jehovah? Let it come in, please.” But as for me, I did not hasten from being a shepherd following you, and for the desperate day I did not show any craving. You yourself have known the expression of my lips; in front of your face it has occurred. Do not become something terrifying to me. You are my refuge in the day of calamity. Let my persecutors be put to shame, but let me personally be put to no shame. Let them be the ones to be struck with terror, but let me personally not be struck with terror. Bring upon them the day of calamity, and break them even with twice as much breakdown.

This is what Jehovah has said to me: “Go, and you must stand in the gate of the sons of the people by which the kings of Judah enter in and by which they go out, and in all the gates of Jerusalem. And you must say to them, ‘Hear the word of Jehovah, YOU kings of Judah and all Judah and all YOU inhabitants of Jerusalem, who are entering in by these gates. This is what Jehovah has said: “Watch out for YOUR souls, and do not carry on the sabbath day any load that YOU must bring in through the gates of Jerusalem. And YOU must bring no load out of YOUR homes on the sabbath day; and no work at all must YOU do. And YOU must sanctify the sabbath day, just as I commanded YOUR forefathers; but they did not listen or incline their ear, and they proceeded to harden their neck in order not to hear and in order to receive no discipline.”’

“‘“And it must occur that, if YOU strictly obey me,” is the utterance of Jehovah, “to bring in no load through the gates of this city on the sabbath day and to sanctify the sabbath day by not doing on it any work, there will also certainly enter in by the gates of this city kings with princes, sitting on the throne of David, riding in the chariot and upon horses, they and their princes, the men of Judah and the inhabitants of Jerusalem; and this city will certainly be inhabited to time indefinite. And people will actually come from the cities of Judah and from round about Jerusalem and from the land of Benjamin and from the lowland and from the mountainous region and from the Neg’eb, bringing whole burnt offering and sacrifice and grain offering and frankincense and bringing thanksgiving sacrifice into the house of Jehovah.

“‘“But if YOU will not obey me by sanctifying the sabbath day and not carrying a load, but there is a coming in [with it] through the gates of Jerusalem on the sabbath day, I will also set a fire ablaze in her gates, and it will certainly devour the dwelling towers of Jerusalem and will not be extinguished.”’”

And Jehovah proceeded to say to me: “If Moses and Samuel were standing before me, my soul would not be toward this people. There would be a sending of them away from before my face, that they might go out. And it must occur that should they say to you, ‘Where shall we go out to?’ you must also say to them, ‘This is what Jehovah has said: “Whoever is for deadly plague, to deadly plague! And whoever is for the sword, to the sword! And whoever is for the famine, to the famine! And whoever is for the captivity, to the captivity!”’

“‘And I will commission over them four families,’ is the utterance of Jehovah, ‘the sword to kill, and the dogs to drag away, and the flying creatures of the heavens and the beasts of the earth to eat and to bring to ruin. And I will give them for a quaking to all the kingdoms of the earth on account of Ma·nas’seh the son of Hez·e·ki’ah, the king of Judah, for what he did in Jerusalem. For who will show compassion upon you, O Jerusalem, and who will sympathize with you, and who will turn aside to ask about your welfare?’

“‘You yourself have deserted me,’ is the utterance of Jehovah. ‘Backwards is the way you keep walking. And I shall stretch out my hand against you and bring you to ruin. I have got tired of feeling regret. And I shall winnow them with a fork in the gates of the land. I shall certainly bereave [them] of children. I will destroy my people, [since] they have not turned back from their own ways. To me their widows have become more numerous than the sand grains of the seas. I will bring for them, upon mother, young man, the despoiler at midday. I will cause to fall upon them suddenly excitement and disturbances. The woman giving birth to seven has faded away; her soul has struggled for breath. Her sun has set while it is yet day; it has become ashamed and felt abashed.’ ‘And to the sword I shall give the mere remnant of them before their enemies,’ is the utterance of Jehovah.”

Woe to me, O my mother, because you have given birth to me, a man subject to quarrel and a man subject to strife with all the earth. I have given no loan, and they have given me no loan. All of them are calling down evil upon me.

Jehovah has said: “Surely I will minister to you for good. Surely I will intercede for you in the time of calamity and in the time of distress, against the enemy. Can one break iron in pieces, iron out of the north, and copper? Your resources and your treasures I shall give for mere plunder, not for a price, but for all your sins, even in all your territories. And I will cause [them] to pass over with your enemies into a land that you have not known. For a fire itself has been ignited in my anger. Against YOU people it is kindled.”

You yourself have known. O Jehovah, remember me and turn your attention to me and avenge me upon my persecutors. In your slowness to anger do not take me away. Take note of my bearing reproach on account of your own self. Your words were found, and I proceeded to eat them; and your word becomes to me the exultation and the rejoicing of my heart; for your name has been called upon me, O Jehovah God of armies. I have not sat down in the intimate group of those playing jokes and begun exulting. Because of your hand I have sat down all by myself, for it is with denunciation that you have filled me. Why has my pain become chronic and my stroke incurable? It has refused to be healed. You positively become to me like something deceitful, like waters that have proved untrustworthy.

Therefore this is what Jehovah has said: “If you will come back, then I shall bring you back. Before me you will stand. And if you will bring forth what is precious from valueless things, you will become like my own mouth. They themselves will come back to you, but you yourself will not come back to them.”

“And I have made you to this people a fortified copper wall; and they will certainly fight against you, but they will not prevail over you. For I am with you, to save you and to deliver you” is the utterance of Jehovah. “And I will deliver you out of the hand of the bad ones, and I will redeem you out of the palm of the tyrannical ones.”

And the word of Jehovah continued to occur to me, saying: “You must not take for yourself a wife, and you must not come to have sons and daughters in this place. For this is what Jehovah has said concerning the sons and concerning the daughters that are born in this place, and concerning their mothers who are giving them birth and concerning their fathers who are causing their birth in this land, ‘With deaths from maladies they will die. They will not be bewailed, neither will they be buried. As manure upon the surface of the ground they will become; and by the sword and by famine they will come to an end, and their dead bodies will actually serve as food for the flying creatures of the heavens and for the beasts of the earth.’

“For this is what Jehovah has said, ‘Do not enter into the house of a mourners’ feast, and do not go to bewail and do not sympathize with them.’

