#canal dwellers
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[London, UK]
River Nomads, Liveaboards, Canal-Dwellers and Other People of the Water, friends, family, and accomplices various gather as part of ongoing efforts to fight the gentrification of the waterways.
#london#uk politics#ukpol#uk government#uk govt#ukgov#uk#gentrification#antigentrification#river nomads#liveaboard#canal dwellers#water protectors#water#waterways#class war#rishi sunak#united kingdom#antifa#antifascist#antifaschistische aktion#antinazi#antiauthoritarian#eat the rich#eat the fucking rich#environmental activism#activism#activist#protest#environmental
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between the brenta & the sile
santa sofia’s gothic fingers
pick the locks of the city
a foundry of clandestine meetings
& we are
a bridge of sighs
beguiled
confessing to the long shadows
ancient salt traders
watching buildings plunge into the water
iridescent on the murky emerald
like phantoms on a staircase
sometimes a garland
sometimes a wreath
these submissive ships
move through the canals & islands
romance petrified on their walls
crumbling & edified
carrying lagoon dwellers & winged lions
how they transcend
the hem of piss & vomit left by day trippers
& we rally this crooked masterpiece
we will not forsake
its dim lost corners of sorrow
& love
a wick of light
turning with the gardenia’s caramel perfume
©️ david sichler
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Was talking to @infinitysgrace about
Fantasy Accessibility
and we came to the conclusion that fantasy cities could do better.
Instead of isolating merfolk in tanks whenever they come on land, building specifically designed pools in public areas would allow them to interact with land dwellers far more easily and naturally. Placing them on equal footing, so to speak. Constructing canals either above or below ground would let merfolk access these areas independently of land dwellers.
Coastal cities in particular wouldn't end with the land but continue into the water. Transitioning into underwater sectors which would necessitate air pockets for the land dwelling citizens. In a reversal of the surface sectors.
Underwater lounges are quite popular with air breathers but they tend not to accommodate merfolk. So instead of draining the whole thing of water as is customary, maintain a limited number of air booths while the rest of the establishment retains it's water. As an added benefit a single broken window will not cause the entire thing to flood.
While the construction of underground districts are perfectly fine for sunlight sensitive races, the surface districts lack adequate shading. Most races, such as trolls, are only injured by direct sunlight. As such, covered walkways and cloth overhangs in parks would prevent avoidable accidents.
This would also double as protection for races sensitive to water, such as fire elementals. Offering protection from the rain.
Raised perches for flying species would prevent congestion in crowded areas. And as many of their number are claustrophobic, would also prevent panic attacks.
Raising the ceiling hight of public and governmental buildings would allow giants and other tall races access to necessary resources.
And none of these accomodations require the use of advanced technology or magic. It's just urban planning. And would help your fantasy city stand out from the generic pseudo medieval European aesthetic everyone loves using.
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Can I perhaps request a short fic about the Ravens and the Golden Garden/Targent for PL4 Day (I love those crazy kids)? I had this somewhat odd idea that Swift just adopts any kid with a bird name because he's quite literally a mama bird in my eyes...(Crow, pack your bags, lmao).
((Thank you for the request! I’m sorry this is a day late and it’s kind of open-ended but it was already longer than intended and I needed to finish it.))
Title: The Raven and the Swift
Description: The Black Ravens aren’t giving up the Golden Garden without a fight. Swift is sent to infiltrate Misthallery.
Set: After PL4, but before Miracle Mask and Azran Legacy
Spoilers: For PL4
Warnings: Referenced character/animal death, Swift carries a knife
Swift— dressed in white trainers, khaki cargo shorts, and a red floral shirt— made his way up to the Golden Garden.
While his ‘tourist’ disguise was intended to portray a casual demeanour, he admittedly (and ironically) would have felt more at ease in his Targent uniform. His face felt particularly exposed without his scarf and his sunglasses, but his dark brown contact lenses would have to do for now.
His targets were all too familiar with Targent’s appearance in Misthallery.
Swift was here under strict, classified orders from Commander Bronev. The mission he had been given required the upmost stealth and sagacity.
If Swift was recognised, he would be denied access to the Golden Garden, and the Azran site would remain out of Targent’s control.
Thus far, Targent’s best efforts to secure the garden had been impeded by a gang of ruffians wearing white bird masks and ragged black robes.
Despite Swift’s suggestions to deploy the assassins, Bronev had insisted that it was to be a bloodless, clandestine infiltration.
They didn’t want to alarm the local residents or the authorities… unlike Jean Descole, with his ridiculous attempt to demolish Misthallery over a year ago.
Had this ‘Black Raven gang’ been hired by Descole? The Ravens’ costumes certainly resembled Descole’s, with their white masks and billowing dark attire��
Not to mention, the Ravens had Descole’s ‘Spectre Robot’— with which, they had managed to drive Targent out of Misthallery so far…
Bronev was right; Targent couldn’t just invade the garden, guns blazing. Then their agency would look no better than Descole or his underlings.
