#also that i can get wool and eggs and meat and leather and all kinds of things from them

[escher-room-with-a-view]

elaborating on my autism headcanons!!

- sarah -

her special interests are usually between one and three. once she develops a special interest, it stays with her for years; in fact, some of her interests, like reading and writing, have been with her for as long as she can remember. her other special interests are theatre and arts and crafts; the latter is quite a broad category, but it includes things like sewing, felting, embroidery, watercolor painting, book binding, and making collages. sarah delves further into her interests the more they’re encouraged, but she also uses them as coping mechanisms to feel better about or distract herself from the real world around her. in the cases of acting and crafts, she uses these to express how she feels, whereas reading and writing are used more as forms of escapism. her favorite genre of literature is fantasy, though she doesn’t mind any particular fantasy subgenres and is willing to broaden her knowledge of the genre by reading most of them. meanwhile, she isn’t anywhere near as selective when it comes to theatre. so long as there’s a soundtrack and cast that resonates with her, she doesn’t care if it’s opera or ballet, tragedy or comedy, contemporary or dating back thousands of years. indeed, she doesn’t ever feel like her knowledge of theatre is complete—and while it feels unattainable, she’d like to develop at least a cursory knowledge of every play there is.

sarah stims by talking to herself, chewing on her lips or hair, pacing, doing needlework, doodling, and absentmindedly writing. she also has echolalia, repeating the same word or phrase to herself either out loud or in her head; certain phrases can get stuck in her head for weeks on end. she’s rather quiet when she talks to herself—in fact, most of the time, she just whispers or mutters. furthermore, when pacing, she walks in circles or back and forth. she doesn’t use stim toys very much because they don’t appeal to her, though she does like the idea of making her own stim toys and other objects, such as slime or reversibles.

her relationship with routine is complicated. on the one hand, she doesn’t take change well and has difficulty adapting to new situations, especially those that are unfamiliar and stressful. this means that, to some extent, she prefers it when things stay the same. however, this is more of a general status quo sort of sameness that she likes to maintain. on a smaller level, she’s easily bored by sameness and likes it when at least one novel or interesting thing happens each day. for instance, if sarah has gone to the same school her entire life, she’s going to be upset—even devastated—if circumstances force her to change schools without any sort of preparation or warning. however, if her commute to the school every day is identical, she’ll grow bored of it easily and may one day consider taking a different path there just to see what happens.

sarah tends to struggle with eye contact and, on the rare occasions that she wants to maintain it, has to force herself to do so. it makes her immensely uncomfortable to look someone in the eye for an extended period of time. while irene sometimes mistakes this for her not listening, sarah is trying to explain that it’s not something within her control.

she is hyposensitive to (and indeed fascinated with) colors and lights. however, loud noises bother her and can be painful for her. sarah also prefers not to be touched unless she initiates the contact first. being touched without her permission startles her and makes her immensely uncomfortable, as does being surrounded or cornered; all of these can easily overwhelm her in the right circumstances. she hates haunted houses for this exact reason. her hyposensitivity also extends to texture and physical sensations, albeit not in the same way; rather than being obsessed with or actively seeking out sensations and textures, sarah is so hyposensitive to both of them that she sometimes doesn’t even notice sensory input unless it’s excruciatingly painful or needs constant adjusting. her senses of taste and smell are neither above nor below what’s considered average, though she has a preference for sweets, white meat, and anything crunchy. 

something else that she and jareth have in common is the fact that their living spaces, specifically their rooms, both have to be organized in a very specific way. any alterations in this organization are bothersome and overwhelming to the both of them; this includes rearranging or removing objects, changing the location of the room entirely, or changes in things like how much light or air the room receives. 

- jareth -

he tends to have a lot of special interests at a time, and they change often. his current ones are architecture, illusions, astronomy, fashion, humans/anthropology/sociology, various pseudosciences, and surrealist art. however, in the past he’s been interested in ornithology, geology, romanticism in art and literature, the labyrinth’s prehistory, wordplay and rhetorical/literary devices, cats, different types of governments, letter writing, collecting trinkets and antiques, choreography, and many, many more. living for such a long time has provided him with the opportunity to both develop and engage in a wide variety of passions. in fact, some of these past special interests still remain with him today and simply aren’t considered his “main” ones anymore because they’re not as strong.

his favorite pseudosciences are graphology, phrenology, and astrology. he also likes to try and determine the future via methods like alectromancy, astromancy, augury, scrying, and lithomancy.

he stims using crystals/via contact juggling. this is usually when he’s understimulated, absentminded, or just needs something to occupy himself with. it’s also enjoyable to him. he has other ways of stimming, though, many of which are meant to self-soothe. for instance, feeling nervous or excited might drive him to shake one leg or hand; he also feels compelled to chew on things in such instances. when overwhelmed, he scratches his arms as one would if they had an itch. jareth is trying to stop doing this and is thus looking for alternatives. he views stim toys as some of humanity’s greatest inventions. if he lived aboveground, i imagine he’d have different versions of the same stim toys for different purposes: neutral colors when he needs to prevent overstimulation, bright colors when he’s just stimming because it makes him happy.

he doesn’t mind loud noises, but he is sensitive to bright lights and colors. in fact, he’s so nonchalant toward noise that, when he listens to music, he likes for it to be as loud as possible. in his mind, good music is never quite loud enough. there are certain textures and tastes he doesn’t like, which drives him to be very selective with what he wears and what he eats. with regards to clothing, he likes silk and leather but can’t stand wool, denim, anything baggy or distressed, or velvet. because he conducts magic through his hands, he has sensitive palms; his gloves allow him to touch things without being bothered by them, while also allowing him to use magic undeterred. he’s especially sensitive around food, preferring things that are bland or savory and refusing to eat anything with a consistency that’s too soft. for instance, he finds eggs revolting in most forms.

without a routine, jareth tends to become dejected or burnt out. unfortunately, though, his frequent executive dysfunction makes it difficult for him to plan out and adhere to routines without frequent reminders—which, when they come in the form of goblins, usually annoy him more than anything else. this is why he hasn’t had a proper schedule in years. it’s a bit of a vicious cycle; his unhappiness has led to a lack of motivation, and his difficulty creating something he can stick to has made him even more unhappy. he works best with clear, written instructions that are placed where he can see them. he especially needs specific times to eat and sleep; without them, irritability and physical discomfort set in. in the event that he does have a routine, changes that might seem small to others are often nerve-racking to him.

though he sometimes uses eye contact and close proximity to others to intimidate, he genuinely feels uncomfortable without eye contact and has difficulty remembering to mind others’ personal space most of the time. he can be quite touchy-feely when he cares about someone—even platonically—and isn’t afraid of showing it, but he doesn’t really know when or if to back off unless explicitly told to.

- didymus -

when it comes to special interests, he and sarah have a lot in common. they both love drama and literature; however, didymus has a particular interest in folklore, both that of humans and that of the labyrinth. he only has two special interests: literature (including plays) and history. both of these influenced his desire to become a knight and continue to influence his behavior, as he seeks to emulate the idea of a noble and valiant knight to a T. he has some difficulty responding appropriately to or understanding various social cues. as a result, he spends most of his nights and some of his mornings scripting out how his day is going to go: how he’s going to speak to other people, how they might respond to him, and how he’s going to respond to their responses. whenever didymus makes a new friend, he puts effort into studying their mannerisms and personality so he can adequately pinpoint how they might behave toward him and thus figure out how he’s going to interact with them. furthermore, he speaks and acts like a gallant knight from a fairytale or play because of his constant reading. his consumption of literature provides him with a consistent model of behavior that’s bound by a set of rules, unlike the behavior of people in the real world—which can often be unpredictable, and whose rules are less coherent. as a result, didymus believes that emulating the kinds of characters he admires will make others admire him in turn, and make him easier to understand. 

his favorite earth authors are william shakespeare, miguel de cervantes, and alexandre dumas. he is also especially fond of arthurian legend and various human mythologies, such as norse, celtic, and japanese.

one of his favorite ways to stim is by chasing or wagging his tail. he also stims by absentmindedly practicing swordfighting moves with his cane, scratching behind his ear with a hind paw, pacing, and talking to himself. pacing is the only one out of all of these that doesn’t lift his spirits; rather, he does it when he’s thinking because it helps his ideas flow. didymus is most inclined to chase his tail or scratch his ears when he’s bored, practice his parries when excited, and talk to himself when he’s overwhelmed. in the last case, this is often combined with pacing; together, both stims provide a good release for emotions he has difficulty expressing otherwise. when didymus talks to himself, he is unlike sarah in that he doesn’t do so quietly. his volume remains the same as it usually is in a conversation; when he grows passionate, it raises accordingly. sarah introduced him to stim toys; his favorite ones are the ones that make noise, whether they click or woosh or do something else. he also uses dog toys as substitutes and enjoys the ones that squeak, though he has to keep his own set somewhere where ambrosius won’t find it.

his strongest sense by far is his sense of smell; it isn’t necessarily a lot of scents at once that can be upsetting for him, but rather scents that he finds unpleasant. these include sharp or chemical smells such as vinegar, ammonia, spices, perfume, citrus, alcohol, cleaning products, and herbs. aside from these, there aren’t any smells he can confidently say he doesn’t like. he also has hypersensitive hearing and prefers soft classical music, hymns and chants, or music that dates back thousands of years. he hates the sound of bells chiming, loud drums, or thunder; the last of these especially bothers him, though he would never admit it. he was once bothered by the sound of metal objects clanging together when he was a kit, but he appears to have outgrown that in particular. he has poor color vision, as do most canines, so bright colors don’t affect him at all. he finds flashing lights mildly frightening in some cases and annoying in others.

to didymus, routine is the thief of joy. he craves adventure every day and hates when things are the exact same; even having to do the same task in the same way as he did the day before, for instance, is enough to bore him out of his skull. as a result, he likes to mix up how he does things by placing his daily activities in different orders, doing them with his friends, or replacing some activities with others entirely. for instance, he, hoggle, and ludo take turns with household chores—not only so that they can share responsibilities, but so that didymus can have time to go off and pursue his knightly dreams. much of the time, his friends are willing to accompany him on his adventures so long as he’s able to keep them safe—and so long as they can be home by dinner.

he doesn’t really like eye contact, but he tries to maintain it because he thinks doing so is respectful. he does see one perk to his small stature; he’s too short to meet eyes with most people, so his lack of eye contact usually isn’t judged. it wouldn’t be either way because almost everyone in the labyrinth either is ND or knows someone who is ND, but he really does want to maintain eye contact because the books he reads make him think that it’s the proper thing to do. his friends are trying to convince him that he doesn’t need to make eye contact if it makes him uncomfortable; however, because he seems to believe that it’s a rule, he has difficulty convincing himself not to follow it. in fact, didymus is very much inclined to follow the rules that are provided to him and becomes anxious when encouraged or required to break them. without clear rules, the world becomes nonsensical and unpredictable—and therefore upsetting—to him. it was his idea to propose a set of rules for his friends’ home; they accepted and have worked together to write them down so that guests know how to behave.

he gets along really well with the wiseman; despite his typical impatience, didymus is one of few people who actually have the patience to listen to the wiseman. in fact, didymus isn’t just patient with him; his ramblings actively intrigue didymus, and whenever he has the opportunity he makes his contributions as big as he possibly can. didymus really appreciates it when his friends let him infodump, and he figures it’s only fair that he should let others do the same. in fact, didymus also places a lot of value on fairness; it’s the whole reason he opposes jareth in the first place.

#labyrinth #labyrinth headcanon #long post #sarah williams #jareth #jareth the goblin king #didymus #autism headcanon #autistic headcanon #neurodivergent headcanon #nd headcanon

[themadauthorshatter]

Before any serious business with the PG-13 changes, here's some general knowledge/headcanons/canons for the characters:

Since he doesn't get video games, Zane is usually training.

Zane's the most lithe in the group. He's been encouraged by Cole to gain some pounds, having seen Zane's physique and felt how cold he is, but all it's done has made Zane cook more meat.

Kai is the last one up up. Zane wakes up Cole, who helps Wu wake up Jay and Kai, and Jay fully wakes up Kai, who is the last one up.

Jay's scar, the one on his eyebrow, came from an accident on a mission: he and Zane were taking on some skeletons and, to save Zane, Jay threw him out of the way as a skeleton attacked. Zane got a slash on the cheek and Jay got his scar.

Contrary to what I said in his touch-up, this is kind of an update, Zane can breathe and the core that keeps him alive is to him what air to the lungs and blood circulating through our bodies is to us. So during the constricti encounter, the flow of the core got cut off by the constructi's grip, but he also got really uncomfortable with how much he was getting touched during the fight.

