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always-on-tatooine · 3 years

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MaulxReader part 8: The Escape

Finally getting to this part of the story (this has been rolling around in my head since winter break). At the same time, I’m happy I gave this story the time it’s needed to develop. Also, I’m so happy for all the friends I’ve met on here so far. I really appreciate everyone’s support.

Unfortunately, school is really ramping up so big sections like this will be coming out much slowly. I’ll still be working on this story but until break I will probably only be posting small blurbs. Also, I’m thinking of trying some other side projects too. (yes, most of them will consist of our favorite grumpy red Zabrack)

Also thinking of making an ao3 account too. I’ll keep you all updates if I do so.

Warning: Mentions of violence/wounds to reader, action sense, explosions, and strong emotions. As always, let me know if I missed anything

Masterlist link: https://always-on-tatooine.tumblr.com/post/640968824459526144/shooting-stars-maulxreader-masterlist

3.8k word count. Enjoy :)

@justalittlecloud @a-dorin @hornystarwarsbisexual @mother-0f-monsters @lovelyzabrak-meadow @pinkiemme @maulieber @joslynuniverse @dollar-tree-witchcraft @lalalandbutbetter @zabrak-show @secretmaul @jedi-bitch @helloladyvanilla @enchantress666

Waves of questions and confusion were overwhelming, as (y/n) took in her surroundings. In what was less than a minute of holding her head down, the room once full of mob guards was now littered with dead bodies. The only one left standing held a strange glowing red weapon as it plummeted into the man who almost killed her. Who was the single survivor of this outmatched battle? She knew his name was Maul, and that she had provided housing for him over this past week. Yet here and now, (y/n) realized how little she knew about the man who just saved her life.

One of the glowing beams of Maul’s weapon retracted, releasing its hold on Lysscol’s body. Leaving the former mob boss motionless on his throne, Maul walked over to (y/n). “Hold still,” his command was soft as one swoop of the remaining end of his weapon cut through her cuffs. Reaching a black gloved hand towards the freed captive he asked, “Are you ok?” (Y/n) did not know how to respond. So many questions ran through her head, yet none were able to find their way out, “What…? How…?”

Helping her off the ground Maul looked her over, “Are you able to move on your own?” (Y/n) looked deeply into his tattooed face. Who was this man? “Yes, but…”

Maul retracted the other end of his weapon, “Then we have to hurry. We may have killed their leader, but they will still come for us.” Pulling his hood back over his head, he grabbed (y/n)’s hand and led her out of the throne room.

In the hallways, more guards laid on the floor. Rushing past them, the farmer was only able to get a glimpse of their condition; large slash wounds had cut though the guards chest plates, inflicting a deadly blow. Before, (y/n) could process the scene, the two were already past the alley way and rushing into the streets.

The pair moved fast, yet stayed within the crowd, maneuvering through the groups of people as not to be seen. Still holding Maul’s hand, she did her best to keep up with him as he led her though the streets. Finally gaining the nerves, (y/n) asked, “How did you know where to find me?”

“Only an organized syndicate would be able to push the number of weapons you were selling. So, I looked for their usual hiding places until I found the right one.”

His remark did not satisfy (y/n)’s scrutiny. Remembering back, Victor Lysscol had seemed so familiar with Maul. As if they knew each other. “You said you had given them orders. Are you a part of the syndicate?”

“Something like that…”

“Then what was that weapon you killed him with? Those blades you were using. I thought those were Jedi swords.” She could feel his hand tighten at the name of the legendary space monks. “Jedi are not the only ones who know how to use a lightsaber…” the words rolled off his lips with anger, yet his unpleasant facial expression would be left to the imagination as it was hidden by his hood.

“Then how did you…?” (y/n) wanted to continue her interrogations, but Maul cut her off. “I will answer your question later. Right now, we need to get out of this town. You are now marked by the Crymorah’s. That means if they ever see you again, then they will kill you without a second thought.” The tone of urgency in his voice was enough to make her stop. Taking her saviors advice, she focused on keeping up with him as they headed back to the shop.

Quick on their feet, the two arrived back to the shop shortly after their conversation ended. Madam Rekstall now stood under the awning of the vegetable stand, as she had agreed to watch the shop while Maul had gone to retrieve (y/n). “Thank the maker you’re ok,” the psychic embraced her old friend in a big embrace, “I told you I foresaw one of your deals going wrong if you kept doing business with those mobsters.” Brushing some hair out of the farmer’s hair, she could see the bruise that was forming, gifted on her cheek by the late Lysscol, “It looks like they did a number on you, but it could have been a lot worse…”

(Y/n) ignored the pain on her face. Still in shock, she was trying to piece everything together. “Is that how Maul knew to find me? You saw it in one of your visions?” Madam Rekstall shook her head, “Oh no my dear, he was quite capable of sensing your danger without my help. I just simply took over the shop when he ran over to go save you.” (Y/n) looked over at her savior, who was now starting to pack what few vegetable crates were left. He was the once who sensed she was in danger? But how?

Still holding the farmer in her arms, the psychic began to speak again. Yet her words would fall on deaf ears as (y/n) was still compartmentalizing everything she had just witnessed. She watched as her old friend’s mouth moved, yet she could not hear a sound. Even the sounds of Maul hastily gathering the shop, the bustle coming from the open road beside her, and all the other overwhelming sounds of the city, all became an incoherent hum. Out of all the noses that surrounded her, the only thing she could make out was the sound of a radio. Specifically, a small radio that sat on the counter of another nearby shop stand. Looking over, she could see two men standing under the awning, listening to the broadcast as well.

��We're here to interrupt this program with breaking news. The war is over now! The Separatists have all been defeated by the Republic Army. Counselor Palpatine, who’s leadership has recently been extended under jurisdiction of war, has announced that with the war over, The Council will now declare a new kind of republic. One that will unite the entire galaxy under one Empire.’

“Did you hear that?” (y/n) hear the man standing behind the shop counter ask, “the war is over now!” “Thank the maker,” the other man chimed in, “maybe this new empire will do something to clean up this slum planet.”

Watching the scene unfold, (y/n) wanted to join the men in their enthusiasm. The end of this drawn-out war between the Republic and the Separatists should be a good thing, right? Despite how good it sounded, something inside said otherwise. She could feel her insides start to twist as shivers ran down her spine. Something deep inside told her this was wrong. Then she remembered what Victor Lysscol had said in the throne room. ‘New governments mean new business,’ could this have been what he was referring to? Either way, the unsettlement she felt within was enough to tell her the end of this war would not bring anything good…

(Y/n) was only broken by this strange state she found herself in, by the feeling of Maul’s hand on her shoulder. During her trance-like state, Madam Rekstall must have walked away, as her hooded friend was the only one standing near her now. How long was she out?

“We can’t stay any longer. If we do not leave this town, it will only be a matter of time until they find us.” The sharpness in his voice reminded her of the paramount of the situation they were in. Grounding back into reality, she realized he was right. Nodding her head in agreement to the Zabrak, (y/n) headed over to the wagon to help pack what was left.

Madam Rekstall now watched as the two quickly finished gathering their things. Folding one of her sets of arms, she started, “Do you have a plan on how to defend yourselves if they come for you out there on the plains?” (Y/n) was already mounting her jumper, getting ready to make their escape. Shaking off the eerie feeling of what she just experienced, she tried to compose back to her usual self.

“You know I have one of the best security systems on this planet. Lysscol’s men know it too. If they even have the Reek balls to try to take us on, then they won’t make it back in one peace.” Rekstall rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to Maul who had taken his place among the few crates that were left in the wagon. “Please take care of her out there. I haven’t seen any harm coming your guy’s way. Please don’t prove me wrong.”

Maul looked over at (y/n) who was now starting the jumper. She would have died if he had not interfered. Yet now that the Crymorah Syndicate knew that she was connected to him, their grievance with the young farmer may only get worse. It was clear to him now, that in his current situation, he would be incapable of controlling the different crime families. If they were willing to betray him and disobey his orders, then his association with (y/n) meant they would stop at nothing to kill them both. ‘It’s her fault for getting herself into this mess,’ he thought to himself. Yet despite how much he tried to pass on the responsibility in his head, he could not deny the fact that she had been the only person to help him since he crashed on this planet. The causation to the state they found themselves seemed irrelevant as he felt it was his duty to protect her now. Over the sounds of the jumper engine starting, he insured, “I promise, no harm will come to her.”

The farmer pulled the jumper and attached wagon out of their parking space. Looking over at the psychic, (y/n) called over, “Thank you for watching over the shop! I owe you one.” As the jumper began to pull away, Madam Rekstall called back, “Just be safe out there,” she waved an arm, “and may the force be with you!”

The force? Her bike was already too far away to ask why her old friend had given her such a strange farewell. Weaving through the populated streets, (y/n) made her way out of the city. After some much careful driving between the hordes people, the pair had made it out. As tall clay buildings turned into flat grasslands, (y/n) felt that they had made their getaway. With the city behind them, she was able to pick up some speed on the open road. With fewer crates than they had that morning, they were able to move faster than before. It would not be long until the two would be home, and safe.

Unknown to (y/n) and Maul, only moments after they left, two men on speeders arrived at the shop stand they had been selling at. They wore mixed armor like the guards in the throne den had, yet more time had been put into their garb to attempt to make it look coherent. They did not say for long; once it was obvious that their targets had escaped, they got back on their bikes and headed toward the city outskirts. Madam Rekstall could only watch the scene unfold without gaining the attention of the armed men. Sitting in her fabricated chair, she smoked her pipe, attempting to not show interest in the guard’s inquisition. Only after the men left, did the psychic feel that it was safe to mutter to herself, “May the force keep them safe.”

**************

Only when they were out in the fields of grasslands was (y/n) able to gather herself. As long blades of pale blue grass were pushed away from the velocity of her speeder, the last hour that had unfolded replayed in her mind. The farmer understood that arms dealing with the Orkaron Mafia was a dangerous job. Just getting her hands on the various bits of blasters and armor had almost cost her life a few times. Yet out on a small planet such as this one, she could only sell as many vegetables as there were mouths to feed. She was always just one bad growing season from not being able to make a sustainable income. Her immoral and hazardous situation was not blind to her, but the need to eat and stay warm at night was overwhelming on a planet such as this.

Glancing over her shoulder, she could see Maul was alert as he sat in the back of the wagon. ‘Strange’ has been a term she had used to describe her new housemate over this past week. Now she was now beginning to see there was much more to him. It felt almost haunting now, to have had someone stay with her for a week and know so little about them. Yet right when she was about to be executed, he came in and took on a whole syndicate base, all by himself.

Executed… it really was a close call. Too close to (y/n)’s liking. It had been a long time since she had been in a situation where she had so little control. Danger was something she was used to. Yet each encounter she had out on this lawless planet, she always managed to have the upper hand. Yet today she was rendered powerless and was almost put down like an old Fathier. Helpless, it made her feel helpless. Tears that formed in her eyes were pushed to the sides of her face by the air that brushed against her vehicle. She had built this life of independence so that she would not need anyone’s help. Yet she would be dead now if it were not for Maul. It was not that she wasn't grateful to him, she just hated the feeling. ‘Helpless,’ the word repeated in her head again. A dreadful feeling, she had not felt in a long time. Not since she…

“Incoming,” Maul roared, waking her out of her thoughts. Over her shoulders, (y/n) could see two speeders behind them and getting closer by the second. The wagon was already slowing them down enough as it was, but as the bikes got rapidly closer, it became apparent that their speeders had been altered, allowing them to move even faster for occasions such as this. Once they were in firing distance, blaster shots started flying past the escaping pair, nearly hitting.

Maul was now standing in the back of the wagon, red sabers in hand he deflected the blasts as they came towards them. His deflections were flawless, yet the riders exhibited their maneuvering abilities; dodging each bullet that flew back. As they moved out of the way of the returning shots, Maul took the opportunity and turned to warn (y/n), “They're gaining on us! If we don’t do something soon, they may get close enough to crash the speeder!”

(Y/n) looked around the empty lands. There had to be something that could help them. That is when she saw it, off in the distance she could see her farm coming into view. They were almost to safety, she just had to make it there before their new ‘friends’ could catch them. “Hang on!” she called, as she pushed full throttle toward the hut.

The sounds of an overworked engine filled the space around them. With a slight jerk, the speeder gained speed, using all its power to carry their weight and the wagon with it. Despite their increase in speed, the riders managed to still get closer. Maul kept his balance as he continued to block the basters coming at them. “(Y/n), we need to do something fast! It’s too easy for them to overpower us at this rate!”

(Y/n) called back to them between shots, “Can your saber cut though the wagon hitch?” “Of course!” Maul called back. “Good, I need you to get on the back of my bake, and when I tell you, cut the wagon.”

In between the breaks of defecting shots, Maul took a glance towards the front of the speeder. The farm he had come to know was now in view. A few kilometers in front of it, he could see the familiar blinking lights hidden in the grass. (Y/n)’s plan was starting to make sense. Without hesitation he made his way to the speeder.

If Maul were anything like the legendary Jedi she had heard about, she figured that he would have no problem getting from the wagon to the attached speeder at these speeds. What she did not expect was for Maul to do so while still managing to stand. Just as he did in the wagon, he was now balancing on the back seat of the speeder, waving both ends of his saber around as he continued to block blast as they came their way.

There was no time to question how he was capable of any of this. The faint blinking posts were coming close at a rapid speed. (Y/n) knuckles grew lighter over the throttle as every bit of energy the engine could handle was headed right to it. It was only a few meters away when she changed her trajectory. Dropping all speed, she took a hard turn to the left. As the speeder spun around, she now faced the riders, who used to be right behind them, coming at them at full speed.

“Now!” she called. Just as effortless as Maul had cut her cuffs back in the throne room, it only took one sweep to release the wagon from its confines. As (y/n) continued to spin, the velocity sent the wagon flying in off in a distance, away from the chaos. Free from the weight of the wagon, the speeder had almost completed a full spin.

In sync with (y/n)’s unspoken plan, Maul maneuvered himself to a sitting position for what was about to happen next. With full speed, (y/n) now took off to the right, as the riders were almost in grabbing distance from them. Yet at their speed, they were unable to recorrect in time to follow. As their speeders continued to drive forward, the two grads went straight into the mine fields.

The last that would be seen of the riders was a series of explosions that only consumed a small section of the vast planes. Dust and flames filled the area where they had detonated one of the many hidden landmines. Even on hovering speeders, the pressure from the anti-gravity converters was enough to set them off. (Y/n) stopped and turned the bike so they could watch the spectacle. Though Maul was used to this kind of excitement, here on this humble planet, it seemed so out of place. As for (y/n), she was just relieved that her home security came in handy when they needed it.

When the flames died down, (y/n) drove over to the control pad she had used earlier that morning. Stopping the bike, the farmer got off the speeder and hit the switch. Buurrrrr the sound rang around them. Maul took the opportunity to stand up and address the young woman after such an encounter. “Very impressive strategy,” Maul complemented, “these traps really are excellently placed. I can now see how you’ve been able to take on so many…”

(Y/n) was faced away from him, but Maul could sense something was wrong. “(Y/n)?” The young farmer turned towards him; arms wrapped around herself as she was beginning to cry. Maul was shocked. Usually, she was so composed. So cocky. Yet here in this moment she was… vulnerable. Had today been too much for her?

Too much it was indeed. Waves of emotions flowed over (y/n) like an overwhelming sea. She did everything in her power to keep herself together, but after everything that had happened today. Being captured, almost dying, Maul saving her, and now this chase; it became too much to contain as tears began to fall from her face.

She did not want to be seen like this, especially not by Maul. He had already seen her chained to the floor and beaten, and then this? Clenching her eyes shut, she wanted to disappear into the tall grasses. ‘Helpless,’ the words flooded her mind as the dreaded feeling crept in again.

Yet, before the feeling could travel in her any farther, a warm sensation surrounded her. Opening her eyes, black cloth surrounded her as Maul began to hold her in his arms. His body felt slightly awkward, as if he had never given anyone a hug before. However, his arms around her were enough to make her start to cry even more. Barring herself further into the layers of black fabric, she released the feelings that had been overflowing inside.