“‘For I have taken away my peace from this people,’ is the utterance of Jehovah, ‘even loving-kindness and mercies. And they will certainly die, the great ones and the small ones, in this land. They will not be buried, neither will people beat themselves for them, nor will anyone make cuts upon himself or make himself bald for them. And they will not deal out to them any bread on account of mourning to comfort someone over the dead; neither will they give them the cup of consolation to drink on account of one’s father and on account of one’s mother. And you must enter no house of banqueting at all to sit down with them to eat and to drink.’

“For this is what Jehovah of armies, the God of Israel, has said, ‘Here I am causing to cease out of this place before the eyes of YOU people and in YOUR days the voice of exultation and the voice of rejoicing, the voice of the bridegroom and the voice of the bride.’

“And it must occur that, when you tell to this people all these words and they actually say to you, ‘On what account has Jehovah spoken against us all this great calamity, and what is our error and what is our sin with which we have sinned against Jehovah our God?’ you must also say to them, ‘“On account of the fact that YOUR fathers left me,” is the utterance of Jehovah, “and they kept going after other gods and serving them and bowing down to them. But me they left, and my law they did not keep. And YOU yourselves have acted worse in YOUR doing than YOUR fathers, and here YOU are walking each one after the stubbornness of his bad heart in not obeying me. And I will hurl YOU out from off this land into the land that YOU yourselves have not known, neither YOUR fathers, and there YOU will have to serve other gods day and night, because I shall not give YOU any favor.”’

“‘Therefore, look! days are coming,’ is the utterance of Jehovah, ‘when it will no more be said: “As Jehovah is alive who brought the sons of Israel up out of the land of Egypt!” but: “As Jehovah is alive who brought the sons of Israel up out of the land of the north and out of all the lands to which he had dispersed them!” and I shall certainly bring them back to their soil, which I gave to their forefathers.’

“‘Here I am sending for many fishers,’ is the utterance of Jehovah, ‘and they will certainly fish for them; and afterward I shall send for many hunters, and they will certainly hunt them from every mountain and from every hill and out of the clefts of the crags. For my eyes are upon all their ways. They have not been concealed from before me, neither has their error been hid from in front of my eyes. And, first of all, I will repay the full amount of their error and of their sin, on account of their profaning my land. With the corpses of their disgusting things and their detestable things they had filled my inheritance.’”

O Jehovah my strength and my stronghold, and my place for flight in the day of distress, to you the nations themselves will come from the ends of the earth, and they will say: “Indeed our forefathers came to possess sheer falsehood, vanity and things in which there was nothing beneficial.” Can earthling man make for himself gods when they are no gods?

“Therefore here I am causing them to know; at this one time I shall cause them to know my hand and my mightiness, and they will have to know that my name is Jehovah.”

Jeremiah 17 & 15-16, NWT

MY EYES ARE UPON ALL THEIR WAYS: More Corpses of Their Disgusting Things

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unpeumacabre · 4 years

Text

my kingdom for a horse: chapter 8

the year is 1601, a messenger has been sent to dongnae, and he has not returned. lord cho-hak-ju advises the joseon king to send crown prince lee chang to dongnae to investigate, but the plot he unravels there threatens the safety of the entire kingdom, and the stability of the dynasty.

a rewriting of kingdom, and lee chang finds love.

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Lee Chang/Yeong-shin

Read on AO3 (bc tumblr might mess up the formatting + more extensive author’s notes on the story)

Count: 1k

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“This is my father,” Lee Chang says, with finality. “He was once one of the greatest kings Joseon ever knew, but now he has been reduced to something less than human – a treacherous feat carried out by none other than the woman you see standing before you!”

The monster thrashes in its bindings, spittle flying and its jaw – dislocated by its overenthusiastic struggles – hanging grotesquely and rattling with every violent movement it makes. Blood drips from its blackened skin and its eyes, unseeing, roll and dart from side to side.

It makes for a truly unnerving sight, and again Lee Chang feels his heart clench at the sight of his regal father reduced to such a pitiful figure.

“Arrest the queen!” cries one of the ministers from behind him. Lee Chang turns at the familiar voice, and nods in approval as he catches the eye of the Minister of War - a man who had been kind to him in his youth, and who had been tacitly in support of his initial plans to stage a coup for the throne.

The Commander moves forward to take her into custody, but immediately she springs into action, drawing a sword from behind her and hefting it aloft. Although Lee Chang has never before seen her don a weapon, she holds it with a reckless confidence that speaks of her desperation and fury. Instinctually he starts forward as the baby begins to fall from her other arm, but she catches herself and manages to return the bundle of cloth back to her hip. The baby, jostled awake, begins to howl its anger and dissatisfaction.

“Step back!” she shrieks. “Step back! Or I will kill this child!”

Commander Min continues forward, but Lee Chang makes a slicing motion with his hand, and with a side glance at him, the man stops.

“It is not a child of the royal line!” protests one of the officials. “What does its life matter?”

“What do you mean by that!” thunders Lee Chang. “Every life is a life worth saving. It means nothing that it is not of the royal line. It is still a living child!”

The queen laughs, a chilling sound that is dissonant with the sound of the baby’s infuriated cries.

“My father said it would be easy to kill you,” she says, “and he was right. You’re nothing more than a spineless fool caught up in your conceptions of morality. You should’ve just died at the hands of the monsters.”

“Let the child go,” Lee Chang calls desperately, but at the same time, his hand closes over Yeong-shin’s wrist.

Yeong-shin does not say anything, but a small sigh escapes through his teeth.

Lee Chang continues to talk, his eyes trained on the baby in her arms. “He is an innocent child,” he says. “He has no part in our fight. Let him go.”

“You are truly a fool if you think your words can sway me,” she laughs coldly, and takes another step back. She is almost to the door at the back of the audience chamber. “The child’s life matters not to me. It is not even my child. And even if it were - ”

She never gets to finish her sentence, for at that moment, Yeong-shin’s sword slashes through the bindings holding the monster-who-was-king, and he gives a mighty shove to its back, throwing it halfway across the room towards the queen. Instantly, Lee Chang leaps forward. His blade sings as it leaves its sheath.

The queen shrieks as the monster descends on her. She makes a pass at its neck with her sword, but the blow glances off the many metal accessories adorning its clothes, and she howls in pain as she twists her wrist.