While on missions, Cole can usually be seen carrying Zane, whether it's piggyback, Zane sitting on his shoulders, Zane being slung over his shoulders or even bridal style, if Zane's feeling dramatic; Zane's usually the one with old maps, translating for Cole.

Zane can hold his breath under water for up o an hour and be perfectly fine.

Jay's the fastest ninja. He's had good cardiovascular health from quickly running from what he's building to the tool he needs to use. He gets faster when he taps into his elemental power.

All the ninja wear gloves. Zane wears two pairs, one for normal life(wool) and one for missions(leather), and the rest only wear one, except for when Jay is building and handling heat.

The tornado of creation was awesome, but left the ninja powerless and worn out. It was the first time Kai saw Cole carry Zane.

Roles of each ninja: Cole: leader and Wu's right hand, Jay: the scout, mechanic, and sticky stuff that holds the group together/emotional mediator, Kai: Cole's right hand(that does not make him the leader) and the physical mediator(he, being the least experienced, is best at helping the other three take time to rest), and Zane: scout, translator, seer, chef, and basically the team's brain.

Zane is more than certain the ninja would be dead without him; he's smart, he knows it, but he won't rub it in their faces.

Jay forgets things easily, so it's a good thing Zane has a good memory.

Kai did that egg water bottle prank on Zane. Kai smashed two eggs in his hair as payback.

Zane is the first to awake and the last to fall asleep. Kai is the last to wake up and the first to fall asleep.

Nya, once she's back at the monastery and safe, helps Jay with building, as she's always wanted ro learn. It doesn't start up Kai's Kai's seperation anxiety, it just makes him more protective of Nya.

In terms of a family dynamic, Zane is the mom, Cole is the dad, Wu is the wise grandfather, Nya's that one cool, smart aunt, and Jay, Kai, and eventually Lloyd are all the children.

Zane bangs his head on things sometimes because something slipped in his brain and he had to put it back before he has a seizure.

Nya does train, but she's careful to do it while the boys are away because Kai is a helicopter brother, Jay keeps offering to help, Cole keeps having to tell the two of them to back off so he can better instruct her, and Zane, after encountering the falcon, stands on a really high up place to watch; she'd rather train with Wu, if they're all going to stare at her.

#ninjago #ninjago rewrite #ninjago lloyd #ninjao jay #ninjao cole #ninjago kai #ninjago zane #universe alteration

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Four; Acquaintances.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: Nothing much to trigger in this chapter - just as the title suggests, a swooning moment or two perhaps-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

The sky remained hard. Resolutely letting snow sift from the thick great heavens, like icing sugar drifting down. The ground also continued to be frosty hard and scattered with patches of hidden silvery ice.

 No sooner than the sun had risen over the tumbling flat frosty vista of Hampshire hills and frost crusted meadows, than Iris is up, and going about her daily chores all in the life of a gently bred - yet unwed- daughter, of fairly considerable means.

 She takes food parcels to the poor. Calls on sick relatives or companions for tea. Pays calls. Fetched supplies for cook from the butchers or the grocers, or the fishmongers in town.

 When one of the maids is ill, or is suffering a passing heartbreak until the next suitor comes along, Iris is the one to step into the void and fulfil their tasks. She collects the eggs from the chickens at the farm, or makes the ailing girl a hot milk posset or a cup of hot chocolate to cheer them.

 It seemed like every other week their maids, Meg and Julia, seemed to go getting their hearts broken. Some farm hand. Or the boy from the butchers shop. The milliners son, or the strong handsome one who works in the drapers shop. As ever; Iris steps into the fray when - another - devastating crisis comes their way. She helps cook in the kitchen with supper. Or she helps out with idle cleaning around the house. Or see’s to the chores on the farm.

 This morning is no different. Meg took to her bed with an ailing heart of the most acute kind. For the boy she fancies had become engaged to another girl. Iris brings her a cup of chocolate after breakfast and lends her a handkerchief and a shoulder so she can have a good long cry about it.

 So household tasks fall onto her today. Fetching in what cook needed from market for supper. Even though she’d have liked to have spent a morning reading her book, or helping Julia get on top of the household washing. She’s wanted to take down the parlour curtains and give them a good scrub, for weeks now.

 Or today she had ideally wanted to lend Flora and Posy a hand in drying some flowers, and french lavender and roses. For perfumes and bathing oils. They had to use their home grown stock from the gardens carefully. It was a long winter. And the convenience of summer blooms are far off yet. Dried flowers cost a pretty penny up the market.

 Her duties are endless. She’s got calls to pay. Off to the butchers to buy sweet meats and game for the jugged hare cook is making tonight. She needs to buy beeswax candles and salt, and some more soaps.

 And Posy and Flora are allowed to purchase two new ribbons each. They’ll walk into the village with her. No doubt nattering all the way there about what colours they want. And all the way back that they should’ve chosen different ones.

 Iris steps outside in her wintry best and her cracked leather boots. Two pairs of wool stockings this time. Her navy blue wool pelisse over a thick white cotton dress. For good measure, she puts a bonnet on to keep her ears warm, and wraps a gold embroidered shawl around her shoulders.

 Posy and Flora are trussed up as if they’re off to go personally meet the Prince Regent. Flora is in her gold pelisse with her pink dress under. And Posy had her powder blue coat over her mint green dress. They’re both wearing bonnets that they made up themselves. Their hats staggering under the weight of ribbons and cloth and trims and flounces.

 Iris’s was far simpler - No fuss. No trims. A gold straw bonnet with grey ribbon tied under her chin.

 Iris has to chide Posy, when they step out of doors, for forgetting to wear her gloves. She insists she hasn’t a decent pair and slips back into the house to go up to Iris’s room to conveniently borrow her grey rabbit fur lined gloves. Making her elder sister roll her eyes. The plot was clear.

 They had a heavy basket each to carry. Some old granary loaves, soused herring, and some jars of Jam from their kitchens to go to the poor. They’re not even at the end of the drive and Flora is whinging about the weight of her basket. Iris heaves a sigh and grabs it off her.

 She trudges behind them. Both arms carrying heavy baskets.

 Her and Posy link arms, giggling, walking along merrily, animated and discussing last nights ball. Or, more accurately; making sport of the people who’d attended.

 “Did you see that awful Lavender gown Jane Penwell had on?”

 “I thought it suited her very ill indeed.”

 “And did you hear about Lawrence Fisher? Apparently he’s now to be courting Lucy Miller.”

 “I cannot stand her. Last night she was so boastful about the lace trim on her dress. She’s vile. And I haven’t had any new lace on my dress for over a year! Not since last summer. I’m sure she does it deliberately, just to vex me.”

 “You are far prettier than Lucy Miller. She has ten million freckles and no conversation at all. She’s a pale ugly little thing.” Posy’s insisting fiercely to her younger sister.

 Iris is amused by the sheer frailty of their worries.

 “And besides, Mama said she had a letter from Mrs Thornby today, and apparently Lord Ren and Iris were the talk of the ball all night, last eve.” Flora says cheekily.

 Turning over her shoulder to scrutinise her sister with a smug grin that flashes her straight little row of teeth.

 Iris rolled her eyes. Strongly suspecting that as of now, her and Lord Ren would be gossiped about in front parlours for weeks. This was a sleepy country village with little amusement and not much variety to sustain it.

 Mama’s and girls of the Ton would fall on the new shred of tittle-tattle like wolves.

 “He left the ball last night without talking to any other girl, mama said.” Posy explains.

 “The poor man probably didn’t have time enough to get through all the desperate Hampshire girls, eagerly throwing themselves at him to make an acquaintance.” Iris thinks aloud.

 They walk up Westwell’s frosted drive and out onto the snowy lanes that cut through quaint countryside and woods.

 The golden sun is in its early rising, striping ribbons of thick satin gold through the trees. The ruddy browns and ash greys and ochre coppery rusts of the Turner-esque English countryside. Of fields and hedgerows and treetops. The grass is no longer green. It’s a musty white. And that same cloying powder clings onto the dead taupe leaves and branches of every tree. The air is bitter to breathe in.

 Iris takes a deep lungful of it, and its like a chest full of sharp pins. Needling at her lips and her neck. She should’ve thought to employ a wool scarf. As it is she can only tuck her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Tucking the heavy baskets into to dig deeper into her elbows. The frost numbs her feet, and sneaks up her skirts and snatched cruelly at her legs.

 She clenched her numb fingers, scrunching and unscrunching them up in her much too thin gloves.

 Posy and Flora continue their giggling and swapping tidbits of gossip about Lord Ren.

 “You know he didn’t even dance with anyone!”

 “A great sin, I’m sure. Punishable by death.” Iris thinks to herself under her breath.

 “He probably didn’t have time-“ Posy remarks.

 “Or he doesn’t know how.” Flora supposed.

 “A man that lofty, of course he can dance. Maybe he prefers not too.”

 “Maybe he has a false leg, or, or a war wound!”

 Iris rather wishes her ears were purely ornamental by this point.

 Give me a pair of vestigial ears anytime you wish. She idly prays. Turning her eyes skywards.

 “Maybe he’s shy-“ Flora squeaks. Posy clasps her hand over her mouth and laughs so loudly it startles the chaffinches out the trees.

 “I don’t think he can afford to blend into the wallpaper with a stature like that.” Flora grins.

 “His shoulders were twice the width of me.” Posy says dreamily.

 “Did he have soft lips Iris? For you must’ve felt them through your gloves... Were they heavenly?” Flora demands to know. Both sisters walking in step alongside her now.

 She side eyes them. “That is not a proper thing to discuss. And well you know it Flora Jane Ashton.” Iris insists. Concealing her secrets to herself.

 She wasn’t telling her sisters how her whole body burst into shivers popping and skipping up her spine. How his touch made her skin feel like it was dancing of its own accord. Free from her body. She shivered yet she was blushing hot.

 His lips were the softest, sweetest things that had ever come into contact with her body.

 Her whole arm felt dizzy afterwards. It wasn’t possible. But that’s how it felt. Hours after she was still rubbing the patch where his lips had lain on her satin gloves.

 When she got home after the ball, she peeled her glove off and looked at her hand.

 It still looked ordinary. Her skin wasn’t red or marked - but it felt like it should be. It felt as if something utterly astounding had happened to her.

 The memory of his eyes gazing their arrow-striking glare into her own haunted her head all night long. Swam behind her closed eyelids in her sleep. Those opulent piercing eyes.

 “We won’t tell a soul.” Posy promises

 “Oh, look. Here is the Barton’s cottage. Flora pass me the ointment for Mr Barton.” Iris demands.

 Seeing the little boxy cottage coming into view. Roof thick with iced thatch. Walls butter yellow. With fat pink sickly rose vines creeping up the walls. Iris sees the chimney is smoking. They must be home keeping warm on this frigid morning. Acrid woodsmoke from the house drifts across the woods.

 They deliver the ointment into Mrs Barton’s hand. Along with some jam, a loaf, and pickled goods to see them through the wintry cold week. They were a frail elderly couple after all. And Iris likes helping people. She always had. Her mother always insisted she’d been cursed with an unshakable vein of kindness.

 Which often meant as a child she was forever taking in birds wounded falling out their nests in the gardens. Leaving carrots out for the wild rabbits. Seeds for the birds. Feed for the little monk-jack deers. She shared all her dolls as a girl. Forever saw to caring for the people and creatures which surround her. She visits the infirm with medicine. Reads to the lonely old matrons who’d lost all the grandchildren of their own.

 Now she’s grown that inclination hasn’t left her. She likes making sure none of the infirm elderly, or the more impoverished friends of her acquaintance suffer through the bitter cold climes. They never have to struggle alone. Iris is a balm to the hurting. She gives what she can. And is a friend to everyone kind enough to recognise it.

 Before long, the trio of ladies dispense their generosity upon those who need it. Giving what sustenance and leftovers they can spare. It’s not much really- when all is said and done. But it’s helping in any little way possible. And that’s what matters.

 They come eventually into Pembleton high street. The every busy and jagged row of higgledy Tudor houses. Separated by a lane of sticky brown mud where horses hooves and carts churn up the dirt. Carts and stalls line the streets. Modest shopfronts sell their wares. The air is full up of woodsmoke and the scent of roasting nuts from the brazier on the stand nearby.

 Iris loses Posy and Flora very quickly to the haberdashers, where the ribbons hang from great silken trails in racks from the ceiling. Every colour Imaginable.