With everything that had happened, one thing in particular came to mind. Something that, for unknown reasons, (y/n) felt crucial to tell Maul. Between sobs she spoke, “In the market… there was a radio broadcast…” Maul pulled his head back a bit so that he could look at (y/n). Her face was a mess, as her (y/hc) was glued to her face and her (y/ec) eyes shimmered behind tears. “On the station. They said the war was over… that the counselor was declaring an empire…”

Maul’s facial expressions showed how shocked he was by her statement. As much as she wanted to enquiry on his thoughts on the matter, her feelings only continued to come out even more. Crying harder now, she continued, “I don’t know why, but when I heard the news… with everything else happening… it’s supposed to be good news, but all I can feel is fear and dread when…”

(Y/n)’s words became more incoherent as she began to cry more. ‘The force must be very strong with her,’ Maul though, ‘if she was able to see through Sidiou’s plans; even if she did not understand what she was sensing.’ The young farmer was now uncontrollably weeping in his arms. Maul was honestly a little envious at (y/n). He could feel how difficult this was for her, but to openly cry the way she was, took a kind of strength he felt he did not have.

Seeing as she was barely able to hold herself up, Maul picked up the smaller woman and carried her in his arms towards the farm. If she wanted to fight him on the matter, but she was too exhausted to do so. As he continued to carry her, (y/n) tears started to subside as she was starting to fall asleep in his arms. “Rest,” Maul gave the gentle command. The sun was beginning to set in the horizon, revealing the two moons that were now hovering over the farm he walked towards. “Close your eyes for now, for there is so much for you to learn.”

#shooting stars #darth maul #maul #maul x reader #maul x you #darth maul x reader #darth maul x you #darth maul fanfiction

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hauntedziosportrait · 3 years

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The Relativity and Connections between Jamaasian Lore and Mirabai

WARNING! ⚠️ Very religious themes. I apologise if I have any incorrect or outdated information, it's very risky writing about something surrounding a certain religion when in fact.. I'm an atheist.

The lore of Jamaa has always been a really tricky and fairly eerie topic to cover. It has themes from all sorts of different cultures and despite the main tale being retold, changed and edited one thousand times, the information we receive is clear about who the certain deities and characters are and what their roles to play give.

Today, we're looking more on the more eerie side of Animal Jam- The relationship between Mira and Zios. Surprisingly, we know more about our enemies the phantoms than we do the entities we're serving. Alot has been told about Mira, but on the other hand, not much information has been provided about Zios and his identity making him more or less a very suspicious character to take heed of. That's why there are so many theories regarding him specifically; the most we know is that...

●He is the spiritual highest point of the Jamaa heiarchy, having created Mira and setting the stars and planets in motion

●He is often depicted as a bodyless golden mask surrounded by intricate patterns and grooves

●He was the lover of Mira

●He dissappeared at some point in time and never came back.

To jog your memory, I'm going to be basing this theory more on the Old Jamaasian Lore. Interestingly, the lore was changed to make it appealing to a younger audience, but in the old lore we get a stronger sense of emotion and alot more information about the guardian spirits of Jamaa.

Zios is practically a God. He sets several plants, stars and seas in motion. Eventually he gets lonely and gives life to a deity said to be the perfect incarnation of humble beauty; a graceful grey heron named Mira. Mira and Zios get on well together and she often tells him how talented and artistic he is.

Eventually, Zios falls for her, and creates a beautiful land for he and Mira to share; Jamaa- as a sign of his love.

Mira is ecstatic and suggests and creates the idea of giving live to mortal inhabitants to the land- us, the animals. However, Zios gets a little snappy at Mira for that. He meant for this place to share just between the two and for nobody else to interfere.

He then snaps at Mira for creating the Animals and the two fall into a fearsome and emotional argument. Mira's tears then, without her knowing, come into accidental contact with the mortal world. Since she is an omniscient deity, mixing such power with normal life would end in ruin- Thus creating the phantoms.

Here's the catch. Mira and Zios are too wrapped up in their argument to notice the phantoms attacking Jamaa. Since the phantoms were created by Mira, they would only obey her. That is why they are after Zios, to avenge Mira. Also a case why we never see the phantoms target Mira specifically.

Then, they notice the peril Jamaa is in and, still angry at eachother, select the powerful and strong remaining animals in their selective tribes as Alphas to defend.

Shortly after, Zios goes missing. We're told the phantoms took him through the phantom portal never to be seen again. However, there is alot of evidence to suggest he fell victim to the phantoms and gave in to their side, furthermore taking control of the Phantom Empire. That may be why, despite their goal being reached, they continue to harass and attack the alphas, Jamaa, and by extent, Mira.

From then, the Alphas succeed, and all is well. Zios, however, is never heard of again.

Despite their argument, Mira is eternally upset. That is why phantoms keep producing, due to her tears. Since Zios left angry at Mira, it may be an extra that she thinks Zios left hating her.

And... That is what is inferred from the old lore. The new lore consists of less knowledge about Mira and Zios, but more information about the Alphas and of course the animal heartstones.

Now, here is the thing. The tale of Jamaa is very familiar sounding to some people. Zios is often seen as omnipotent and very powerful. He's often seen as similar to several different gods in mythology..

●Zeus, the Greek god of sky and thunder (This one is self explanatory, even their names are similar: however I've seen this one cause a bit of controversy as this is comparing Zios to a technically VERY problematic god.. Also, Mira sounds alot like Hera!)

●Viracocha, the great creator deity in the pre-Inca and Inca mythology in the Andes region of South America. He's mainly mentioned in incan and mesopotamian mythology as the high creator god (and this one shares more similarities than you may think!) They both had lovers, both dissappeared after creating the world, both had similar powers (examples of heliokenesis) and they actually look REALLY similar, most likely Zios' design being based off of Viracocha's golden armor. Viracocha pictured below!

●And the last one... Krishna. An important religious figure in Hinduism and the final reincarnation/eighth avatar of Vishnu.

And that last one is what I'm planning to talk about today!

The perhaps most important part of this theory is Mirabai. Mirabai, often called Meera or Mira, was a 16th-century Hindu mystic poet and devotee of Krishna. She was known for her elegant beauty and poetry, as well as her eternal devotation to Krishna.

Meera pictured below as well as a figure of Krishna in the distance.

Surprsingly, we have our own Mira too. And if we're comparing Zios to Krishna, this relationship makes alot of sense. Meera was in love with Krishna, and Mira was in love with Zios. "In her last years, Meera lived in Dwarka or Vrindavan, where legends state she miraculously disappeared by merging into an idol of Krishna in 1547. While miracles are contested by scholars for the lack of historical evidence, it is widely acknowledged that Meera dedicated her life to Lord Krishna, composing songs of devotion and was one of the most important poet-saint of the Bhakti movement period." That paragraph was taken from Meera's Wikipedia entry, and relates alot to the story of Mira and Zios. Its said that Meera one day miraculously dissappeared just like Zios did and they only things she left behind were her poems, music, and of course, her devotion and husband-like considered relationship between her and Krishna.

Krishna pictured below.

Most of Meera's poems are dedicated to God in the form of Krishna, calling him the Dark One or the Mountain Lifter. "Some Meera songs include Radha, the lover of Krishna, and her jealousy and hatred for them. All her poems have philosophical connotations, mainly centered around Krishna."

The "Dark One" and "Mountain Lifter" terms are certaintly strange. Why would somebody refer to a "Dark One" in such a loving term?

Lets not forget the example of Zios not only representing the light in most cases, but spiritually, representing the dark. There's alot of evidence to actually suggest instead of the common thought that Zios represents the Sun and Mira the Moon, it may actually be the vice versa in a yin yang sort of way. Light and Dark cannot coexist without eachother and Zios and Mira are a great example of that.

I may explain the Zios is the moon thing a different time but you're going to have to roll with me here on this one... Zios is a perfect representation of the dark. Dark gives space and life to the light, but of course light always gives life to the dark.

Also, "Mountain-Bearer"... Not much to say here. Quite literally what Zios did to create Jamaa. "In her poems, Krishna is a yogi and lover, and she herself is a yogini ready to take her place by his side into a spiritual marital bliss. Meera's style combines impassioned mood, defiance, longing, anticipation, joy and ecstasy of union, always centred on Krishna."

Let's take a look at perhaps the most well known poem by Meera... And perhaps the one that relates the most to Jamaasian Lore. I am aware Julian2 has covered this in a video before, but here im going to take a proper analysis.

My Dark One has gone to an alien land. He has left me behind, he's never returned, he's never sent me a single word. So I've stripped off my ornaments, jewels and adornments, cut my hair from my head. And put on holy garments, all on his account, seeking him in all four directions. Mira: unless she meets the Dark One, her Lord, she doesn't even want to live.

— Mira Bai, Translated by John Stratton Hawley

Alot to process here. Let's see what we can compare.

●"My Dark One has gone to an Alien Land"- Zios= Krishna: has gone to the realm of the phantoms/alien land

●"He's left me behind, he's never returned, he's never sent me a single word"- Exactly what Zios did. Never responded to Mira and didn't speak to her again after his dissappearance.

●"So I've stripped off my ornaments, jewels and adornments, cut my hair from my head"- Julian2 suggested this may be about Peck running away but this has been outdated. This could possibly refer to the "jewels and adornments" being the Alpha stones as Mira gives them away.

●"And put on holy garments, all on his account, seeking him in all four directions."- This refers to Mira yet again giving the alphas their Alpha Stones and after that she prepares to go out and find Zios.

●"Meera: unless she meets the Dark One, her Lord, she doesn't even want to live."- Unless Mira doesn't meet her Dark One- in this case, Zios-she doesn't feel the will to live, referencing her sorrow and despair without him.

I'm not sure about you, but I'm very convinced AJHQ may have based their lore on this poem specifically.

There is another poem that can relate to the legend of Jamaa, but there's not much to infer. I'm not going to do a thorough line by line analysis, but hopefully looking back on the analysis I just did you can atleast gather some stuff.

After making me fall for you so hard, where are you going? Until the day I see you, no repose: my life, like a fish washed on shore, flails in agony. For your sake I'll make myself a yogini, I'll hurl myself to death on the saw of Kashi. Mira's Lord is the clever Mountain Lifter, and I am his, a slave to his lotus feet.

"Meera speaks of a personal relationship with Krishna as her lover, lord and mountain lifter. (Sanson Ki Mala Pe Simru Main Pi Ka Naam) is written by Meera Bai Shows her dedication towards Lord Krishna. The characteristic of her poetry is complete surrender." -Quote from Wikipedia

The song of Sanson Ki Mala Pe Simru Main Pi Ka Naam is an interesting one-referring to her "beading the name of her beloved on the garland of my breaths". Interestingly, this song refers to Krishna as a Cuckoo Bird- A little bit of a crack theory, but this may suggest Zios could actually be the same behind that mask of his?

Examples of this bird-referring lyric are this quote from that same song:

"He is a melodious bird

He is a magnificent man

This foolish girl has taken

The beloved’s heart as the Lord"

I will link the full song plus English translation below!

https://www.google.com/amp/s/ekta25.wordpress.com/2011/06/23/sanson-ki-mala-pe-simroon-main-pi-ka-naam-on-the-garland-of-my-breaths-i-have-bejewelled-my-beloveds-name/amp/

Intresting... Perhaps Zios IS some sort of bird!

In conclusion, Mirabai's poetry, devotion and songs have alot of connections to Jamaasian Lore! I find this interesting, but this did help us gather quite a bit of information!

#animal jam tumblr #Animal jam #jamblr #lore #ajpc #ajpw #lore analysis

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dalekofchaos · 3 years

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How I would change Return Of The Jedi

I know what you’re thinking. “Have you lost your fucking mind? The movie is perfect.” Yes, thematically it is. The problem is they brought back the Death Star and Ewoks kill the tone of the trilogy. I view the final battle between the Rebellion and The Empire to be a missed opportunity. So here is how I would change it.

In place of the Death Star II and Endor, this is how I would change things. The Rebels would be staging a Coup D'état on Coruscant. The battle on the ground would now take place in the Imperial City and the area surrounding the Imperial Palace. The dogfights between X-Wings and TIE Fighters would take place in the skies above instead of in space. The confrontation between Luke, Vader and The Emperor would take place in the Imperial Palace in The Emperor's Throne Room.

These changes accomplish twofold. We get to see a new type of planet. One completely covered in cityscape and we get a story involving The Rebellion that isn't a plot of repetition, yet is thematic repetition. Our heroes are charging into a David versus Goliath battle like they did in the finale of A New Hope, will give us that sense of familiarity we need without doing a complete Death Star retread and wouldn't it have been just awesome to see the very heart of the Empire? We never got to see it's capital, only various Star Destroyers and the Death Star. Imagine the production design for a Nazi Germany as dystopian Coruscant with a memorial for those who died when the Death Star was destroyed, as well as extravagant Imperial Propaganda like statues of Palpatine and Darth Vader. Big missed opportunities in my opinion.

Also for the big rescue of Han. It needs act as a natural part of the story. It should open how ESB ended. Our main characters and the remaining Rebels floating out in the galaxy somewhere. We really need to start by catching up with them at the onset of the film instead of almost an hour into it. So The Rebel Alliance is currently debating about how to proceed and fighting The Empire and after realizing the level of their desperation, they decide to lan the coup that I talked about earlier. In enacting this plan, they need to find somebody who can seek them onto Coruscant. To which Luke, Leia, Lando and Chewie, particularly Leia see this as an opportunity to pitch rescuing Han Solo since he is a galaxy famous Smuggler. They wanted to rescue Han for sometime, however the other leaders of the Rebellion view such an operation as a distraction and a unnecessary use of resources that are already scarce. But now here's their chance to save their friend, in which they also be servicing the overall goal of the Rebellion to bring down the Empire, but their pitch is denied. The other Rebel Leaders they can find a great smuggler without having to partake in such a risky rescue mission. Distraught and after some brief contemplation. Our heroes decide to go rescue Han anyway and fly off to Jabba's palace.

The rescue Han act would remain the same but with two slight changes. Instead of Tatooine, Jabba’s palace should be on Nal Hutta. Because it’s the homeworld of The Hutts and we’ve already seen Tatooine and we should see new planets. The other change is prior to leaving for The Falcon. Our heroes would be stopped by Boba Fett.

Han Solo has a debt to pay to Fett. This isn’t about the bounty anymore. This is personal. Fett would reveal that the famous tale of Han Solo dropping a cargo at the sight of an Imperial Star Destroyer, Boba would say they worked that job together and Han left him for dead. And ever since then, Boba has had it out for Solo. Of course, the Imperials did not survive, hence Vader’s “NO DISINTIGRATIONS!” Command in ESB.

So Han and Boba must duel to death on Nal Hutta. Boba basically giving the vibe that Boba will always be there to find Han and his friends. And give Boba's classic line to Han, "You can run, but you'll only die tired" So this is something Han has to do himself. This is an old Western styled duel. Since Lucas was a fan of these western movies, I can see this being how Han and Boba settles things. Han and Boba fighting to the bitter death and to an old spaghetti western styled duel. As the fight between Boba reaches his end, as Han gets the drop on him and has Boba at his mercy, Han chooses not to kill Boba. Han and Boba Fett finally bury their rivalry and leave it in the past and shake hands. Boba would declare that Han’s bounty will no longer exists and he won’t chased by him and exits the story. This would work because it would show that Han has grown from the rogue who would shot a man dead without question in ANH to someone who is willing to find an alternate solution to his problems. It’d also give some layers to Boba Fett of being a man of honor.