Someone needed to take the garden right from under the Ravens’ noses. Someone like Swift.
Swift frowned as he joined the queue of visitors waiting to enter the Golden Garden. They were all being corralled like cattle along a canal, which had been emptied of water along with the reservoir.
Apparently, the giant lake-dweller that had once inhabited Misthallery had destroyed the flood gates and uncovered the entrance to the Golden Garden.
The creature had given her life, and (as rumour had it) allowed a sickly young girl to recover with the garden’s pure air.
Why should the residents of Misthallery alone be able to capitalise off the Golden Garden? The gifts of the Azran should be shared with the world!
The majority of these people, like Jean Descole, would have no respect for the Azran’s legacy; just lookat how they had treated the aquatic creature— the last of an ancient species. (They were known as “Lagushi”, in the ancient Azran language.)
If Targent had arrived in town before Descole, they would have temporality captured the creature, ensured her safety while they studied her, before releasing her back into the Golden Garden.
Swift would have made sure of it—
“Get your very own Loosha, right here!”
Swift raised an eyebrow at the salesperson hollering from a wooden stall on the bank of the canal. The person, along with their two colleagues, were all sporting Black Raven costumes.
The Ravens were gesturing to the blue ‘Loosha’ toys and other mechanise out on display. It seemed they were profiting off Loosha’s sacrifice. (How tactless…)
One red-haired woman purchased a T-shirt from the stall. She ran past Swift, whooping.
Reluctantly, Swift left the queue to approach the Ravens’ stall.
“Greetings, curious traveller!” called the Raven who had been hollering earlier. (They actually sounded quite young, now that Swift considered it.) “May I interest you in a Loosha friend?”
Swift hummed, perusing the wares with a sceptical eye. “Is that really what ‘Loosha’ looked like?”
The speaker replied, “‘Course it is—“
“We saw her up close,” a slightly taller Raven bragged.
“Did you now?” Swift drawled.
“Yes! We helped her open the flood gate—“
“That’s enough,” a third Raven hissed. They shuffled to the front of the stall to stare at Swift. “If you’re not gonna buy anything, then buzz off!”
“I will buy… this,” Swift said, pointing to a glittering grey-blue stone supposedly from the Golden Garden. He removed a £50 note from his wallet. “And I’m after some information, please.”
He placed the money on the stall counter. The Ravens snatched it up, resembling the scavenger birds they were named after.
“How can we help you, Sir?” the third Raven chimed, all traces of rudeness vanishing from their voice. Their associates observed Swift curiously.
Swift put the stone in his pocket, carefully pondering his next words. He gestured to the Ravens’ robes.
“What was the inspiration behind your… Black Raven apparel?”
The Ravens hadn’t expected that. The trio glanced at each other— engrossed in some silent discussion Swift had no part in. After a moment, the third Raven (the apparent leader) nodded.
The leader asked Swift, in a conspiratorial tone, “Have you heard about the Bird of Illusion?”
“Perhaps…” Swift hummed. He had read about that particular Azran legend, but how much could he reveal without raising the Ravens’ suspicions? “Is it linked to the Golden Garden, by any chance?”
“Indeed! The bird was said to lead people into the garden— but only those rare few who proved themselves worthy!”
“Worthy?” Swift snorted. Anyone could enter the Golden Garden these days…
Looking back at the visitors’ queue, Swift was annoyed— albeit, unsurprised— to see his space had been taken. At this rate, the garden would be closed before Swift could get inside!
He huffed. Behind him, Swift heard muttering from the Ravens.
Then, the lead Raven said, “Lost your place in the line?”
“Obviously…” Swift rolled his eyes back to them.
The leader whispered, “What if we could offer you a private tour of the garden?”
“Really?” Swift’s eyes narrowed. Was this a scam? Or an attempt to catch Swift off guard?”
“Really, really!” the leader breathed. “For £100–“
“I already gave you fifty,” Swift grumbled.
“Seventy, then! That’s my final offer,” the leader bargained. They offered Swift their long flowing sleeve.
Swift shook it.
“Meet here at midnight,” the leader muttered.
-
Swift knew he could very well be waltzing into a trap.
The Black Raven may have been inspired by the Bird of Illusion… but Jean Descole was familiar with Azran myths too. It would be in keeping with Descole to make an imitation of such a myth— like he had done with the spectre.
Consequently, Swift wasn’t going in unarmed.
The mist might not have been as bad as it was during the ‘spectre’ attacks, but it was still thick enough to cut with the small knife Swift carried in his shorts’ pocket. Really, he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it…
Still, his hand hovered over his pocket as he crept up the hill to the former-reservoir.
He had left early— intending to arrive before his ‘guide’— but there, waiting next to the canal, was the Black Raven.