 She sees them fussing over Belgian lace and leaves them be. She steps into the butchers for Cooks desired hare and sweet meats. She buys the candles, salt and the paper wrapped little cakes of soaps from Mr Milton’s shop next door.

 She crosses the street to the grocers. Fills her basket with green leeks, onions, potatoes and carrots. She tucks everything in her basket, around the poor lamented hare with its fur still on, and covers it with a patterned linen cloth.

 She has a shilling spare- she wanders over to Mr. Greeley. The proud proprietor of the roasted nuts stall. She buys a bag of warm, buttery sweet chestnuts.

 Hides them from Posy and Flora. This was her one little indulgence for today. She sneaks one of the hot things onto her tongue and savours it.

 She strides back up the line of shop windows. Looking and listening to the clack and bustle of the street behind her. Clopping hooves, rattling carts, ponies and traps clunking along the high street. Friends and acquaintances stopped to gossip and chat in the street. Young and old. Of every walk of life.

 She looks in the drapers window. The reflection off the glass, showed her a watery image of a gaggle of matronly mamas stood behind her across the street, loudly gossiping in her direction. Pointing and gesturing toward her.

 She rolls her eyes in huffing annoyance.

 She wasn’t enjoying being the inconstant centre of attention. Open to such censure and fascination in odes to the Hearst’s ball last night.

 Also in odes to the mysterious new stranger to these shores, too. The dark, dashing, and taciturn Lord Ren.

 Every wet-behind-the-ears girl in all of Hampshire was busy envisioning their swirled initials joined with his in their embroidery. A big handsome stranger from far off lands. It was the precursor to the stuff of romance from drippy novels. A harbinger of a great love story.

 Maybe not hers. Lord Ren may have kissed her hand and called her handsome. But so have countless other rich suitors, and then two months later them and their pretty blonde heiress of ten thousand pounds, are lavishly married and installed in a house in Brunswick square. She’s sure he’ll eventually find some far more moneyed girl to march into matrimony.

 It won’t be her- not her turn to pick out her wedding clothes. It never is.

 She lets the whispers and doubts about her, flourish from unimportant mouths.

 She never cared for the savagery of society. She won’t start being missish about it all, now. It won’t serve her any purpose-

 She can only hope the next scandal or engagement or elopement, or any other source of fascination to the bored inhabitants of this county, comes flooding in quick to snatch away all unhealthy - and rather undue - interest in her.

 She waits outside the haberdashers for her pair of silly sisters. They eventually come out. Comparing their new ribbons with each other’s. Flora has a pink, Posy has some frothy white lace.

 Posy hands Iris a teal silk ribbon. “For your hair. It would become you so well. And it will go with your eyes.” She insists.

 Iris smiles. Wrapping the long length of satin around her grey glove. It was very pretty.

 “Pray how did you afford this?” Iris narrows her eyes in smiling suspicion at the pair of them.

 “I saved up my allowance.” Posy insists plainly. Iris continues her look. She tilts her chin down a notch. Let’s her eyes harden to steel. Arched her muddy shaped brows.

 “...And the haberdasher’s son is so very obliging.” Flora beams. The younger Ashton’s giggle together knowingly.

 Iris sighs again. Strongly suspecting she could safely boast that she had two of the silliest siblings in the entire country. Hell, in the entire British Empire.

 “Let’s take our leave shall we...” Iris says. Slowly heading away. Down the street in the opposite direction they came. It took them home down on the woodland path.

 She picks up her pristine white skirts and steps over the mud. Baskets heavy with her goods now thunking against her hip as they walk. One filled with meat. The other with candles and potatoes and other luxuries for supper.

 Posy and Flora trail behind her. Discussing how best to use their ribbons. On bonnets or around the waistline of their favourite dresses. Iris drowns them out and listens to the crunch of her feet on the frost. The silver wisp of her breath as its whisked away up into the reach of the sky. She likes how sun glimmers off frost like sparkles and diamonds and gems. Like something fine and rich.

 They just come across a curve in the lane. Leading through an open meadow full of frosted grass and withered wildflowers. When a thundering sound gallops into being, hitting the hard ground in succession from beyond the bend.

 Iris looks up, attention captured swiftly by the beast of a large rider atop a colossal shimmering black horse, moving quick towards where they are walking along the quiet little lane. The peace shattered by the horses hooves pounding the earth.

 A great hulking beast of a man sits astride it. Who indeed almost matches the brutally-enormous muscled intensity of the creature he rides.

 Lord Ren.

 Iris startled and went to move aside. But he sees them and is already slowing the horse. She draws a deep breath and watches as he tugs the reins to reel in his galloping mount. Reducing to a canter, a trot and then to a slow stop. Hooves churning up frost and spitting wet and crushed muddy grass, under its enormous stomping treads.

 The sun in fiercely shining behind him. So Iris can only make out the silhouette at first. There’s no mistaking that singular body for another man. The primal size and bulk of him is unmistakable.

 But then he shifts forwards on his horse as it stops. Lumbering towards them all. And that winter sun shines amber over his shoulder and she’s met with the full face of the handsome man she became acquainted with yesterday. His breath and that of his horses turn to silver smoke in the cold air

 He passes the strops of its black reins into one gloved leather hand. His attire not much changed since yesterday. Still all black. The shining calf riding boots. The breeches that sit entirely too snug to the sturdy trunks of his legs and hips. The tailored black wool coat. White shirt tied with an elaborately knotted wine coloured cravat. Diamond pin studded central into the tie of the cloth.

 His hair is free and rumpled by the wind. Desirable and untamed. Wild. He wears no top hat on his head like most gentlemen of civility did, when out riding.

 Something about that lack of full dress she admires. Maybe he likes to feel the wind tangle his hair. The suns kiss his pale skin. The wind stinging at his cheeks. Likes galloping across the terrain at full speed on his mammoth sized beast of a horse.

 “Good morning ladies.” He nods to them all. Still seated on his horse.

 “Miss Ashton.” He smiles directly down at Iris as his horse shifts and stomps and nibbles the dewy wet grass below.

 She ducks her head and curtseys. “Good morning. Your Lordship.” She says politely. Dwarfed by his horses shadow.

 He holds her gaze for a second and smiles. Eyes more opulent charcoal in their shade than ever, this morning. He even had a kiss of pink colour in his cheeks. He looks healthy. Less alabaster pale. She strongly suspects its because of the icy wind stinging his cheeks as he rode.

 He unlatched his right boot from the stirrup and smoothly swings himself off the horse. Grips the pommel at the front of the black saddle and swings himself down. Feet land to earth with a crunching thud. Frost and grass crushed underfoot.

 His long wool riding coat flaps at his knees. Billowing open at his chest to show just his white shirt beneath it. Such thin layers. He must’ve been freezing.

 “If I may be so bold, Miss Ashton, allow me to see you along to your intended destination?” He asks kindly. One big hand patting the solid flank of his horses shoulder when it huffs at his dismounting.

 Iris’s cheeks go flaming red. She’s sure of it. Throat dry she manages to answer.

 “Oh. Forgive my impertinence Lord Ren. But I don’t wish to take you out of your way. Only we are heading in the opposite direction to your path.”

 “With your permission. I should like to walk with you. I’ve done a sufficient amount of riding for this morning.” He tells her.

 Iris smiles. Flattered that he’d rearrange his ride, just to see her safely home. Just to walk with her for a moment or two.

 Posy digs a sharp elbow into Flora’s ribs. Which jolts the youngest into speaking. “Iris. We were just going up the lane here to call on Charlotte Morris.”

 Iris gazes pointedly at Flora with a piercing state that could’ve rivalled a dressmakers needle. “How remiss of you not to bring it up until now...” Iris glares a little.

 “Should you mind?” Posy asks. Fluttering her lashes.

 “Of course not.” Iris says flatly. “Mind the hour home and do for heavens sake be sensible.”

 “We are the very vision of sensibility.” Flora beams.

 Iris quirks a wry brow at the both of them. Teeth grit.

 The two most transparent pests on the planet. Their plot was clear as day- One of sneaking away and leaving their elder sister unchaperoned and alone with him.

 They turn away giggling and make for the little lane opposite. Gabbling and whispering all the way. Loud giggles follow them like fluttering birdsong.

 When she turns back to Lord Ren he looks slightly amused. She blushes.

 “I feel I ought offer an apology, your lordship. They are- most puerile and trying at times.” Iris offers as she shifts to step nearer to where he is.

 He smiles gently. “They are young girls who fancy themselves cunning, I wager. No apology is necessary for that.” He declares affably. Patting his horses neck.

 He brings the big horse around. Holding the gathered reins in his left hand. He leads his gigantic horse around with a click of his tongue and some soft words in urging Bavarian. The big creature follows his lead. She moves and alters the heavy baskets on her arms.

 He sees this. Kylo frowns at the heavy weights at both her elbows. She shouldn’t be tasked with fetching and carrying like a damned pack horse. He extends a hand. “Allow me, Miss Ashton.”

 “Oh, no it’s- I couldn’t.” By the time her protestations die on her lips. He has one basket in one hand, the other, he tied the handle to a saddle bag strap on his horse. Lays it rest against the saddle.

 She’s mortified that a Lord offers to carry her basket for her.

 “That’s truly a magnificent horse. I’ve never seen the like before.” She says. The steeds eyes glitter as if it knows it’s being discussed. “What’s his name?” She asks rummaging in her basket he holds. Hand slipped under the cloth.

 “Erland.” Kylo says. The horses ears twitch.

 “Erland. A majestic name. For a majestic beast.” She smiles at him.

 She steps up to the horse and strokes her gloved hand down the flat bone between his eyes, leading down to his snout. Scents of hay and oats and animal sweat pour musky off his coat.

 “He’s a lovely animal.” She says. Stroking his solid flank.

 “Percheron. He’s a French draft horse. His breed originated in the Huisne valley in western France.” Lord Ren tells her.

 “Bred for use as war horses, and pulling stagecoaches. This one has a fair mount of Arabian blood in him too. Makes him far too proud and headstrong.” He announces. Erland flicks his swishing tail at his owner. Snorting at him.

 “I bought him with me from Bavaria. He’s the best riding horse I’ve had for a while. Stubborn temperament.” He offers. He watches her stroke his head. Touch the soft spot behind his ears.

 “You like animals, Miss Ashton.” He states.

 Most girls, as far as he’s aware, deigned horses as smelly, ugly creatures, whose only purpose was beneath them. Or to pull their carriages. She seemed to like this big equine creature very much.

 “I do. Especially ones who are as beautiful as him.”

 “Careful. Or else that flattery will shoot right to his ego.” He warns lightly.

 She smiles.

 Erland’s hairy velveteen muzzle cheekily nudges at her shoulder for more affection. He clearly likes her touch. Kylo tugs on his reins and frowns at him.

 “Benehmen Sie sich.” Kylo rumbles in a firm Bavarian command at his horse. Calling him back. Telling him to be good. Rubbing his stocky shoulder. The round strong bones of him and the hot silk of his coat underneath his gloved palm.

 She smiles. Lets the carrot she fetched from her basket, sit in the flat cradle of her gloved palm. She offers it to Erland, who snuffles it up and crunches on it. Breaking the frail vegetables skin with his big teeth. Munching it all down. Nuzzles her for more when he’s done.

 He snorts when Kylo speaks up. “Anymore and you’ll get fat. You great beast.” He assures his horse in that soft foreign dialect. Shoving his snout into Miss Ashton’s hand for yet more treats. Erland’s head was so big and his power so strong, he could’ve very realistically knocked her over with one push.

 She steps back and takes her place alongside a Lord Ren so they can continue in their walk. He’s a busy man. She doesn’t wish to hold him up. They fall into step easy. Her on Kylo’s left, Erland in his big lumbering enormity on Kylo’s right. His master has his right hand holding his stallions reins. The other easily carries her basket for her.

 “Did you enjoy your introduction into Hampshire society, Your lordship?” Iris can’t help but ask him with mirth creeping into her voice and on her smile.

 He turns his head to look at her. “The sheer amount of handsome and accomplished young ladies hereabouts is staggering.” He comments with dry humour. “I wonder if this isn’t the most accomplished county in all of England.” He states.

 Iris finds herself smiling. Every desperate mother worth her salt last night would be crowing her daughters praise to high heaven. Enough to induce the possibility that her very accomplished, pretty and upstanding daughter might have a chance at landing him.

 “Mothers can be so very domineering when the subject of marriage arises.” Iris promises. Looking down to step over a particularly frosty puddle.