The last big change is in regards to Luke’s character. I mean the Luke we got in George’s version was great, but definitely could've been better right away at the start of the film. Luke appears to have already gone through the bulk of his character arc, suddenly he's gotten this huge boost in confidence and wisdom within only the supposed six months that occurs between ESB and ROTJ. When we last saw him, he had endured a terrible defeat. So how did that character growth happen? That's something we as the audience would want to have seen in this hypothetical version. Luke could be quite despondent since his duel with Vader. Specifically tormented over or not the whole "I am your father" reveal was true. This would without a doubt make him feel uncertain and question if he were indeed worthy of being a Jedi Knight. So that's what we would craft the story of the film around. Luke placed in situations which he has to overcome his uncertainties and learn what it does in fact take to be a worthy Jedi. One example could be Luke is initially unable to bring himself to keep his promises to Yoda that he had returned to complete his training due to the shame he feels for laving left his training in the first place to fight a battle Yoda warned and he'd lose, which he then did end up losing and quite badly. Now Luke must learn to swallow his pride and humble himself before his master as a worthy Jedi. It takes ownerships of their failures. By including beats such as that and many others like it, we would be presented with the Luke Skywalker that has the potential for a much more emotional depth and much more defined character arc, of course said arc would also mirrored in what I believe is a neat alteration to Return Of The Jedi. Which takes a page from The Godfather Part II and parallel the story of the son with that of the father. In this scenario there would be no need for the prequels to exist. We would instead have Anakin's fall to the dark side be portrayed in flashbacks. These flashbacks would run alongside the beats of Luke's arc in Return Of The Jedi. Sebastian Shaw would play Anakin. These flashbacks won't be included into the movie just for the sake of telling Vader's backstory, they would be included in order to add a huge layer of tension to Luke's character as with each flashback, we'd see the eerie similarities between Luke's and Anakin's journeys. From small things like their planet of origin and the older age in which they began their Jedi training, to the bigger things suck as their lack of control over their emotions and a shared internal struggle with their own self-worth. We would also see Anakin’s love for his mother and brother Owen(also Owen’s irritation that he left) and his love for Luke’s mother Padme. Anakin and Obi-Wan’s friendship and see Sebastian and Alec together as Anakin and Obi-Wan. As for the fall of the Jedi and ANakin’s fall to the dark side. The fall of The Jedi would be more like George Lucas’ original plan “Anakin has been going off doing his Jedi thing and a lot of Jedi have been getting killed—and it’s because they turn their back on him and he cuts them down” and we see a younger Chancellor Palpatine giving the order as he rises to become Emperor. I think with this change we're left with a much stronger edge of the seat scenario in which the audience believes Luke could indeed fall to the dark side in the end. A Final note on these flashbacks. They'd more than likely appear as a vision in Luke's mind, this would create a cleaner editing between the past and present as well as allow Luke to actually see his father's history and in turn give him more of a reason to believe it's possible for Vader to become Anakin again.

#Star Wars #Star Wars Episode VI Return Of The Jedi #Luke Skywalker #Leia Organa #Han Solo #Darth Vader #Emperor Sheev Palpatine #Lando Calrissian #Boba Fett #Anakin Skywalker

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dibleopard-writes · 6 years

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Iron, Steel, and Tin - Chapter One

Fandom: Iron Man/Doctor Who

Pairings: None

Word count: 1706

Content Warnings: Referenced Suicide (Spoilers for Waters of Mars)

A/N: I’ve recently started watching the films of the MCU and I had this little idea that snowballed in my head until I began to write it down. This is set after Iron Man 3 (for Tony Stark) and Waters of Mars (for the Doctor). Let me know if I need to add more warnings

Summary: After his disastrous (or so he would call it) visit to Mars, the Doctor is at a loose end and completely, painfully alone. It turns out that investigating a Torchwood facility with nothing to lose is not a good idea because now the Doctor is standing beneath the Statue of Liberty, dazed, and staring at a skyline that seems subtly unfamiliar.

After his revelatory run-in with demons of his own creation (or so he would claim), Tony Stark is at a loose end and ready for it to weave into a new beginning, starting with removing the shrapnel from his chest. A day's hesitance is all it takes for the world to catch back up to him and soon heart surgery is the least of Iron Man's issues.

Or, an army of ghosts appear around the globe and Tony Stark meets a man who knows what they are.

Chapter 1

Also available on Ao3.

Chapter 1: Rust and Roses

And there's no one to stop you.

No.

The words still bounced around his head, their measured fury seemed so burning now, although Adelaide’s voice had been as cold as the snow she stood in. He hadn't seen it until the bright flash lit up the window and the wavering timelines slotted into place. Captain Adelaide Brooke died on Earth, not Mars as she should have, and the world would see the gun lying beside her as proof of her suicide. No one would know that he had forced her hand in his power-hungry craze.

Some Doctor he was.

The Time Lord Victorious’ reign had ended as soon as it began, and now the Doctor felt empty. The slow pulses of the time rotors soothed him as the TARDIS orbited slowly above an earlier, more familiar Earth. 2013, she informed him gently. He was still reeling. How could so much have happened in such a small amount of time?

The flames and the noise of Bowie Base One collapsing around his raged words were still fresh in his memory, terrifying. And yet somehow the calm little Georgian road haunted him the most. He had gone too far. His actions may have saved people -- ‘little people’ -- but they had crashed through the boundaries he had never considered crossing. Maybe he did need someone else to travel with, to keep him from stepping over the line that was nearer than he had first thought. But that would be selfish. He was a magnet for trouble. Who knew what would happen to a new companion? Not all of them could be as lucky as Martha and walk out undamaged. What if they end up like Donna? Or-

The TARDIS jolted, throwing him off his feet.

“What was that?” the Doctor asked, indignant at losing his grace, albeit alone. He got up and swung the console monitor around to face him, trying to push the creeping sadness of solitude away from his mind. The screen showed a map of Greater London and a bright spot radiating from a small industrial area.

“High energy readings. Space-time disturbance. Something pretty big, by the looks of th-” He caught himself. There was no one to explain the screen’s readings to. Not any more.

He zoomed in on the map and a box popped up in swirling Gallifreyan to inform him that the readings had come from a Torchwood facility and that it was one of the few that still ran as Torchwood had before Canary Wharf. An old rage reignited and he tried to pat it down. It was out of duty, not personal issues, that the Doctor plotted the coordinates. It was his duty to the world, protecting it from fractures in space-time, and definitely, definitely not the ghost of someone who hadn't died that moved his hands around the console as the TARDIS materialised outside a complex of warehouses.

The Doctor stepped out. All was quiet, even the roads were free of traffic. He crossed the cracked concrete and shattered the padlock on a nearby door. Checking that nobody could see him, he moved into the building and stopped to inspect the surroundings. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. Light filtered through translucent panels in the roof in a mossy green hue tinted with decaying yellow. Yet for all the signs of dilapidation, the contents of the warehouse was well maintained. Large storage containers were stacked around the room and the floor was littered with boxes of alien debris. Small purple gems glowed beside one box, obviously alien but somehow unfamiliar to his expert eye. The sonic screwdriver told him that the energy readings had originated from the centre of the warehouse, past the labyrinth of containers.

As he picked his way towards the epicentre, the Doctor noted the silence. It was complete and eerie in a place that should be crawling with armed security. Many times he had investigated this kind of building and very rarely did one as active as this turn out to be empty of people. Usually, firearms would be pointing at him before he reached the door. Nevertheless, he continued; he had nothing to lose.

The sonic’s whirring crescendoed in the middle of a circle of technology. Desks with monitors and wires surrounded him. More alien pellets littered the floor and tables and some were hooked up to strange mirror-like devices that stood facing the centre.

He moved up to a computer and turned on the monitor. It flicked on immediately and a number of files occupied the screen. Whoever it was that had used this last had been in a hurry to leave. The Doctor skimmed through the information. The words ‘Project Indigo’, ‘dimension cannon’, and ‘reverse engineering’ jumped out from the reams of technobabble. It rubbed him the wrong way to see them written out in a Torchwood document.

A clatter of footsteps rang out and he looked up to see the security that had been missing emerging from behind containers. Their rifles clicked menacingly and he stepped back into the centre of the room, arms raised in surrender. No leader was among them but they seemed to be waiting for a command.

“Doctor,” said a large voice that echoed around the warehouse, “such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The Doctor looked at a nearby camera perched on a storage container, “I'm sure it would be if you were actually here.”

The voice, irritatingly inoffensive and yet skin-crawlingly ominous, laughed over the speaker system, “Oh, you've got me there. Unfortunately, I cannot greet you in person as we are running some rather dangerous tests at the minute and, unlike you, I would prefer to stay out of harm’s way.”

“You need to stop. I've seen this kind of thing before; you're putting the whole universe in danger-”

“That's where you're wrong, Doctor. We've taken every step to ensure the world's safety. Our technology is designed from the best materials and soundest science we have. I assure you, Canary Wharf is in the past; we've moved on since then. We've improved.”

“No, you haven't, I've seen the energy re-”

“Doctor, Doctor. So wound up. Perhaps you need some space. Oh! What a coincidence: we have the perfect tool for the job.”

People in lab coats came forward and began typing. The Doctor tried to move out of the circle but was pushed back by the security guards. His mind was spinning and for a second he could hear Rose’s screams over the wind that was somehow picking up. A countdown began.

“No, stop this! You can't see what you're doing!”

“Nice seeing you, Doctor. Shame you couldn't stay.”

“...Three, two, one-”

“Wait-”

---

For a moment he could see nothing

And everything.

---

His retinas still bore the light of that moment like a brand when he woke. Rust-red stained the vision of his still closed eyes but he took no notice, too busy feeling a barrage of time hit his brain like the floodgates of a mighty river had opened and left him to the water’s mercy. Water was merciless, he knew that now, and so was time. Usually, he could see the glittering strands of timelines weaving and separating and interconnecting in a universal spiderweb, always familiar, always beautiful. Now, however, the silken threads had been washed out of sight by something new. He existed, at its mercy, for unquantifiable moments until the flood abated and the roaring waves became a gentle babble. Riverlets stretched before him and he knew they were time. They were wrong -- horrifically wrong -- but they were the timelines of a hundred trillion people in a hundred trillion places and he was a Time Lord. They were his reason for being. How could he have ever thought that the rules of time would obey him?

In the near-silence that his mind now afforded him, the Doctor became aware of his surroundings. Of the breeze -- salty, frying oil and fossil fuels -- of the grass underneath him -- recently cut and well-kept -- and of the sounds of people, distant traffic, and non-temporal water.

He opened his eyes and looked to the sky. It was blue and cloudless, partially obscured by a familiar silhouetted structure. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he blinked away the ghosting lights and saw a city skyline stretch out in front of him.

New York.

The Empire State Building rose confident and complete, wiping a good century or two from the list of possible dates it could be. The absence of twin skyscrapers narrowed it down further. He searched the skyline for further clues but found only a niggling sense of unfamiliarity. He looked up, and the Statue of Liberty, standing tall in her green glory, loomed above him. Deja vu overcame him and he had to look back to the city to remind himself that it wasn't 1930 and that the Daleks were far, far away.

But something was off. The niggling feeling grew into a more specific confusion. New York City’s iconic skyline had been altered somehow. In his frazzled state, it took him a minute to place it. There was a new building near the Empire State, oddly shaped and bearing a glowing blue logo.

But that wasn't the only difference. Looking now, familiar buildings bore unfamiliar neon signs. Had time been tampered with? Was this like the one-hundred-year setback of Satellite 5, changing technologies and attitudes? Surely not. But the only other explanation was-

The Doctor moved to lean against the pale wall of the Statue’s base as a wave of panicked dizziness overcame him.

This was wrong. Time was wrong. New York City was wrong.

Helplessly, his mind reached out to the TARDIS, hoping to grasp her familiar presence past the liquid time, but she was nowhere to be found. He fumbled around, tripping over timelines in an effort to locate her. Fruitless. The only friendly face he had left was gone. He pulled away from the space she should have been and buried his head in his knees. It was too much. This was all too much. He sat there, despairing, and let time wash past him in an unstoppable current until he couldn't tell the difference between minutes and millennia.

Tag List: N/A, let me know if you would like to be added.

#fanfiction #fanfic #iron man #doctor who #mcu #tenth doctor #crossover #tony stark #leo's lit

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roman-reigns-princess · 7 years

Text

The Pack Survives (Roman Reigns): Chapter 1

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Writing Masterlist

Summary: Andromeda has spent years overseas trying to outrun her past. She finally decides to come back to Florida to try and settle down in the house her grandmother left her. She meets Leati and feels instantly drawn to him; but there's something he's not telling her, a secret he's hiding. A secret that may cost Andromeda her life if she can't accept it.

Warnings (for the fic over all, not specifically this chapter): cis-female OC, 18+, mentions/flashbacks of previous physical and/or mental abuse, smut at some point, werewolves. I will be switching between their wrestling names & their actual names in this fanfic, im sorry if it gets confusing (I’ll make sure to mention who’s who below so yall dont get the twins mixed up lol)

Andromeda Drakos (OFC) Face Claim: Naomi Scott

Word Count: 2019

A/N: Did I really steal the title from that Game of Thrones quote? Yes I did lmao, dont @ me. I don’t really know where I’m going w this fic, I’ve had about 3 chapters written since may, so we’ll see where it goes lol. I love my werewolf shit, but I also love my Hellenic/Greek stuff so it might get confusing im sorry. Also idk why it wont let me tag some of yall, dont hate me.

Tag List: @savmontreal @vivalavonvon @hardykat @racingandreigns @inkedirishbbydoll-blog-blog @fivefootxo @lovetusk @captainrogersbucky @imamoxbrose24 @kamdog0014 @empress-with-the-crown @sabrina-blyton @littledeadrottinghood @vanity1385 @wweburnitdown @maahsrandom @glowrioustrash @roman-reigns-empire-1996

Roman = Leati Jimmy = Jon Jey = Josh

Andromeda’s house:

Andromeda huffed as she hauled box after box into her new home; a large house in Tampa left to her by her grandmother when she passed. Meda was beginning to wish she'd just sent all of her stuff with the moving trucks that would arrive in a day or so, but she needed stuff for that day itself.

As she walked back out to get the third box from the back of her truck she spotted two men standing by it. A smile stretched across her face as she recognized them.

"Jon! Josh!" she exclaimed as she jogged back down the driveway. She'd known the twins for most of her life. Despite the age difference and the fact that she barely saw them more than once or twice a year as a kid, they'd become good friends and she'd grown to trust them. The last time she'd seen them was at her grandmother's funeral nearly seven years ago.

"Good seein you again, Meda," greeted Jon as he pulled her into a hug. "It's been too long."

"You all grown up now," smirked Josh, eyeing her as he hugged her in turn. She laughed and shoved him with her shoulder, though he didn't really move at all. "Need a hand with your stuff?"

"Yeah I'd appreciate it," she replied with a smile as they started grabbing several boxes each. "Be careful though, I've got a bunch of expensive camera equipment in some of them."

"Yes ma'am," teased Jon, she stuck her tongue out at him and grabbed another box, leading them up the driveway.

"You can leave 'em anywhere," she said, gesturing around the house.

All it took was one more trip, as the boys managed to carry most of the boxes between them. She was about to say something to them when Jon yelped, nearly jumping out of his skin.

Andromeda's cat Enyo had startled him by winding around his legs; Josh tried and failed to hide his chuckles while Jon grumbled under his breath. She bent down and picked the cat up.

"Sorry that's Enyo, she's a very friendly cat," she said, trying to hide her own smile. "I'd offer you guys drinks, but I just got here."

"'S alright. We'd love to stay and catch up , but we actually gotta get goin now," said Josh sharing a look with Jon that she couldn't decipher. "However, if you're free tonight around 8, we usually have a couple drinks with a few friends at Boomer's. Give you a chance to meet new people."

"Yeah sure I'd love to," she replied as she walked them to the door. "I'll see you guys later."

Roman's POV:

Roman paced back and forth in front of the large oak desk; he'd already sent a message through the pack bond to his cousins to get their asses back. The patrols had just reported four sets of foreign tracks.

If he had to take a guess he'd probably say they were rogues, which he could easily take on himself, but he couldn't be completely sure without engaging them, and he wasn't about to leave the pack mansion unprotected.

Roman came to a stop when the twins barged in; he had half a mind to chew them out for taking so long. But his thought process was halted by a new scent. It was coming from his two cousins standing before him, but it belonged to neither one of them; it was new, and intoxicating, and Roman knew he had to find the owner before his wolf drove him insane.

