#WHO is picking JUNGLE over ACACIA

[writing-the-end]

WS Chapter 55- Rallying Cry

Previous Chapter

Masterpost

Only five more chapters before the end! It’s so close, and it’s be such a wonderful ride with Red and Ecto, I couldn’t have asked for better people to collab with! And all of you, reading and commenting! That’s why i wanted to do this minesona event, was for you all to be a part of the ride as you already are!

Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland

Ecto belongs to @cooler-cactus-block

Bre belongs to @mintyhotchocolate​

Star belongs to @thatonewannabedragon​

Perri belongs to @hyperfixatingparrot​

Pierre belongs to @cabbagesenpai​

“Why are dark oak forests so big?” This is the second time Ecto has found herself within the dark shadows of the massive oak trees. She’s lost among the enormous mushrooms, but at least she doesn’t have to worry about creatures of the night in this one. It’s a little sparser, more mushrooms and the trees are more variable in height. Lilacs grow in large bundles at the base of roots, fungi as large as the trees that shelter them from the sunlight. 

Doesn’t stop the rich forest from being hot. And not the kind of hot that Ecto likes. That dry heat that the desert brings- no, this is warm and wet. Sticky, the sunlight warming the dew from the morning and suspending it into the air. Ecto unscrews her water bottle, whimpering as she discovers it’s already empty. She forgot to refill it last time. 

Looking around, she spots a stream trickling through the forest, and follows it to a rocky ledge. The cool water falls free from the creek bed, showering across mossy rocks and blooming flowers before continuing downstream. Ecto doesn’t bother to check how safe the water was- it was better than no water, especially with as sweaty as she feels. She thrusts her bottle under the falling stream, listening to droplets of water trickle across the metal like a bell. It sounds like someone laughing. 

Someone is laughing. Ecto doesn’t change her body language, but she reminds herself where her sword is. Paranoia creeps over her, feeling the sensation of being watched. A hellspawn is near. The green foliage shifts and stutters as a footstep slips against the moss, and Ecto reels around. Dropping her bottle and unsheathing her weapon. “Oh! Oh- oh dear, I didn’t mean to scare you!” 

It’s not a hellspawn. Her hair is dark brown, eyes blue and panicked beneath the flower crown resting on her head. Definitely not a hellspawn. But as Ecto looks over the stranger as she slips trying to get up, she notes the potion bottles and books at her hips. Eventually, the girl gives up, and opalescent dragonfly wings spread open. She lifts herself up, brushing off the dirt on her shorts. Ecto lowers her blade. “Are you an alchemist?” She remembers what Kai scolded her about last time. “I’m Ecto, by the way.” 

“I’m called Bre, and yes- I make potions. Do you need some? I’d be happy to help.” Bre offers a gentle smile, rocking on her heels and pulling out a variety of potions. She begins to list off the properties of each, potions Ecto didn’t even know existed. 

“Actually, I think there’s more ways you can help me and my friends.” Ecto picks up her half empty bottle, screwing it shut and inviting the fae to listen to her spiel. 

___________________________________________

Avon flies above the roofed forest, the thick canopy is like another layer of grass, and the trunks are roots rather than branches. Beneath Avon, she holds tight onto Jessie. The little dragonet has her wings out, trying to gain some understanding with flying. Her chirps are beginning to deepen into growls and roars. She’s getting bigger by the day, and her wings are strong enough to take her weight. 

But Avon doesn’t know when the baby needs to be let go. When to take away her hands, and trust Jessie to keep up her own weight. That her black wings, massive for her body size as she grows, will hold her up. That she’ll know how to push against the air to maintain flight. She’s been watching Avon long enough. Avon didn’t have anyone to learn like Jessie does. People wished she’d fall when she’d jump from roofs. Hope she’d break her neck and be gone. But she learned to fly all the same. Jessie deserves more than that. 

Jessie tips her ears to the side, blinking glowing purple eyes as she hears something. “Hey, what are you doing?” Avon questions, struggling to keep hold of the dragonet as her black wings beat against Avon’s arms. Avon has to hover midflight, her own wings cresting and curving to keep hold. “Stop it Jessie! You’re going to fall!” 

The little dragon chitters and growls, before finally slipping free from Avon’s grip. She opens her wings wide, and claws dig into the leather of Avon’s gloves as she leaps free. But rather than fall- Jessie flies. Black wings spread wide, catching the air and letting her soar across the sky. A few nervous flaps shake and stutter along, but she dips low. 

And Avon realizes Jessie isn’t flying alone. Another creature is flying beside Jessie. Another dragon, elongated and without wings, about as large as Jessie. The noodle dragon dips into the canopy, disappearing among the leaves. Jessie dives after it, crashing through branches. Avon follows, unwilling to let Jeane’s daughter get lost.

If landing in a normal forest was hard, a roofed forest was impossible. Wings are caught in branches and twigs, until Avon collapses to the ground beneath the trees. She sits up as soon as she hears another voice. A soft song whispers across the forest, and Avon snaps her head around to find it’s source. 

A lanky person sits with Jessie, black and grey freckled fingers petting down Jessie’s spines. Tufted blue hair spikes outward, with the noodle creature resting on a black hoodie. They look up, a short gasp escaping the stranger’s lips as they lay eyes on Avon. “Is...is she yours?”  They peer closer, eyes wide. “You have dragon wings!” 

“Uh, yeah?” Avon isn’t sure someone’s ever had a positive reaction towards her wings. But this person seems shy but curious about her. 

“I’m sorry… it’s been years since I’ve seen an ender dragon. I thought they went extinct here as well. I’m Star, and what a cute dragonet!” They pick up Jessie, who squeaks and gains an ego with such praise. 

Avon bites her lip, sitting down next to Star. They don’t seem dangerous, or at least not someone who will cause a fight. “Jessie’s mom died, I’ve been taking care of her since the invasion.” 

“Invasion? Here too?” Star sighs. “Why don’t we have some lemonade and I can hear the story you have to tell?” 

______________________________________________

Red laughs as the parrot before her imitates the distant bark of a dog. It’s higher pitched, but close enough for her to believe it really is a puppy. The parrot then begins to imitate her laugh, which only makes her giggle even more. Soon, the entire forest is full of laughter. 

Red doesn’t know why more people don’t call the jungle home. This place is great! It’s so bright and green, with trees taller than he’s ever seen and rivers that wind through the biome at it’s own leisurely pace. The humidity wraps around him like the ocean, comforting and heavy as a blanket. 

“Alright, little birdies. I gotta keep on walking. Unless you know someone who can help me stop a massive army of fiery death?” Red stands up, stretching his arms over his head. 

“We know just the person!” Red jumps out of his skin as the parrots respond. Not just imitate, but respond. 

“You guys can talk?” Red tilts his head, peering at the blue macaw in front of him. Watching for it to respond.

The bird squawks, but it’s mouth doesn’t say anything. But the voice returns. Rather, it’s behind Red. “They can’t, but this little birdy can!” 

Red sees blue feathers dance in the air as a bright figure leaps from the vines to the ground. A stunning array of greens, blues, and yellows welcome Red to the new person before him. Blue hair, feathery as the blue wings, curls around a small face. Just a little taller than Red, but shorter than Avon. “You aren’t a human? What are you?” 

“I’m a kipling! And I’m Red, by the way. Who am I talking to?” The person before him eases back, the antsy nerves returning to bouncy joy. 

“I’m Perri, nice to meet you Red the Kipling. What brings you to this neck of the jungle?” A parrot comes to rest on Perri’s shoulder, the two twittering a short conversation with one another. 

“I’m looking for people, friendly people who want to help me and my friends with something big.” Red hates knowing that he’s asking for people to help cause trouble, to fight for something they hardly understand. But they need the help. And maybe someone like Perri can help it be less deadly. 

Perri’s quick to catch onto Red’s change in emotions. She leans forward, tapping Red’s shoulders. “I’m sure whatever it is, I can do something. What’s the problem?” 

“There’s a fight coming.” Red can’t help but agree with Perri’s grimace at the word ‘fight’. She seems just as happy about a battle as Red. “But we can’t avoid it, unfortunately. We exhausted our attempts to. You don’t seem like the kind of person to get into a fight.” 

“No, I’m not.” Perri sighs. Red’s shoulders fall, and he starts to stand. To continue looking for someone to cause more damage. “But… maybe you guys could use someone to heal your wounds? I can do that.” 

“You want to help us? To save our world?” A nervous smile appears on Red’s cheeks. 

“I will do anything to protect what I care about.” Perri’s wings open as she stands. Ready for the fight, even if she won’t be on the front lines. 

___________________________________________

“We should avoid a village.” Avon whispers to Jessie, the dragonet taking off from her shoulder. Jessie has been near impossible to keep out of the sky since she learned to fly with Star’s familiar. They went separate ways, Star towards the hermits setting up camp while Avon continued her search. “They don’t really like dragons, Jessie. Trust me.” 