 Kylo looks across at her. Watches her profile. Along the curve of her nose and the swell of her smiling lips. It occurred to him then, that she didn’t know of her beauty. She was not aware of its potency. He could sense it; this was a girl who overlooked her own worth and highly underestimated her attractiveness.

 With her pebble-ash eyes shining in the marigold sun like that, sparkling as if made of moonstone gems, and her rosy smile so unguarded and free. She didn’t see her beauty then. Not the way he could. Didn’t see it lay in the kiss of pink in her cheeks or the merriment of her face. On the geniality of her laugh and smiles.

 “I know I shouldn’t comment on such things. But I do feel so dearly for every new suitor who comes to this village. Every Mama and every daughter must veritably drown poor men with their female offspring.”

 Kylo raises one brow. “Rest assured. I’m not a man so inclined to favour polite safe conversation.” He promises her. He doesn’t tiptoe around propriety.

 “And I will admit I lost count of the young ladies I was introduced too last eve. My ears were quite ringing with names and sickly smiles by the end of the evening.” He confesses.

 She smiles wide again. Looks across. “I do sometimes wish that the people here could look beyond the scope of their own ignorance. To look beyond the defining goal of matrimony.” She confesses.

 “Why should a woman’s worth be tied onto who she weds? Can she not be her own person and find a man to suit that.” She avows. Letting her stalwart brain run away with her rather passionate mouth.

 “That’s very forward thinking of you.” Kylo says to her with a kind smile. Her face falls. She’s inspired insult with that comment.

 She’s flushing with embarrassment.

 “Mother would faint if she heard me confess that to you. Do forgive me, for the impertinence of my tongue.” She begs. Face wrinkling into a worried frown.

 “You have a mind. Miss Ashton.” Kylo says. “It’s entitled to make itself known.”

 “I’m a gently bred, unmarried, woman. And the eldest daughter, Lord Ren. My mind should be silent at all times. And possessed only, night and day, by thoughts and longing for matrimony.” She says. Quoting one of her mother’s rants.

 “Well. You have my word. I’m most blessedly glad it’s not.” He says. Turning to look deep into her eyes.

 She seems curiously confused. “You are?”

 “Indeed.” He answers plainly.

 “It means you are the one woman in this entire county with whom I can conduct a refreshing conversation. One that doesn’t revolve around reminding me again and again, that I’m a rich man who desperately needs a wife.” He offers.

 “I’m glad to hear it.” Iris says laughing. “Not often I happen find someone on the same page as myself.”

 “English men may find your so called ‘impertinence’ intolerable, Miss Ashton. For they were raised to know no better. But I am not a English man. Where I came from, it is applauded that a woman might speak her mind and have judgements and executions of her own.” He supplies.

 “Our way of life here must seem so strange and strict to an outsider.” She dares. The defining pinnacle of English country society was its savage nature, after all.

 “I don’t see much of the society in Bavaria.” He explains. “I see to the welfare of tenants on my land. I go hunting every season to pass the time. I’m afraid I rarely indulge in attending parties and balls.” He tells.

 “A castle must be an incredible home.” She guesses.

 “Even so- it can be very limiting being confined to it in the cold dark winters. Very little company. Little to entertain. I found myself wanting a change of scene. I had looked for some land opportunity’s to enclose in over here. When Hellford became available. It seemed a good opportunity to travel. Sink my teeth into a new venture.” He smarts. Eyes darkly roaming over her face with that handsome smile.

 She nods. “I quite understand.” Erland clops alongside them in the misty morning sunshine. Snorting breaths silver and wispy still in the biting air.

 “What are the winters like in Bavaria?” She enquires.

 He smiles. “Beautiful. But bitter.” He explains. “The snow can be deep. As tall as me some days when it falls.” She smiles at his description.

 “The castle stands out of a tall pine forest. A lake and a river to the east. One of the biggest woods in the country. Full of wolves, boars, and deer. It’s quite a wilderness in its own right.”

 “Goodness- wolves. Isn’t that terribly dangerous?” She frets.

 Not as much as me. He thinks. Matter of fact, when he steps foot in that forest, he is the most bloodthirsty dangerous animal in it.

 “The beasts respect the boundary of my castle. I respect the forest is theirs. It’s a symbiotic relationship.” He tells her.

 “Surrounded by wolves. You must feel very at home here too, then.” She jokes.

 He laughs. “There’s something familiar I grant. Though the wolves back home don’t don lace caps and thrust all their daughters at me.”

 She laughs at his remark. And suddenly, she goes spinning off course. Her worn boots slipping on a sneaky patch of frost and ice. No grip to their soles in this devilish cold. A yelp leaves her mouth as she skids. Blood flashing flushing hot and terrible suddenly. The shock of slipping stabbing at her stomach.

 He acts quick. He lets go of Erland’s reins and steps that big form forwards and snatched one arm out to grab her. Slips back around her waist, cups the back of her hip, and yanks her tight to him to stop her falling.

 She gasps and trembles as her vision spins, to be quickly halted by a sheer wall of cold, dark clad muscle. She barely registers where she is now.

 Because she’s pressed right up into Lord Ren’s redoubtably firm chest. Her palms crushed flat on his lapels. His arm seizing her back and cupping her onto him to stop her slipping. She can feel under her coat how her breasts are crushed flat to him. Can feel his breathing heaving up and down, much like her own.

 A shaky gasp leaves her mouth as she looks up, peering past the peak of her bonnet with flaming cheeks. Realising that they are slanted very close together. His face is right there, and he’s gazing down at her.

 She’s in his arms. Buried into his chest. And it feels incredible. Such musculature and sheer masculine mass under her palms. Her head swims. He’s dizzying. Hypnotising.

 Eyes as dark as burnt-ember molasses flecked with gold, and his lips look so invitingly pink ripe and soft- she curses at herself for that treacherous thought and her blush rises more. His wool coat and cologne nearly smacks her in the nose as she almost collided into his pectorals.

 Kylo can hear her fluttering heartbeat. Like a racing preys pulse beating wild. Frail and fast, like a baby birds. A huge drift of her fragrance absolutely drowns him, pulls him under. Clary sage, French lavender and peppermint. Sweet and calming. Addictive. He wants to lean down and taste the salt of it off her neck...

 It seems an eternity passes before he speaks.

 “Are you hurt?” He asks. Making sure she didn’t turn one of her ankles. Or damage the bone

 “T-Thankyou. I’m, I’m well.” She gasps. “I’m so sorry- I” She explains moving her hands down off his chest. He nearly swept her up off her feet. Now only her tiptoes brush the icy ground. The only part of her barely rooted to earth. Lost in those eyes.

 Domineering, commanding, brutal, eyes. Eyes that had seen this world ten times over. But never gazed upon anything comparable to her-

 Erland brings them both back down to earth. Snorting and fussing. Swishing his tail and nudging his nose at his masters shoulder.

 Sense swims back through the fog of attraction and the heady bloom of lust. Kylo unleashes her back and her hip from his hold.

 Quite liking the feel of her he accidentally - and literally - caught underneath her coat. The plump of her thighs and the shapely flesh of her hip and her bottom. There’s doubtless a figure to rival Venus herself, under this shapeless coat and thin dress. She slowly drags her hands off his chest and steps back. Avoiding the ice beneath her toes. Her gloves rasp on his fine wool coat.  

 “You fell. Miss Ashton. No need to be sorry for such a thing.” He tells her.

 “You’ve a steady hand, Lord Ren.” She compliments. Thanking him further. He still held her basket in the arm that had not reached out to catch her. He looked as if he barely had to flex out an arm to catch her. Just twisted his body. His reflexes were sharp and cunning. As strong as he was.

 He reached out and retook Erland’s reins.

 They continue walking carefully along the little lane. For Westwell is just beyond the tree line now. It saddens her that she’ll be home soon.

 Back to her daily chores. Back to scrubbing curtains, and helping cook roll pastry and mediating the silly shouting screeching arguments that Posy and Flora have over who gets to take turns to wear their favourite bonnet

 She reflects how restoring it is to talk to someone so fully - without having to watch or guard her tongue. It’s even more enlightening to talk to someone such as him. Someone who, like her, feels like an outsider. Never fully fits in. And harbouring no desire too.

 She feels her heart sink, morbid mournful and grey settling in her ribs, when they come to the meagre gateway along the short drive to Westwell. The twin stone pillars signifying the gateway were old and crusted with frosted moss.

 Kylo calls Erland to halt. She pats the wonderful beasts strong shoulder in goodbye. He rubs the great velvet plain of black his forehead at her. Kylo untied her basket and handed it to her.

 “I’d have no hesitation in seeing you to the door directly. But I fear your mother might see fault with our being left unchaperoned.” He disclosed. Giving her back the groaning full wicker basket with a clever grin.

 She shivers when their hands brush. If she had any doubts in her attraction, that betraying little Judas of a tingle that thrashed her body, made her realise otherwise.

 She likes him-

 “Astute observation, your lordship. I Thankyou for your discretion.” She blushes. Hooking the baskets back on her arms. Adjusting the shawl where it had slipped down from her shoulders.

 She looks down into her basket, and smiles. “A token of gratitude.” She explains before handing over the still warmed bag of chestnuts across to him.

 He cradled them in his leather gloved hand. Appreciative of the gift. He rarely ate food. There wasn’t much need for it and it wasn’t the manna that’s sustained him. He had little joy in any human sustenance - apart from humans themselves.

 When he did eat food, it was red meat that was still rare, juicy, and dripping blood. And he only drank sharp deep red wine.

 He reaches over and took her hand. Once again dropping Erland’s reins. He took her dainty hand and brought it up and bows to kiss her palm.

 He’s tired of satin and calfskin under his lips. He rather wanted to grasp a taste of her skin. Soon.

 “Always a pleasure, Miss Ashton. I hope the experience of your company repeats itself shortly.” He compliments.

 She smiles, apples of her cheeks creasing dimples with her widened smile. She nods politely and curtseys. “Your Lordship.” She curtseys gently. Bonnet tipping forwards. Criminally covering that beautiful face of hers.

 She turns and he watches her walk up the pale lane to home. Sun striping through the trees onto her bleached linen white skirts. Bleached by sunshine. And softly scented of fresh cotton and French lavender.

 Miss Ashton is made up of good intentions and possesses a giving heart as pure as gold. Pure. That’s his little dove all over-

 He looks down in his hand and weighs the small bag of nuts she’d gifted him. He lifts it to his nose and inhales their scent. Buttery, sweet, burnt and acrid.

 He tips his eyes back up to watch her. Thought creases up his brow. He’ll never know how it is to have such a virtue as a kind heart.

 She was made up of honour and purity and softness. Doves feathers, lavender and rose petals. And he is made of cruelty. Of war and broken glass and shards of steel. He was made between ash and snow and a landscape soaking swimming festering in blood. 

There’s no kindness in him. No mercy. Barely any love in him either. 

 He cares little for humans. After he was turned. That’s just how he became. They became meaningless specs of nothing to him. She has no idea what he is- who he is- he’s sent entire scores and countries of men shrieking to their deaths and writhing in agony into hell, cursing his name on their lips.

 And here she was handing him this little harmless gift, like he wasn’t one of the most fearsome beasts put on this earth.

 She’s not far away when she turns back - just as he’s about to mount Erland to ride back to Hellford Park once more. He tucks her meaningful present into his coat pocket.

 “Erland... Is that a Bavarian name?” She turns and asks curiously. A kind frown on the lintels of her eyebrows. She tilts her head curiously. Her grey eyes glitter innocently off the sun like honey poured onto slate.

 She’s so innocent. And it strikes him so deeply right then. How much he admires that.

 He hoists himself into the saddle using the pommel. Feet slipping in the stirrups. Hips resting back onto the cantle behind him.

 “It is a Norse name.” He calls to her. Erland is whinnying excitedly. Stomping his hooves to get out to the open fields and get his blood pumping. Kylo can feel the excitement shivering through his stocky legs.

 “What does it mean?” She seeks.

 “In old Nordic tongue, I believe it means ‘Outsider.’” He tells her.

 She smiles. “Well. I trust you both know you have atleast one friend in this Hampshire county.” She smiles.

 “Good day, Lord Ren.” She beams brightly. She turns away and she’s already missing the gaze of those melting cocoa eyes appraising her warmly.

 Her skin still thrashes from the memory of his touch. All over her skin is alive with the memory of that strength of his. His chest under her hands she’s never felt the like- he was as cold and solid as marble. Some Greek god manifested out of carved stone and come to life.

 He turns Erland back onto the snowy road. Clicks his tongue and urges him to run with a sharp dig of his shoe into his side. He feels the ice and the wind sting his skin for all the ride home.