"Who were you with?" He growled, his eyes flashing grey for a moment as he unintentionally let his power seep into his demand. The two brothers exchanged a panicked glance, wondering if they'd done something wrong. "You didn't do anything, just tell me who's scent is all over the two of you."

"Oh, that would probably be Andromeda, she's Sophia's granddaughter, she moved in today," explained Jimmy, Roman barely waited for him to finish before marching out of the room. "Yo, uce, what the fuck's going on?"

"I'll explain later, just stay with the pack," Roman ordered as he walked out of the house and into the woods, leaving the twins staring after him in confusion. Quickly shedding his clothes at a familiar tree, he shifted into his wolf form.

Find her, find her, find her, findherfindherfindher

He sprinted through the trees, heading down the familiar path to the Drakos house. Her scent grew more and more enticing as he neared the house. She smelled like honey, and lime, and roses; soothing and invigorating at the same time.

The trees gave way to the backyard, and he silently walked up to the backdoor. The house was silent but he knew she was in there, he could sense her, and he wondered if she could feel his presence too. Her scent seemed human enough, but there was something about it that made him wonder if there was more to it.

Still driven by his wolf, he shifted back to his human form to yank the door open, but now that he was back in his human form, he managed to stop himself before he went any further; he took a deep breath, trying to shake himself out of the trance.

Showing up naked probably isn't the best way to meet her even if she is my mate, he argued with himself. Besides, he was supposed to be dealing with the invaders.

His ears pricked up as he heard distant howls that he knew didn't come from any of his pack members. Shifting once more, he took off into the woods, trying to clear his head as he set out to hunt down the rogues.

Andromeda's POV:

Meda shut the front door and set Enyo down as she walked over to the boxes. She grumbled at herself for not labeling them, she had to open more than a couple before she found some clothes, towels, and Enyo's cat stuff. She set up the litter box, food, and water by the kitchen before dragging the box of clothes upstairs to the masterbedroom on the second floor.

After spending half an hour digging through her clothes, she threw together a pair of dark green jeans, a black tank top, and a mismatched set of underwear for that evening.

She made her way to the conjoined bathroom to draw herself a relaxing bath. She groaned softly as she leaned back in the tub, her hand absentmindedly reaching up to rub an old scar on her shoulder. The bath proved to be too relaxing, and very soon she found herself asleep and dreaming.

It was a full moon and Andromeda was in the middle of a clearing in a forest, crouching low behind a fallen log. She was scanning the trees with weary eyes when they settled on a dark figure on the edge of the clearing right beneath the moon.

The world stilled around her as it moved into the moonlight, revealing a giant black wolf. She knew she should've been scared as it approached her, but instead she felt an eerie calm she'd ever felt before as it came to a stop right in front of her.

She held a hand out for him to sniff as she looked into his intelligent grey eyes. She flinched a little when his tongue flicked out to lick her fingers. She slowly reached further to run her fingers through his fur when-

Andromeda was abruptly pulled out of the dream by a throbbing pain in her right shoulder; she'd come to learn that the mark on her shoulder blade only hurt when something was bad was happening or going to happen.

She quickly got out of the tub, letting it drain as she rinsed and dried herself off. She pulled her clothes on in a hurry and padded downstairs. Andromeda looked outside to see that the sun had set, a chill settling in her bones; Enyo loved wandering in the dark. What if she'd left a door open and her cat had run out?

"Enyo," she called out, checking the kitchen first of all, but she wasn't there. "Come here, Enyo!"

Nothing.

Meda continued to call for the cat as she searched the house; the front door was shut, but that did nothing to calm her nerves. She became more and more frantic, searching under couches and behind cabinets. She finally made her way to the back and her heart nearly stopped beating. The back door was open, she had no idea how, and the back yard was directly connected to the woods behind the house.

Not thinking clearly, she ran out of the house, into the woods, barefoot calling for Enyo. She nearly sobbed with relief when she heard a faint meow coming from the depths of the woods; not wanting to let Enyo wander further away, she ventured on without any light, playing a weird game of Marco Polo in the dark with her cat.

Something brushed against her leg, making her screech before she realized it was Enyo. She scooped up the cat, who proceeded to rub her face against Andromeda's neck, purring. Despite finding her safe and sound, Meda was still on edge, something didn't feel right.

She froze when she heard a twig snap behind her, and Enyo hissed at something over her shoulder. Very slowly she turned her head, holding her breath, hoping that she was just being paranoid. Her fears were not unfounded as several vicious growls sounded before she could even turn her head half way.

Gripping the cat tightly, she bolted in the opposite direction, further into the woods. She, somehow, managed not to trip in the dark as the adrenaline heightened her senses. She ran till the trees finally broke to reveal a small clearing.

She forced herself to halt in the middle as she saw two wolves at the other end; albeit rather mangy wolves, but they were as tall as her waist, and their fangs sharp enough to tear her to bits.

She turned around and confirmed her suspicions when she saw two other wolves behind her. As she stood panting in the middle, her mind raced, trying to get her out of this situation.

Duck down.

She whipped her head around, thinking that someone else was in the clearing with her before she realized she'd heard that voice in her head. She was trying to figure out what to make of it when she heard it again.

Duck, NOW.

She automatically obeyed, dropping to the ground behind a log, curling her body around her cat just as two of the wolves pounced towards her. She shut her eyes, waiting to feel their claws and fangs pierce her skin but there was nothing except the cool evening air and a lot of growling. Instead it sounded like a fight was ensuing; she dared to sit up and peer over the log.

The four wolves seemed to be fighting a giant black mass. It was mesmerizing to watch as it threw one wolf half way across the clearing, into a tree; the wolf howled and yelped as it fell to the ground.

She heard the sickening crack of bones as another wolf had one of its legs snapped. Soon the black mass was chasing them back into the woods until the howls became fainter and fainter.

She gulped, shivering with adrenaline rather than cold as she looked around, making sure nothing else was there. She looked up into the sky and her breath hitched, a feeling of deja vu slamming into her as she saw a full moon. This was almost exactly like her dream except Enyo was squirming in her hands. Deciding it was safe enough, she set the cat down on the log she was still kneeling behind.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood as she could feel herself being watched; her eyes instinctively went to the woods below the moon, and sure enough there was the giant black wolf standing there.

#roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fic #fic #my writing #my post #wwe fanfiction #wwe fanfic #roman reigns werewolf

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sage-nebula · 7 years

Note

I was wondering if you have any thoughts/feelings/theories about Keith from Voltron? I've been reading a few theories on him and his mother and other family members. Do you think there are female galra? Or that Keith and Lotor might be related? Why would Keith's mother leave him but not be with the blade of Marmora? Do you think Keith will have a galra form/power of some kind? I always love to know your thoughts.

Sorry for the late reply! I’ve been busy the past few days, haha. I’ll take these one by one.

“I was wondering if you have any thoughts/feelings/theories about Keith from Voltron?”

Yes.

“Do you think there are female galra?”

Yes, and I think the fact that it was believed (by Allura et al) that Haggar was Galran this entire time supports that theory. I mean, I guess perhaps they thought “the druids” were another alien race, but to my knowledge we don’t have confirmation of that. To my knowledge, it was believed that Haggar was Galran, and that being a “druid” was simply a point to her powers / status / abilities. Allura wouldn’t believe that Haggar was a Galran if it was impossible to have female Galra. So to that end, female Galra do (understandably) exist, and the only reason why we haven’t seen them yet is because pretty much everyone in 80s Voltron was male (to the point where the VLD writers made Pidge female just to put another lady in the cast), and we haven’t had new female Galra introduced yet for whatever reason.

“Or that Keith and Lotor might be related?”

Doubtful. Not only were they not related in any of the previous iterations (though Keith wasn’t Galran there, but still), but I don’t think there’s really anything to be gained by having them be related here. This doesn’t mean that Keith can’t have a Zarkon-supporting mother, of course, but I think that when it comes to Lotor specifically they can still have a very interesting relationship without having them be long lost brothers or something. That said, I would love for Lotor to be a bit like Dagur from the Dreamworks Dragons television series, in the sense that Dagur was always calling Hiccup “brother” and was obsessed with teaming up with / defeating him for the majority of his time on the show. Having Lotor treat Keith similarly purely because Keith is part Galra / a worthy adversary would be fun.

“Why would Keith’s mother leave him but not be with the Blade of Marmora?”

People are complicated (and Galra are people), so there could be a myriad of reasons, and I have a lot of different thoughts on the possible identity of Keith’s mother. A few theories:

She was a member of the Blade of Marmora, and also potentially the original pilot of the Blue Lion (though I prefer to think she was the original pilot of the Red Lion for a few reasons), but she was killed after Keith was sent to Earth. Therefore, while she had the knife and was able to put it in Keith’s possession, she wasn’t alive to explain what it meant.

She was a member of the Blade of Marmora / Paladin of Voltron, but while she wasn’t killed, she had to go into hiding. Keith was sent to Earth (with his father?) while she fucked off to who knows where in order to do … whatever it was she was doing. (Some have speculated that perhaps she was the Galra that Keith saved in the Weblum, so maybe she was trapped there for god knows how long? It’s possible.)

She was a Paladin of Voltron, and specifically the pilot of the Red Lion. When Zarkon betrayed Alfor and defected from the Paladins, she pretended to defect with him in order to be a double agent and help the Altean Kingdom fight back against the Galran Empire. In the midst of this she met and fell in love with (or at least had sex with) a human—Keith’s father—and had Keith. Not wanting Keith to be in danger, she sent him (and his father?) to Earth where he would be away from Zarkon, the Empire, the war, and therefore safe. It’s possible that she intended to go back for him someday. However, when she went back to Zarkon’s ship with the Red Lion in order to continue acting as a double agent, the fact that she was not sincerely following Zarkon was discovered (potentially by Haggar?) and she was put to death for treason. Thus, Zarkon came in possession of the Red Lion, the Red Lion was traumatized over her previous pilot dying (hence her protective behavior over Keith), and Keith’s mother is dead. (This would also explain the Blade of Marmora’s knife: If she was acting as a double agent, then it would make sense for her to also be one of the Blades, much like Thace later on.)

Alternatively, most of the above is true, except that Keith’s mother was legitimately loyal to Zarkon, and may or may not still be alive. She still wanted her son to be safe and as such she still sent him to Earth, but despite her motherly love for Keith, she still believes in Zarkon’s ideals and acts as a loyal soldier for him. Why she stopped piloting the Red Lion then is unknown (perhaps Zarkon doesn’t fully trust her?), but if this is the case and she is both alive and loyal to Zarkon, it means that there is room for conflict between her and Keith later on down the road, which could be hella interesting. (It would also make her similar to Visser One from Animorphs, given how Visser One loved her original children and then later developed a sort of affection for Marco thanks to Eva, so there’s that as well.)

I’m personally most fond of theories 3 or 4, but 4 will only be worth it if we actually see her and see the emotional conflict that comes about as a result of Keith having to reject / fight his mother because he can’t allow the universe to be destroyed, even if it means going up against his own mother—whom he has always had questions about and has longed for—in battle. (As well as the reactions of the rest of the Paladins + Allura when they discover that Keith’s mother is a willing agent of Zarkon … but that Keith himself is willing to do battle against her anyway, even though he’s obviously emotionally wrecked by this.) But I’d be happy with theory three as well.

“Do you think Keith will have a galra form/power of some kind?”

Hahaha …

Okay, so as a disclaimer: I’m not trying to stop anyone from having fun, or discourage fanworks of any kind. I think it’s great when people can be creative and I fully encourage people to creatively engage with this show however they choose. Just because I don’t personally enjoy something doesn’t mean others have to stop making it. As Steven Yeun said, “you do you.” If creating this kind of content makes you happy, then by all means, do it.

However …

As far as personal taste goes, I really, really dislike all of the “Galra Form!Keith” things I see around on tumblr. Things where he, for absolutely no explicable reason, despite being 100% human in appearance for his entire life, suddenly has purple fur and Galra ears and a tail. It doesn’t make sense. It makes no sense. It would be like if Tobias (from Animorphs) had suddenly sprouted Andalite features because his father was Elfangor. That’s just not how biology works, bruh. He’s not going to spontaneously mutate into a Galra because he discovered he has some Galra heritage. Keith looks human. Keith, for the most part, acts human except for a few odd quirks that appear in only very select circumstances, potentially because of experiments done by Haggar (more on that in a second). There’s absolutely no reason for him to magically gain a Galran form, and so on a logical level I reject it because I don’t see how it could plausibly fit into the established canon of the show.

I also tend to reject it because I sometimes find that it has some … unfortunate implications behind it, perhaps. Like, not to start Discourse™ (so please don’t start Discourse™), but in my experience this fandom already has a history of racial erasure when it comes to the Asian characters (Keith and Shiro), insisting that they’re white (yes, even in Takashi Shirogane’s case), or saying that they’re “white-passing”, or what have you. So to take one of the Asian characters (and yes, I’m insisting on this, since he was Asian in literally every other iteration even when other characters weren’t and so the staff will be white-washing him if they remove that) and insisting that he has to be the one to suddenly look like a Galra, feels … off, to me. It especially feels off since it’s usually done as a form of objectification / fetishization for shipping purposes, to make him “more interesting”, or to give another character reason to fawn over him while he’s uncharacteristically vulnerable or some such. I feel like I’m not explaining this very well, but most often I see these kinds of fanworks not because it would make any sort of logical sense or because it would do something interesting for Keith’s character, but rather in order to fuel some sort of fetishization / objectification while simultaneously removing one of the Asian characters from the cast (or rather, race-bending him so he’s not Asian anymore, he’s just an alien). It bothers me and I’m not a fan. (And again, I’m not saying that’s everyone’s motivation, but sometimes unfortunate implications can be there even if someone doesn’t intend for them to be. It’s something to think about.)

So to that end, no, I don’t think Keith will have a “Galran form”. The most I think that could happen (that I think would be neat to see) is that perhaps his eyes get a lot brighter, nearly to the point of glowing, when he gets very emotional (not necessarily just furious, but true fury could potentially trigger it). I don’t mean that he’d lose his irises, mind you, but you know how Danny’s eyes glow in ghost form in Danny Phantom when he gets furious? Something like that. His eyes are already a neat purplish-gray color, so I think that it would be cool to see something similar with Keith, where they look even brighter and more eerie when he’s being pushed to an emotional limit.

Other than that, I think the way that Keith’s biology is affected by his Galra DNA is more subtle. Quintessence obviously affects him when he’s hit with it, but that could be more of a result of the quintessence itself (+ whatever the Empire / Haggar did to it) than his Galra DNA. I also think that he heals quickly as a result of his Galra heritage, and I headcanon that he basically never got sick on Earth as a result of his Galra heritage, but that the few times he did get sick, he got very sick—like, “needs to be rushed to the emergency wing” sick. One time he didn’t show up for a training session and Shiro went to check on him at his room in the Garrison, only to find him curled up on the floor after vomiting blood. It was bad. Keith recovered, but it was bad. Thanks for that, Galra DNA.

So yeah, I think he has things like that as a result of his heritage, but he’s not going to spontaneously turn into a Galra one day because of it. People are free to do what they like, I don’t want to harsh anyone’s fun, but I’m just not personally a fan of mutating him into a Galra (physically). It’s not my thing.

#a blade of storm and fire #starlightprincess17

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imaginethatawriter · 7 years

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Rebel Barber (CassianxReader) Part 4

A/N: I will no longer be tagging people in fics. I’m sorry for the long wait, but I hopefully have a better grasp on school this semester. Plus it’s my final semester of high school so does it even matter.

M78 wakes you up four hours early. This is the first time the droid has walked into your personal living quarters and it’s the first time that you’ve seen the droid active before you were. Instead of speaking he shows you a small holorecorder held between his fingers. You pluck the holorecorder from M78’s claws but before you can click the button to begin the recording M78 leaves your quarters. You sit in the silent darkness for some seconds trying to rationalize what was happening. At this point it was hard to remember exactly how you were woken up.

With the holorecorder still in hand, you throw the blankets off your lap and step to the desk set into the wall next to your bed. You click the holorecorder and a gentle blue light blankets the room. Mon Mothma’s empowering figure materializes out of the blue static.