Lee Chang rips the baby from her hands and brings his sword down decisively on the monster’s neck. It severs his head, and both parts of its body fall onto the ground with a soft thud.

Blood drips from his sword and stains the pristine soles of the queen’s socks. She is covered in it, covered in the blood and offal of her former husband, and Lee Chang thinks it is poetic in a way.

The monster had bitten into her leg before he had managed to kill it, numerous large merciless bites which had torn flesh from her waif-like legs and left white bone gleaming in the muted lamplight. It will be a painful death, he knows, even if she is treated, for the wounds will fester and spread infection to the rest of her body. His hand tightens on the handle of his sword.

“This is the last favour I grant to you,” he says quietly. “On the basis that you once were my father’s bride, and once my supposed mother.” And he lifts his blade once more.

***

Later, days later, when the bodies have been disposed of and the surroundings thoroughly scrubbed over by the palace maids, Lee Chang stands before the throne.

“It is yours, Your Highness,” says the Minister of War, his voice respectful.

“Thank you,” Lee Chang answers, but still he hesitates.

Somehow he had always imagined that he would ascend to the throne in rather a different way. Had always thought that, when the time came for him to take his rightful seat, it would have been to fanfare and the enthusiastic cheers of his new subjects. But now – he stands only recently exonerated from murder, covered in the blood of his father and false-mother, and the deaths of a hundred others on his hands.

Then again – no one could have predicted this turn of events, could they?

He has never doubted that he would make a good king. Not until today, this moment in time. It is ironic, he supposes, that it was only in his overconfident youth that he had thought himself on top of the world, and now that he has been baptised through blood and fire, he has lost that confidence in himself.

Suddenly he feels warmth at his back, and Yeong-shin is there behind him. He does not say a word, and he does not touch Lee Chang, but his very presence calms him. Lee Chang turns, only slightly, so that he can see Yeong-shin’s face out of the corner of his eye.

Yeong-shin’s gaze is intent on his, and in his eyes there is only Lee Chang’s reflection.

“You give me courage,” Lee Chang says softly, so softly that none other but Yeong-shin would be able to hear. “You are willing to die for me, to follow me to the ends of the earth, and somehow that does not bring me fear – but courage.”

Yeong-shin’s eyes gentle infinitesimally, and the corner of his mouth tips upwards. It is the first time that Lee Chang has seen him smile.

He turns back to the throne, and squares his shoulders. It is his responsibility, his birth-right, and it is a role that he will not shirk – indeed, he will embrace it, as the duty he has dedicated his entire life towards fulfilling. And so he ascends the steps to the throne, and seats himself on the seat he has watched his father take, his entire life.

There is a heaviness that he had not realised his father carried, that descends upon him as he takes the throne. The weight of responsibility is a difficult one to bear indeed, he realises, as he looks out upon the assembled ministers, bowing and awaiting his next command. Yeong-shin, Mu-yeong and Seo-bi are the only ones still standing, for he has ordered them to refrain from kowtowing.

“Today, I take the throne as King Seonjo, from my father King Gongheon Heoneui Somun Gwangsuk Gyeonghyo the Great,” he says calmly. It is my honour to serve my people.”

“Long live the king,” the ministers chorus, and they bow, once, twice, thrice, four times. The sonorous, synchronous rustle of their clothes as they move echoes through the hall, and it is a solemn sound. Lee Chang inclines his head in acknowledgement of their gestures of fealty.

He is not properly king yet, he knows – that will have to wait for the official coronation, when he bids goodbye to his father’s tomb and makes his pledge to rule fairly and generously; but it is enough. Enough for him to begin to bring together the pieces of their broken country. Enough for him to thread his needle, and begin the arduous task of patching the seams back together.

The meeting passes quickly. First the Minister for Rites speaks of the need for a coronation, to unite the people behind the crowning of a new monarch and hopefully hide the disgraces of the Haewon Cho clan’s plots, behind a veneer of celebration. It is unanimously agreed upon that the event should be staged as soon as possible, to reduce potential uprisings in the absence of a king, and before rumours begin to spread about the happenings in the palace.

Then the Minister for Taxation raises the issue of the lost taxes from the south, given that their crops have been largely destroyed by rogue monsters from the plague trampling all over the fields, and livestock decimated by starving peasants. He openly suggests for taxes to be increased in the rest of the empire, to make up for lost income.

To that, Lee Chang does not even pay him the courtesy of his attention.

“Minister Han,” he says instead, coldly, icily, “taxes will not be raised, and that is the end of the matter.” He turns to the Minister for War.

“Minister Seong, we must send men to the south to eliminate the rest of the monsters, and safeguard what remaining food and resources the south has,” he continues. “How many men can we spare?”

Summarily dismissed, the Minister for Taxation shrinks into himself and withdraws. He will be someone to keep an eye on.

And so the meeting continues, in much the same manner. Many of Lord Cho’s cronies – and, indeed, many officials who had been loyal to his father as well – make frivolous suggestions about matters of little import, until Lee Chang feels like banging his head on the nearest pillar and committing suicide. Is this the glorious role he had envisioned himself taking on, his whole life? He had known kingship to be a tiresome job, oftentimes, from the strict words of his tutors, but in his memories his father had always ruled supreme over his officials.

It is only now that he realises that that control had been hard-won, and the officials’ respect well-earned.

It will be a long battle ahead of him, just to fight for recognition from the ministers, when most of them have not seen his achievements in the south, and think of him still as the spoiled man-child he had been when he had left Hanyang.

But, he thinks to himself, it is a battle that deserves fighting, and indeed, one he knows he will win.

The Minister for Rites steps forward, and prepares to raise one last issue. Lee Chang readies himself for another tedious spiel, possibly about building a statue of himself in the middle of Hanyang or remodelling the curtains in the East Wing of the palace or some other trivial matter like so, but he finds himself surprised.

“There is one last matter, Your Highness,” says the man gravely, with a facetious bow. “You must take a wife.”

Lee Chang turns his head, very slowly, and looks upon the Minister. He does not speak, and so the man takes it as his cue to continue.

“There must be a new heir to the throne, Your Highness. You are childless – if you don’t mind me saying – but the royal line must go on. May I offer – if my humble self could perhaps give a suggestion – I have a daughter, nine years your junior, and she is known to be one of the beauties of the capital. If Your Highness so pleases, it would be an honour to arrange a matchmaking session between your esteemed self and my humble daughter.”