 He thinks about her parting gift and her touch against his body for the rest of the day - truly he does. It’s moved him.

 He hasn’t been moved so much by another being in all of his years.

   ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

#kylo ren #kylo ren oc #vampire!kylo #vampire au #very wolves and doves #Iris vibes 🕊 #Lord Ren vibes 🐺 #Draegan vibes 🥀 #vampirelovestory #vampire #demon #ao3 fanfic #lovestory #angst #slowest of slow burn #slow burn

[hollowgroverp]

“I’m Mayor Novak and I’d like to welcome you to the 32nd annual Spring Fling! Today we have twenty-one very charitable suitors who have willingly offered up their day for a wonderful cause. The Displaced Children’s Fund, to support supernatural children displaced by the cruelties of our world is a cause close to so many of us. All proceeds from today’s event will go to the fund. Now settle in and will begin the bidding momentarily….”

Below the cut you will find the 21 baskets that were submitted for the event. Bidding will take place until SUNDAY MAY 26th, at which point the bidding will close and then I will pair up the bids with basket. We will do my best to ensure everyone gets matched up with someone. If you would like a certain pairing based on plot reasons let me know and we can see what can be done to make it happen. If you have multiple characters I will do my best to ensure at least one of your characters gets paired for a basket.

How to bid: Comment on this post with your characters name and their three bids. If you bid you must place three bids to ensure we can make proper pairings. ex: Sophia Greyson bids on basket 1, 4, and 15. If you do not follow the bidding rules ie: you bid once or you send an ask, your bid will not be considered.

When will the picnics take place: Picnic dates, can take place any time after bidding concludes on Saturday (in game), this includes during the event or post event. These threads can carry on after the event ends but we encourage you to reach out to your pairing and plot.

                                 FINALLY, HAVE FUN WITH IT!

Baskets

Basket One submits a black wicker picnic basket with a red ribbon tied into a bow to hold the handles closed. Inside you’ll find the following: fresh baked bread from the bakery, a blueberry pie from the bakery, a can of whipped cream, a cold roast chicken, a bottle of decent red wine, atop a soft dark blue flannel blanket, and cutlery and plates.

Basket Two submits a wicker basket with red and gold pattern cloth lining the base and two matching silk ribbons tied in bows at the base of either side of the handle. Inside you’ll find the following: two glass bottles full of honey (some honeycomb included), several small pots filled with edible berries, strawberries, gooseberries, blackberries) and several more filled with edible plants: fireweed, daylily petals & chicory; attached is a small card with ‘all sourced from the local forest.

Basket Three submits a watermelon shaped and colored vintage basket with a white rose laying on top. Inside you will find: a deck of Uno cards, Twister, whip cream, two bowls of fresh fruit salad, a bottle of white wine, two homemade pepperoni pizzas, a fluffy blanket, two pairs of ridiculous looking sunglasses, one heart shaped and one alien shaped.

Basket Four submits a black wicker basket with a red bow. Inside you will find: A Fully white blanket rolled up next to a bouquet of white roses, two bottles of red wine, two crystal glasses, a cheese plate with different kinds of cheese, grapes, a box of Belgian chocolates. As well there are two envelopes in it, one red and one back with a note ‘your choice conquers all’.

Basket Five submits a black and gray duffel bag. Inside you’ll find the following: a black and white checkered flag, a pair of black leather driving gloves, a black leather jacket, sunglasses, and a menu for a lavish casino that offers exclusive dining services. Foods such as lobster, steak, pasta, and various delicacies are described in detail for you to choose from. The option to enjoy a private table outside on the balcony is circled in red, and a few casino chips worth one hundred dollars each have also been thrown into a side pocket.

Basket Six submits a large, insulated picnic basket with bright red fabric and black trimming. Inside you’ll find the following: double chocolate banana muffins, two berry parfaits in glass jars, a mix of colorful fruits, deviled eggs, two ham and cheese croissants, lemon bars, and two water bottles. A brochure for a zoo a few miles out from town is placed with the food, along with two certificates for a behind-the-scenes tour that includes a chance to meet some of the animals.

Basket Seven submit a brown wicker basket with a ribbon attached to the handle bearing sigil of House Mormont. Inside is a cherry pie, two chocolate pudding cups, a gift card to the local bowling alley, a bottle of whiskey with two solo cups, a copy of A Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a box of cards against humanity, and a red blanket.

Basket Eight submits a brown picnic basket lined with a green apron that reads “Kiss Me, I’m Irish”. Inside you’ll find the following: two cans of Guinness, a loaf of Irish soda bread, and a box of Butler’s Irish Whiskey Truffles.

Basket Nine submits a brown wicker basket lined with a light brown scarf. Inside you’ll find the following: fancy chocolates, a bottle of red wine, and two glasses.

Basket Ten submits a classic wicker basket lined with red cloth. Inside is a container of fruit salad, assorted sliced cheeses, meats, and crackers, some homemade pizza bagels, and a six pack of beers. For dessert, everything needed for s'mores.

Basket Eleven submits a chestnut brown willow basket with a single rose resting on top. Inside you’ll find the following: A jug of bourbon punch, a bottle of white zinfandel, a folded red blanket, two steaks, antipasto skewers, kale caesar salad, blackberry cheesecake brownies, and chocolate dipped strawberries. Rose petals are sprinkled inside the basket and there’s a small stuffed bear holding a heart that says ‘be mine’.

Basket Twelve submits black ash basket wrapped in a red satin bow that is holding a rose on top. Inside is an isolated compartment that is holding two bread bowls filled to the bring with pasta, one chicken alfredo, one spaghetti, and meatballs. Two garden salads, breadsticks and dipping sauce, and cheesecake.  There is a bottle of Sangria and a bottle of tequila, two shot glasses and two wine glasses. There is also a picture of the back of a pickup truck filled with pillows facing an outdoor movie screen and the breakfast club playing on the screen, a sticky note is attached that reads ‘netflix and chill?’ jk I don’t really get what that means’ . There is also a baggy full of movie snacks and popcorn. 

Basket Thirteen submits a vintage white picnic basket with a brown clasp. It’s insulated and lined with dark red cloth. Inside you’ll find the following: A bottle of expensive white wine, two wine glasses, grilled salmon, grilled honey mustard chicken skewers, grilled artichokes with harissa-honey dip, radish tartines, and pear cakes cut into heart shapes. Two small sailors’ hats are tucked on the side and a note that reads “Sail away with me” in cursive handwriting.

Basket Fourteen submits a dark brown wicker basket with a navy blue blanket held to the side with leather straps. Inside you’ll find the following: a bottle of Nosotros wine and two crystal wine glasses, classic lobster rolls, handmade spring vegetable pizza, spring greens Caesar salad, brownies and lemon cookies. There are also two sets of hand-made movie tickets, one copy of Pride & Prejudice and one of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

Basket Fifteen submits a simple grey plastic laundry basket (one you might find in the walmart home-good section), with a black and white checker sheet folded in the bottom. Inside you’ll find the following: One bottle of Woodford Reserve Whiskey 1.0L, one can of bug spray, one bottle of SPF 30, two pairs of thick wool socks, four expertly made ham and cheese sandwiches, one large refillable water bottle, two black and white striped beach towels, a box of Cheez-It’s, and a bag of Sour Patch watermelon gummy candy.

Basket Sixteen submits a light brown wicker basket with an off-white lining at the top and a dark brown top. Inside you’ll find the following: A jug of freshly made lemonade, A jug of ice coffee, two empty mason jars for cups, steak tacos, Tostitos chips, medium salsa, cucumber tomato salad, and two slices of lemon meringue pie. The green and white checkered blanket is folded at the very bottom. There are two neon mini golf balls in one of the inside pockets.  

Basket Seventeen submits a medium sized white basket. Inside you’ll find the following: peach gummy candy, kettle corn, red wine, a fuzzy blanket and a pair of fuzzy socks, two sandwiches, cheese and crackers, colouring book & crayons and a pack of cigarettes

Basket Eighteen submits a large wicker basket with a blue picnic blanket. Inside you’ll find the following: watermelon, apples, homemade banana bread, chocolate chip cookies, red & white wine, two BLT sandwiches, a bouquet of tulips and a book of riddles.

Basket Nineteen submits a cherry coloured Peterboro Traditional picnic basket lined with blue gingham. Inside you’ll find the following: a decanter of blood, a bottle of good single malt Scotch, sheet music for Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 3, and one apple.  

Basket Twenty submits a brown wicker basket lined in red and white plaid. Inside you’ll find the following: a blanket with a bear skin rug pattern, an enormous Cuban sandwich, a bag of coffee beans, potato salad, a fifth of whiskey, and half a dozen snickerdoodles.  

Twenty One submits an antique wash willow hamper lined in dark red. Inside you’ll find the following: a bottle of Dom Perrignon champagne, a bottle of Labella’s finest wine, two champagne flutes, two wine glasses, two China plates, a removable cooler bag containing an assortment of fine meats and cheeses, a board on which to set out the meats and cheeses, various boxes of different kinds of crackers, and chocolate covered strawberries for dessert.

#hgspringfling19 #I AM SO EXCITED THESE BASKETS TURNED OUT BOMB

[autonomy-for-all]

“Vegans are so annoying”

Okay something that really upsets me is people who hate vegans and talk shit about how annoying or pushy vegans are. It’s a social justice movement... just like feminism or gay rights are social justice movements. (and for any of the nitpickers no I’m not saying they’re the exact same, I am just saying they’re both about bringing justice to someone who’s been harmed) So yeah obviously we are going to do activism lol that’s not annoying it’s just what it means to be a social justice movement. Activism will always annoy the people who are opposed to it, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.

This message isn’t meant to attack anyone except the fake vegans.

People tend to confuse the “health obsessed plant based dieters” with actual vegan activists. If a “vegan” starts talking to you about health benefits and food as the main reason to go vegan....... that’s a dieter, not a vegan. Run away lol And I know that most meat eaters don’t understand that, so I’m trying to get y’all in the loop lol It’s kind of like the “feminists” who give the movement a bad name by trolling vs the ones doing real life activism to change things.

We have actual leaders and organization and structure. Here is the legitimate definition of veganism, as coined in 1947 by Donald Watson:

Our goal is to save animals and reduce suffering as far as possible. Please note the “as far as is possible and practical”.

The vast majority of people can be vegan. And do not forget that veganism isn’t just about what you eat.

Vegans also do not:

- use products that were tested on animals

- wear leather, fur, silk, wool, or feathers

- use animals for entertainment (aquariums, rodeos, dog racing, etc)

- buy animals from breeders (adopt don’t shop!)

If someone happens to have some weird obscure disease where they will literally disintegrate if they don’t eat meat once a week or whatever.......... that’s really a small exception and the vast majority of people don’t fall under that category. A vegan activist will ask you to practice veganism as far as is possible and practical.

For example, I’ve been vegan for about 6 years now. I have to take medication that was tested on animals. I need this medication. When the situation is “I must do this or I will die”, obviously an exception can be made. Especially because I cant continue to help more animals if I’m dead.

An actual vegan activist will have a real understanding of the movement. They’ll know about people like Donald Watson and James Aspey and Melanie Joy and Gary Francione. They’ll know that PETA is an anti-vegan organization and we don’t associate with them. They’ll know about FARM and the Catskills Sanctuary and Freegle and ALF. If someone is talking to you about veganism and they don’t mention these things, they’re probably just calling themselves vegan for clout/attention/whatever.

In the past few years the word vegan has been very watered down. It is a specific movement with a specific definition and a set goal. We don’t care about health. Be a raw vegan or a high carb vegan or a junk food vegan. Live off of only fruit, or only Oreos. I don’t give a fuuuuuck. If someone is pushing health and food on you, be aware that’s probably a faker. And listen..... You can eat a plant based diet and NOT be vegan. As long as you’re doing everything you can to lessen animal suffering, you don’t have to join our movement. It’s always nice to get new activists, but not everyone has to do that.

For example, my mom eats a plant based diet (no meat, dairy, eggs, or honey. This is the diet vegans adhere to) BUT my mom still wears wool and does not do any activism. So she’s not a vegan. My point is that not everyone understands what it actually means to be VEGAN, and a lot of people use the term incorrectly. It would be an easy mistake for someone to call my mom a vegan just because she eats like one. But that’s not how it works.

Every movement has its infiltrators and trolls and fakers.... veganism is no exception. I just wanted to point that out, and shed some light on that situation. I’ve seen too many IG models who claim to be vegans but are really just plant based dieters. I’ve seen too many people push the food aspect of veganism without ever mentioning leather or animal testing or or dog fighting or anything else that vegans are supposed to advocate for. I’ve seen people who claim to be vegan but never seem to actually talk about factory farming.