The baby dragon lands on  a branch of orange acacia wood, stretching perpendicular to the dry savanna grass. She looks so curious, so interested in seeing the town before them. Such innocence. Avon sighs, and turns around. 

Running right into the sturdy metal of an iron golem’s chest. Avon topples over, crying out as the lumbering beast towers over her. Avon pulls free her trident, putting it between herself on the ground and the looming sentinel. She didn’t think that golems wandered this far from villages! 

The golem sees Avon’s threat displays, and firmly presses it’s arms down onto Avon’s wings. Pinning her to the ground. She kicks out, swinging her trident to no avail. She doesn’t like golems, and they never like her. Jessie leaps from her perch on the tree, landing quite heavily on Avon’s chest. She opens her wings and lets out as fierce a growl a few-weeks old baby dragon can. 

“Rusty, no! That’s not how we greet visitors!” A voice shouts, followed by the clack of metal as someone appears. A pair of arms pushes the iron golem away from Avon, the golem listening to the person and letting go of Avon’s wings. She scoops Jessie into her arms, rolling backwards and away from the golem. Wings spread wide and trident at arm's length. “I’m so sorry, stranger, Rusty must’ve thought you were a phantom or something!” 

The golem’s friend turns around, offering a smile as warm as the savanna sun. Tanned dark skin stained with redstone dust and short hair mussed with the dust. Redstone alights and locks across the person’s legs, an advanced redstone contraption that Avon totally doesn’t understand. She knows nothing about redstone. She stands up, ignoring the friendly hand offered to her. “It’s not the first time a golem has attacked me, at least...err, Rusty was gentler.” 

“Are those wings real? Wait, hold on. I’m Pierre, what’s your name?” He smiles, waving to himself, his maroon waistcoat. 

“Avon, and yes.” She looks past him, watching as the golem lumbers back towards a home at the edge of the biome. Jessie leaps free, awing Pierre as she chases after the fox that appeared beside him. The two chirp and tussle beside Pierre and Avon. “Are you a redstone engineer?” 

“I like to think I am. I mean, I built these.” He shows off his redstone legs, proud of his handiwork. “What makes you ask, Avon?” 

“Would you be willing to help me and my friends with something?” Avon tilts her head, feathery blonde hair falling around her. 

“Depends on what it is, but I’m sure I can at least aid you and your friends. Why don’t you come rest up at my house, and we can talk about adventures?” Pierre nods his head towards the house. 

“I have a feeling there may be an opportunity for another adventure at hand, if you’re ready to protect your home.” Avon’s shoulders ease, watching the golem warily but following Pierre. Watching as the dragonet and fox  wrestle in the tall grass. Let’s hope Jessie doesn’t realize she has fire breath in this biome.

#wandering stars #ecto #avon #red #bre #star #perri #pierre #minecraft #mineblr #minesona #mcsona #minecraft persona #writing

[sickandtideeeee]

By Bast -Prologue (Erik x Reader)

so had to post this on a different account cuz homegirl is thirsty and can’t be caught by irl mutuals so here enjoy! (haven’t thought of a title yet and sorry for the lack of erik cuz setup but yeah… )

You had never thought yourself silly enough to truly believe in the goddess Bast like so many other native Wakandans. At least, not until the day she renamed you in a dream.

You had woken up from a slumber deep enough that no earthquake, typhoon or raging fire could arouse you. However, rather than find yourself in the familiar surroundings of your regular sleeping chamber, you came to your senses back nestled against the bark of a low-branching acacia tree. The soft, thin sheets you slept with despite the ever–present summer heat had been replaced by a heavy black covering surrounding you up to your neck, thick enough to be a shag carpet. A few moments passed as your daze wore off, and you shot up to your feet, screaming, when you realized the quivering you felt around you was a multitude of cats, purring against your skin, paws lightly traversing your lap and nudging you gently.

Not only did you not believe in Bast, you were never particularly fond of cats. How sacrilegious.

You had almost reached the treetop in your frantic climb to safety when a larger black cat, large enough to be a jaguar or panther, began to approach from the distance. You knew these jungle cats were great climbers, and your heart started to pound in your chest as quickly planned how best to escape a mauling. However, the jungle feline, appeared to be changing form as it approached.

The cats that had gotten very still, watching you climb the tree with a communal look approaching curiosity, now appeared to turn and file out towards the approaching figure. The figure was now upright, legs lengthening, shoulders broadening, torso shortening, and head molding into the silhouette of a faceless man.

Your muscles tensed and your jaw clenched as it continued to close the distance between you, but you found yourself frozen in place by some unidentifiable external force. The man, or form thereof, stopped only steps away from the tree now, and golden eyes seemed to pop into life on his previously blank visage to fixate on you. You stared transfixed in fear as a mouth split open into a toothy grin, accented with four golden canines, on the black canvas that was his face.

You opened your mouth to scream, but no words came out.

He held an arm out to you, and the rest of his face appeared to fill in recognizable human features – a nose, cheekbones, ears, hair. Warm-hued, brown skin replaced the pure darkness that painted the creature, and he finally appeared fully human.

Don’t be afraid, you heard a female voice from nowhere in particular whisper directly into your ears. Your eyes darted around you in confusion, and you heard a high-pitched chuckle.

Truly, don’t be afraid, my darling. I want you to be prepared when he comes, Nkiru.

Who the fuck was Nkiru?

Before you could continue to question your sanity, you somehow had found yourself on your feet below the tree once again, now face to face with the giant cat turned man. He did not say a word, but looked at you quizzically, the earlier inviting smile now gone from his face.

Take a good look at his face, Nkiru.

He suddenly gripped you by your chin, almost roughly, to look up at him. Those golden eyes that were so monstrous a few minutes ago, appearing out of nothingness, now were almost gentle on an otherwise overtly masculine face. Your fear and apprehension somehow dissipating, you took a few moments to study his facial features – his full, broad lips, his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the arch of his eyebrows, the pattern of his facial hair, his crown.

He let go of your face, and you cautiously raised your own hand to touch his cheek. To your surprise, his skin was softer, smoother to the touch than expected. He lay his own hand on top of yours, and your heart skipped a beat. You dropped your hand to your side immediately, your face growing hot. You stepped back, and now taking the time to take in the rest of him, realized he was completely naked. Embarrassed, you averted your eyes away from his manhood, almost tripping over a cat in the process of distancing yourself.

If this was some sort of weird sex dream, you decided you were very repressed and probably needed to lose it to someone real soon.

Remember him, Nkiru. Protect him the best you can.

You took another quick glance at the man that had towered over your own quite athletic 5-foot-7 frame, wondering what threat could be posed to him that you could somehow overcome in his stead. He was now seated cross-legged in the grass, rendered slightly more decent by a black cat sitting in his lap. As he pet the animal, a look of peace and contentment washed over his face, and you could not help but smile for a few seconds, before you realized this whole situation was too weird, and grimaced.

Your name was not Nkiru. You were hearing voices. You didn’t know where you were. There was nothing around you for miles except grassy plains, black cats, this tree, and this random cat who had turned into a person before you.

“What the actual fuck kind of dream is this?” You whispered to yourself under your breath, if not just to know how real your voice would sound coming past your lips.

The airy, feminine voice chuckled softly in your ears again and you suddenly felt a wind pick up from around your ankles, swirling around your body to your shoulders, at which location it warmed and solidified, like the feeling of smooth arms holding you in an embrace. You felt a chill run up and down your spine, and froze.

Don’t fret, my child. When you wake up, you will know this was real.

The man appeared to have gotten bored of petting the cat and rose to his feet. Before your eyes, he flashed a smile again before he reverted back to jungle cat form, much faster than he had transformed into human just a few moments ago. He circled around you once, and walked off into the distance, droves of smaller cats appearing to follow suit. You only now appeared to notice that the sky over the horizon was cloudless, and painted with hues of lavender and orange, accented with stars.

This man could be a great leader, but his heart is filled with hatred and contempt. Teach him what Wakanda has to offer, Nkiru.

“My name isn’t Nkiru.” You said, to no one in particular, now alone on the plains. “I think whoever you are, you have the wrong person or the wrong dream.”

It is now.

With those words, you woke up in a cold sweat, but unlike waking up suddenly from a nightmare, you arose with a serene calm you figured was akin to waking up from the dead. It occurred to you to check your pulse to make sure you had not actually died, and you were reassured by the slow thump-thump-thump of your heartbeat.

You were truly shocked by how little you were unfazed by so vivid a dream sequence. The face that the voice had commanded you to memorize was now firmly etched into your mind, and you were sure you remembered reading somewhere that your brain does not make up faces in dreams. But you were also just as sure that you had never seen that man before in your life.

You clutched your bed sheets closer to you now, reassured that they were no longer a literal swarm of felines, and looked out your window. It was still dark, and a quick glance at the holograph above your end table confirmed that it was still the middle of the night – 2ish am, the witching hour. A cool breeze was wafting through the opening and the fact that you couldn’t remember opening your window would have normally spooked you but you were, again, uncharacteristically peaceful. You didn’t bother to close it.