“Dr. (L/N) I’d like to apologize for the sudden intrusion, but this is of the utmost importance. There is a mission leaving in only a few hours and I’d like you to be on it. I won’t force this upon you as I know you are attached to your current job, but I urge you to at least come to the intelligence room. I can further explain the details of the mission there.”

The message fizzles out and the blue glow slowly fades until the room is once more filled only with darkness. There are no words to describe the confusion rattling in your mind. Most of your confusion comes from the fact that you were in deep sleep only minutes ago, but another part of it, the most important part of it, is wondering why Mon Mothma asked for you. You’re the last person they would want for a mission. Despite the confusion you decided to go. At least then you might understand why she asked specifically for you. You pull on the wrinkled pair of pants you wore yesterday along with a starched shirt that’s already halfway off its hanger.

The door to your room slides open and the medbay beyond is just as dark as the sky outside. M78 is back in his corner, powered down as you would expect. You almost convince yourself that he was never in your room. This wasn’t the first time you roamed the base at night, but this night felt more eerie that those nights. Maybe it was because you weren’t rushing to some injured soldier’s side or maybe it was because this new mission was looming over your shoulder.

The only things you see on your walk are droids. The machines dutifully carry out the jobs no one else wants to do even through the night. None of them address you as you pass. Doors that are normally open during the day are locked now and it’s not until you get to the intel room that you see a light that isn’t for emergencies.

The intelligence room that also serves as the rebel’s meeting room is dimly lit by a group of lights set into the center of a hologram table. Opposite you stands Mon Mothma. Even before light appeared on the horizon the rebel leader appeared ready to face down the Empire. There is only one other person in the room besides you and Mon Mothma, but you don’t notice him until you are standing at the hologram table. Cassian leans against one of the green solar maps with his arms crossed and a deep scowl on his face. Your eyes connect for a brief second and you get the feeling that you are the cause of his scowl.

You tear your eyes away from him and instead gaze across the table at Mon Mothma. “You called for me,” You say simply, ignoring the dark glare coming from the corner.

“I did. And I’m glad you came. (Y/N), have you heard of a planet called Kaitera?”

You aren’t a well-traveled person so the name brings nothing to memory. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“It is an interesting place, but it’s history is riddled with conflict and misery. This planet is the only place that the Kaitera Tree grows.” Mon Mothma takes a pause to look for any sense of understanding on your face. The only thing you can give her is a confused look. “The Kaitera Tree never stops growing. It will continue to spread until there are no more resources or it is completely destroyed. Unfortunately, there are only a few Kaitera trees left and those trees are fought over as if it could make people live forever. And maybe that’s true. But I’ll get to the reason I woke you up before the light has touched the trees. The Empire has established a heavily guarded base at beside one of these trees and they’re building more camps at other trees. We don’t know why they are interested in this planet or why the trees may be useful to them, but we know that the people are suffering under their control.”

The hologram table lights up and an image of a towering fortress surrounding a tree appears.

“That’s one big tree.” You comment under your breath.

“These people are being cut off from their small amounts of resources and they are severely beaten if they are caught in areas the Empire has deemed private.”

Here Mon Mothma stops talking and looks at you expectantly. You stare back at her for some time before realizing that she’s waiting on a response from you.

“I’m not sure I understand why you called me here.”

“You are the best medical officer on this base. Those people need the best medicine we can find. I want you to accompany Captain Andor and bring some relief to the people who live in the town nearest the Empire’s largest fortress. While you are healing illnesses, Captain Andor will be gathering intelligence that we can use to further help the Kaitera.”

Mothma hardly finishes her sentence before Cassian steps up to the hologram table. “I don’t think she should go with me. There has to be someone else on this base who has medical training.” Cassian speaks quickly with little pause between his sentences.

“There are plenty of people on this base who have medical training, but none to the extent of (Y/N). And let’s not forget that (Y/N) is one of the few people on this base that has some form of friendship with you.”

“That doesn’t make up for the fact that she has no combat experience. If I have to cover both of our backs, we’ll both die.”

You interject with your own opinion. “As much as I’d like to help I have to agree with Captain Cassian. I really don’t think I’m up to being in the middle of an Empire occupied area. I mean that’s why I’m in the medbay in the first place.”

“(Y/N), I know that you’re reluctant to confront Stormtroopers after what happened-“

“That’s unrelated.” You interrupt. Cassian’s eyes dart to your face, but you keep your gaze locked on Mon Mothma.

“Regardless you can’t let past fears stop you from reaching your full potential. I have complete faith that you will excel in this mission. And Captain,” she turns her head to look pointedly at Cassian. “I have heard stories of you performing impossible feats while in the line of fire. If you can’t keep yourself and (Y/N) safe perhaps those stories were simply misunderstandings.”

At this accusation Cassian’s eyes leave your face to stare down at the dark hologram table.

“I wouldn’t propose that the two of you go on this mission if I didn’t believe it was a worthy cause,” Mon Mothma finishes softly.

Every part of your mind is telling you that going on this mission would end in disaster and Cassian seemed one hundred percent against the idea, but Mon Mothma seemed genuinely invested in the mission. She was one of the most inspiring women in the rebel alliance and one of the people who helped you adjust to life in the alliance.

“I’ll go on the mission,” you finally announce.

This time when Cassian looks up at you his scowl is less threatening and more determined. Instead of responding verbally he nods his head.

“Cassian stay back so I can give you further details on the mission. (Y/N), go and pack. Cassian will pick you up in an hour.”

You nod at the rebel leader and make your way out of the intelligence room. You come to the full realization of what you’ve agreed to do when you open the door to the still and dark medbay. You didn’t know anything about going on missions. Mon Mothma told you to pack, but what did that mean. How much clothes did you have to bring? Obviously not your uniforms since that would be a bit obvious, but you didn’t actually have much clothing to speak of. After rummaging through all of your drawers you find a total of two outfits. You slip into one of them to begin with and stuff the other into the book bag that was sitting in the back of your closet. The rest of the items in your room are useless. With a half empty book bag and an old satchel from your home you lock the door to your personal room.

You grab bandages, disinfectants, scissors, scalpels, artificial skin, antibiotics, needles and everything else that could come in handy from around the medbay. You wrap the last piece of equipment in a protective cloth as Cassian walks through the door, his own bag in hand. He looks decidedly unhappy about the situation but it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking.

“K2 is waiting on us.”

You secure the buckles on satchel and swing it onto your shoulder. “Well then let’s go.”

Cassian leaves the doorway and starts down the hall towards the hangar. You follow close behind him. The walk to the ship passed in a blur. Your heart was pounding as you step up into the ship K2 was standing in. It was a small vessel, unassuming with room for four people to sit.

Cassian sets down his bag at the back of the ship. He turns around to face you.

“Let me see your bags,” Cassian says, extending his hand.

You furrow your eyebrows but you shrug off the satchel and hand it to him. He opens the bag and harshly pushes everything around.

“If you’re not careful you’re going to stab yourself with a knife,” you warn. You did a good job of wrapping everything so it wouldn’t break, but you didn’t appreciate the lack of trust that Cassian had. In fact, you weren’t thrilled with the amount of disdain Cassian was showing towards you. You wouldn’t be thrilled if a complete rookie was shoved into the medbay, but you wouldn’t be this rude. Maybe the friendship you thought you had with Cassian wasn’t as real as you thought.

He refastens the satchel and hands it back. “At least it looks like you brought useful stuff.”

“Wow thanks so much. I don’t have much useless stuff in my possession.” You snatch the bag back. “Maybe you should check my backpack as well,” you say with your hands on your hips.

Instead of giving you a verbal answer, Cassian looks at you with narrowed eyes

“I personally think that fighting amongst ourselves is a great way to start a deadly mission.” K-2SO is already settled into the co-pilot seat at the front of the ship, looking back at the two of you with his optical receptors.

Despite the droid’s comment, you and Cassian continue to stare at each other. Cassian gaze is unwavering and you get the sense that this is his dominance play. As much as you’d love to prove yourself to the man you can’t hold his gaze for any longer. You turn around and toss your satchel into a cove made by a shelf of gauges and screens. By the time you turn back around Cassian is already busying himself with the ship’s controls.

You silently strap yourself into the seat behind K2. The droid turns his head towards Cassian.

“I may be a droid, but I know that’s not how you interact with someone you like.”

At the comment Cassian’s head whips upwards. “Stop,” he commands with a tinge of red on his cheeks.

You shouldn’t make a comment, but your filter has already been demolished for the day. “What does he mean by that, Cassian?” you ask with a false tone of innocence

“It means you’re the only one on the base that can cut hair and you’re a tolerable person to have a conversation with.” Cassian’s reply is rushed and he’s even more annoyed now than before. He effectively ends the conversation by turning on the engine and forcing K2 to check the instruments.

If this was how the entire mission was going to be, you were in deep trouble.

#cassian andor #cassianxreader #cassian andorxreader #star wars #rogue one #imagine #cassian imagine #cassian andor imagine

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meadowstoneuk · 4 years

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If I could turn back time

They say the past is another country, and though foreign travel is currently not recommended, here's where the staff at AG would like to go back to

Garry Coward-Williams, editor

If I could live in any period in time I would go back to 1958 to enjoy the end of the 50s and the whole of the 1960s as an adult, rather than a child.

Why? Well, it’s mainly about music, but also a lot of cultural elements too. Assuming I have money and the knowledge of what the future holds, I could make sure I was always at the right place at the right time.

Garry would like to go back in time to see The Beatles at the legendary Cavern Club in Liverpool (Image: Alamy)

What an experience to pop on the ferry at Felixstowe, travel to Hamburg and see The Beatles perform in the dingy Bambi Kino nightclub, then months later take a steam train to Liverpool and watch them at The Cavern. Catch The Rolling Stones at The Station Hotel on Eel Pie Island. I could see The Doors at The Roundhouse, Eric Clapton and Peter Green playing with The Bluesbreakers, Sid’s Pink Floyd at the UFO and Jimi Hendrix at The Speakeasy.

I could go to football matches and see George Best and other great players in tired old stadiums full of noise and humour — not the plastic cathedrals we have today. And after the match and a few beers I could go to the chip shop and get a thick piece of cod in batter not the slither we get these days and I’d have it in old newspaper.

amateurgardening.com/blog

But it’s not just about entertainment. I could buy beautiful made-to measure-suits of almost any style from a proper tailor for a few pounds at a time when people liked to look smart and wouldn’t have been seen dead in a shell suit. I could go to most pubs and have a sing-along at the piano and it not be unusual.

I could travel all over the country and enjoy hearing genuine regional accents, seeing largely unspoilt countryside and enjoy the juxtaposition between that and the industrial towns of the North.

I could drive a British made car with leather bench seats and walnut dash that needs constant attention and have a genuine sense of achievement whenever I arrived anywhere without breaking down.

Of course, it wouldn’t all be great. I’d have to accept that the available food is hugely limited and if I wanted anything faintly foreign I’d have to make it myself and I’d have to travel to find the ingredients. Imagine a two-hour round trip on a double decker bus to get some lasagne sheets and they wouldn’t even be fresh.

amateurgardening.com/blog

But I wouldn’t mind that, perhaps my biggest challenge would be cooking without non-stick pans! I would also have to do without central heating, waking up in an unheated room on a frosty morning and re-engaging with smelly paraffin heaters. Having said that, you can’t beat the feeling once a coal fire gets going and the room is aglow.

Lastly, I would also have to cope with the old-fashioned British Sunday when nothing happens, the shops are closed and the pubs have even more restrictive hours, but I think I could live with all that…lots of people did.

Ruth Hayes, gardening editor

It may sounds slightly odd, but I want to visit to the Iron Age because living in West Dorset, as we do, you can’t help but notice how that era imprinted itself on the very landscape.

For starters, our house is right next to a Roman road on the other side of which is an Iron Age hillfort – ancient history is everywhere.

Ruth would like to pop back to the Iron Age to learn more about hillfort life

The Bronze and Iron Ages left their massive physical mark in the form of imposing hillforts and eerie burial mounds, known as barrows. The forts were thriving settlements and their chieftains and nobles were buried with great honour and many valuables, tools and weapons in the barrows (long since looted) that crop up in fields and woodland across the county.

Dorset’s landscape is humped with more than 30 hillforts, including Eggardon Hill, Chalbury, Badbury Rings and Hambledon Hill, but the largest is Maiden Castle, an hour’s walk away.

amateurgardening.com/blog

Many of you will remember it from the erotic ‘fencing scene’ in the film Far From the Madding Crowd, starring Terence Stamp and Julie Christie.

It is the size of 50 football pitches, was built in 1BC and is accessed via a series of winding paths through towering earthen ramparts.

From its flat top you can see for miles and hear the wind, local flocks of sheep, traffic on the Dorchester bypass, the sounds of modern semi-rural life. But run down into the ramparts and all sound is deadened and you’re surrounded by a deep, eerie silence.

Maiden Castle is a stunning feat of engineering and I want to know what it was like to live there, when it was newly build and, apparently, a gleaming chalk-white monument to tribal authority. Yes, it would be chilly, the rough clothes and furs would play merry hell with my allergies and I’m not convinced about the diet, but I quite fancy a woad tattoo and need to get among the people who called it home.

They were the Durotriges, a Celtic tribe who minted coins, traded across the Channel and got disatrously on the wrong side of Vespasian and his Roman legions (a late Iron Age cemetery on Maiden Castle contains many bodies showing signs of grotesque injuries).

amateurgardening.com/blog

I want to explore the landscape as it was then and see how society worked, how people lived, interacted (many of the forts are within sight of each other which suggests some form of communication between settlements), traded with other tribes and countries and how they tried to defend themselves against the Romans.

Much of life would have been short, brutal and bloody, but it would be fascinating to put warm flesh on the bones of our important, long-dead local civilization.

Janey Goulding, assistant editor

It was the year we narrowly avoided being hit by two giant asteroids. Cliff Richard released his 100th pop single. TV cameras entered the House of Commons. The World Wide Web was born. And Cher sang ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’.

So, like Quantum Leap’s Sam Beckett, I would travel back to a magical era within my own lifetime: 1989. And like Back To The Future’s Marty McFly, I would strive not to make any significant changes to my own history, and preserve the sanctity of school dances, clock towers and sports almanacs.

The year 1989 is Janey’s dream year, for its cultural and political earthquakes

Because much as I’d love to go back to the Victorian era and rub shoulders with Marie Curie and Wilkie Collins, I don’t think I’d be much cop with cholera and crinolines. And with much regret, while I adore 1950s fashion and music, I suspect I’d be a bit rubbish at that whole pre-feminism and workplace inequality trip. And the thing is, I know 1989 was my year.

There are a few empirical reasons why this was a moment in history unlike any other: interpersonally, culturally, socio-politically: the end of the Cold War era, and the beginning of New Europe (all the more poignant as we witness the end of it). A year where the future felt like a promise we could keep, where global fears and restrictions were dissolving, the old guard was falling away, walls of division and isolationism were literally coming down – and anything seemed possible.

amateurgardening.com/blog

As a wave of revolutions swept across the Eastern Bloc, divided families and friends linked arms and stood side by side on the crumbling walls flanking Berlin’s Brandenburg Gate and chipped away at the old guard with hammers and pickaxes. Years of surging activism was culminating in a quest for reform that would ultimately bring down that wall for good.

In tandem with this revolutionary arc of transformation, as the Iron Curtain buckled, as a human rights protester stood in front of an oncoming tank in Tiananmen Square, and as Pinochet’s dictatorship in Chile teetered on the brink – alongside all that, another revolution scuttled in quieter shoes along the corridors of change.

Softly spoken British computer scientist Tim Berners-Lee outlined proposals for a dynamic information-sharing space, which he then implemented and developed into the World Wide Web. The internet was born.

There were still tragedies, specific and shocking, but they were underpinned with a commitment to lessons learned to ensure that we might move forwards, humbled but progressive, to a more thoughtful, inclusive and socially conscious mindset. This momentum coloured all, from the beginnings of the dissolution of apartheid with the presidential election of Frederik de Klerk in South Africa, to football terrace safety reforms in the wake of the Hillsborough tragedy.