I’ve been in this movement for a long time, and I’ve been an activist online and in real life for nearly 17 years now. I’ve seen it all. There are real vegans out there who actually understand the movement and who have done their research. Please just keep in mind that anyone can call themselves something, but it doesn’t make it true.

Thanks for coming to my TedTalk and please message me or reply to this post if you have any questions.

I’ve helped dozens of people go vegan over the years, and I’ve helped even more just to understand this movement (even if they won’t go vegan). Misinformation is dangerous and one of my goals is to bring an end to that.

Vegan is love. Vegan is compassion. Thank you.

#vegan #mine #veganism #vegans #fake vegans #activism #animal rights #animal actvism #plant based #plant based diet #go vegan

[repost-this-image]

Important historical references for Castlevania fics

Castlevania III: Dracula’s Curse and the Netflix series based on it are both set in the late 15th century in Wallachia (now the southern part of Romania).  For those of you who don’t specialize in history from this period, there are a LOT of things that were dramatically different back then that you probably never heard about.

So here’s a list of things that the average person might not know about food and clothing, that are relevant to Castlevania fics and other stories written in that time period:

(and it’s a LONG ONE, so I’m putting it behind a cut.)

First, fabrics.  Cotton was rare and expensive, and is actually harder to dye than the other fibers available at the time.  Cotton only became cost-effective for the average person to buy a few centuries later, when slavery--and later, mechanical separation of the seeds and other debris from the boll--drove the cost of production down.  (Well, the financial cost, anyway.  Ethically, this was obviously Not Good.)  Commoners were as unlikely to wear cotton as silk or ermine.

So what did most people wear?  Linen, wool, and leather.

Let’s start with linen.  Linen is made from flax, which has very strong fibers.  It is first soaked in water for a few months to soften up the fibers (yes, this means that flax has to rot before you can use it to make cloth).  The fibers are then spun and woven into linen fabric.    Linen is lightweight and cool in the summer, and because it’s soft, sturdy, and easy to wash, most undergarments and nightclothes were made of linen.

Wool, as most people know, comes from sheep.  Just like in the game Minecraft, you get wool by carefully clipping it off a sheep with shears.  (Modern shears are electric and look like the clippers used by a barber to cut human hair.)  An experienced shepherd is very good at shearing a sheep without cutting the skin, getting most or all the wool off.  Wool takes most natural dyes very easily, requiring only the dye itself and some kind of acid to use as a mordant.  (A mordant is basically the chemical that makes the dye “stick” to the fabric.)  I have literally dyed wool yarn with Kool-Aid and boiling water; the unsweetened packets contain food-safe dyes and citric acid.  Wool is basically AWESOME to use for your outer garments.  It’s warm, relatively water-resistant when felted, it wicks away sweat from your skin and undergarments, and it STAYS WARM EVEN WHEN WET, which is a good thing when modern waterproof fabrics don’t yet exist.  Equally importantly, knitted wool was the one natural material that could stretch, so socks and hosiery could be made skin-tight.  Spandex and elastic were a good 400 years in the future.  One reason black sheep were less common and less desirable is because black wool is too dark to dye, and thus makes fewer clothing colors than white or brown wool.  (This is also where the phrase “black sheep of the family” comes from.)

Leather is animal skin that’s been specially prepared to not rot off and stink.  It’s a bit more water-resistant than felt, though it can still get ruined if you let it get soaked through.  Most leather today is made from cows or pigs, but deer and goat leather make a softer leather and would also have been used.  “To handle with kid gloves” comes from the fact that the softest, thinnest gloves were made from kids (baby goats).  Kid-leather is banned today for ethical reasons.  A prepared sheepskin with the wool still on would have made for a super-warm blanket or rug, but wasn’t all that cheap.

Most women spent half the year spinning wool and linen into threads; it was simple enough (although VERY time-consuming) that you could spin while doing other things, and common women definitely did.  During the winter months, when you were stuck inside most of the time anyway, the weaving and sewing would take place.  Most spinning would have still been done with the drop spindle; spinning wheels existed, but they were still very uncommon.

So what color were clothes?  Well, a natural undyed cream color was more likely than pure white--bleaching fabric still involved urine and was a major hassle.  As for dyes, most of them came from plants or insects, and you could get just about any color except royal purple, a deep scarlet, or royal blue (because the sources of these shades were rare and difficult to harvest).  Sypha’s robes would probably have been dyed with woad, which produces the same pigment as the indigo plant (the same indigo that’s used to dye blue jeans).  For more information on dyes from this time period, or how it was done, I’d recommend you click here or here.  (This section is long-winded enough already.)

For the actual fashions of the time, check out the “Central Europe” section of this article, the late-15th-century part of this article, and if you don’t mind fudging it (since heaven knows Alucard’s tight leather pants aren’t period), the early 16th century works too.

Undergarments of the time include: the chemise (full-length for women, waist-length for men), the codpiece, early corsets, hose, and petticoats.  Underpants as we know them probably didn’t exist yet.

FOOD

Most of us know that people used to eat very differently than they do now, but aside from “well, there wasn’t a McDonald’s or anything,” that’s about it.  So here’s what you need to know about food.  (For a more in-depth look, this reddit post is pretty good.)

Dairy would have been milk, cream, and butter near a dairy farm, and mainly cheese elsewhere.  Cheese not only keeps for a very long time, but sharp cheeses actually get stronger and better with age.  There were dozens of varieties, and they would have made up a fair bit of your protein unless you were wealthy enough to eat meat every day.  (Commoners weren’t.)

Beans and nuts were your primary source of protein if you were a commoner.  They were cheap, shelf-stable, and easy to cook.  Just leave some beans and barley in a pot of boiling water for a few hours with your other ingredients, and you’ve got a filling meal.  Not all beans or nuts are European, but you’re pretty safe if you stick to: lentils, hazelnuts, chestnuts, peas, broadbeans, flax, almonds, walnuts, chickpeas (garbanzos), 

Grains were the staple food, and as such, you had them in stews, beer, and bread every day.  You know how the KJV of the Bible says things like “man shall not live by bread alone” and “give us this day our daily bread?”  That’s because bread was the ONE FOOD you were guaranteed to have at every meal, so the word “bread” was often used to refer to food in general.  If you had celiac in the Middle Ages, your life was pretty much guaranteed to suck.  Maize existed in parts of the Old World, but was only used as animal feed; “corn” was instead a general term for ALL grains, instead of the name of the yellow stuff that grows on a cob.  Bread was made of rye, wheat, millet, or barley, all of which were and still are quite common in Europe.  And yes, oatmeal was also A Thing.

Other vegetables you’d find in Europe in the 15th century included cucumbers, radishes, carrots, lots of varieties of onions, dandelions (yes, they’re edible), celery, broccoli, asparagus, spinach, beets, Brussels sprouts, cabbage, kale, garlic, parsnips, and cauliflower.  Since spices were expensive, most people seasoned their food with herbs like basil, thyme, parsley, rosemary, oregano, chives, cloves, bay (laurel), wormwood, and dill.  Eggplants are not originally native to Europe, but they were brought over from Asia during the Middle Ages, so people definitely knew about them and cooked with them.  And of course, edible mushrooms have been eaten pretty much everywhere in the world you can find them, including damn-near all of Eurasia.

Note what is not on the list.  There were no potatoes in Europe.  It is a New World vegetable.  Potatoes weren’t imported into England and Spain until the 16th century, and didn’t reach the rest of Europe until the early 17th century.  They quickly became popular because they’re cheap, easy to grow, and calorie-dense, which is why a lot of traditional Irish food from the last 4 centuries has potatoes in it.  Do not write potatoes into a story set in the 15th century.  DON’T DO IT.  History buffs get very angry when you get potatoes wrong.  A lot of people are mad at the Witcher series for having potatoes in Poland at about the same time period, 100 years before they would have made it there.  Tomatoes are also a New World crop, as are pumpkins, peanuts, cranberries, maple syrup, chocolate and quinoa.  Don’t include any of them in your story either.

Fruits in the part of Eastern Europe we’re looking at would not have included bananas or citrus; the time it took to transport non-native fruits would have made it impossible to get either one.  Here’s what fruits you were likely to actually find:  Blackcurrant, pears, quinces, raspberries, apples, plums.  You might find the following Mediterranean imports when they were in season, but they’d be less common since the plants themselves can’t survive cold winters:  black mulberry, dates, figs, olives, grapes, jujubes, pomegranates.  How common each of these would be depends on how long it can go without spoiling; when in doubt, check.  Dried grapes, of course, are shelf-stable and could well have been imported under the names raisins, currants, or sultana.

Meats were most often eaten by the wealthy, unless you count fish and shellfish, which were mainly seen as food for the poor.  (The idea that fish and lobster and delicacies for the rich would seem completely absurd to people before the 20th century.)  Chicken was uncommon; your hens were more useful as egg-layers than as meat.  Beef, pork, venison, rabbit/hare, mutton (sheep), lamb, goose, and duck were relatively common.  Turkey and salmon are both New World animals and would have been unknown in Europe.  Fish were very common and easy to catch compared to modern times (bodies of water hadn’t been overfished like they are today) and came in lots of varieties.  Oysters, mussels and the like were also harvested and eaten by the common folk.

#castlevania #15th century #historical reference #15th century food #15th century clothing

[greaseonmymouth]

Thank you for answering my question! I've never heard of horse being used as a meat animal before (I'm from the U.S. and the concept of eating a horse is like... a last resort type of thing and not something that's done now), and cows just being kept for dairy. I'm gonna have to learn more about your food system, it sounds very interesting.

No problem, I'm happy to talk. :)Here in Denmark, where I live now, eating horses is pretty taboo so it's next to impossible to get hold of horse meat at all. (That horse meat scandal the UK had a few years ago? Yeah, we had that too.) mutton is expensive because Danes apparently hate nice food, and fish is expensive because...Danes don't like fish unless it's pickled herring, ugh. (I can't stand herring.) so what I eat meat-wise here is actually 90% chicken, 5% processed pork (chorizo, bacon, etc) and 5% beef on sale. When not eating meat, I get my protein from eggs, dairy, and beans/lentils w/rice. I could get pork, it's cheap, and Denmark is Pork Country, but I don't like pork, so.Icelanders eat a LOT of dairy. You *can* get beef and it's not like it's not produced at all, but when you already get much better meat from e.g. sheep, there's just no point in optimising beef production when you can put that effort towards dairy instead. (And tbh the best goulash is made with horse meat, not beef. Horse meat is much more tender than beef. Mutton does nicely as well.) And man, we eat and drink so much dairy. Even adults drink milk with their meals, not just kids. Milk, yoghurt, cheese, ice cream, butter, cream, skyr... like...I'm lactose intolerant, always have been, and as a child I laughed in the face of that and kept stuffing my face with ALL THE DAIRY EVER. A bowl of skyr with cream (or milk) on top with some blueberries if available is an entire meal in its on right, and we'd often just get that for lunch. Hell, I still just grab a bowl of skyr for dinner sometimes if I don't feel like cooking. I definitely have milk with my meals. I don't know what the statistics say, but it'd be difficult for an Icelander to not consume a single dairy product on any given day.Looking at the food history, all the traditional meat dishes that turn up are primarily mutton, pork and horse, and they're usually salted, smoked, pickled (in whey), or fermented. My favourite meat dish ever is actually salted horse meat (just...boiled, and served with boiled potatoes. You know that bit from CA: TWS when Steve says to Sam "we used to boil everything"? Yeah. We too.), and my second favourite is split pea soup with salted meat (the usual is salted pork but I prefer salted mutton. I've never been a big fan of pork.)And I talked specifically about livestock before, but hunting is still a pretty big deal - whale*, reindeer, fowl such as ptarmigan, goose, duck, and puffin are all meats eaten on the regular, though it varies from family to family and region to region. My mum's brothers A and Þ and my cousin S (A's son) usually go hunting once or twice a year, once for reindeer and once for ptarmigan. In some families ptarmigan is the main course for Christmas. (In mine it's smoked ham and a cut of mutton I don't remember the name for in English. It's a section of the sheep's back.) my dad's family don't hunt. I come from a family of fishermen (in Iceland, who doesn't?) so fish was always, always a staple. I like it best fresh, not salted or smoked (too strong flavours) and boiled and served with boiled potatoes, or minced into fish balls (meatballs, but with fish) and fried, or just filleted and fried in breadcrumbs, or in various types of gratin, etc. Cod, haddock, that big ugly looking fat "eel" with TEETH (what the fuck is it called in English? Wolffish? Anyway in icelandic it's ROCK BITER, that's how hardcore it is), those fishes that are like salmon but aren't salmon, are staples. Actual salmon is not, I guess there isn't much of that around? Idunno. I never had salmon in my life until I moved to Finland, where it (and other salmon fishes) are easily available and not all that expensive. Lobster (well, we call it lobster but I think in English it might be crayfish?) is pretty cheap and easily available as well. Shrimp too. Many kinds of seafood, really. In Denmark I don't get a fraction of the seafood I used to eat on the daily in Iceland because here it's rich people food, not poor people food.Like...look, back in the day when food was more scarce in Iceland and people had to be creative with what they had and utilise every single part of the animal, you just didn't slaughter the cow for the meat if the cow was still giving you milk. You instead ended up with dishes like cod cheeks (I think usually salted? I'm not sure, it's been literally decades since last I had cod cheeks), singed sheep heads, blood pudding, liver pudding, smoked cod roe, meat jelly made from boiling a pig's head, pickled ram testicles, fermented skate and the one that the Internet always likes to bring up every now and then: rotten shark. Well, I'm here to tell you that it's not actually rotten, but fermented. Not the same thing. Etc. Lots of different kinds of meet dishes that all come from sheep, horse or pork, plus lots of dairy + whey byproduct from dairy production that was used to pickle half those meats. So there just isn't much tradition for beef in the first place? We had all these sheep for eating (and bonus: wool + toys made from the bones and horns, leather from the skin, etc)! and practically, sheep are much much cheaper to raise than cows. Half the year you don't have to provide for them, just let them loose on the mountains and they'll fend for themselves and return in the fall super tasty from eating all sorts of grasses and plants. The texture of the meat is also fantastic, no doubt because the sheep get to actually...like...do stuff. Work those shanks. The rest of the year they're eating hay that you cut from the fields around the farm. (I'm no expert on this, so idk if Icelandic livestock gets fed other stuff in addition to hay these days? And sheep are really the overwhelming majority here.)WELL, ALL THIS FOOD TALK HAS MADE ME REALLY HUNGRY SO I'M GONNA GO MAKE DINNER. *(Please leave all whale hunting discourse in the bin where it belongs, please, I'm not interested. If you want to know: yeah, I do eat whale meat when given the opportunity (it's similar in texture to reindeer meat and not that different flavour wise either. If you're being served whale meat that smells/tastes of fish, it's gone bad and you shouldn't eat it) and I don't have anything against whale hunting.)