Instead, you lay back down on your side, and tried to sleep again. For a split second, you wondered if that could truly could have been a visitation from Bast. It certainly included all the motifs – the cats, the acacia tree, the plains, the atmosphere, the voice of a woman.

Then again, that was silly. Maybe you had spent too much time at the Herb Garden and let Papa Zuri convince you of Bast’s presence one too many times. You had just had a weird dream, and would forget about it soon enough.

And you did, until the first person who you spoke to the next day, your tutee turned play sister Shuri, referred to you as Kiki rather than your actual nickname just moments after you woke up. Then again, until you made your daily stop at the spiritual compound to say good morning to your mentor, and he smiled wide at you and welcomed you, Nkiru. As the characters in your life responded with puzzlement at the shock and confusion plastered on your face whenever your new name was called, you became panicked as you became more and more sure that Bast really had appeared to you in your slumber and given you directions.

That night, you prayed for instructions on what to do, but as expected, received no clear answer, no lyrical voice that seemed to be coming from somewhere both deep inside you and around you as you had that night.

You did decide to find out what the name Nkiru meant. The greatest will come, you read. A good future. Future goddess. Maybe scratch that last one. You wouldn’t bother deluding yourself that far.

It was an old name originating from the Igbo tribe of West Africa. Diminutive of Nkiruka. This didn’t make any sense. You knew for a fact that you had come as a child refugee from a country called Cameroon, and the Igbo were primarily from Nigeria.

The greatest will come.

The metamorphosing man suddenly came to mind. Would he be the greatest that is yet to come? The goddess had alluded to him become a powerful leader if not for his hatred.

Yet all you saw were a wide, sincere smile and beaming eyes.

You shook your head, as if to physically remove him from your thoughts, and sat down at your workbench to catch up on some clinical review articles you had neglected to read all day. It would take you a while to adjust to this new name, and now you wondered just how long it would take for that man, your assignment from Bast, to appear.

He was cute, after all. And how hard could showing him around Wakanda be? 

[Chapter One][Chapter Two][Chapter Three][Chapter Four][Chapter Five][Chapter Six][Chapter Seven][Chapter Eight]

#black panther #killmonger x reader #killmonger x you #erik killmonger #black reader x killmonger #cats #pocreader #blackgirlwrites #black girl author

[thisisnotasafari]

Bus Magic

Yes, that’s my bus, stuck in the mud. You try getting a better picture.

Before I begin, let me state that buses should stay flat on the ground. I think we can agree on this. Yet, ending up at wide angles with respect to horizontal is well within the realm of possibility on a Tanzanian bus. This will usually be rectified within a few hours by a team of shirtless men who show up out of nowhere to dig the bus out of thick mud or deep water or whatever obstacle in which it has entrenched itself. I swear, these guys showed up every time one of my buses got stuck. It might have been the same guys every time, I have no way of confirming. Maybe there’s a team of heroes who are dispatched to rescue stuck buses. Even on the deepest, darkest road in the most uninhabited stretch of land in southern Tanzania, they appeared at any hour with shovels and picks, and bravely struggled to dig out the tires and push the bus out of the hole into which it had plunged. Nine times out of ten, I’d say, they were successful. I was always slightly concerned I’d handed a shovel and get drafted into helping, but I remain thankful that never happened.

To set the scene: I was on the way to Mahenge after a lengthy spring holiday in Cape Town, South Africa, about which more later, but the shock of being back in Tanzania after two weeks with hot showers, strong coffee, and fast internet hadn’t fully set in. I arrived armed with the steely conviction that I would survive my last months in Mahenge as safely and happily as I could, or die in the process. It was this attitude that I assumed as I boarded the bus.

The journey started as propitiously as it could, under the circumstances. Morogoro was hot and dry, the sun stuck flat in the middle of the sky, but I knew further south the rains had come and would be in full swing by the time I arrived home. I bought my ticket the day before with surprisingly limited hassle (after I confirmed the hour of departure three times) and arrived at Msavu, the Morogoro bus stand, an hour early. After waiting for twenty minutes, the assembled crowd was told to walk across the street to a gas station. Buses pay a small fee for entering the bus stand, and as the bus was already en route from Dar, it was easier to pick up passengers at the gas station along the highway than deal with the traffic inside Msavu. Fine. The busI got on, and discovered I had two seats to myself. Enjoying my surprising luxury, I quickly assumed bus Zen mode and stared out the window, watching as the houses and people thinned and gave way to acacia and baobab and vast swaths of brown, swaying grass and clouds draped over distant mountains. Things were going well.

We departed Morogoro at 9:30 am. It was an hour or so before I saw the first dark puddles at the sides of the road. A few people had already gathered around to fill buckets with water before balancing them on their heads and walking on. As puddles go, these were small, I thought, only a few inches deep and nothing to worry about. Amateur puddles, a few years away from signing a college contract. About an hour later, the puddles had begun to spread across the road. Thin creeks tinkled under makeshift log bridges at the road’s edge. The bus slowed once or twice to ford a stream that had bisected the road and cause all of us in the back to fly out of our seats. It was an ominous development but the sun was out, the road was still paved, and I was determined to stay positive at any cost. (At the time, I was inwardly screaming at the absurdity of everything: “I want a beer, I want a pizza, I want Peanut M&Ms, I want to be off this bus, I want a bed, I want to go home.”)

At the Cape Town airport, I had purchased 1Q84, a brick of a Haruki Murakami novel, and brought it out of my bag to keep my mind occupied. I didn’t normally read on buses, it was often too bouncy and dusty, but I felt an ill-defined sense of uncertainty rising at the base of my neck, just out of reach. The fact that Murakami's novel takes place in an alternate world that often crosses over into a parallel reality seemed appropriate for my current situation.

“What if we get stuck?” a voice asked, quietly. “Where will you go? What will happen to your backpack, stowed out of reach? How will you get home? What will you eat? Do lions get hungrier during the rainy season? How long can you survive by drinking you own pee?” These are questions that used to plague me before any journey, my mind running through endless loops of contingency plans and emergency procedures. In my travels to this point, at which I’d been in Tanzania for about eight months, I’d learned to silence them, or at least to ignore them until they subsided. There was a way for everything, I knew, even if it was unpleasant or unexpected. Things were fine. They would be fine.

At about 3 pm, the bus switched with a lurch from the paved road onto the local dirt highway that stretched the rest of the way to Mahenge near the entrance to Udzungwa Mountains National Park. The park is home to the second largest biodiversity of any national park in Tanzania, and contains the magnificent 170 meter-tall Sanje Waterfalls—popular with backpackers and hikers—a glimpse of which I saw tumbling grandly down the mountain between a break in the clouds. It’s also home to a hell of a lot of water, much of which fell from the mountains and collected into rivulets that fed into larger streams along the roadside. The jungle, dense to the point of entering the bus by force and buying us dinner, was held back by the force of flowing water. A channel about four feet across flanked the road on both sides and deepened and widened as we progressed. It looked like we were driving not on a road, but on a thin, dirt-covered bridge over a vast river.

After another forty minutes of bouncing along over rutted tracks, things suddenly became not fine at all. The road curved around a hillside and disappeared. Like a river cutting through a canyon, the road, or what was left of it, was subsumed completely into a flowing mass of murky, silty mud bordered by towering walls of red clay and brown grass. The delineation between the dirt and the mire was clear: as if painted by hand, brown earth gradually gave way to black sludge for about one-hundred meters. The bus slowed to a stop. From the other direction, a Jeep heaved its way through the morass, its engine revving mightily as the tires cleaved into the ground and sprayed inky mud in every direction. I watched its progress enviously through the windshield. It eventually cleared the mud and drove past us, jauntily honking its horn as if to say, “Good luck, suckers.” At this point, everyone around me started to whisper quietly, which for Tanzanians is as close as they’ll come to true panic. I looked around at my neighbors, trying to gauge the seriousness of the situation by their expressions. One by one, they rose and began to walk toward the front of the bus. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I groaned to no one, and picked up my bag.

All of us congregated on the side of the road in the shade of some banana trees while the driver, a stout man wearing rubber sandals and a Manchester United jersey that nicely accentuated his paunch, conferred with his friends. At least, I assume they were his friends—they might have been strangers from a nearby village. Maybe they were from a nearby village but they were actually his friends, and he stopped the bus here on every journey so they all got a chance to hang out. In fact, I never had any inkling of where people appeared from on the road, or how they got there. People just seemed to appear from the tall grass, like those dead baseball players in Field of Dreams, perhaps drawn by the prospect of watching some bus drama unfold. I can imagine that was the main activity in a lot of towns.