My younger, less cynical self delighted in the possibilities of a world where good could triumph over evil in the minutiae of our lives as well as in the big global events. Life was better, because Robin Williams as English teacher John Keating in Dead Poets Society urged us to carpe that diem – ‘seize the day’ – and make our lives extraordinary, while When Harry Met Sally advocated the exquisite pleasures and comedic pratfalls of male-female friendships, a blueprint that I would spend my adult life researching dutifully and enthusiastically.

amateurgardening.com/blog

The Stone Roses, De La Soul, The Pixies and The Cure released career-defining albums. Madonna challenged the establishment (back when it was still interesting) with pop art as personal meditation. And rave exploded in the climactic throes of the second Second Summer of Love.

And in the ultimate celebration of good triumphing over evil, Coronation Street super-villain Alan Bradley got flattened under a tram in Blackpool, and Dirty Den found out the hard way that you should never trust a man carrying a large bunch of daffodils.

Historians tell us our understanding of the past is a developing creature that is never fully complete. It’s all relative, and many extraordinary moments end up as footnotes in bigger stories. But 1989 truly was one of those catalytic years when the world shifted irrevocably – and I was there. And what I wouldn’t give to be there again, and tell everyone what an extraordinary moment we were living through.

In his book The End of History, brilliant political scientist Francis Fukuyama wrote: “What we may be witnessing is not just the end of the Cold War, or the passing of a particular period of post-war history, but the end of history: that is, the end point of mankind’s ideological evolution.”

Important cultural concerns, progressive ideas and emotional truths were embraced and consolidated. Things changed radically, and they changed for the better. And if life is an elastic band that has the potential to stretch and lift us as far as possible from repression towards enlightenment and hope before we get snapped back to the darkness, then I believe wholeheartedly that 1989 was that year of optimum stretch and maximum freedom.

A pivotal moment of illumination, courage and discovery: of new beginnings, and unforgettable adventures. And Madchester, obviously.

Kathryn Wilson, features co-ordinator

Blame Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton – or maybe the cast of Carry on Cleo – but I have always been fascinated by Ancient Egypt, and in particular the women who ruled during the Dynastic period.

The gold! The incredible feats of architecture and engineering! The eyeliner!

Ancient Egypt would float Kathryn’s boat if she could rub shoulders with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton (Image: Alamy)

Apparently, life in Egypt was so good that the afterlife was imagined not as some perfect existence that no one could quite imagine, but simply as more of the same. Even for the lower classes there was time for sports, games, reading, festivals and catching up with friends and family, while happiness, both individual and communal, was seen as an important goal.

Writers (or scribes) were considered immortal and the profession was open to women as well as men, as was medicine and the priesthood, something that was unheard of in Europe until centuries later. In fact, women and men had almost equal rights.

And best of all? The Egyptians knew how to party. Along with the birthdays of their (numerous) gods, there were anniversaries of the current ruler’s deeds, funerals, wakes, housewarming parties and births. Any excuse for a knees-up, complete with feasting and beer.

Wendy Humphries, letters

The period of history that I would love to ‘visit’ is the roaring 1920s, I am passionate about both historical fashion and dance. Put me to the set of The Great Gatsby films or in the chorus line of my favourite musical is 42nd Street and I’d be deliriously happy.

I would arrive early in the decade, it was an optimistic period after the horrors of the First World War. You can only imagine the relief that the long years of fighting were finally over and the effect it had on on society and culture.

Twenties fashion evolved with simpler styles without layers, I love the flapper dress. The dress style had a dropped waste and higher hem line giving a glimpse of a ladies knees!

Wendy would like to return to her house 100 years ago and meet the then residents

Evening dresses were embellished with beads, sequins and embroidery for ultimate glitz and glamour, many were attributed to styles designed by Coco Chanel. Hair was cut into a bob and finished with a cloche hat.

I’d enter wearing the red dress covered in black tassels made for me by my aunt 35 years ago for a fancy dress party. Designs were easy to copy and make at home using cheaper materials such as artificial silk and cotton.

The looser fitting and angled hemline allowed girls to move more freely and they said goodbye to the restrictive girdle while out dancing. The foxtrot, tango and waltz were all popular dances of the 20s. The Charleston started in the Cotton Club, New York, and was the dance that anyone could pick up, you didn’t need a dance teacher, or a partner.

Nearly 100 years on, I would love to re-visit my house, a former Manse. At the time the Minster was John James and he lived here with his wife Anne (shown). We were lucky to have a surprise visit by the great niece of Rev. James and she brought clear photographs taken in 1926 of the house and the couple in the garden. Apparently churches held dances to attract young people – I’d love to think John and Anne enjoyed a bit of Charleston on our parquet floor!

Lesley Upton, features editor

I would like to visit – not necessarily live – in Egypt during the period when the Great Pyramids of Giza were being built about 4,500 years ago. Just visiting would enable me to be a ‘fly on the wall’ at that time, while still being able to return to the present day with all its advantages of medical care, education and advances in technology that make our lives ‘easier’ and enable us to we live longer.

There are three Pyramids at Giza, and the oldest and largest – and only surviving structure of the famed Seven Wonders of the Ancient World – is the Great Pyramid. It was built for Pharaoh Khufu, who reigned for 23 years (2,589-2,566BC).

Les is also a fan of Ancient Egypt, with its monumental pyramids

The Great Pyramid is 481ft (147m) tall. It is believed around 2.3 million blocks of stone, weighing around 2.5 tons each, had to be cut, transported and assembled to build the Great Pyramid.

There are many theories about how the pyramids were built, but even today scientists can’t be sure how they did it. Early theories suggested that slaves built these huge structures, but now it’s generally believed that the pyramids were built by skilled well-fed workers who lived in a temporary city nearby.

The pyramids were primarily tombs for the great and the good of the time – the Pharaohs, who expected to become gods in the afterlife. The pyramids, as well as being tombs, were temples to the gods, and when the pharaohs died they were filled with all the things needed to guide and sustain the Pharaoh in the next world.

Imagine living during those times and seeing these huge structures being built. It must have been amazing.

We are here for you

Although many people are coping well with self-isolation, others are really struggling and feeling completely forgotten and alone.

Here at AG we are doing our best to keep connected to our readers though the magazine, this website and also through social media.

John Negus is AG’s long-standing problem solver

Our gardening ‘agony uncle’ John Negus is also still working hard. Send him your problems and questions, with pictures if you can, and he will get back to you with an answer withing 24 hours, as he has been doing for decades. Contact him using the AG email address at: [email protected]

amateurgardening.com/blog

We already have thriving Facebook page but are also on Twitter and Instagram. These sites are a brilliant way of chatting to people, sharing news, information, pictures and just saying hello – we will get back to you as soon as we can.

Best of all, as gardeners are generally lovely folk, more interested in plants, hedgehogs, tea and cake than political shenanigans and point-scoring, so the chat is friendly and welcoming.

You can find us at:

Facebook: Facebook.com/AmateurGardeningMagazine

Twitter: Twitter.com/TheAGTeam

Instagram: instagram.com/amgardening_mag

So please drop by, follow us, ‘like’ our posts and say hello, we will get back to you as soon as we can.

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newyorktheater · 5 years

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Sleep No More

(l-r) Nicholas Bruder and Sophie Bortolussi with audience members wearing the required masks

End of the World Bar and Bathtub

Then She Fell, mirror Alices: Marissa Neilson-Pincus and Tara O’Con

outside “The Jungle” (St. Ann’s Warehouse)

Empire Travel Agency at Fulton subway station

While Josh Groban is front and center in Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812, the most memorable of several memorable moments in the show for me was an (almost) private one. A member of the ensemble, dressed like a punk rock, 19th century aristocratic slut, handed me a plastic Russian egg with pellets inside so that I could use it as a castanet in the next song.

Cafe Play

Wil Petre and Sebastian Iromagnolo in Third Rail Projects’ Grand Paradise

Mile Long Opera atop the High Line

Then She Fell

“Immersive theater” has come to mean something separate from the dictionary definition of the word “immersive” – in much the same way that phrases Absurdist Theater and Abstract Expressionism took on new meanings. As in those earlier terms, immersive theater describes an art movement – and a theater moment.

That moment has existed in New York since 2011, when Punchdrunk Theater launched its version of “Macbeth,” entitled “Sleep No More” as if retold by Alfred Hitchcock and Isadora Duncan, in a formerly abandoned club in Chelsea renamed the McKittrick Hotel.

“Sleep No More” is still running, as is “Then She Fell,” Third Rail Projects’ take on Lewis Carroll and Alice in Wonderland, which debuted the following year.

Neither company initially attached the phrase “immersive theater” to their shows, nor do they prefer to label them that now – which is ironic, considering how many companies now insist on calling their shows “immersive theater” even when they aren’t really.

Or at least they don’t fit my definition.

Almost four years ago, in HowlRound, I listed the six elements that defined the best of immersive theater that I had seen by then. I still find these a useful guide to my own theatergoing, and, given several new shows I’ve seen of late, it feels the right time to present them again here, updated a few more recent examples.

Immersive theater creates a physical environment that differs from a traditional theater where audiences sit in seats and watch a show unfurl on a proscenium stage with a curtain.

I loved the succinct and spontaneous definition of immersive theater provided by a young Brazilian-American man waiting with the rest of the crowd to be let inside Inside the Wild Heart . a stage adaptation of the book by Clare Lispector, when he noticed that the venue in Williamsburg was called Immersive Gallery.

“Oh no,” he said, “we’re going to have to stand.”

That more or less nails it, although you do sometimes get to sit.

It’s important to note that “immersive theater” is not a synonym for “site-specific, theater.” Some immersive shows have taken place in actual theaters, but in such cases, the theaters have been radically redesigned. That was the case, for example, with KPOP, which turned the theaters of the performance art complex A.R.T./New York into a South Korean music factory.

The best-known example may be “Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812”, Dave Malloy’s musical based on a sliver of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, which began in 2012 in Ars Nova, a theater transformed into a nineteenth century Russian tearoom. It moved into its own space, called Kazino, a “temporary structure,” resembling a circus tent, set up in the chi-chi Meatpacking District, and later reassembled on an empty lot in the theater district. But it ended up on Broadway, set designer Mimi Lien transforming the Imperial Theater as much as physically possible. The (aptly named) Imperial was not just decorated to look like a Russian tearoom, with glittering chandeliers, oil paintings in gilded frames set against red velour wallpaper, and a lobby turned into a hallway for an underground nightclub, plastered with posters in Russian. The auditorium itself was reconfigured so that there was no big stage, but rather many little ones criss-crossing through the audience. There were ramps built up into the balcony. Some seats were chairs around cabaret tables. This set-up allowed for the performers, dressed sumptuously and mischievously in Paloma Young’s punk aristocratic costumes, to dance, and sing, and play instruments throughout the auditorium — and, above all, to interact directly with members of the audience.

Immersive theater indeed has become such a popular trend that new theater buildings are being designed to reinvent their space for each show.

But it’s still true that most immersive theater takes place in some unusual venues. Two memorable recent, very different examples: The Mile Long Opera took place along the entire length of the High Line; The End of the World Bar and Bathtub takes place in your bathroom; you hire the company to perform in your bathtub.

Immersive theater tends to stimulate all five senses—sight and sound, as with conventional theatre pieces, but also touch, and frequently taste and even smell.

Many of the immersive shows have constant eerie underscoring that seems more designed to unnerve than enchant. Most serve drinks. Some serve food. This Is Not A Theatre Company’s Cafe Play took place in an actual cafe and included a meal, although it would be very hard to call it dinner theater; one of the actors portrayed a roach.

“Inside The Wild Heart” marked the “world premiere” of the Scent-O-Scope, an odd looking contraption that delivered ten different scents. I passed it by as a text was projected above it about a woman who explains why she began to steal roses: “I wanted to sniff it until I felt my vision go dark from such heavy perfume.” Nearby, there was a large round bed covered by red roses. I wish I could state with certainty that what I smelled from the Scent-O-Scope was a red rose.

Immersive theater doubles as an art installation and hands-on museum

The designers pay extensive attention to details, especially what might in more conventional theater be called props, but here function as artifacts, providing an opportunity for the audience members to explore the world. There are photographs on the wall, postcards and period magazines on tables, but some of the shows go much further. In Then She Fell, each audience member is handed a set of keys, with the implicit directive to open drawers and boxes and cupboards and rifle through the letters and postcards that illuminate Lewis Carroll’s work and his relationships.

In “The Jungle,” which was performed at St. Ann’s Warehouse in 2018 (and is scheduled for an encore run in April, 2020) Miriam Buether’s set re-creates the four-star Afghan restaurant that was at a refugee camp in Calais, France. Food was for sale during intermission just outside the restaurant, inside a geodesic dome lined with photographs and signs that tried to re-create the atmosphere of the camp, whose residents named it the Jungle. One sign was entitled “Workshops Today,” next to little cardboard clocks with the various times: “Kung Fu with Yasin. Theatre with Kneehigh. Music with Mohamed.

This element is often given short-shrift in less meticulous shows claiming to be immersive. (To be fair, the shows that take place entirely at one or more real-life locations – such as Waterwell’s The Courtroom, or Woodshed Collective’s remarkable Empire Travel Agency make the world into their museum, and so need not design any further

Immersive theater makes individual audience members feel as if they have had a uniquely personal experience, that they are not just part of the crowd.

This can be achieved in a variety of ways. In Sleep No More, you are on your own to explore some ninety rooms in any order you see fit and for as little or as long as you want (up to a total of three hours)—giving the theatregoers the sense that they are in charge (even though, in fact, we must adhere to some rigid rules—for example keeping on that itchy mask). In Then She Fell, performers choose for you which rooms you will visit, in what order, and for what duration. But there are only fifteen theatregoers attending each performance, and each is most often alone in a room, or with just one or two other audience members. As a result, the experience feels custom-made.

Often in immersive shows, a single performer pairs off with a single theatergoer for an encounter. This can be a performance for an audience of one, or the theatergoer can be volunteered as a character in the plot, or asked to participate in some other way. Lewis Carroll asked me to dictate a letter to Alice asking her to respond finally to his entreaties.

At the same time, immersive productions often emphasize social interactions, either through directed tasks in small groups, or by fostering a looser party atmosphere.

In “The Grand Paradise,” a Third Rail Projects show that transformed a Bushwick warehouse into a tropical resort, one cast member gathered four of us together to teach us how to tie nautical knots, exactly as a recreation counselor might in a resort. The first activity in The Alving Estate was an elaborate game of Black Jack, in which we are asked to write down a secret on a piece of paper and use that to bet on the game. The winner of the hand collected all the secrets. The mere fact that alcohol is served at these shows signals that what we’ve paid for is not just art, but a party.

The most successful immersive theater has a story to tell—and gives respect to storytelling

I’ve gone back and forth in my view of this element over the years. It’s true that many of these shows don’t even include dialogue, substituting mute and often-violent pas de deux, or tableaux vivant. The arbitrary or random order in which an individual theatergoer’s experience unfolds also suggests that plot is not a priority. But the longest lasting immersive shows in New York, Sleep No More and Then She Fell, both offer stories that theatergoers already know—Macbeth and Alice in Wonderland. Our prior knowledge enables us to fit the disparate pieces into a coherent story, through some detective work that feels part of these shows’ appeal.

Not all of the best of immersive theater have all six elements, and not all shows that attempt all six elements are the best immersive theater. But in my experience, the most satisfying theater that calls itself immersive is driven by the creative team’s respect for the form, rather than the marketing department’s hype to be hip.

What is immersive theater? The six elements that define it at its best “Immersive theater” has come to mean something separate from the dictionary definition of the word “immersive” – in much the same way that phrases Absurdist Theater and Abstract Expressionism took on new meanings.