[earth-species-love-awakening]

This is a controversial topic, but please attempt to consider it with an open mind. From “Slavery. It’s Still a Thing.” by Christopher-Sebastian McJetters

Hey, everyone. I’m a black guy! I know it’s probably obvious to some of you when you look at me. But some people don’t see race. So I have to make it clear. Otherwise, this fact will escape them entirely.

Very recently, I rounded up a group of people and asked them a simple question: “Why do we consume animals?” The responses were as simple and concise as the question itself:

“Because I like it.”

“They’re not like us.”

“We’re just superior.”

“We have higher intelligence.”

“It’s perfectly natural.”

“God put them here for us.”

“We’re more important.”

“They don’t feel pain the same way we do.”

“It’s just an animal.”

“They don’t reason or have complex emotions.”

“Because we can.”

“I NEED to.”

“I was raised on a farm. Nothing wrong with it. We’ve done it for generations.”

Okay, great! Second question then: “Why don’t we reinstitute slavery in the United States?”

SLAVERY?!

I always want to have a camera to record the expressions when I ask that question. Let’s think about it though. Are not all of these justifications the same ones that pre-Civil War Americans used to justify keeping African slaves?

Uh oh. Battle stations, everyone. I could almost see the mental wagons starting to circle. More than half of these people were Afro-American, and they were having none of my foolishness. Not even a little bit of it. But it wasn’t just the blacks. The white people in the group were looking uncomfortable too. The expression on their faces was priceless. Hoodwinked! I’d drawn these two disparate groups into a subject that dare not speak its name.

There was so much fidgeting in the room that I could no longer tell if we were having a discussion or if we had declared an impromptu interpretive dance.

This response is not uncommon. I’m used to it; American slavery is the elephant in the room. However, constructive dialogue is the only way we can ever heal systemic injustice. Ignoring it only serves to perpetuate the oppression. But this goes deeper than American slavery. It’s about the mindset that allowed American slavery to take root at all. At least everyone in the room could agree upon the fact that white folks should no longer be making black folks pick their cotton. Unfortunately, we seem to be perfectly comfortable with the captive breeding, torture, forced labor, and killing of others right now. But why?

If I were having this conversation 200 years ago with a white person about owning black people, I would be met with the same level of skepticism. Actually, no … this conversation would not have happened at all 200 years ago because I would be far too busy singing negro spirituals and shucking corn to articulate a position. But you get the picture. Why does one form of slavery get a pass, while we recognize the obvious violation of the other? And why do we get so doggone angry and uncomfortable when we identify these parallels?

Let’s take a moment to unpack some of our prejudices against others. Let’s look at some of the common visceral reactions experienced by people of color when discussing oppression. Let’s push past our current perceptions, and put ourselves in the place of the victims rather than the established system that advantages us.

How dare you compare black people and animals? Those two groups are nothing alike!

Allow me to make a point of clarification. Humans are animals. Whether or not you believe that we are conceived from a common ancestor with bonobos, we don’t exist outside of the animal kingdom. So it’s important to deconstruct the narrative that pits “us” against “them.” Also, let’s listen to the correct part of the conversation. This is not a comparison of human animals to non-human animals. This is a comparison of like systems of oppression. Whether talking about white humans and brown ones or horses and pigs, slavery is an abuse of power. That’s what we’re here to examine.

I wish you would stop saying slavery. It’s not the same thing.

Language is important. The very definition of slavery is the treatment of one group as property to be bought, sold, and forced into work by another group. If non-human animals are not slaves, are they then free? There are not many animals I know of that exist within human society who voluntarily engaged in this system. Cows do not clock in and clock out. They don’t go home to their families. They don’t have conversations in the lunchroom. And the only retirement package available to them at the end of their painful lives is a violent death when their usefulness to us has run out.

Of course, coming to terms with the sobering reality of slavery is probably the most difficult mental hurdle to overcome when having these discussions. Because if we are forced to acknowledge that slavery is wrong and that non-humans are slaves, then we have a moral obligation to talk about abolition. The repercussions for our economic structure and, indeed, our way of life could be devastating. But I imagine it wasn’t easy for pre-Civil War Americans either.

I’m not a bad person. Are you calling me a slave owner?

In America’s historic narrative, it’s easy to paint slave owners as villains, and abolitionists as heroes. But slave owners were not all bad people. Likewise, racists are not all bad people. Racism and slavery are constructs that make otherwise good people engage in really bad behavior. Unfortunately, we were all born into this construct that privileges some of us over others. The key is to unlearn the conditioning that teaches us that any form of oppression is okay.

But comparing black ancestors to pigs is insulting and degrading, and it trivializes the oppression they went through.

Say it with me now—a comparison between like systems of oppression is not a comparison between two species of animal. But even if we were comparing marginalized groups of humans and non-humans, why do we find that offensive? At the root, most of us are insulted because we feel like we’re better than another group based on physical distinctions. This is discrimination. When one group of humans does it to another group of humans, we call it racism. When humans do it to non-humans, this is called speciesism.

Any criteria we use to establish dominance over or to except another group is discriminatory. See, the yardstick used to measure differences between “us and them” is always going to start “us” off at one-and-a-half inches. And a house built with false measurements is destined to fall down. The very act of seeking to point out our differences in a society is a rigged system designed by its very nature to determine who is better. Throughout American history, blacks have always found themselves the victims of a hierarchy that inherently favors whites. To that end, non-humans throughout the whole of history have suffered the same fate, and still do today with no end in sight.

Well what black people have suffered is far worse.

This is all a matter of perspective, isn’t it? From the standpoint of the victim, one could argue that what is happening to non-humans is actually much worse. During the 18th and 19th centuries, approximately 12.5 million Africans were shipped to the New World. Nearly 10 billion land animals alone are killed each year to produce meat, dairy, and eggs. And that’s just in the United States. That number increases to 65 billion globally (or 6 million every hour)[1]. So strictly by numbers, non-humans have Africans beat. It could also be argued that since this exploitation existed prior to the African slave trade and still exists now, it’s an aggression that deserves strong consideration.

But where is the value in tallying up who has suffered the greater injustice? Why should we choose to take on the narrative that one group has been more deeply aggrieved than another? Establishing a hierarchy of oppression only serves to help the oppressor. The better narrative—the stronger narrative—is in choosing to seek freedom for everyone. Otherwise, we’re only fighting for the right to oppress someone else. Solidarity is the key to establishing equality. Division only perpetuates more tyranny.

This is all well and good, but consuming animals is a personal choice. You’re forcing your beliefs on me.

Again, this is a matter of perspective. We should take a sober look at the kind of aggressions that are being perpetrated against non-humans. Their exploitation is so complete that it’s nearly invisible. Yes, they are our food. But they are also our wool sweaters, our leather shoes, our shampoo, our streets, our electronics, and even our home décor. Can we honestly say that it is our personal choice to take away the agency and sovereignty of someone else while simultaneously saying that American slavery was wrong? If holding up a mirror to expose our complicity in structural inequality toward non-humans is forcing beliefs, then so too did abolitionists force their beliefs on Americans to end the exploitation of black people.

I’m scared.

So am I. It takes a lot of work to unlearn a lifetime of conditioning that privileges certain groups. It’s equally scary when black people have discussions with white people involving race. But even though it makes us uncomfortable, it’s necessary. When we can adequately understand the space occupied by both those who benefit from privilege and those who are oppressed by it, we build a bridge that can liberate us from such inequality altogether. That’s why slavery matters to all of us. Regardless of our racial background, everyone is complicit in this system of persecution against non-human animals. And until we are truly present to the impact of harming the most vulnerable among us, we won’t be able to deconstruct how to stop doing harm to one another.

So how did this exchange end with all these nervous people desperate to distance themselves from their participation in slavery? Same as it always does. We got angry. We got sad. We placed blame. And then something amazing happened. We took responsibility. Did all of these people walk away choosing instantly to let go of their speciesism? No. But every one of them is now more aware. And raising awareness is where it all begins.

Racism hasn’t entirely been eradicated either. Fortunately, far fewer people exercise that choice. So we have these conversations. And we don’t give up.

http://veganpublishers.com/slavery-its-still-a-thing-christopher-sebastian-mcjetters/

Thank you for reading.

[bigyack-com]

How to Prepare Now for the Complete End of the World

OKANOGAN COUNTY, Wash. — When the end comes, some will not be waiting in a bunker for a savior. They will stride out into the wilderness with confidence, ready to hunt and kill a deer, tan its hide and sleep easily in a hand-built shelter, close by a fire they made from the force of their two palms on a stick.Four hours from the Seattle airport, in a valley called Methow, near a town called Twisp, Lynx Vilden was teaching people how to live in the wild, like we imagine Stone Age people did. Not so they could get better at living in cities, or so they could be better competitors in Silicon Valley or Wall Street.“I don’t want to be teaching people how to survive and then come back to civilization,” Lynx said. “What if we don’t want to come back to civilization?”Some people now are considering what it means to live in a world that could be shut down by a pandemic.But some people are already living like this. Some do it because they just like it. Some do it because they think the end has, in fact, already begun to arrive.