I took a seat on a damp log, trying to keep my new black Converse shoes, fresh from Cape Town’s shopping district, from sticking in the mud. It turns out it is possible to be vain about one’s appearance even while stranded with a group of people who don’t speak your language while sitting on a log by the side of a swampy road. If I’d been in a better frame of mind, perhaps seated in a comfortable reclining chair with seven cold beers and a bag of chips, what unfolded might have been highly amusing. I would’ve recorded the entire process and submitted it to one of those TV shows that feature videos of people getting defenestrated or accidentally tossing their toddlers down a flight of stairs, with a studio audience of buffoons cackling madly in response. “Schadenfreude for Idiots” is the genre, I think. Anyway, it would’ve fit in perfectly.

I finally figured out, after spending twenty minutes waiting and listening to snippets of the conversations of people around me, that the driver asked us to leave the bus in order to lighten its weight and make it more buoyant (or so I would guess). In what seemed a strange group dynamic, even for laid-back Tanzanians, no one seemed perturbed or even slightly worried about our situation. The men quickly formed small groups as if they were socializing after church, many laughing and slapping each other on the back like they’d just found wads of cash in the tall grass instead of being forcibly removed from a sweaty bus after a truncated seven-hour journey. (If you’re counting, which I was, seven hours was the time the entire journey usually takes from start to finish. It had taken us that time to make it about a quarter of the way before we stopped.) Women quietly gathered in separate groups and spoke softly, the younger ones watching the men reverently, many using banana leaves to shade their faces. I sat on my log and continued to watch while I wiped spots of mud from my shoes.

The driver, clearly having reached an accord with his associates, boarded the empty bus and, with a theatrical roar of the engine, took off as fast as he could. “Hey dudes, watch this! I’m going to see how stuck I can get this bus and then we’ll ditch all these people and go back to town and get drunk!” he shouted out the window. After a few seconds, he accelerated sharply and turned the bus at a slight angle, hoping to skid across the mud and use the bus’s force and momentum to arrive pointed straight, more or less, on the other side. He, I’m sure, had more experience than I have piloting a two-ton metal block through waist-deep mud at high velocity, so if I ever see him again, I will admit that I didn’t do incredibly well in high school physics, so my opinion probably isn’t worth much. I do know, however, that in order to move a wheeled craft forward in a set direction, one must point the wheels to travel in that direction. It makes sense, does it not?

The front set of tires bit into the mud and held tightly, churning the bus forward with a thunderous force before succumbing to a lack of traction and spinning aimlessly as the rear wheels became mired in the tracks the front wheels had created. The weight of the bus was pulling it down into the mud, and the tires, traveling at an angle, forced themselves in deeper until they were completely stuck. The bus stopped, its front left tire spinning madly in the glare of the afternoon sun, with its nose pointed at a 15-degree angle into the ground, and the rear tires elevated slightly, so that all of the passengers, had we still been aboard, would have been dumped toward the front.

The driver hopped lightly out of the side door and landed with a splash in the mud, his feet sinking a few inches with every step. He seemed supremely unconcerned. This, I suppose, in retrospect, worked in his favor. Since most Tanzanians rarely get visibly frustrated or flustered, they’re able to shake off any failures and carry right along. There's something to be learned from that, I suppose. Life lesson: when you’re stuck in the mud, go get beers and things will be fine.

After conferencing again with his advisors, he stood for a moment and surveyed the scene, his stance suggesting, maybe only to me, the rugged determination of a prizefighter about to enter the second round. I’d like to say that everyone grew silent and apprehensively hopeful as he climbed aboard the bus, but really, no one seemed even to notice. For all I could tell, this turn in the road was our destination all along and, having successfully reached it, people were content. Maybe this was where the journey was meant to end. The thought of a lion stumbling on our party of castaways, as if a lion stumbles onto anything by chance, was arresting enough to cause me to remain stationary on the log with my head propped up on my chin. I love lions, but only in certain situations. This was not one of them. The sun bore down through a thin veil of cloud that fluttered across the cyan sky, and ripples of gauzy heat radiated up off the road in the distance.

His second attempt was more successful. After a slow start, the bus lurched ahead, jittering and shaking madly like an unbalanced washing machine, and with a great deal of pushing by the driver’s advisory council, some of them sinking to their knees in mud (part of the job, I guess) the tires gained a grip on solid ground. The small groups standing around in the shade looked up as if someone had announced that dinner was served, and made their way slowly back to the bus. We climbed aboard and in five minutes were on our way again.

The Titanic. RIP.  We only made it a short distance, however, before another natural waterway hindered our progress. After successfully extricating ourselves from the first dig-out, we arrived at Ifakara and spent three hours waiting to cross the Kilombero River because the ferry was was “broken.” You’ll notice my skepticism. After watching people (it was hard to tell who were the officials and who were overzealous observers) spend two hours attempting to resuscitate a second ferry, rusted and half-sunk in the shallows along the riverbank, I found another seat in the shade of a banana tree. The rescue crews made their way to the Titanic, which is what I named the rusted ferry, in shallow canoes and rowboats before nearly capsizing in the Kilombero’s swift current. I made a game of guessing which canoe or boat would make it to the Titanic’s rusty hull first. Would it be Speedy, the showoff in the flashy red canoe? Or Baldy, making his way slowly but surely in a homemade brown rowboat? It made for an entertaining afternoon of competition.

About an hour after I sat down, Speedy and Baldy had both boarded the Titanic, but it turned out that the first ferry actually did work, and the friendly driver forgot to put the key in or wanted a break from the monotony of driving back and forth. Maybe be had an existential crisis. Maybe he suddenly realized that life is about the journey, not the destination, since his destinations were literally the same two every day. It was impossible, and indeed probably detrimental to my mental state, to know what actually happened. My resolution to remain happy and positive was shaken, but on the plus side, this delay afforded me quite a lot of time for forced relaxation and quiet contemplation.

Eventually we all climbed aboard the functioning ferry. The driver or captain or whoever, apparently still in doubt about his chosen profession, didn’t pull it close enough to the bank, forcing all of us to wade through ankle-deep water. So much for my black Converse. By some miracle we made it across the river, waited for another thirty minutes for the bus to catch up with us on the other side, and pressed on into the mountains.

We got stuck four more times over the course of the next ten hours between Ifakara and Mahenge, a trip that took one hour during the dry season. It was the same every time: the bus got wedged in waist-deep sludge the color of rusty blood, everyone climbed off and waited at the side of the road, the driver recklessly attempted to extricate himself from the mire, failed, and a group of guys with picks and shovels appeared to dig it out. I can’t confirm whether he knew all these guys, but the chances are pretty good. Maybe they have a phone tree or a Facebook group.

My favorite instance of getting stuck was at 11 pm, in complete darkness, at a point where the road narrowed drastically and the red clay soil gummed up the tires. We had once again exited the bus, as we did each time it got stuck, and were standing on the side of the road with a wall of dense forest at our backs. It was hard to see anything under the pitch black sky, but the mood was more subdued than earlier, and many people were propped up against each other dozing. The only light that filtered down through the trees was from a ghostly moon, imbuing everything with an eerie glow. It was at this moment, perhaps under the influence of the the pale moon, that an adventurous spirit stirred in me and I decided I was going to make it home. Armed with positive thinking and two working legs, nothing would stop me, I decided, not even the lack of adequate vehicular transport. Okay, maybe a lion would stop me. Or a hippopotamus. Or the fact that I’m hopeless at navigation and would probably have ended up eaten by a crocodile in the river. But I was on an adventure, god damn it, and I intended to see it through.

At that moment, cutting through the silence, I overheard someone say, “Simba atajkuja (The lion is coming),” laughing. “Simba atakuja hapa, sasa hivi! (The lion is coming here right now!)” It took a few moments for my brain to process this statement in the context of where I was and what I was doing there. What kind of reality was I living in such that the appearance of a lion in the depths of a black night made any rational sense? I had heard tales of a rogue lion patrolling this part of the jungle, roaming far outside its territory in Selous Game Reserve. I chalked it up as one of those local legends that people like to use to scare the white folks, even though I was the only one around at the moment. In actuality the lion probably wouldn’t challenge such a large group of people. At that moment, it didn’t matter. To hear someone say, “The lion is coming right now,” accompanied by a maniacal laugh, while standing by the side of a desolate, moonlit road in rural southeastern Tanzania with no means for escape—well, it’s hard not to take that seriously.

#This Is Not a Safari #Tanzania #Blog #Travel memoir #Travel book #Travel writing #Travel writer #Africa #Mahenge #Iringa #Ifakara #Kilombero #lioden #WorldTeach #Volunteer #Volunteer teacher #ESL #Travel blog #Travel #Bus travel

[jerseydeanne]

She is, perhaps, an unlikely keeper of Royal secrets. But for a month, Margret Lekartgi, a 22-year-old maid from an impoverished town in Kenya, has known about William and Kate’s engagement – while even the Queen, Prince Harry and the Prime Minister were still in the dark.

It was a piece of news entrusted to the quietly-spoken hired hand from the Masai tribe because she attended to the couple during the safari holiday during which the Prince proposed.

Ms Lekartgi, who earns about £75 a month as a maid, said: ‘I was so pleased when I found out about the engagement but we were told not to tell anyone anything about it. They were such lovely people, so happy together.’