“Your Highness!” calls another minister, and he comes forward with an equally pompous bow. “My daughter is twenty-two years this year, and therefore in the prime of her youth – it would be an honour for me to arrange the meeting between yourself and my humble daughter!”

“Your Highness - ”

“I do have an heir,” Lee Chang says quietly. Immediately, a wall of silence descends on the room, and the jaws of all the assembled officials drop. It would be a comical sight, if Lee Chang felt like laughing. But he does not.

Slowly, he rises from his seat, and surveys his audience.

“I have an heir,” he says again, solemnly. “It will be the child who was cruelly stolen from his mother’s breast by the former queen. The child has no mother, no father, and so I will take him to be mine.”

This decision he has made with no one else’s knowledge but Mu-yeong’s, and his wife’s. The boy will be in danger without his protection, for any former ally of the Haewon Cho clan could potentially use him to replace Lee Chang on the throne, by claiming his heritage as that of the queen’s. The proof they had provided of the queen’s misdeeds was, after all, largely circumstantial, and based mainly on the confessions derived from the residents of Naesonjae.

Furthermore, Lee Chang has vowed that never again will a clan other than the Lees control his kingdom. His father had eventually lost autonomy and his precious control over his power through his marriage to the Haewon Cho daughter. Marriage to a daughter from another powerful house is the last thing Lee Chang wants.

And so the three of them had agreed upon this plan. The child would never know who his true parents were, but Mu-yeong and his wife would care for the baby, and therefore be his family in all but name. In doing so, the child would have all the luxuries afforded to a prince of his station, and he would have a good life – far better than the one Mu-yeong and his wife could have given him, in their previous incarnations.

It is a good, solid plan. There are logical reasons behind it, and Lee Chang had deliberated extensively over it in the days leading up to today, before he had taken the throne. There is no reason why anyone would object.

Yet still he knows Yeong-shin will not agree to his plan, and therefore he had not asked him. Lee Chang knows this, sure as day, knows that his objection will be for the same reason why he had even thought of such an outlandish idea in the first place – for the real reason why he does not wish to marry.

He cannot stop himself from darting a glance towards Yeong-shin, to gauge his reaction, and indeed, it does not disappoint. There is a dark anger in Yeong-shin’s eyes, and a rosy flush suffusing his neck and cheeks. They will have words later, Lee Chang knows, but still, he will not change his mind – and he makes sure that the ministers realise this.

***

The outrage of the ministers when they had finally realised that Lee Chang would not budge on his decision is nothing compared to the fury of Yeong-shin, later when they are quietly in their quarters.

“What were you thinking?!” Yeong-shin cries. “Why would you decide such a thing?!” He paces up and down the room, agitation making his movements jerky and robbed of their usual grace. Lee Chang thinks of a tiger in a cage, champing at the bars of its prison, and yet unable to escape. Yeong-shin has a tiger living under his skin, and somehow, Lee Chang finds in himself the mad desire to unlock the cage and let the tiger free.

“Mu-yeong,” he says quietly, and the guard darts a worried glance over at him, from where he stands by the door, hand on the hilt of his sword, his body tense and ready for battle. “Please. Leave us alone.”

Mu-yeong opens his mouth to protest, but then he must see something in Lee Chang’s eyes, for he clamps his mouth shut. His eyes are burning with concern – not for Lee Chang’s life, for he knows Yeong-shin will not touch a hair on Lee Chang’s head – but for something else entirely. And it is that something else that makes him leave the room at last.

They are alone in the room, now, and the candle is burning low on its wick. The incense burner suffuses the room with a thick, heady fragrance, and perhaps it is its influence that is making Lee Chang giddy – or perhaps not. He does not know.

“Yeong-shin,” he murmurs, and Yeong-shin stops abruptly in his movements. He turns to look at Lee Chang over his shoulder, and there is a hunted gaze in his eyes.

“I do not understand,” he begins, his voice trembling with controlled rage, “why you would choose to do such a thing. You could have any woman, any person of honourable blood as your bride, and yet you throw it all away.”

“I have my reasons,” Lee Chang answers steadily. He explains his line of thinking, his discussions with Mu-yeong and his wife, but still Yeong-shin’s ferocity does not calm. His anger is like a hurricane, overwhelming in its intensity and frightening in its violence, but somehow, it cools and calms Lee Chang, like the storm-rain that washes through the streets after.

“There could have been other ways,” Yeong-shin says bitterly, casting his head away and breaking eye contact like he has been burned. “You could have taken a foreign bride, or one from one of the lesser houses. Instead, now you have sworn not to marry. I do not understand your thoughts. You are not telling me everything.”

“You are right,” Lee Chang hums in agreement. He steps closer, and Yeong-shin does not move. Now they are toe to toe, and Lee Chang no longer smells the fragrance of the incense burner; the only scent that fills his mind is the heady musk of Yeong-shin’s body.

Yeong-shin’s skin is scarred and rough under his hands as he lifts the fingers of his right hand to cradle Yeong-shin’s face. Yeong-shin lifts his face, and now the look in his eyes is plaintive, pleading.

“I will kiss you now,” Lee Chang whispers. “Tell me if you do not want it.”

Yeong-shin’s lips are chapped from the cold, but they part beautifully the movement Lee Chang kisses him. It is a soft, chaste kiss, quickly over, but still Lee Chang feels a warmth bloom in his chest, and sparks dance across his skin. It will leave a mark, he thinks dazedly; the place where Yeong-shin grips his elbow and burns through the thin fabric of his clothes.

Gently – although he feels something in his chest wither and die – he removes his hand from Yeong-shin’s cheek, and steps back. Yeong-shin’s arm falls and lays limply at his side.

He had been mistaken, Lee Chang realises. It was not under Yeong-shin’s skin that the tiger lay. Yeong-shin himself was the caged beast, the palace his cage, and in Lee Chang’s hands lay the key.

He finds that suddenly he must sit down.

Slowly, painfully, he makes his way to the window, and looks out. Snowflakes are falling on the courtyards of the palace, and people walking through the snow leave footprints in the whiteness that are quickly replaced by fresh snowfall. He wonders if his presence in Yeong-shin’s life will be just so – there for barely a second, and quickly erased.