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how2to18 · 6 years

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DURING MY JUNIOR YEAR of high school, I took piano lessons from a woman named Frances Thompson, who lived in a well-kept but fading ranch house on Grand Avenue, alone with her dying father. My lessons took place at night. I don’t remember why that was — possibly I’d asked for a late hour, to keep from cutting into my all-important regimen of time-wasting after school — but I remember the slight feeling of eeriness it created, the oddness of being in a place long familiar in the daytime but subtly transformed in the dark. Mrs. Thompson sat beside the bench, in her spindle-backed chair, wearing the big hexagonal glasses with their slender, drooping chain, and I sat on the bench, trying to coax my fingers into decoding the music I had once again failed to practice, and the brass lamp shone under its green shade on the upright, and in the windows stood a darkness that seemed to cut us off from the rest of creation, as if the studio were a kind of spaceship in which we were traveling.

That fall we worked on Bach — the French Suites, because they would teach me to play gracefully, she said. Playing gracefully wasn’t my strong suit. What I liked was to improvise, preferably at ear-bursting volume, in a mode inspired by the exquisite but agonizing passions of the tragic lovers in Merchant-Ivory movies I’d seen, and also in Merchant-Ivory movies I hadn’t seen, Merchant-Ivory movies that existed only in my imagination, where trembling hands were forever pouring glasses of brandy from cut-crystal decanters in front of hotel windows looking out across Constantinople, while the curtains blew in, filmily. I thought of this mode as “romantic.” I was good at dreaming up melodies Helena Bonham Carter might freeze to death in Australia to, somewhat less good at scales. Certainly Mrs. Thompson deserved better. She herself had studied with famous musicians, had lived in Chicago, had known something of the world beyond our barren patch of north-central Oklahoma. Probably every dried-up oil town in the United States has one music teacher whose pedagogical lineage traces back to Liszt; she was ours. She was elderly now, but there were moments when she talked about music with an expression at once so hard and so far away that even I understood she was looking into a realm I had never conceived of, much less visited.

She had standards, in other words. She wasn’t someone you could impress with little virtuosic tricks. Yet with me she was patient. She frowned but never criticized. She’d raise a hand to stop my sight-reading, give me small lectures on fingerings and voicings. We slide the thumb under the palm to keep the slurred passage even. We bring out the dissonances — see? — to register a harmonic shift. In Mozart we play allegretto lightly, lightly; and there were her hands on the keyboard, knobbed and spotted as if they’d spent a century or so under the sea, playing allegretto with a lightness that seemed simple, seemed like nothing at all, except that I couldn’t mimic it.

I wasn’t too thrilled about the French Suites. Not because I had anything against Bach. In fact it had been while playing Bach that I realized I loved classical music, one day when our seventh-grade orchestra was rehearsing the Little Fugue in G minor and I suddenly felt (I think the trombones had just come in) as though my brain were a cloud of fine golden particles through which sunlight was streaming. It was just that the pieces were so measured. To play them well took poise I hadn’t begun to develop. You had to be able to sustain multiple ideas, multiple processes, and develop them simultaneously, in all their complexity. Which meant you had to be able to get above yourself, to listen not just in the emotional thrall of the moment but with a kind of cosmic detachment. That was what Mrs. Thompson meant by grace; she meant you had to be the astronomer, and not, or not only, the supernova. I was 17. My ideal of pianism was that when you finished playing, your hair should be sticking up, because of passion. I had no frame of reference for Bach’s superb contemplativeness. Mrs. Thompson might as well have asked me to learn a different instrument. In a way, that is what she was doing.

“I figured it out,” I announced. “It just has to sound logical. Everything builds toward this weird major chord at the end.”

“Well,” she said. “Yes, but also no. Remember that an allemande is a dance. This is a suite of dances. So we’re thinking, but the thinking is dancing — dan-cing, dan-cing, dan-cing. Dancing, not banging, please.”

It was confounding to think she had a living father. Students never saw him. We entered the studio through a separate door, around back, and were never invited beyond, into the mysterious interior, where he was understood to dwell. Mrs. Thompson herself rarely mentioned him. Yet in a way his very implicitness intensified the weirdness of his being there. Coming into the studio already felt like stepping out of time. You had the little bust of Brahms, the rounds of lace. The antique metronome, like something that might have fallen back to Earth after Sputnik launched. Mrs. Thompson and I were from the same small town, but I knew it only in its current form, with its miles of strip malls on 14th Street and its three Sonic drive-ins and the constant quiet stress over how many jobs the refinery would shed next year. When she was a girl, the oil mansions were still being built. Where did her experience open onto mine? I had heard stories about our great tycoon, the scion of an ancient English family from the village of Ashton-under-Lyne, near Manchester; he had built a vast oil empire in the early 20th century, when Oklahoma was practically the Wild West. Mrs. Thompson remembered him from life. To me, she was ancient.

So the idea that, invisibly near, there was someone so much older; and that he was on the threshold between life and death, frozen there, somehow, for the old man had lain dying for years … It struck a note not at all like a Mozart allegretto. Now, from a distance of time, I think of what the duty of caring for him must have meant for Mrs. Thompson — the challenge of it, at her age, the expense, the waiting, possibly the grief. How it must have reordered her life. None of that occurred to me then. Or it did, but as something not wholly real, like the weather in another city. What was real was the feeling of being in a ghost story. I thought of the word “macabre,” which made me think of Poe, and the word “eldritch,” which I knew from Lovecraft (“the eldritch scurrying of those fiend-born rats”), and also from Dungeons & Dragons.

Once, only, I saw him. Mrs. Thompson collected sheet music. She’d been stockpiling it for decades. It overfilled her filing cabinets; stacks of it slouched on chairs and in the spaces under end tables. She needed this private library, she said, because she liked to consult alternate fingerings. In fact the impulse went deeper. I never had a music teacher who was more distrustful of memory. I, who memorized pieces faster than I could learn to play them, who couldn’t properly practice a measure until I knew it by heart, found this baffling. But to her way of thinking, it was dangerous to spend too much time away from the objective record of the printed page. Things slip. It was better to have a lot of music, even too much music, even an absurd amount of music, than too little. Too little and you risked becoming like Sviatoslav Richter, the great Russian pianist, who discovered near the end of his career that he’d spent 40 years playing a single wrong note in Bach’s Italian Concerto. He’d memorized the piece in his youth, but one tiny error had crept in, an f-sharp instead of an f-natural in the 47th measure of the second movement, the andante. And then, because his memory was prodigious, he’d replicated the mistake for decades, including on at least two recordings, without ever going back to check the score.

Mrs. Thompson wanted to look, that night, at a different edition of the French Suites, specifically the allemande that opens the second, in C minor. There was some question about what finger to use for the pivotal note in a run. I’d been playing it with my ring finger, as my yellow Schirmer’s Classics Library edition recommended, but she thought the pinkie might make more sense. We couldn’t find the book she wanted in the studio, and Mrs. Thompson didn’t quite feel like getting up from her chair, so she sent me into the house to continue the search.

I’d never been beyond the studio before. I walked down a dark hallway, toward what I supposed was the dining room, where the file cabinet she’d told me about was kept. The air was warm and had a stale-apricot, old-potpourri smell. Every so often thin lights would stretch along the wall and I’d hear the long sigh of a car sliding past on Grand; otherwise it was ticking-clock quiet.

Here was the file cabinet. I found the book, turned around to go back, and stopped, because the old man was in the room with me.

He was lying in a hospital bed. He’d been there all along; I hadn’t seen him because his bed was angled to face into the room, and so was partly hidden from the doorway. Now he was facing me. This was his sickroom, evidently. A metal stand with some sort of dangling clear sack stood beside the bed and was connected to it — to him — by tubes. The bed was raised so that he could partly sit up. A white sheet covered him to the chest. Over the foot of the bed someone had folded a patchwork quilt. His face was so thin it was as if it had been whittled down from a different person’s face.

I wondered if he was dead. I wasn’t sure how to tell. The summer before, I had gone with my father to the funeral of a distant relation, a huge man who lay in an open casket in a pair of dark blue farmer’s overalls, and I remembered how fragile he had looked, how strangely chastised, with his big hands folded over his work shirt, nose pointing up toward the lights. Maybe you can tell when someone is dead, I thought, because of the peculiar way in which they look alive.

After a hesitation, I said hello and gave him an awkward little wave. I heard him rustle in bed. He lifted his thin arm above his face, the elbow bent as if he were warding off a bright light. Then he straightened his elbow and I realized what he was doing. He was waving back at me. Arm raised above his head, he gave me a slow, exaggerated salute, as if he were hailing shore from a ship that was about to depart.

A few months ago, in a friend’s back garden in Los Angeles, I found myself paging through a book about the English Catholic poet Francis Thompson, who lived from 1859 to 1907. Thompson isn’t much talked about these days, but he wrote some of the most beloved religious poetry of the late Victorian era, work that for decades featured on Catholic-school reading lists, that was anthologized and memorized and admired by critics. (G. K. Chesterton called him “the greatest poetic energy since Browning.”) He also — this was the thesis of the book I was reading — might have been Jack the Ripper.

I know how that sounds, and you’re right to be skeptical. The case against Thompson is purely circumstantial. There’s no hard evidence. And at first glance Thompson is one of the least likely suspects imaginable. In photos, he looks like a fragile mystic. He stares out of a gaunt face with large, haunted eyes. He’s serious and celestial. At 47 he wasted away from tuberculosis. Before that he spent years semi-sequestered in monasteries, writing verses about God’s love. One of his poems, “The Kingdom of God,” contains the first use of the expression “a many-splendoured thing.” A person of strange intensities, clearly; an unsettling, even otherworldly person, but not someone you’d peg as a murderer.

Yet that very celestial quality, the sense, which Thompson strongly conveyed, that he could see into the world beyond our own, concealed a darkness — perhaps better to say it was a darkness, transmuted in his poems only through a keen effort of spirit. There’s a line Chesterton singles out in his essay on Thompson. Thompson is talking about the gulf between our world and what’s beyond it, and he says this gulf — he calls it a “crevasse” — is spanned by “Pontifical Death.” In two words, Thompson imagines death both as a bridge (a pont is a bridge, a pontifex is a bridge-builder) and as a high priest supervising the crossing over it. Which is a beautiful notion, until you look at it from a certain angle, at which point it becomes completely terrifying.

I didn’t know much about Thompson’s life, and I had to admit, as I slowly turned the pages, that some strange synchronicities emerged when you laid his biography over the timeline of the Ripper murders. Nothing definitive; just uncanny parallels, in a Dark Side of the Moon-played-over-The Wizard of Oz sort of way. Not that I believed everything in the book, exactly. The author, an Australian schoolteacher named Richard Patterson, was an amateur sleuth who was pretty clearly excited by the thought of solving one of history’s greatest mysteries, and he was willing to indulge in a lot of irresponsible speculation to make his case. On the question of Thompson’s fire-starting and doll-mutilation, for example. Patterson had some evidence to suggest that during childhood, Thompson demonstrated a pattern of lighting fires and cutting open dolls, behavior that could be taken as an early indicator of psychopathic tendencies. However, most of this evidence was ambiguous — Thompson made a joke, say, about how cutting open a doll as a child had taught him never to look for a beautiful woman’s brains. Which is ugly and misogynistic, but not necessarily serial-killer talk. But instead of treating it as suggestive but ultimately uncertain, Patterson charged ahead with the intensity of a prosecuting attorney, brushing aside all doubt.

Before long I was reading the book on two levels. On the first level, I responded only to the facts about Thompson’s life. This had the effect of awakening in me an intense pity toward the poet, who suffered terribly in his time. On the second level, I responded to the alternate reality conjured up by Patterson, in which Thompson was in fact Jack the Ripper. This had the effect of completely freaking me out. Often this split consciousness meant that a single piece of information registered with me in two directly opposed ways. That was the case, for instance, with the issue of Thompson’s education. He grew up near Manchester, in the village of Ashton-under-Lyne, where he was known as a frail, taciturn, bookish boy, unpopular with other children. In his youth he trained to enter the priesthood. Then one day he returned home with a letter from the seminary college informing his father that it was God’s will that he should look for a different career. He entered a medical college and studied to be a surgeon, but he failed his exams repeatedly, again disappointing his family.

And here’s what I mean about my two levels of reading. On the first level, the level of fact, I found this story sad. It was clear that Thompson had been under extreme pressure to pursue a career for which he was temperamentally unsuited, and I could easily imagine the anxiety, the lying to his father, the rising panic as he realized he was again bound to come up short, would again be revealed as inadequate. (In fact he seems to have had a nervous breakdown at around the time he left medical school.) On the second level, though, the story helped build the case that Thompson was a murderer. Dr. Phillips, the police surgeon who attended three of the Ripper’s murder scenes and four of the subsequent autopsies, thought the killer must have had medical training, due to the precision with which the victims’ organs were removed. Thompson, who could be placed in the vicinity of the murders at the time of the murders, had had such training. He had spent hours in the college basement cutting up corpses. He had in fact, according to Patterson, begged his father for more money so he could afford more bodies to dissect. He was known to carry a surgical scalpel on his person. He said he used it to shave.

This weird doubling of response continued, in fact compounded, as I read, so that before I was halfway through the book I almost seemed to be reading two stories, two parallel but unconnected narratives, at the same time. The outward action was the same in each, but the meanings were different. You can guess, then, how disorienting it was to read about Thompson’s time in Whitechapel at the time of the five Ripper murders, in the late summer and fall of 1888.

Whitechapel, in London’s East End, was then one of the city’s poorest districts. Thompson was in his late 20s. He’d had little success as a poet. In medical school he’d gotten addicted to opium, and he was now living as a homeless vagrant in Whitechapel’s warren of narrow streets. He slept in shelters within walking distance of where the murders took place. Many nights he spent walking up and down Mile End Road, often in the grip of delirium. Some time before, he had fallen in love with a young prostitute, whom he credited with saving his life. She left him shortly before the Ripper began murdering prostitutes.

Thompson wrote poems on dirty scraps of paper and kept them in his pockets. Those that survive show a mind not exactly planted on firm rock. The hallucinatory violence and barely controlled mania of some of his drafts from this period are startling:

And its paunch was rent Like a brasten drum; And the blubbered fat From its belly doth come With a sickening ooze — Hell made it so! Two witch-babies, ho! ho! ho!

Even in the Christian masterworks, you find disturbing overtones. “The Hound of Heaven,” Thompson’s most celebrated poem, depicts a wayward sinner’s flight from, and eventual surrender to, God’s love. Read in a certain light, its monomaniacal focus on God’s relentless pursuit of the speaker might even seem to frame the relationship between deity and human as that between a murderer and his prey:

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days, I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears […]

From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.

It was a sunny afternoon in Los Angeles. Clusters of red and purple flowers swayed in the breeze as I turned the pages of Patterson’s book, drinking endless cans of the lime-flavored seltzer that Holly brought out from her kitchen. Without quite knowing why, I’d been listening for days to Bach’s Italian Concerto, repeating again and again the slow second movement, with the dirge of its left-hand part and the clear, cold aria of the right hand. I’d become mildly obsessed with Sviatoslav Richter’s recordings, as many people do with Sviatoslav Richter’s recordings, finding in them an intensity of focus that sets them apart from other musicians’. You feel, when Richter is playing, as if this music will be heard once, and then dissolve forever. In the garden, I played through my headphones a file I’d dug up online. It was a recording from the 1950s that preserved the mistake Richter had made when he memorized the piece — that one wrong note, almost unnoticeable, a 20th of a second where he’d shown a rare fallibility.

He’d have hated me for it. Richter was a perfectionist, not inclined to self-forgiveness, and he believed that the purpose of his playing was to serve the composer’s intention absolutely. That self-annihilating quality, never quite at ease with the obvious immensity of his talent, is part of what makes his playing so riveting. When Richter realized what he’d done, he didn’t find it “humanizing”; he was devastated. The very littleness of the imperfection galled. It was nothing, but at the same time it was everything, and it was irreversible. He issued an apology in the liner notes of a CD he released on the Italian label Stradivarius in 1991 — an astonishing thing for a pianist of his stature to do, to flagellate himself publicly over a slip Bach himself might not have worried about. From then on he played the piece as it was written.

To me, though, there was something irresistible in that false note sustained over decades, the f-sharp played instead of f-natural, the tiny broken stitch between Bach’s unchanging reality and the fluid world of an artist’s mind in performance. “Perfect” recordings of the Italian Concerto existed by the dozens, I reasoned; only this one offered that strange, fleeting glimpse into Richter’s mental experience. Where else could you hear a literal act of forgetting? It was magical.