She made the young couple’s bed, cleaned their rooms, put away their dirty clothes and, subsequently, was to become one of the very first people in the world to be told the historic news.

And today, speaking exclusively to The Mail on Sunday, Ms Lekartgi, who lives in the impoverished town of Isiolo, in northern Kenya, provides the first definitive account of the events leading to the couple’s engagement.

William proposed to his girlfriend of eight years on the last day of their holiday in a wooden lodge 12,000 feet above sea level on the slopes of Mount Kenya.

Last week, a month after the engagement, the Queen and the rest of the family were told the news and it was announced to the public.

But before all this drama, public or otherwise, Ms Lekartgi bore witness to the couple’s secret adventure as they travelled through Kenya with their hosts, the conservationists Ian and Jane Craig.

Ms Lekartgi talks touchingly, and at times humorously, about the Prince’s kindness for the staff looking after him and the chaos that he caused as his independent spirit led him and his wife-to-be to confound the security teams paid to look after him.

And she speaks with pride about being told of the Royal engagement almost a month before anyone else.

The couple started their holiday, Ms Lekartgi reveals, at the beginning of October in an area of the jungle in the northern rainlands of Kenya known in Swahili as Ishak Bin. It is managed and conserved by Somali tribes.

The Royal couple braved the wilds with the guidance of Mr Craig, a Kenyan-born farmer and reserve owner, whose daughter Jecca was once romantically linked to William.

And it is understood that William, Kate, Mr Craig and his wife lived, along with two Royal Protection Officers, in tents deep in the bush, far from prying eyes. There they made fires from wood they gathered and enjoyed the peace and tranquility.

A group of armed employees kept a discreet distance from the camp, not as a nod to any terrorist threat to the Royal party, but as an assurance against the lions, rhinos and elephants in close vicinity.

And while Ms Lekartgi was not with the group at this stage, she heard word that Prince William had adored the freedom of life in the wild. ‘They were having the time of their lives. They were just living in tents,’ she said.

After a week in the jungle, however, the group came back to Mr Craig’s 55,000-acre reserve, Lewa Downs, in northern Kenya, and it was here that Ms Lekartgi had her first experience of William and his bride-to-be, who at this stage was still unaware of the proposal to come.

William and Kate stayed at Mr Craig’s four-bedroom home, snug deep behind a barrier of umbrella-like Acacia trees, hidden from view. Despite this, the house – which also boasts a large swimming pool – has some of the best views of the African savannah from its vantage point on a large hill.

Wary of how the heir to the British throne would treat her, Ms Lekartgi was understandably nervous. But she was to be as equally as astonished at William’s friendliness and clear reluctance to ask her to do any chores.

‘From the start he was always smiling and not bossy or Royal at all. Very neat too. The same with Kate’, she said.

‘They spent their days with the Craigs game driving, seeing the lions, elephants and rhinos. But whenever they saw me around they would say hello, always smiling. They were just so very happy all the time.’

The maid said she was amazed when the Prince handed her a $100 note as a tip, which is around £63, or almost a month’s wages. However, when the couple were joined by two friends from South Africa, the newcomers  handed over just 100 South African rand, the equivalent of £9.

Day-long game drives became something of a routine for the four friends, Mr Craig, the two Royal Protection officers and a retinue of green-uniformed security staff, whose normal work is to keep poachers at bay.

William also played football with the security guards and guides – ending up on the team that won 2-1. Kate cheered wildly on the sidelines, according to a source.

The routine would only be broken when William and Kate, both 28, were introduced to the workings of the reserve. And on one such occasion, a black rhino, also known as the hook-lipped rhino, was named in William’s honour. The party came across the beast and it was felled with an anaesthetising dart.

William and Kate felt the side of the becalmed rhino as it breathed, deep in sleep. It was then that William agreed to personally sponsor the beast at a cost of £6,000 a year. It was consequently named William, according to a source.

Ms Lekartgi added: ‘They went with Mr Craig and a team of dart shooters to find rhinos which they could dart, mark and monitor.

ReaOnce the rhino is hit with a dart it has one of its ears cut so it can be recognised in the future. William didn’t shoot the dart, but the Rhino was named in his honour.’ On that night, William and Kate celebrated the adoption of the rhino with one of their favourite meals of the trip. Ms Lekartgi said: ‘Most of the time they had chicken, fish or beef. But on this night they were given sheep cooked in the Masai-style, which is freshly slaughtered and roasted whole over charcoals. I think they really liked it. I think they were loving the whole experience.’The rhino expedition was one of many forays into the jungle and further afield. And keeping track of William and Kate’s movements from Mr Craig’s home was nigh on impossible, even for the security teams detailed to look after them.

‘Everything he did was very secretive, no one who didn’t need to know was told anything,’ said Ms Lekartgi. ‘And he would constantly change cars whenever he was out of the gates of Lewa Downs.

‘He wouldn’t allow anyone else, except Mr Craig, to drive. In fact, the guards wouldn’t let him in a couple of times because they didn’t recognise the car – then he would wind down the window and say, “Hi guys, it is me”.’

Perhaps bored of the luxury of Mr Craig’s home, William and Kate then went to spend some more time in tents – although these came with running hot and cold water and their own private terraces.

Ms Lekartgi said: ‘They went to Sarara on Mr Craig’s private jet, about a 30-minute flight away. There is a tented camp near an animal waterhole. It is a luxury place though, so they enjoyed that very much. The two South African friends went with them too.’

There the group glimpsed giraffe, elephants, wild dogs and buffalo. They also followed the tracks of a leopard, although it is understood that they didn’t come across one on their walk through the wilderness there.

But it appears that William’s wanderlust was still not sated, and his next trip was to the Rutundu Lake, high on slopes of Mount Kenya. This time, though, it was just Kate and William.

The couple drove up in a Land Cruiser borrowed from Mr Craig. After a five-hour drive they enjoyed fishing in the lake before retiring to a nearby wooden lodge. It is believed that the proposal came on the cabin’s verandah. Certainly Kate wrote in the guestbook at her delight at the cabin’s romantic atmosphere.

The next day the couple were picked up by Mr Craig’s private plane which then took them back down to Lewa Downs.

It was then that they broke the news of their engagement to the Craigs, and Ian Craig brought Margret and her tiny cohort of colleagues into the secret. Ms Lekartgi said: ‘William and Kate came back from Rutundu and told the Craigs about the engagement. I didn’t see the ring but after Ian had dropped William and Kate off at the airstrip he came back and decided they would be going over to the UK too to celebrate. ‘We were told that there was an engagement party for William and Kate and they were going to leave Lewa to attend, but we were not to tell anyone what it was all about. They left shortly afterwards. ‘So that is when we knew that they were engaged. ‘It is so lovely for them, I am so proud it happened here. We all wish them all the best.

Kate’s other ring – for just £2.55 Trekking around Kenya with his mother’s engagement ring in his backpack, Prince William admitted to being ‘terrified’ of losing something so unique.

But his future in-laws could have saved him the worry by supplying an alternative ring, left, that looks remarkably similar to the real thing.

In fact William could have had a chocolate, a pirate figure, an eye-patch and party-popper thrown in – all for £2.55.

The ring, sapphire blue and surrounded by ‘diamonds’, is part of the booty in the treasure chest for pirate theme parties advertised on the Middletons’ Party Pieces website.

Perhaps they should pop it in their princess treasure chest gift box instead. Nod for Posh Spice designer Prince William and his bride-to-be have given the Royal seal of approval to an interior designer favoured by Victoria Beckham.

In a further sign that the couple are trying to avoid a fusty image, they have handpicked flame-haired Kelly Hoppen, 51, to work for them. Her charges start at £300,000 and her clients also include Hollywood stars.

Launching a ‘loungewear’ range at Harrods on Thursday, she was asked what advice she would give William and Kate about decorating their first home. She replied curtly: ‘I really can’t comment on that.’

Last night a source said: ‘Kelly doesn’t like to talk about high-profile clients until a deal is signed and sealed. Discretion is key. There is nothing concrete with the royal couple. Things are at very, very initial stages.’

Ms Hoppen describes her style as ‘simple yet opulent’.

Read more:

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[gunslingerandy]

When I’m Small

Music does funny things to me.  It creates images, moving pictures in my mind, most of the time.  Sometimes, something comes along that leaves an impression, but I don’t realize the impression it leaves until I hear a piece of music that just makes sense.  This one happens to be about, arguably, my favorite character from a now-ended Shadowrun RPG show that I dearly, dearly love to this day.  She had gone through some serious shit, and one day Pandora gave me this gem that summed up, I feel, just about every relationship she had at that time.  It’s my first songfic, unedited, and likely using a faulty timeline (Post Galahad run, pre-brain surgery and dangerous jungle mission, just before the notes were written), aka expect a dumpster fire.  Also, in my headcanon, her actual full name is Acacia Lucille Fitzgerald.  That will make sense in a second. Song is here.