The silence becomes too stifling, and he must break it. “I do not expect you to return my affections,” he manages, and he cannot look at Yeong-shin. He must make a tragic figure, he knows, with the candlelight too weak to illuminate his face, and the faint glow from the yard outside barely enough to highlight the lines of his profile.

But he would not have it any other way. If it is, truly, to be the last time he sees Yeong-shin, he would rather have his last memory of Lee Chang like so – as the man, not the king, and with all his barriers down. It is the last gift he can give to the man to whom he owes so much, and to whom he has unequivocally given his heart and soul.

At last, Yeong-shin speaks, and they are words Lee Chang has come to expect.

“I must think on it,” he says, and the emotion in his voice, Lee Chang cannot recognise. “You hold my respect, and where you command, I will gladly go. You are the only one I would so freely pledge my allegiance to.”

“But,” Lee Chang prompts softly, and he hears rather than sees the flush that rises again on Yeong-shin’s face, when next he speaks.

“But,” he repeats, “I have… I have never thought of you as anything more than my lord. I have never dared think of you as anything more. You are the prince – the king now, but you were the prince – and so it has never even crossed my mind to look upon you as something more.”

“You need not give me hope,” Lee Chang says, and he cannot stop a small wistful smile forming on his face. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” Yeong-shin says quietly. He leaves the room, and only then - only then, does Lee Chang turn around. He burns the sight of Yeong-shin’s broad, upright back into his memory.

And then he looks back out the window, and sighs.

It is a new day, he thinks, as he watches the sun rise. A new day, and he is still alive, and that is all that matters, now.

#ahhh apologies this is so short and also the cliffhanger but next chapter will be up extremely soon i promise!!!#upm works #upm #changshin #kingdom #kingdom netflix #kingdom fanfiction #lee chang #yeong shin #mu yeong #lee chang x yeong shin #changshin fanfiction

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justbeingnamaste · 4 years

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Virginia Gov. plans to use road blocks and UN troops to seize guns !

(Natural News) A nefarious scheme is under way in Virginia to provoke shooting conflicts as a justification to invoke martial law, seize all firearms from private citizens and maybe even call for the UN occupation of America.

I’ve been researching and writing about these treacherous scheme for several days, and yesterday, Dave Hodges asked me to join him for an audio interview to discuss the subject.

Here’s Dave’s full text and video, courtesy of TheCommonsenseShow.com.

Anyone who knows me or follows my work understands the profound respect I have for Mike Adams. Mike, once again exceeded my expectations. I was recently given a task to investigate the possibility of California and Virginia imposing roadblocks to seize guns and force a violent series of confrontations culminating in civil war which is exactly what the desperate Deep State desires.

I was successful in gathering some data on California, but I really had nothing on Virginia beyond what was known, until Mike dropped his bombshell. Mike stunned the Patriot community with a bombshell revelation. I called Mike to thank him for his great work and we decided to do an interview. Here is the interview.

Isn’t it interesting how Mike Adams, Steve Quayle, Doug Hagmann, Paul Martin, Paul Preston and all the rest of my friends and colleagues in the Independent media can perform such great and ground-breaking research and the MSM produces nothing by recycled propaganda?

As an aside, this interview with Mike Adams is earth-shattering because it lets people know what’s coming so they can prepare to meet the challenges that are coming upon us. In this report, it is safe to say that Mike Adams is saving lives.

Before you listen to the following interview, please know that I am now finding confirming information on California, which matches Virginia, which somewhat matches what Mike is saying here. I will leave you with one teaser. Governor Newsome inherited a “secret army” from Governor Brown and they are going to be fully employed. I have much more but the findings will come in a later report.

Warning, this reports contains uncensored reality and every American should take this report as a direct threat on the welfare and lives of every American who opposes the communist takeover of our country.

Here is my interview with Mike Adams.

youtube

Source ~ https://www.naturalnews.com/2019-12-20-virginia-gov-road-blocks-to-seize-guns-dave-hodges-interviews-mike-adams.html

#Virginia Civil War ?#Honor Protect Our Republic #Second Amendment #2A Must be protected #Democrats Going INSANE ?

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theculturedmarxist · 4 years

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This book will concern itself least of all with those unrelated psychological researches which are now so often substituted for social and historical analysis. Foremost in our field of vision will stand the great, moving forces of history, which are super-personal in character. Monarchy is one of them. But all these forces operate through people. And monarchy is by its very principle bound up with the personal. This in itself justifies an interest in the personality of that monarch whom the process of social development brought face to face with a revolution. Moreover, we hope to show in what follows, partially at least, just where in a personality the strictly personal ends – often much sooner than we think – and how frequently the “distinguishing traits” of a person are merely individual scratches made by a higher law of development.

Nicholas II inherited from his ancestors not only a giant empire, but also a revolution. And they did not bequeath him one quality which would have made him capable of governing an empire or even a province or a county. To that historic flood which was rolling its billows each one closer to the gates of his palace, the last Romanov opposed only a dumb indifference. It seemed as though between his consciousness and his epoch there stood some transparent but absolutely impenetrable medium.

People surrounding the tzar often recalled after the revolution that in the most tragic moments of his reigns – at the time of the surrender of Port Arthur and the sinking of the fleet at Tsushima, and ten years later at the time of the retreat of the Russian troops from Galicia, and then two years later during the days preceding his abdication when all those around him were depressed, alarmed, shaken – Nicholas alone preserved his tranquillity. He would inquire as usual how many versts he had covered in his journeys about Russia, would recall episodes of hunting expeditions in the past, anecdotes of official meetings, would interest himself generally in the little rubbish of the day’s doings, while thunders roared over him and lightnings flashed. “What is this?” asked one of his attendant generals, “a gigantic, almost unbelievable self-restraint, the product of breeding, of a belief in the divine predetermination of events? Or is it inadequate consciousness?” The answer is more than half included in the question. The so-called “breeding” of the tzar, his ability to control himself in the most extraordinary circumstances, cannot be explained by a mere external training; its essence was an inner indifference, a poverty of spiritual forces, a weakness of the impulses of the will. That mask of indifference which was called breeding in certain circles, was a natural part of Nicholas at birth.

The tzar’s diary is the best of all testimony. From day to day and from year to year drags along upon its pages the depressing record of spiritual emptiness. “Walked long and killed two crows. Drank tea by daylight.” Promenades on foot, rides in a boat. And then again crows, and again tea. All on the borderline of physiology. Recollections of church ceremonies are jotted down in the same tone as a drinking party.