That afternoon, as I sat reading and listening in Holly’s backyard, the music and the images from the Thompson story seemed to blend together, so that in my mind’s theater, Richter’s playing became a soundtrack for the perverse costume drama of Patterson’s book. I saw Thompson as a boy, swinging from a golden chain the thurible he used (so Patterson said) to start a fire in the seminary. I saw him slicing into the pale abdomen of a corpse at the medical college. I saw his eyes go out of focus as the first dose of laudanum kicked in. I saw him praying till his hands shook. In London, where he fled after his mother died and he could no longer hide his failure at school, he read De Quincey and the encyclopedia. He took opium to sleep. Poverty ground him hard: soon he was sleeping on sidewalks. At the British Museum Library he was turned away for being unclean. Cold, dark London: fog and gas lamps, horses’ breath, shadows on stone. Verses beating in his head. He submitted a crushed and barely legible manuscript to a Catholic magazine, Merry England, edited by Wilfrid and Alice Meynell, but he had no return address; he asked the editors to send his rejection to the post office. They accepted his poems, came to Whitechapel to find him, tried to get him off the streets. He refused to go. On the night of August 30, 1888, a warehouse fire went up in the West India docks along the Thames. Massive buildings burned. Flames visible for miles. The horizon a red glow. In Whitechapel the atmosphere was festive. Such a spectacle! Look what a jolly new bonnet I’ve got, Mary Ann Nichols sang when she was kicked out of her lodging house. She didn’t have fourpence for the bed. Alright, but there were plenty of men around after the fire — she’d earn it on the street.

She went by Polly. She was 43 years old. She’d been married and had five children, but that had all fallen apart. She was an alcoholic, herself intermittently homeless; she’d lived in and out of workhouses. A few months earlier she’d found a job as a servant in Wandsworth, but she hated the work and fled to Spitalfields with a bundle of stolen clothing. It was after one o’clock when she left the boarding house. Thompson was somewhere in the area. It’s not known precisely where, though he surely would have seen the fire. At 32, Polly Nichols’s roommate, Ellen Holland, ran into her at the corner of Whitechapel Road and Osborne Street. Polly laughed that she’d earned the money she needed three times over but kept drinking it away. (And there it was, in the recording — the misplaced note, the false f.) That was the last time a witness saw her alive, though strangely, when her body was discovered an hour later, at 3:40 a.m., in the doorway of a stable, the carters who found her were unsure whether she was dead. I felt something move in her chest, one of them said. What happened during the previous hour no one knows, except that her throat was cut.

The threshold between life and death was a place Thompson visited again and again in his poems. “We unwinking see / Through the smoked glass of Death,” he wrote in one, and in another:

O world invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, O world unknowable, we know thee, Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

It’s when I think about this threshold that I’m most strongly reminded of a passage written about Thompson many years later. By then he’d long since been rescued from poverty. Wilfrid and Alice Meynell eventually succeeded in getting him out of Whitechapel. They sent him to a priory in Sussex to recover from his laudanum dependency. (It was at this time, Patterson notes, that the Ripper murders ceased.) Soon, with the Meynells’ help, he began to win fame as a poet. The editors’ son, Everard Meynell, wrote a book about him. It’s somewhere between a biography and a memoir. The passage I’m thinking of is one where Meynell describes the poet’s love of music, which expressed itself particularly in an adoration of the piano. Standing at the piano, Meynell says, “he would gaze at the performer, his body waving to and fro in tremulous pleasure.” As a young man, he had shirked his studies at the medical college to attend musical performances. He would tell his father that a professor had kept him back to offer him extra instruction when in fact he had gone to the home of a pianist to hear music. When he was supposed to be studying anatomy, he listened to piano music. He could not play himself, but he knew a sequence of chords, and “he struck them,” Meynell says, “with such earnestness that I, as a child, was impressed by his performance.” He held down the keys as the notes, briefly suspended, decayed, crossing as they did so the uncertain bridge between what exists and what is gone forever.

Brian Phillips is the author of the essay collection Impossible Owls, forthcoming in 2018 from Farrar, Straus & Giroux. He lives in Los Angeles.

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firecage · 7 years

Text

Khallendra's Official File

Khallendra sas Khaine; VIIth Legion Race: Garlean Pureblood Age: 34 Nicknames: White Tigress Eorzean Alias: Kallie Kane Daughter of Kassandra nan Severus, an instructor at the Magitek Academy, and Tiberius het Khaine Khallendra entered the academy, excelling in physical combat and stratagem. It was learned shortly after her arrival that her father had conditioned her in these subject from a young age, conscripting foreigners as well as other highly skilled members of the military to tutor her along with his own teachings. At the age of 16, Khallendra made her way to active duty breezing through officer training and was offered a position as a Centurio. An offer in which she declined and was assigned to van Darnus of the VIIth, stationed in Eorzea. Report by Centurio Riobus quo Crastor; VIIth Legion “During a routine patrol we were ambushed by locals. I called for a retreat, not realizing until our arrival at our rendezvous point that the surprise attack had divided our unit; only half of our soldiers reporting. Duplicarius Khaine stepped forward with a proposal to double back, using the flank of our enemy to shield our advance. I instructed her that I could not risk what was left of my centuriae. Her response? ‘Then, risk only one.’ Khaine provided me with a rather well thought out plan in a short time and I could not refuse her request as she explained the details. I gave her one bell and the supplies she requested. Not but half a bell later, we witnessed explosions going on where the ambush had initially occurred. I was later told by the members of my centuriae that Khaine had lit off explosives to create the illusion that the enemy were being flanked, forcing them to split their forces. With a majority of them heading towards the blast, the larger half of my centurae rose up to fight back, overtaking the enemy. I can confirm that Duplicarius Khaine took out well over a dozen men as they split off to advance her location, striking when it was most opportune. Her bravery saved many lives, her tactics were sound and she did it all risking only one for the reward of many.” Reports from her centuriae under her command as Centurio; “Khallendra is firm but fair; She is not afraid to tell you how it is.” “She does not give false hope. She proves to us with her actions and her strength that victory is always within our grasp. I have witnessed few leading with the unwavering confidence she has, so much so it is inspiring.” “I leave her pep talks so excited that I can barely sleep. I just could not wait for our operations to begin.” “So many times, soldiers are given a false sense of security or somehow develop unrealistic levels of confidence causing them to believe they are invincible. I've seen many a man lose their lives by being reckless because of this. Khallendra has never allowed her unit to go into battle without being well aware of the consequences one faces while one is fighting and she has also never led us astray with her strategies. She knows how to make a unit become a true cohesive machine, making us all the better for it.” “I'd follow her to my end without a second thought.” The report is of the following mission launched Khallendra from Duplicarius to Centurion doing so in half a cycle. Report from Primus pilus Qusaria rem Liqurdus; “I was giving out the orders and assignments among the manipulus. Centurio Khaine, without hesitation, called into question my plan. Her arrogance led nearly a third of our force to agree, so I told them they would act as our support to keep our encampment warm as a punishment for questioning a superior officer.” Follow up report by Centurio Motosai quo Kasahagi; “There was a rumble from the mouth of the valley as our forces all entered; The enemy had blocked off our only means for retreat, which was similar to what quo Khaine warned us of and suggested to have plan in place should such happen. Primus Liqurdus had argued that the valley was a tactical advantage, punishing those that questioned her strategy. The enemy came at us from nearly all sides, forcing Primus Liqurdus to surrender. There we were dead of night all bound and being watched over. An eerie silence was all that could be heard, when it was suddenly broken by a commotion shortly followed by our captors fleeing for their lives. There we saw Khallendra quo Khaine leading the charge that had our enemies retreating. She had left behind a few soldiers to cut us all free while her unit caught up to the enemy, dispensing them. Qusaria made the choice to reprimand Khallendra when she returned, her tone furious and her body entirely too close. She had claimed that every was going according to her plan. Khaine laid her out.” Reports showed that the Primus Pilus’ plan would have likely cost several lives and risked the mission entirely. Khallendra did what was necessary of her to ensure victory and the survival of the unit with as few losses as possible. Instead of being reprimanded for her actions, she was promoted to Primus Pilus. Reports from her centuriae while she was Primus Pilus; “My first encounter with rem Khaine, she was giving an inspirational speech before an operation, just as any before her. It was to my surprise that I saw her fighting alongside us. Not off at the rear, directing us, but at the front lines. Her words were not only words, but a promise. I was inspired by her presence.” “After returning from an unsuccessful mission, rem Khaine went over all the things we did wrong, then suddenly followed up with how, despite our overall failure, we did do some things right. Not only did she tell us what we were successful with, she took a portion of the blame as our commanding officer, explaining how she too failed us, but it was a lesson learned for all. I felt valued and encouraged even though we lost.” As project meteor became a known focus of the the VIIth, Khallendra along with others were sought out by to covertly aid the Eorzean Alliance against Van Darnus, so that we the empire would have an intact Eorzea to conquer. After years spent with Nael van Darnus, Khallendra noticed he was subtly acting strangely. This encouraged her to do as was requested. In exchange for her aid, she was promised rewards upon success. Official report shows this was not what drove her, but the fact that her legion was acting out of the interests of Garlemald was enough for her. Khallendra submitted a proposal to build a covert facility in the soon to be residential district called the Mists. She suggested this location due to its ability for ideal receival of shipments. Her proposal was for a house that would act as a decoy with a fully functional Castrum beneath. Darnus approved the facility, providing funds and resources needed to make it happen. Khallendra requisitioned Katherina mal Khaine to have a heavy hand in the design and security. Khallendra’s report; “The day is upon us that van Darnus plans to unleash Dalamud upon Eorzea. I have caught wind that the requested assistance from the XIVth did not go well. I hope all my efforts to afford Eorzea the chance to thwart this were not for nothing.” Khallendra’s official report after returning to Garlemald following her survival at the battle of Carteneau was as follows. This battle saw many of those who looked to her for guidance slain; many of whom were friends and trusted cohorts. Proving she would do what needed to be done no matter the cost. “The grand companies held strong as the moon came down. It unleashed the dreaded Bahamut and I saw allies burnt to ash… I consider myself lucky to be alive, but I know it is because my fight is far from over. Van Darnus had lost her mind to the powers at work, using her whole legion as pawns for this great power… The corruption ran deep into our ranks it would seem. Not everyone is meant to wield the power they are given.” Her report and loyalty to the Empire from aiding in preventing more chaos and destruction than there could have been, Khallendra rem Khaine was promoted to Praefectus Castrum, assigned to the VIIIth Legion in Othard. There, she was responsible for training conscripts, aiding the imperial shadow program, defense of Castrums, ensuring facilities ran at high capacity, even overseeing a few experiments and even managed to learn some of Othard’s specific arts of combat, such was her dedication to her assignments. Khallendra sas Khaine had, and still has, a keen eye for potential, seeing countryman and conscript alike promoted as well as skill potential unlocked. With this keen eye she was also able to route out weakness and pluck it from the ranks. Sas Khaine came forth with a request of a special unit that she would personally command where this unit would be hand picked to undergo the most dangerous of operations. She set forth rigorous trials to determine who was worthy. It became known as the Garlean death squad, a group that was as fearless as it was formidable. They left piles of bodies and carnage in their wake. Completing dozens of operations with no casualties but extensive collateral damage. They became a fear factor among the residents of Othard. Her chosen are as follows: Octavia Severus A magitek engineer with a keen eye for archery, known for her specialty magitek arrows. She engineered her own bow, quiver and nearly a dozen special arrow types. She is also infamous for her over the top personality and thirst for combat. Dexius Octavius A known marksman. His combat specialty was wielding his personally crafted sniper blade. He was also responsible for crafting an armor piercing bullet. By hollowing out the tip of a pointed bullet, he was able to make a devastating, light weight weapon. These bullets took time to craft but he had production down to a science. He is known for being a coward in close range combat or so he liked to make people believe and is also quite the womanizer. Sleeping Smile An axe wielding hellsguard that was a spy for the Garlean Empire until she was discovered and had her tongue cut out for her actions. She turned from a life of a spy to a conscript out for vengeance. She uses a master crafted spiked axe that can launch its spikes as projectiles. Ulnant Vuinier An Ishgardian conscript, one that is quite pompous. Having grown up in high houses of Ishgard, he had a fascination with shiny, extravagant things. He was excommunicated after partaking in dragon's blood. He eventually came upon a Garlean patrol where he was asked to join or die. Being a great lancer prior to the Empire, he took to a gun-halberd all too well, feeling right at home with the new weapon. Tsuda Katsuhiko An imperial shadow and a resident of Doma that chose to fight with the strong instead of defending the weak. Tsuda would use his skills in unique ways, proving to be as sadistic as he was deadly. Refer to file on Doman Death Squad for further detail in operations. Reports from her Legion while she was Praefectus Castrum; Castrum Sentry “I was sent to face the Praefectus after allowing an intruder to break into the Castrum... I went half expecting to be demoted or, at worse, killed. I got there, gave my salute, and was immediately circled menacingly, as if I were sized up for my worth. I was told that this mistake was as far as I could fall and that I could only hope to go up from here; to learn from what was done. She went on to tell me the ramifications of what the break in could mean… while not outright saying so, she made it clear I had only one more chance.” Centurio Grastelius “Having to report my failure to the Praefectus after losing half my platoon was more than just swallowing my pride, as the Empire was not known to reward failure, especially for those of high rank. The Praefectus ordered I write letter to the families of each of the soldiers that died, admitting my failure and explaining how their son or daughter, husband or wife had fought valiantly. I was also commanded to admit failure to those that lived and hand my next mission to be lead by my Optio. I later learned that she also used to write letters to the families of the fallen. I was beholden to ask, but one sun I gathered the courage; Why did you have me write them? Her response was,’While yes they were just another soldier and perhaps nothing special or valuable at all, their family did not see them as such. If we wish to rule over these people, let them know, or at least let them perceive, that we cared about their loved one's sacrifice. It could very well prevent someone from rising up. Ruling requires fear but also some semblance of respect.’” Duplicarius “Praefectus sought to reward success and punish failure. Once a season, she would host a victory feast for the two highest performing Cohorts. The least successful were made to defend the Castrum while we would have the feast. Speeches were given, recognition was given and sometimes even promotions. One of the things known for during these feasts became was what we called the Praefectus Challenge; a drinking contest or test of fighting skill. The winner would get anything they desired, which inspired many. At the feast I attended, you could hear the silence fill the room for a moment as everyone thought of what they might want and then excited murmurs and chatter. Word spread of these feasts and inspired other Cohorts to perform at their best. I heard one feast had three recognized Cohorts because they performed that well.” Khallendra spent five and a half cycles in Doma, turning down a promotion in the process. Her leadership came to an abrupt end after a failed assassination attempt by a shinobi. Having survived, but not being medically cleared to carry out her duties, she was sent back to Garlemald where she proposed to finish the facility she requisitioned Darnus for. She explained that she would run a covert operation and once it was fully operational the facility could act as an additional resource for the XIVth. With the fall of the XIVth and the successful amount of intel and data gathered, her operation continues; Khallendra operates currently under no direct legion. Receiving her orders from her former Legatus, Jovian Zingus, but is allowed to be acquired by a legion who operates within Eorzea. Jovian van Zingus, recommendation for his former Praefectus. “To any who might acquire Praefectus Khaine; her loyalty is tried and true. Above and beyond she serves in everything she does. She has the incredible ability of turning weakness into strength and her attention to detail and keen mind for stratagem are among her strongest qualities. Her methods for training are unorthodox but effective. Khaine is a leader who stands with and not behind her unit, with a record to show she can bring out the best in her legion or unit. She is a valuable asset to any team.” Individuals who report to Khallendra sas Khaine, Talon quo Khaine Katherina mal Khaine Lucrezia eir Valenzetti Crescentia pyr Ligarius Octavia oen Severus L’nela aan Varya Lists names of at least a dozen more, standard ranking soldiers as well as a few spies, having a spy in each grand company as well as Ishgard. Note from Praefectus Architectorum “Khaine medically cleared for field combat.”

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