Fog filled the streets, thick and choking like a bank of smoke gravid with the moisture of a rainy day.  Thankfully, it was a quiet night.  People must have decided to stay home in the warm company of friends and family.  A bullshit answer, but it was better than the truth, that being that people were afraid.  More afraid than usual.

Of course they were.  A dragon made of the void of space was spotted above the city with a crash of light and thunder.  If you weren’t afraid of that, you either loved dragons, or were out of your god-forsaken mind.  Maybe even both.  Whatever it was, tonight the streets were barren.  So was her old apartment.  Ma1nFram3 was a person with a very short list of regrets, but right now she was mulling over the latest one.  It wasn’t the fact she had to leave her latest home behind.  Home was a very subjective term these days, anyway.

It was honestly the fact that she was sloppy enough to have to leave her apartment.  Sloppy enough that THEY found her.  It clung to her mind like the fog to the streets, and like her hand to the Ares Lightfire secretly tucked into the front pocket of her hooded jacket.  That’s where it stayed now, just like how a glance seemed to remain over her shoulder.  

Walking in the dense wall of gray droplets of water suspended in the air, all illuminated by the late night vigil of neon torchlight, Ma1n would make several rapid steps, glance over her shoulder, grip her pistol tighter, and occasionally slip a slender hand under the hood of her coat to stroke the top of her ear.  After the run on Galahad, which freed Twiggy successfully (an operative word), but just like the surgeries from those early days of her life, there was still a scar.  Something still lingered.  And she knew it was because her mother was still out there.

Lucy’s underground, she’s got a mouth to feed.  Am I underground, or am I in between?  Lucy’s underground she’s got a mouse to feed.  Am I underground, or am I in too deep?

A few more quick steps and Ma1nFram3 darted into an alley, jogged to a side door, and slipped inside.  Her boots began echoing off the walls of the stairwell, leading down to the bottom floor of a relatively secure parking deck where Dinah had been stashed for the interim.  One thumbprint later, and the door popped open.  Ma1nFram3 scrambled inside.  One whiff of the interior, and Ma1n was beginning to fear she was driving around in Mordecai’s towel.  

Mordecai.  A heavy sigh escaped her lungs.  She shot a look over at a tiny mound of balled-up, crumpled pieces of paper then unzipped her jacket, pulling out the jar of peanut butter flavored soy-based food product, and a pack of soy-based salted crackers.  The clerk at Stuffer Shack, and their pathetic security system, never knew they went missing.  With the jar open, plastic knife in hand, dinner was served.  

Ma1n nibbled here and there.  Her shaking hands would from time to time pick up the archaic pad of paper and pencil laying on Dinah’s interior floor, amid the dirty laundry, and empty soy crisp packages and drink cans, to compose. A few words later, the pad would go flying to the side with the pencil, as her hand would come to rub across her furrowed brow.  She never knew these kinds of words were so difficult, though having used them so many times before.  Her knuckles struck against her thigh, only for her to wince and massage away the pain from so many repeated strikes from earlier.  She considered just vanishing, but every time the thought arose, she would shake her head.  Of course they would forgive her, but she’d never forgive herself.

Show me love. You’ve got your hand on the button now. Sure enough, you’ve got your hand on the button now.

No, not THEM.  

Them.  That headache inducing, heartstring pulling, property damage causing surrogate family that she managed to somehow get suckered into.  The big, punchy one got on her nerves, but he certainly managed to always pull through.  His charge, that clever sneak-thief of a girl who could talk anyone into crying. Who could forget the Orc that always had a plan that never survived first contact with the enemy?  And of course the shaman, along with his big glowing shark and grimy towel?  There was no way in hell they were going to die because of her.  She had to leave.  

Lucy’s underground, she’s never coming back.  Am I still alive or has the light gone black?  Take me underground, take me all the way. Bring me to the fire, throw me in the flames.

She grabbed the pad and pencil again.  Words made it to paper, but it wasn’t long until the pad sailed into Dinah’s side.  Usually a digital person, being analog about all of this was turning into bullshit.  Leaving was going to be hard.  Staying surely would be worse.  What would make her stay anyway, she wondered.  Them?  Maybe him?  Her sigh was sharp enough to cut titanium.  Maybe, after all, he was the one she didn’t want to leave?

Her mind flicked over to the Captain, resonating through the van as her head thumped against Dinah’s metal, staring at the dome light above her.  Was that really even an option at this point?  Ma1n’s eyes widened in a silent scream.  No, this had to happen.  For everyone’s sake.

So, show me love.  You’ve got your hands on the button now.  Sure enough, you’ve got your hands on the button now.

Grabbing the pencil and paper once more, she flopped into the driver’s seat, leaning back to prop her feet on the dash.  The words started coming, and once again began to run dry.  Ma1nFram3 growled loudly, preparing to bruise her hand on the steering wheel, but caught herself.  She glared at herself in the mirror, chest heaving, tears welling up in her eyes.

She had never realized it before, or more the case of she ignored it until now, how much of her mother she saw in that reflection.  Her eyes began to flip through pages of memories and holoslates of thought, and suddenly shut.  If she went back, would they all be safe?  

I’d rather die.  I’d rather die than to be with you.

One deep breath in, one deep breath out.  Pencil returned to paper and finally the words came​.

It was time to say goodbye.

#shadowrun corpsins ma1nfram3 mmfec phantogram songfic

[thegodthronechronicles]

A History of Magical Artifacts, The Silver Axe

The axe was an ancient thing, and powerful. It was designed for one simple thing only: to kill. Druac of a house long forgotten forged the axe with the heat of his anger, poured his very soul and vengeance into the fine silver blade, and cooled it to perfection with the blood of his last surviving child. You see, Druac had lost his family when Solmon, King of the Polodoq took control of the land-- the present day Krouhl Prairies-- from the Rohamani in the Dawning Years of Human civilization. King Solmon began his invasion in a small hamlet whose name was lost to the passing of millennia; Druac and his family resisted and as a result all but him and his newborn babe were lined up and killed. In the early era of Polodoq civilization, the nature of their execution consisted of the subject being mounted alive upon a stake and left until the next Planesmeeting. As you can see, Druac would have had ample reason to hate King Solmon.

When rumor of revolution about a decade later came to Solmon’s ears, he called for a gathering of half the conquered villagers to his castle for a lesson. Reports say Druac admitted to Solmon that it was him who lead the revolution and begged mercy for the villagers, but as many who study Human history know, every one of them was impaled upon a spike. There was one survivor, however, as I came to realize: Druac. He was a blacksmith for the hamlet and forged a silver axe with the intention to kill King Solmon; and he did, but not in the way most would think.

As he begged mercy for his villagers, he offered the king a magical axe. When the king questioned why the axe was in two pieces, Druac explained that it bonded to whoever put the two pieces together and that it could kill any creature that draws breath. What he didn’t explain was that the axe was crafted with special instructions by a certain book: The Book of Vile Darkness. The axe was cursed. King Solmon put the two pieces together and then ordered the execution of Druac and the villagers. Druac did not die, however, as the axe’s nature transferred Solmon’s life force into Druac. As Solmon died during the Siege of Silence-- when Rohamani warlord Adalla Fen’s army snuck into the castle and killed everyone in their slumber-- Druac sprung back to life, pulled himself off the stake and went in search of the axe.

Druac never found it as it had been taken by Adalla Fen when he killed Solmon; Adalla found the axe in two parts and put the pieces together. What historians gathered from the revival of Rohamani culture after the fall of Polodoq, was that they had a custom in which the ruler only ruled until they were struck down by their successor. What I know now is that each successor would take the silver axe as a sign of their strength and be doomed to die. This cycle lasted until the Dragon Civil War resulted in the Draconic rule of Altanis where the Polodoqs were eventually wiped out and the Rohamani betrayed the rest of humanity and aided the Dragons in  their takeover. The silver axe was lost in a treasure horde collected by the ancient red dragon Viinrulkarin.

Generations later, a dwarven army under the leadership of Muirkyll Dragonbane lay siege against Viinrulkarin’s lair and killed the fierce dragon. Muirkyll found the axe and put the pieces together; he died a week later. Hjalnyl Bearheart took the axe and carved a kingdom out of Viinrulkarin’s lair; the kingdom becoming the modern day Mogh Dumedum in the heart of the Kuneteyas mountain range. Hjalnyl was killed by assassins shortly after and the axe sold along a black market where it made it’s way deep into the Underdark with famed adventurer Durgle Deepdelver where the axe became yet again lost after Durgle’s party met the Mindflayers.

In the depths of the Underdark, the axe sat for hundreds of years until a drow by the name of Miz’za Icharyd unfortunately stumbled across it. Miz’za was killed by the Deep Gnome Schnilshuck Opaleyes; who was killed by a Beholder named Iokoksh; who fell to a duergar raiding party led by Bromdrom Ironclast; who was killed by Mog the Kobald, who brought the axe out of the underdark to a mountain range called the Spine of Dunatis where he was killed by a human named Whittaker Crestwood; who was captured and killed by the Yuan’ti snake people of the Jungles of Yig in southwestern Ebios. Here, the axe remained for several hundred years until a wood elf adventurer named Qinnoren Liadon picked it up.