In the days preceding the opening of the State Duma, when the whole country was shaking with convulsions, Nicholas wrote: “April 14. Took a walk in a thin shirt and took up paddling again. Had tea in a balcony. Stana dined and took a ride with us. Read.” Not a word as to the subject of his reading. Some sentimental English romance? Or a report from the Police Department? “April 15: Accepted Witte’s resignation. Marie and Dmitri to dinner. Drove them home to the palace.”

On the day of the decision to dissolve the Duma, when the court as well as the liberal circles were going through a paroxysm of fright, the tzar wrote in his diary: “July 7. Friday. Very busy morning. Half hour late to breakfast with the officers ... A storm came up and it was very muggy. We walked together. Received Goremykin. Signed a decree dissolving the Duma! Dined with Olga and Petia. Read all evening.” An exclamation point after the coming dissolution of the Duma is the highest expression of his emotions. The deputies of the dispersed Duma summoned the people to refuse to pay taxes. A series of military uprisings followed: in Sveaborg, Kronstadt, on ships, in army units. The revolutionary terror against high officials was renewed on an unheard-of scale. The tzar writes: “July 9. Sunday. It has happened! The Duma was closed today. At breakfast after Mass long faces were noticeable among many ... The weather was fine. On our walk we met Uncle Misha who came over yesterday from Gatchina. Was quietly busy until dinner and all evening. Went padding in a canoe.” It was in a canoe he went paddling – that is told. But with what he was busy all evening is not indicated. So it was always.

And further in those same fatal days: “July 14. Got dressed and rode a bicycle to the bathing beach and bathed enjoyably in the sea.” “July 15. Bathed twice. It was very hot. Only us two at dinner. A storm passed over.” “July 19. Bathed in the morning. Received at the farm. Uncle Vladimir and Chagin lunched with us.” An insurrection and explosions of dynamite are barely touched upon with a single phrase, “Pretty doings!” – astonishing in its imperturbable indifference, which never rose to conscious cynicism.

“At 9:30 in the morning we rode out to the Caspian regiment ... walked for a long time. The weather was wonderful. Bathed in the sea. After tea received Lvov and Guchkov.” Not a word of the fact that this unexpected reception of the two liberals was brought about by the attempt of Stolypin to include opposition leaders in his ministry. Prince Lvov, the future head of the Provisional Government, said of that reception at the time: “I expected to see the sovereign stricken with grief, but instead of that there came out to meet me a jolly sprightly fellow in a raspberry-coloured shirt.” The tzar’s outlook was not broader than that of a minor police official – with this difference, that the latter would have a better knowledge of reality and be less burdened with superstitions. The sole paper which Nicholas read for years, and from which he derived his ideas, was a weekly published on state revenue by Prince Meshchersky, a vile, bribed journalist of the reactionary bureaucratic clique, despised even in his own circle. The tzar kept his outlook unchanged through two wars and two revolutions. Between his consciousness and events stood always that impenetrable medium – indifference. Nicholas was called, not without foundation, a fatalist. It is only necessary to add that his fatalism was the exact opposite of an active belief in his “star.” Nicholas indeed considered himself unlucky. His fatalism was only a form of passive self-defence against historic evolution, and went hand in hand with an arbitrariness, trivial in psychological motivation, but monstrous in its consequences.

“I wish it and therefore it must be —,” writes Count Witte. “That motto appeared in all the activities of this weak ruler, who only through weakness did all the things which characterised his reign – a wholesale shedding of more or less innocent blood, for the most part without aim.”

Nicholas is sometimes compared with his half-crazy great-great-grandfather Paul, who was strangled by a camarilla acting in agreement with his own son, Alexander “the Blessed.” These two Romanovs were actually alike in their distrust of everybody due to a distrust of themselves, their touchiness as of omnipotent nobodies, their feeling of abnegation, their consciousness, as you might say, of being crowned pariahs. But Paul was incomparably more colourful; there was an element of fancy in his rantings, however irresponsible. In his descendant everything was dim; there was not one sharp trait.

Nicholas was not only unstable, but treacherous. Flatterers called him a charmer, bewitcher, because of his gentle way with the courtiers. But the tzar reserved his special caresses for just those officials whom he had decided to dismiss. Charmed beyond measure at a reception, the minister would go home and find a letter requesting his resignation. That was a kind of revenge on the tzar’s part for his own nonentity.

Nicholas recoiled in hostility before everything gifted and significant. He felt at ease only among completely mediocre and brainless people, saintly fakers, holy men, to whom he did not have to look up. He had his amour propre, indeed it was rather keen. But it was not active, not possessed of a grain of initiative, enviously defensive. He selected his ministers on a principle of continual deterioration. Men of brain and character he summoned only in extreme situations when there was no other way out, just as we call in a surgeon to save our lives. It was so with Witte, and afterwards with Stolypin. The tzar treated both with ill-concealed hostility. As soon as the crisis had passed, he hastened to part with these counsellors who were too tall for him. This selection operated so systematically that the president of the last Duma, Rodzianko, on the 7th of January 1917, with the revolution already knocking at the doors, ventured to say to the tzar: “Your Majesty, there is not one reliable or honest man left around you; all the best men have been removed or have retired. There remain only those of ill repute.”

All the efforts of the liberal bourgeoisie to find a common language with the court came to nothing. The tireless and noisy Rodzianko tried to shake up the tzar with his reports, but in vain. The latter gave no answer either to argument or to impudence, but quietly made ready to dissolve the Duma. Grand Duke Dmitri, a former favourite of the tzar, and future accomplice in the murder of Rasputin, complained to his colleague, Prince Yussupov, that the tzar at headquarters was becoming every day more indifferent to everything around him. In Dmitri’s opinion the tzar was being fed some kind of dope which had a benumbing action upon his spiritual faculties. “Rumours went round,” writes the liberal historian Miliukov, “that this condition of mental and moral apathy was sustained in the tzar by an increased use of alcohol.” This was all fancy or exaggeration. The tzar had no need of narcotics: the fatal “dope” was in his blood. Its symptoms merely seemed especially striking on the background of those great events of war and domestic crisis which led up to the revolution. Rasputin, who was a psychologist, said briefly of the tzar that he “lacked insides.”