⎌

A couple of times a year, Lynx — she goes by the name professionally, though it is not her legal name — teaches a 10-day introduction to living in the wilderness. When I arrived for this program, Lynx ran to me, buckskins flying, her hands cupped tightly around something that was smoking.She held it toward my face. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. Confused, she moved her smoking handful to someone else, who blew on it lightly. It was an ember in a nest of seed fluff. Lynx was making fire.Her property looks like a kidnapper’s lair from a movie. But her dream, she told those of us gathered, is a human preserve. Her vision is called the Settlement. It will have a school, where people can come in street clothes and learn to tan hides. But to enter the preserve itself will mean giving oneself over to it.“You walk into it naked and if you can create from that land what that land has to offer, then you can stay there,” Lynx said. “It’s going be these feral rewilded people. I’m thinking in two to three generations there could be real wild children.”We set up our tents around her property. I had a sleeping bag from high school, a Swiss army knife and a stack of external batteries. It scared me that there was no cellphone reception. We communicated over the week in hoots. One hoot means hoot back. Two hoots means “gather.” Three hoots means an emergency, like near-death level.The class may have been there to go ancient, but they brought very modern food requests. In a group of seven, one student was a strict carnivore — Luke Utah, who likes a morning smoothie of raw milk, liver and egg yolk. Another was a vegan. One student said they were so sensitive to spice that even black pepper was overwhelming. One person was paleo, one was allergic to garlic, and one was gluten-free.Louis Pommier, a French chef turned backpacker, was bartering his skill for attendance. He nodded empathetically as he heard these restrictions but would go on to mostly ignore them. The first night he made a chicken curry.Many of the people who were there came feeling useless in their lives. Some had just quit their jobs. Lynx said many of the students who come for the monthslong intensives (another option) are divorced, or on their way to it. Several talked about feeling embarrassed at how soft their hands were, and how dependent they had gotten on watching TV to fall asleep.

⎌

We woke up the next morning and gathered around the open fire for boiled eggs. Soon we would learn how to chop down a tree. First Lynx greeted the tree. She put her hands on it.“If you’re willing to be cut down, will you give a yes?” she asked. She tugged the tree. She calls it a muscle test. Apparently the tree said yes. “We have to kill to live,” she said.Many students had brought elegant knives and axes from rewilding festivals — there’s a booming primitive festival circuit, with names like Rabbitstick Rendezvous, Hollowtop and Saskatoon Circle — but when confronted with an actual tree they didn’t want to use those. There was an old ax they used instead. Its head periodically flung off, each time narrowly missing someone. The tree eventually fell, a foot from my tent.The vibe was a mix of Burning Man, a Renaissance Fair and an apocalyptic religious fantasy. There was no doomsday prepper gun room — what would happen when bullets run out? Nor was there a sort of kumbaya, gentle-love-of-nature-yoga-class vibe. When Lynx told the story of killing her first deer, she said the deer, wounded, tried to drag herself away.We shaved off the tree’s bark and got to the cambium, the soft inner layer of bark that we would boil in water. This would be used to tan hides. We learned on supermarket salmon skin. We tore into the plastic bags of sockeye salmon with stone shards, then descaled the skin with dull bones.Lynx demonstrated how to process a deer hide using a hump bone from a buffalo. She sent us to go look for bones from the kitchen. Our job was to scrape off the muscle and fat. The hide was heavy, wet and beginning to rot.Sometimes she played a deer leg flute while we worked.That night was bitterly cold. I wore every piece of clothing I brought. Lynx coached us in warming big rocks by the fire, rotating them like potatoes, wrapping them in wool blankets. I heaved my two rocks, too hot to touch, covered in ash, into the sleeping bag with me.“Another thing you can do to make a big cozy bed is just rake a pile of pine needles and just burrow in and put logs on either end so it stays together,” Lynx said.

⎌

Lynx looks like Peter Pan, only 54 and with bone earrings. She is thin and quite beautiful, deeply wrinkled in a way that skin doesn’t usually get anymore. One day she wore red grain-on leather pants and her belt buckle was an elk antler crown. Another day it was a coat made of buffalo. She carried a Danish dagger made of a single piece of flint. On her belt was a little pouch made of bark-tanned salmon skin and deer hide holding a twig toothbrush, a sinew sewing cord and a bone needle, a piece of yerba santa for smudging.She never sat or rested on an object, even to eat. She always crouched. She ate out of a tree burl that she had hollowed into a bowl.Our clothes made a statement. We were not backpackers. No artificial colors, no carabiners and dangling straps and sexless sea foam green fleece. Here we wore tight leather pants. The whole point was to bring our animal selves here, and animal selves should attract mates.One day Lynx wanted us to go to town for groceries. She wore her skins. We smelled disgusting. In town there was a church with a billboard that read, “Alert today, alive tomorrow.” There was a yarn store called Fiber next to an antiques store advertising itself as a nostalgic journey. We wandered down the aisles reeking of rendered, rotted deer fat and smoke.“She’s like a blond-haired blue-eyed dressed up like a North American native person from a century ago, so she’s a striking image that’s easy to capture a lot of people’s attention,” Matt Forkin said. He is a hardware engineer with X, Alphabet’s experimental tech division. He has studied with Lynx, and is also now going in on some land in the Sierra Foothills with friends where they plan to go wild.There are several of these new rewilding compounds emerging. One of the larger efforts is in Western Maine, where a group is working to replicate a hunter-gatherer community. What used to be a handful of bush-craft schools to learn these skills is now an industry of hundreds.On a walk Lynx found some deer scat and handed it out, and a bit of stringy inner bark too, some dead limbs, mullein stalks. I asked what kind of plant a branch is called and she bristled.“Naming something makes people think they know it when they don’t,” Lynx said. “It’s the golden torch light spindle. That’s what it does.”A group of her former students visited with stew, and we sat around a fire. They had two young children in tow, and homemade plum mead. They started just like us, they said. They were city people, mostly from the Bay Area. I visited their enclave the next morning.

⎌

Down a dirt road, past ramshackle cabins and horses, one group of permanently rewilding people have set up a series of yurts and shelters.Epona Heathen, 33, used to have a different name and used to live in Oakland, Calif., working at a thrift store. She felt the call to wilderness while studying sociology at University of California, Berkeley.“I’m writing this paper and the chair is wobbly, and I don’t know how to fix it,” Epona said of her time in the urban world. “I’m eating eggplant, and I don’t know where it grows.”“One day I was like, ‘This is crap. We live month to month. We spend all our money on booze and coffee. We can’t save like this. We can’t live like this. We all talk about getting back to earth, but we did know anything about it.’”After some time on organic farms, they found Lynx. They decided to stay for a six-month Stone Age immersion.“We had to come with 15 tanned hides and five pounds of dried fruit and five pounds of dried meat,” she said.Her partner Alex, who is 31 and who worked at a grocery store as a wine specialist, bought a property nearby. Now about a dozen young people live there.Epona’s yurt is 16 feet around and 12 feet tall, with a small wood-burning stove. She built curved bookshelves along the wall. Most of her food and medicine is dried in jars. There is a cat named Kitty and a dog named Arrow. She identifies as an animist.“People say, ‘Oh when the apocalypse comes. …’ What are you talking about? It’s here. I’m a collapsist,” she said. “I’m not invested in maintaining the comforts we have.”The Heathens, as the group named themselves, sometimes calls the cities they came from Babylon, all the same, all fallen.The biggest challenge, they’ve agreed, is that no one around them is old.“Most of us are in our 20s and early 30s,” Epona said. “You start to see where the holes in society are, and our holes now are elders.”That night, Alex took a horse over the mountain to visit some friends, while Epona stayed behind to host. She made deer, squash, and root vegetables stew. They had vats of plum mead and got the sauna going.There are enough people on the hill for a variety of love triangles. Epona and Alex split. Now Epona is dating a young woman on the property.Alex grew up in Montclair, N.J., and inherited some money. He is bald, muscular and tattooed. He said he used to be more dogmatic about living primitive, but that is changing.��I just moved out of my yurt and into a house,” he said. “I got a second truck.”Roxanne, who is 26 and has bright curly red hair, was here for community, she said. She was working alongside Alex, rubbing salt into hides. She just moved a couple weeks ago and had been working at a coffee shop before this.“You know, the thing about living the dream is it’s really hard!” she shouted, hauling another salt bag.There is a main house down the hill, with a land line that everyone shares. The place is decorated in skulls and massive birds. There is a buffalo strung out to dry outside and a tall stack of deer legs at the door. More fit and dusty young people lounged inside. They were roasting a deer leg.A sense of collapse underlies their opposition.“From a purely rational engineering mind looking at the trends in the data, exponent times an exponent, our utilization of natural resources is way beyond the natural carrying capacity of the earth, and we’re seeing that in essentially ecosystem collapse,” Matt Forkin had told me. “In our lifetimes there is a very high chance we will see major social collapse. I do think there will come a time when these skills are practical for a large number of people.”Alex made a gesture toward the small town over the hill and down the road. “Everyone is partying their final days away,” he said.Lynx was padding around in wool in her little cottage at the end of the property. She sleeps indoors in the winter. Her home is all exposed wood and overflowing planters, horns and old rattles. She was prickly and suspicious, upset that I had left her property to visit the Heathens.Her daughter, Klara, lives in Washington, D.C. Klara’s boyfriend works for the World Bank.“When I met him,” Lynx said, “my first question was, ‘Do you hunt?’ No. ‘Do you chop wood?’ He said, ‘I could try.’”Lynx is single, and that is starting to bother her.“The hard part is finding a partner to share it with,” Lynx said. “Maybe I’m getting to the point where people get fixed in their environments.”She had a traditional childhood with traditional parents in London but left at 17 to play music. She moved to Sweden, went to art school. One day she met a man and they moved to Washington State to backpack. She went into the woods.For a while, she was married to a man named Ocean. They had Klara. She home-schooled her in the mountains in Montana, but Klara went to live with Ocean. Lynx went farther into the wilderness.But even she cannot escape money, yet. A week-long class costs $600. “I have to have my foot in two worlds to maintain some semblance of how I want to live in this world,” she said. Klara answers email for Lynx.In September, Lynx will lead another fully Stone Age project, marching into the nearby public lands. All clothes must be handmade, all food gathered.Lynx’s family still lives in London, mostly. Her sister is a freelance conservator.

⎌

We imagine that someone striking out into the wilderness is doing so to get away from everyone, to be alone. The people I met wanted the opposite. They want a life where they cannot survive even a day alone. They cannot get food alone, cannot go to the bathroom, cannot get warm alone. They want to be dependent.“The city is actually the place of rugged individualism,” said my classmate Joan, who grew up in suburban Philadelphia and uses the pronoun they. “Here I’m using my hands and with people all day.”Before being in the wild, they were addicted to video games and loved social media; very soon, Joan said, they were going to smash their smartphone. They were wearing a thick vest they had felted, with a full marten, body and head, sewn in as a collar for warmth.“Some people don’t get it, but I prefer this life,” Joan said. “No, I don’t use toilet paper. I use moss and I like it better.”Together, in the wild, everyone had to soften. One night, one of the guys said something offensive about gender roles, and a couple of us got annoyed. Then we all had to stop arguing because there was no one else to be with. I started arguing about politics with someone. Instead of going away, he had cold contraband beer, and I had nothing better to do than learn more about him. My only entertainment was the people around me. It made them more interesting.“Really coming back to nature means responding to the social responsibility too. Someone says you have this personality flaw, you can’t just avoid them. You have to respond. You adapt,” Epona said. “Rugged individualism is a lie. Rugged individualism cannot survive.”“There’s a social skill set of working in a community,” Luke Utah said.At one point, I got separated from the group. There was nothing I could do. I checked the river. I checked the houses. I checked the little pine needle burrows where people sometimes slept. I hooted once. I hooted twice. I sat and waited in a terror while it got dark.Our time makes social obligation largely unnecessary. When I moved apartments, I hired TaskRabbits. When I got cold, I turned on the heat. In the woods, the evening entertainment I got was what we could provide one another. Now, suddenly, I did not want to be alone for a minute. The dependence felt amazing. I shrieked with joy when the group came jaunting back.The next time I went to town, I dreaded the spasms of my phone wriggling back to life. I could feel the reception in the air, could feel being alone again. I was relieved to cross over the hill, out of service and back again to Lynx and my friends.Deer legs are very useful. Their toe bones can be whistles and buckles and fish hooks. The leg bones become knives and flutes. Tendons become glue. I popped the black toes off into boiling water. Slicing with obsidian, I peeled the fur off and then the muscle and tendons. I sawed the ends off the bone. I used a twig to oust the marrow. The carnivore ate it. This would be my flute. Read the full article

#1technews #0financetechnology #03technologysolutions #057technology #0dbtechnology #0gtechnology #1technologycourtpullenvale #1technologydr #1technologydrive #1technologydrivepeabodyma #1technologydriveswedesboronj08085 #1technologyplace #1technologyplacerocklandma #1/0technologycorp #2technologydrive #2technologydrivestauntonva24401 #2technologydrivewarana #2technologydrivewestboroughma01581 #2technologyfeaturestopreventcounterfeiting #2technologyplace #2technologyplacemacquarie #2technologywaynorwoodma #3technologybetsgenpact #3technologycircuithallam #3technologydrive #3technologydrivemilpitasca95035 #3technologydrivepeabodyma #3technologydrivewestboroughmassachusetts01581 #3technologyltd #3technologyplace