Qinnoren Liadon brought the silver axe on a journey to Arvander, or Arborea as many know it. It was here that Qinnoren met his doomed end when a raiding party from the Nine Hells attacked. The axe was brought back to the Nine Hells to be gifted to Valakis, brother of the demoness Vixalial and Archduke of Avernus, the First Layer of Hell; I believe this is what lead to Zariel’s rule as Valakis had been killed at the height of his power, when he was on the verge of gaining control over the third layer, Minauros. The axe was brought into Gehenna by a group of yugoloths, who were then overrun and killed by a pack of barghests.

There are many names that were taken by the axe: Cheda, Falimor, Dren, Balune, Krahj, Darmin, Vazenus, Taym, Maquilames, Elkela, Bar, Re’Or, Billowen, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I could fill pages with only the names of those unfortunate souls, but alas there is not much time. So I will tell you the end of what I know.

The axe came to a small town in the Shadowfell by the name of Ulthar. A blacksmith named Karius Von Dar found it on the body of a zombie that attacked the town. As you could guess by now, he put the two pieces together. Now, Karius was not a regular blacksmith, he worked specifically with magical items; the axe intrigued him and he began to study the object, keeping it secret and safe within his locked chest. He did not have long to study it as the Shadowfell and Feywild fused into one realm called Myrkrheim, as a result all of the cats in the town became sentient and violent.

Years later, a party of adventurers came to what was left of the town of Ulthar in search of an artifact that laid within the fiendish Raxivort’s treasure vault on the nearby island. Two of the adventurers, a goliath named Brunar and a faerie named Acacia Oni found the axe in two pieces right where Karius left it in his shop. It was Brunar who put the pieces together and bonded the axe; he did not last much longer as the psychic wind that traverses the Astral Sea rendered the poor man brain dead. Brunar floated in the Astral Sea for quite a while before a morkoth found him and added him to its collection. The morkoth was killed by a Githyanki raiding party lead by a woman named Drahneya; she found Brunar’s body and determined he had passed away only moments before. Drahneya also found the axe and put the pieces together, which lead to her death when the raiding party came to Crextind Academy, the most marvelous school of science and magic on the material plane of Midgard-- if I might say so myself. Several of the professors found the axe and-- sensing its magical energy-- gave it to me to study. I made the mistake of putting the axe together; a simple act of screwing the axe-head onto the handle until you hear a click that I presume enacts the bonding process, as it was then I could feel myself become bonded and sense every soul who had also become bonded since the axe’s initial creation.

I do not know how long exactly I have, but I fear I will die soon and that my death will only serve to revitalize the man who created the axe, Druac, as all others have.

-- From the final pages of the journal belonging to renowned magical artifact historian, Yhendorn Zyllamin, who was murdered in his sleep. The whereabouts of the silver axe are unknown.

#Dungeons and Dragons #D&D 5e #behind the scenes #Tie-In #A History of magical artifacts

[dawnasiler]

Are They Dupes? The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA VS Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid

Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid is a copycat – and is not even trying to hide it.

Everything about it, from its sciencey name to the sleek bottle with dropper applicator, is almost identical to The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA.

I have to admit, I’m a bit put off by this. I know there’s nothing really new under the skincare sun (so many formulas are the same), but couldn’t they have given Revolution Skincare its own identity? To me, it feels like the girl who’s trying too hard to get noticed at a party…

But is it any good? Does Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid live up to The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA, or is it all smoke and mirrors? Let’s find out:

Lactic Acid To Exfoliate Skin

Both Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid and The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA have opted for Lactic Acid, the gentlest of the Alpha Hydroxy Acids (AHAs).

AHAs are a family of exfoliants that dissolves the “glue” that holds skin cells together, so they can slough off and reveal the smoother and brighter skin underneath.

Lactic Acid goes one step further: it also hydrates it. It works by attracting moisture from the environment into the skin and binding it there.

One more thing: Lactic Acid is a big molecule, which has a hard time penetrating the skin. That means it’s not as effective as other exfoliating acids (like Glycolic) to brighten skin, but it does the job way more gently.

If you have sensitive skin, lactic acid is the way to go.

Related: Glycolic Acid VS Lactic Acid: Which One Is Right For You?

Hyaluronic Acid To Hydrate Skin

Both Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid and The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA use the same form of Hyaluronic Acid: Sodium Hyaluronate Crosspolymer (we’ll call it SMC from now on).

SMC is a modified, smaller form of Hyaluronic Acid attached to a polymer structure that allows it to hydrate skin for longer.

It works like this: when SMC enters your skin, the enzymes there break down the bond between its molecular structure. Now the polymer can roam free all over your skin’s upper layers, making sure they have all the moisture they need for hours on end.

All this extra moisture makes your skin very happy: it plumps up your fine lines and wrinkles so they look smaller; it makes its texture softer to the touch; and it imparts a radiant glow.

Related: Why You Need Hyaluronic Acid In Your Skincare Routine, No Matter Your Skin Type

Tasmanian Pepperberry To Soothe Skin

The Ordinary was the first to make Tasmanian Pepperberry popular. It’s literally in all its exfoliants, including Lactic Acid 5% + HA.

Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid copied this too. Was it a good choice? What is this Tasmanian thingie?

Tasmanian Pepperberry is a little berry rich in flavonoids, a family of antioxidants with anti-inflammatory properties. It reduces redness and irritation and helps sensitive skin better tolerate lactic acid.

Related: Skin Irritations: Cause And Prevention

What Else Do You Need To Know?

Not much. Both Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid and The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA are fairly basic exfoliants that do double duty: they remove dead cells while hydrating skin.

Revolution also has a big dollop of Propanediol, a type of alcohol that helps active ingredients penetrate deeper into the skin. The catch? If you have sensitive skin, it could irritate it.

Related: The Truth About Alcohol-Free Skincare Products

Which Of The Two Should You Go For?

If your skin’s so sensitive, it can’t tolerate a lot of Propanediol, go with The Ordinary 5% Lactic Acid + HA.

Not sensitive? It doesn’t matter what you pick. This is a case where the choice entirely comes down to personal preference.

Availability

Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid (£6.00): available at Superdrug and Ulta

The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA (£5.50): available at Asos, Beauty Bay, Cult Beauty, Escentual and Feel Unique

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Is Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid A Dupe For The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA?

Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid is a smidgen more expensive than The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA, so I’m not sure I can call it a dupe (isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?). But the two formulas are so similar, they’ll give you the same results.

Have you tried both Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid and The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA? Share your fave pick in the comments below.

Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid Ingredient: Aqua/Water/Eau, Propanediol, Lactic Acid, Glycerin, Butylene Glycol, Sodium Hyaluronate Crosspolymer, Xanthan Gum, Sodium Benzoate, Potassium Sorbate, Disodium Edta, Pentylene Glycol, Tasmannia Lanceolata (Pepper Tree) Fruit/Leaf Extract, Ethylhexylglycerin.

The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA Ingredients: Aqua (water), Lactic Acid, Glycerin, Pentylene Glycol, Triethanolamine, Potassium Citrate, Sodium Hyaluronate Crosspolmer, Tasmannia Lanceolata Fruit/Leaf Extract, Arginine, Acacia Senegal Gum, Xanthan Gum, Trisodium Ethylene-Diamine Disuccinate, PEG-40 Hydrogenated Castor Oil, Ethyl 2.2-Dimethylhydrocinnamal, PPG-26-Buteth-26, Ethylhexylclycerin, 1.2-Hexanediol, Caprylyl Glycol

Take The Guesswork Out Of Skincare Shopping

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Are They Dupes? The Ordinary Lactic Acid 5% + HA VS Revolution 5% Lactic Acid + Hyaluronic Acid syndicated from Beautiful With Brains

#skincare #beauty #makeup

[londontheatre]

Bananaman The Musical – Matthew McKenna (Bananaman) Photo by Pamela Raith

Bananaman is flying to London to save the world! The most brainless superhero ever to grace the skies is going to make his live action debut in an all-singing, all-flying must-see new British musical.

Bananaman, the Man-of-Peel, is a unique member of the superhero ranks. Our handsome hero may have a jaw line you can see from space and sport the snazziest of tight lycra outfits, but this superhero has ‘the muscles of 20 men and the brain of 20 mussels.’ Which isn’t much.

With supervillains Doctor Gloom and General Blight attempting world domination who can we call? Superman’s on holiday, Spiderman’s not picking up – our only option, our very very last option is – Bananaman.

For the first time ever, Bananaman will be live on stage in Bananaman the Musical.