This dim, equable and “well-bred” man was cruel – not with the active cruelty of Ivan the Terrible or of Peter, in the pursuit of historic aims – What had Nicholas the Second in common with them? – but with the cowardly cruelty of the late born, frightened at his own doom. At the very dawn of his reign Nicholas praised the Phanagoritsy regiment as “fine fellows” for shooting down workers. He always “read with satisfaction” how they flogged with whips the bob-haired girl-students, or cracked the heads of defenceless people during Jewish pogroms. This crowned black sheep gravitated with all his soul to the very dregs of society, the Black Hundred hooligans. He not only paid them generously from the state treasury, but loved to chat with them about their exploits, and would pardon them when they accidentally got mixed up in the murder of an opposition deputy. Witte, who stood at the head of the government during the putting down of the first revolution, has written in his memoirs: “When news of the useless cruel antics of the chiefs of those detachments reached the sovereign, they met with his approval, or in any case his defence.” In answer to the demand of the governor-general of the Baltic States that he stop a certain lieutenant-captain, Richter, who was “executing on his own authority and without trial non-resistant persons,” the tzar wrote on the report: “Ah, what a fine fellow!” Such encouragements are innumerable. This “charmer,” without will, without aim, without imagination, was more awful than all the tyrants of ancient and modern history.

The tzar was mightily under the influence of the tzarina, an influence which increased with the years and the difficulties. Together they constituted a kind of unit – and that combination shows already to what an extent the personal, under pressure of circumstances, is supplemented by the group. But first we must speak of the tzarina herself.

Maurice Paléologue, the French ambassador at Petrograd during the war, a refined psychologist for French academicians and janitresses, offers a meticulously licked portrait of the last tzarina: “Moral restlessness, a chronic sadness, infinite longing, intermittent ups and downs of strength, anguishing thoughts of the invisible other world, superstitions – are not all these traits, so clearly apparent in the personality of the empress, the characteristic traits of the Russian people?” Strange as it may seem, there is in this saccharine lie just a grain of truth. The Russian satirist Saltykov, with some justification, called the ministers and governors from among the Baltic barons “Germans with a Russian soul.” It is indubitable that aliens, in no way connected with the people, developed the most pure culture of the “genuine Russian” administrator.

But why did the people repay with such open hatred a tzarina who, in the words of Paléologue, had so completely assimilated their soul? The answer is simple. In order to justify her new situation, this German woman adopted with a kind of cold fury all the traditions and nuances of Russian mediaevalism, the most meagre and crude of all mediaevalisms, in that very period when the people were making mighty efforts to free themselves from it. This Hessian princess was literally possessed by the demon of autocracy. Having risen from her rural corner to the heights of Byzantine despotism, she would not for anything take a step down. In the orthodox religion she found a mysticism and a magic adapted to her new lot. She believed the more inflexibly in her vocation, the more naked became the foulness of the old régime. With a strong character and a gift for dry and hard exaltations, the tzarina supplemented the weak-willed tzar, ruling over him.

On March 17, 1916, a year before the revolution, when the tortured country was already writhing in the grip of defeat and ruin, the tzarina wrote to her husband at military headquarters: “You must not give indulgences, a responsible ministry, etc. ... or anything that they want. This must be your war and your peace, and the honour yours and our fatherland’s, and not by any means the Duma’s. They have not the right to say a single word in these matters.” This was at any rate a thoroughgoing programme. And it was in just this way that she always had the whip hand over the continually vacillating tzar.

After Nicholas’ departure to the army in the capacity of fictitious commander-in-chief, the tzarina began openly to take charge of internal affairs. The ministers came to her with reports as to a regent. She entered into a conspiracy with a small camarilla against the Duma, against the ministers, against the staff-generals, against the whole world – to some extent indeed against the tzar. On December 6, 1916, the tzarina wrote to the tzar: “... Once you have said that you want to keep Protopopov, how does he (Premier Trepov) go against you? Bring down your first on the table. Don’t yield. Be the boss. Obey your firm little wife and our Friend. Believe in us.” Again three days late: “You know you are right. Carry your head high. Command Trepov to work with him ... Strike your fist on the table.” Those phrases sound as though they were made up, but they are taken from authentic letters. Besides, you cannot make up things like that.

On December 13 the tzarina suggested to the tzar: “Anything but this responsible ministry about which everybody has gone crazy. Everything is getting quiet and better, but people want to feel your hand. How long they have been saying to me, for whole years, the same thing: ’Russia loves to feel the whip.’ That is their nature!” This orthodox Hessian, with a Windsor upbringing and a Byzantine crown on her head, not only “incarnates” the Russian soul, but also organically despises it. Their nature demands the whip – writes the Russian tzarina to the Russian tzar about the Russian people, just two months and a half before the monarchy tips over into the abyss.

In contrast to her force of character, the intellectual force of the tzarina is not higher, but rather lower than her husband’s. Even more than he, she craves the society of simpletons. The close and long-lasting friendship of the tzar and tzarina with their lady-in-waiting Vyrubova gives a measure of the spiritual stature of this autocratic pair. Vyrubova has described herself as a fool, and this is not modesty. Witte, to whom one cannot deny an accurate eye, characterised her as “a most commonplace, stupid, Petersburg young lady, homely as a bubble in the biscuit dough.” In the society of this person, with whom elderly officials, ambassadors and financiers obsequiously flirted, and who had just enough brains not to forget about her own pockets, the tzar and tzarina would pass many hours, consulting her about affairs, corresponding with her and about her. She was more influential than the State Duma, and even than the ministry.

But Vyrubova herself was only an instrument of “The Friend,” whose authority superseded all three. “... This is my private opinion,” writes the tzarina to the tzar, “I will find out what our Friend thinks.” The opinion of the “Friend” is not private, it decides. “... I am firm,” insists the tzarina a few weeks later, “but listen to me, i.e. this means our Friend, and trust in everything ... I suffer for you as for a gentle soft-hearted child – who needs guidance, but listens to bad counsellors, while a man sent by God is telling him what he should do.”

The Friend sent by God was Gregory Rasputin.

“... The prayers and the help of our Friend – then all will be well.”

“If we did not have Him, all would have been over long ago. I am absolutely convinced of that.”

Throughout the whole reign of Nicholas and Alexandra soothsayers and hysterics were imported for the court not only from all over Russia, but from other countries. Special official purveyors arose, who would gather around the momentary oracle, forming a powerful Upper Chamber attached to the monarch. There was no lack of bigoted old women with the title of countess, nor of functionaries weary of doing nothing, nor of financiers who had entire ministries in their hire. With a jealous eye on the unchartered competition of mesmerists and sorcerers, the high priesthood of the Orthodox Church would hasten to pry their way into the holy of holies of the intrigue. Witte called this ruling circle, against which he himself twice stubbed his toe, “the leprous court camarilla.”

The more isolated the dynasty became, and the more unsheltered the autocrat felt, the more he needed some help from the other world. Certain savages, in order to bring good weather, wave in the air a shingle on a string. The tzar and tzarina used shingles for the greatest variety of purposes. In the tzar’s train there was a whole chapel full of large and small images, and all sorts of fetiches, which were brought to bear, first against the Japanese, then against the German artillery.

The level of the court circle really had not changed much from generation to generation. Under Alexander II, called the “Liberator,” the grand dukes had sincerely believed in house spirits and witches. Under Alexander III it was no better, only quieter. The “leprous camarilla” had existed always, changed only its personnel and its method. Nicholas II did not create, but inherited from his ancestors, this court atmosphere of savage mediaevalism. But the country during these same decades had been changing, its problems growing more complex, its culture rising to a higher level. The court circle was thus left far behind.

Although the monarchy did under compulsion make concessions to the new forces, nevertheless inwardly it completely failed to become modernised. On the contrary it withdrew into itself. Its spirit of mediaevalism thickened under the pressure of hostility and fear, until it acquired the character of a disgusting nightmare overhanging the country.

Towards November 1905 – that is, at the most critical moment of the first revolution – the tzar writes in his diary: “We got acquainted with a man of God, Gregory, from the Tobolsk province.” That was Rasputin – a Siberian peasant with a bald scar on his head, the result of a beating for horse-stealing. Put forward at an appropriate moment, this “Man of God” soon found official helpers – or rather they found him – and thus was formed a new ruling class which got a firm hold of the tzarina, and through her of the tzar.

From the winter of 1913-14 it was openly said in Petersburg society that all high appointments, posts and contracts depended upon the Rasputin clique. The “Elder” himself gradually turned into a state institution. He was carefully guarded, and no less carefully sought after by the competing ministers. Spies of the Police Department kept a diary of his life by hours, and did not fail to report how on a visit to his home village of Pokrovsky he got into a drunken and bloody fight with his own father on the street. On the same day that this happened – September 9, 1915 – Rasputin sent two friendly telegrams, one to Tzarskoe Selo, to the tzarina, the other to headquarters to the tzar. In epic language the police spies registered from day to day the revels of the Friend. “He returned today 5 o’clock in the morning completely drunk.” “On the night of the 25-26th the actress V. spent the night with Rasputin.” “He arrived with Princess D. (the wife of a gentleman of the bedchamber of the Tzar’s court) at the Hotel Astoria.”...And right beside this: “Came home from Tzarskoe Selo about 11 o’clock in the evening.” “Rasputin came home with Princess Sh- very drunk and together they went out immediately.” In the morning or evening of the following day a trip to Tzarskoe Selo. To a sympathetic question from the spy as to why the Elder was thoughtful, the answer came: “Can’t decide whether to convoke the Duma or not.” And then again: “He came home at 5 in the morning pretty drunk.” Thus for months and years the melody was played on three keys: “Pretty drunk,” “Very drunk,” and “Completely drunk.” These communications of state importance were brought together and countersigned by the general of gendarmes, Gorbachev.

The bloom of Raputin’s influence lasted six years, the last years of the monarchy. “His life in Petrograd,” says Prince Yussupov, who participated to some extent in that life, and afterward killed Rasputin, “became a continual revel, the durnken debauch of a galley slave who had come into an unexpected fortune.” “I had at my disposition,” wrote the president of the Duma, Rodzianko, “a whole mass of letters from mothers whose daughters had been dishonoured by this insolent rake.” Nevertheless the Petrograd metropolitan, Pitirim, owed his position to Rasputin, as also the almost illiterate Archbishop Varnava. The Procuror of the Holy Synod, Sabler, was long sustained by Rasputin; and Premier Kokovtsev was removed at his wish, having refused to receive the “Elder.” Rasputin appointed Stürmer President of the Council of Ministers, Protopopov Minister of the Interior, the new Procuror of the Synod, Raev, and many others. The ambassador of the French republic, Paléologue, sought an interview with Rasputin, embraced him and cried, “Voilà, un véritable illuminé!” hoping in this way to win the heart of the tzarina to the cause of France. The Jew Simanovich, financial agent of the “Elder,” himself under the eye of the Secret Police as a nightclub gambler and usurer – introduced into the Ministry of Justice through Rasputin the completely dishonest creature Dobrovolsky.

“Keep by you the little list,” writes the tzarina to the tzar, in regard to new appointments. “Our friend has asked that you talk all this over with Protopopov.” Two days later: “Our friend says that Stürmer may remain a few days longer as President of the Council of Ministers.” And again: “Protopopov venerates our friend and will be blessed.”

On one of those days when the police spies were counting up the number of bottles and women, the tzarina grieved in a letter to the tzar: “They accuse Rasputin of kissing women, etc. Read the apostles; they kissed everybody as a form of greeting.” This reference to the apostles would hardly convince the police spies. In another letter the tzarina goes still farther. “During vespers I thought so much about our friend,” she writes, “how the Scribes and Pharisees are persecuting Christ pretending that they are so perfect ... yes, in truth no man is a prophet in his own country.”

The comparison of Rasputin and Christ was customary in that circle, and by no means accidental. The alarm of the royal couple before the menacing forces of history was too sharp to be satisfied with an impersonal God and the futile shadow of a Biblical Christ. They needed a second coming of “the Son of Man.” In Rasputin the rejected and agonising monarchy found a Christ in its own image.

“If there had been no Rasputin,” said Senator Tagantsev, a man of the old régime, “it would have been necessary to invent one.” There is a good deal more in these words than their author imagined. If by the word hooliganism we understand the extreme expression of those anti-social parasite elements at the bottom of society, we may define Rasputinism as a crowned hooliganism at its very top.

#russia #tsar #tsarina alexandra #tsar nicholas ii #russian revolution #leon trotsky

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