Bananaman the Musical, written and composed by Leon Parris, directed by Mark Perry, will run at Southwark Playhouse from December 15th 2017 to January 20th 2018. Press night is Thursday January 4, 2018 at 7.30pm

Bananaman began life in the Nutty comic in 1980, and was a flyaway success, transferring to The Dandy before joining the world’s longest-running comic, The Beano in 2012 and he is now one of The Beano’s flagship characters. A send-up of the likes of Superman and Batman, he was the subject of the hugely popular TV cartoon that ran between 1983 and 1986 for three series and 40 episodes on the BBC and featured the voices of Tim Brooke-Taylor, Graeme Garden and Bill Oddie from The Goodies.

Fans of the the TV series will remember the iconic opening sequence, “This is 29 Acacia Road. And this is Eric Wimp. He’s a schoolboy who leads an amazing double life. For when Eric eats a banana an amazing transformation occurs. Eric is Bananaman. Ever alert for the call to action.”

[See image gallery at http://ift.tt/1FpwFUw]

  With a useless hero and some equally clueless villains, Bananaman’s winkingly clever, delightfully silly humour has been sealed into the memories of those who saw him first, and will now spark the imagination of a new bunch of Bananafans.

It won’t be long before we all ‘Peel the Power’ of Bananaman. Matthew McKenna is unmasked today as the star and “handsome hero” of Bananaman the Musical. Matthew has appeared in many major West End musicals, including The Phantom of the Opera, Sunset Boulevard, Legally Blonde the Musical, We Will Rock You, Starlight Express (as Elektra), and The Rocky Horror Show (Riff Raff) and both Singing in the Rain and 42nd Street at the Theatre Du Chatelet, Paris.

Also starring, as Bananaman’s arch nemesis Doctor Gloom, the super villain seeking world domination, will be Marc Pickering. Marc Pickering returns to Southwark Playhouse where he appeared in the European premiere of Toxic Avenger The Musical. He recently starred as Finch in the musical How To Succeed in Business Without Really Trying (Wiltons Music Hall), Joseph Merrick in The Elephant Man (Trafalgar Studios), Merchant of Venice (Arcola) and The Glee Club (Hull Truck). His film work includes Sleepy Hollow, Calendar Girls, Kill Keith, I Want Candy, The Darkest Day and Montparnasse in Tom Hooper’s 2012 film of the celebrated musical Les Misérables. On TV he has appeared in the new series of Josh and Homeboys & Dalziel & Pascoe (BBC), played R Wayne in Peter Kay’s talent show parody Britain’s Got the Pop Factor, Ippolito D’este in Borgia III (for Netflix), and the young Enoch “Nucky” Thompson in the fifth and final season of the HBO series Boardwalk Empire.

Bringing the rest of the residents of Acacia Road to life are a stellar West End cast.

Jodie Jacobs (Broadway World Award Best Supporting Actress for Rock Of Ages) is Eric’s loyal sidekick, Crow. Jodie Jacobs has played Fantine in Les Misérables, Grizabella in Cats, Florence in Chess, Serena Katz in Fame and she understudied the lead roles of Scaramouche & Meatloaf in We Will Rock You (Dominion), Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors (Duke of York’s) and Eva Peron in Evita (Adelphi Theatre). Jodie has most recently been seen in The Lionel Bart Story as Judy Garland and Georgia Brown. She received an Off West End Award and a West End Wilma nomination for Lizzie (Greenwich Theatre and Denmark transfer), she won a Broadway World award for Best Supporting Actress for Rock Of Ages (West End). She was recently nominated Best Actress in a Musical as Atropos in the brand new musical 27 (Cockpit).

Mark Newnham (Eric Wimp) recently played Dave Davies in the Kinks musical Sunny Afternoon and the young Steve Marriott in the new musical All Or Nothing. His other roles include Cookie in Return to the Forbidden Planet, John Lennon in Lennon at Liverpool Royal Court Theatre, Jamie in The Last 5 Years, and Hot Stuff.

Carl Mullaney (General Blight) has appeared in Les Misérables, (West End), Chicago (West End & international tour as Mary Sunshine), Saucy Jack and the Space Vixens (Booby Shevalle), West Side Story, Jest End and Fashion Victim The Musical.

CHIEF O’REILLY – TJ Lloyd T J Lloyd’s previous musicals include playing Nicely Nicely Johnson in Guys & Dolls, The Baker in Into The Woods, Charley Kringas in Merrily We Roll Along and Ray in Elegies for Angels, Punks & Raging Queens.

MRS WIMP – Lizzii Hills Lizzii Hills is returning to Southwark Playhouse after starring there as Mayor Babs Belgoody & Ma Ferd in the European premiere of The Toxic Avenger The Musical. Her other musicals include Hedy LaRue in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying (Wilton’s) Sarah Brown in Guys & Dolls, The Rat Pack Live from Las Vegas, Chicago, High Society, Me and My Girl,and Crazy for You.

MAD MAGICIAN – Brian Gilligan Brian Gilligan starred as Guy in Once (Dublin), Deco in The Commitments (UK and Irish Tour), Cornelius/1st Cover Faustus, Doctor Faustus (West End), Bruno in Piaf (Charing Cross Theatre), and Michael Collins in Michael Collins: A Musical Drama, (Tivoli Theatre, Dublin).

FIONA – Emma Ralston Emma Ralston was Pluto in the UK premiere of Sondheim’s The Frogs (Jermyn Street Theatre), Little Red Riding Hood, Into the Woods (Ye Olde Rose & Crown), and Eve Meet Me In St. Louis (Landor Theatre).

Chris McGuigan (Ensemble) Chris McGuigan was in Candide (Cadogan Hall), Norman Jewison in JUDY! (Arts Theatre), Herakles, Sondheim’s The Frogs (UK premiere, Jermyn Street), All My Sons (Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre), Marcel Dusoleil (the lead), Amour (European premiere, Royal Academy of Music).

Amy Perry (Ensemble) Amy Perry was Millie Dillmount in Thoroughly Modern Millie (Adelphi Theatre), Myra Yerkes, Road Show (Union Theatre), Ursula March, Sweet Charity (Cadogan Hall).

Bananaman the Musical is produced by Sightline Entertainment in association with Cahoots Theatre Company and Beano Studios.

Leon Parris (Writer and Composer) Leon Parris is an award winning writer and composer for musicals including Wolfboy, Enid Blyton’s The Famous Five, Stig of the Dump and Monte Cristo. He was winner of the Vivian Ellis Best Musical Award and The Really Useful Group Award for Most Promising Writer.

Mark Perry (Director) Founder of Sightline Entertainment, Mark’s production credits include The Famous Five, Honk, The Country, The Picture of Dorian Gray, You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown, Just So, Bent and Stiffed. Directing credits include A Comedy of Arias, The Caretaker, Little Shop of Horrors, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Sleuth, Cinderella Boom or Bust, A Slice of Saturday Night. As an actor, Mark has worked extensively in TV and theatre both in the West End and on national tour.

Alan Berry (Musical Supervisor) Alan is currently the Musical Director for The Girl From The North Country at The Old Vic. Previous shows include Groundhog Day, Matilda The Musical, The Commitments, Ghost The Musical, Avenue Q, Shrek, Hairspray and Spamalot. Future projects include Big Fish at The Other Palace.

Mike Leopold (Set and Costume Designer) Michael’s recent credits include, Thoroughly Modern Millie 48 Hour (Adelphi Theatre), King Lear (The Cockpit), and The Wasp (Jermyn Street Theatre), Journey’s End (Charles Cryer Theatre). He designed Proof (Tabard Theatre) and Chummy (The White Bear Theatre) which both received Off West End nominations for Best Design in 2015 and 2017. Associate credits include Love Me Tender, The Last Tango, Death Trap, Tango Moderne, Son of a Preacher Man (All UK Tours), Top Hat (Kilworth House).

Grant Murphy (Assistant Director/Choreographer) Creative credits include: Joseph (Jersey Opera House); Yas Jungle Cirque (Yas Island Abu Dhabi); Legally Blonde (Stanwix Theatre); Forever Plaid (St James Theatre London); Guys and Dolls (Cadogan Hall); Aladdin (Salisbury Playhouse); Pinocchio (Greenwich Theatre); Rags (Lyric Theatre); Avenue Q (Ovation Productions); 18 Stone of Idiot – The Johnny Vegas Show (UMTV); He assisted Baayork Lee on A Chorus Line (London Palladium); and was tap coach to the Billy Elliot boys.

Sightline Entertainment – Producer Sightline Entertainment is an independently owned production company based in London Sightline produces commercial new work and revivals of both plays and musical theatre productions.

Beano Studios – Original Producer Beano Studios is a new global multimedia company established to create, curate and deliver mischievous entertainment for kids aged 6-106, all over the world. They produce diverse entertainment across multiple platforms including TV, digital, theatrical projects, consumer and the much-loved comic and annual.

LISTINGS INFORMATION BANANAMAN THE MUSICAL Southwark Playhouse THE LARGE 77-85 Newington Causeway London SE1 6BD

Friday December 15th 2017 to Saturday 20th January 2018

http://ift.tt/2C3Ofo9 London Theatre 1

#IFTTT #London Theatre 1