The Raven was wielding a lantern, which they lifted upon Swift’s approach. Swift felt like he was about to be led into the afterlife by a ghostly guide…
No. Whatever happened tonight, Swift was going to walk away from it in tact.
“Finally,” the Raven snorted. It was the leader from earlier. Once again, Swift was struck by how youngthey sounded— no older than sixteen, surely.
Swift shrugged. He gestured to the entrance in the dam wall. “After you…”
The Raven gestured back at him.
“No, please— after you…”
Slowly, Swift turned towards the entrance. Swift sensed the incoming attack. He ducked as the lantern swung over his head. Spinning on the ground, Swift kicked the Raven off their feet.
The Raven cursed and landed on their back.
When Swift glared down at them, he saw their hood and the bird mask had come off. A boy with dark blonde hair was blinking up at him, with one dark eye not concealed by his fringe.
The boy wheezed. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
“Do you work him?” Swift demanded. He had removed his knife and was now pointing it towards the youth. “Jean Descole?”
“What?” the boy gasped. It was almost a pained laugh. “‘Course not! That nut-head tried to destroy our town—“
“Then explain why you still have his machine,” Swift hissed.
“Uh…” The boy struggled to sit up. “D’you mean the Spectre Bot? We nicked it from him—“
“And you’ve been using it to fight my associates ever since!”
“Well— yeah…” Frowning at Swift, the boy clambered to his feet. “Did you really think we’d let some other nut-heads take the garden? After Loosha died for it—?”
“My… organisation has no quarrel with you or your little gang,” Swift reasoned. He lowered his knife. “All we want is to ensure—“
“You just attacked me!”
“In self-defence after you attacked me!”
The boy huffed and crossed his arms. “So… what now? Are you gonna kill me?” Under his bravado, Swift could see he was shaking slightly.
“…No,” said Swift. He pocketed his knife. “What would be the point in that?”
Relief flashed through the boy’s one visible eye.
Swift turned his head towards the dam wall and the garden beyond. “Instead, I have a mission for you and the rest of the Black Ravens.”
“A mission?” The boy’s tone was still guarded, but Swift detected a hint of curiosity.
“For now, my agency will leave the garden alone— trusting that you and your friends will guard the site from Jean Descole.” Swift smiled and held out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
“Do I have a choice?” the boy muttered.
“The only other choice is that I will send in reinforcements to secure the garden,” Swift warned.
The Black Ravens’ leader sighed. He quickly shook hands with Swift.
“I’ll throw in three hundred pounds for your troubles,” Swift added.
Bronev wouldn’t be pleased about the price— but wasn’t it worth it to know the garden would be under watch, and Targent wouldn’t have to get their hands dirty?
And what if their agency could gain some new recruits along the way?
The boy hummed, before he agreed, “Deal… Erm, what’s your name? Just in case we need to get hold of you—“
“It’s Swift,” Swift answered. “Yourself?”
He smirked. “Crow.”
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Sam and his dog on the Shropshire and Union Canal at Wheaton Aston. They were pictured for a story about a ban on wood burners that threatens a freezing winter for boat dwellers.
Photograph: Gary Calton/the Observer #woodburners #winter #canalboat #dwellers
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TDWC 08: Secrets of the Forgotten
Pairing: House Leaders x gn! Reader
Warnings: canon divergence, slow burn
Summary: “Please, don’t mind me at all,” Claude beams, his grin as wide as the Cheshire cat’s.
Dimitri’s scowl deepens more. His eyes turn into the blue of an icy-cold glacier dominating the coastline of Faerghus in the North. “I do, actually. I wish to speak with the Herald in private.”
“Then get in line for an appointment. Our Herald is very popular with folks, as you know.” And with that, he closes the door in Dimitri’s face.
Notes: [01] | 07 | 09
Words: 9.7k
A/N: huge thanks to @raindrops-on-the-roof for joining me on this ride and being my beta-reader!!
i lived, bitch. it's been so long but after a year, i'm back with the next chapter and it was ton of fun working on it becase we're finally introduced to a new figure and get some original content. also claude's a menace and that's what we all want. enjoy!
08: Secrets of the Forgotten
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
— Edgar Allan Poe, “The Haunted Palace”
The underground canals running through Abyss, like veins moving blood through the body, are dirty and smell of human waste and decay, but Balthus plays a hand much dirtier and everyone huddling around the small, crooked table in Wilting Rose Inn groans in unison. Except for Byleth. She shows her own cards, a Royal Flush, and earns a round of earnest applause. You try catching her eye to find out whether she has turned time back in her favour but her ever-steady gaze doesn’t betray anything.
“Okay, lesson learnt.” Balthus gets up and stretches, putting his taut muscles on full display. “I never imagined there could be someone worse than Yuri out there. Clearly, I was wrong.”
“Is Yuri really that bad?” you ask, throwing your Flush on the table.
Balthus gives you a seldom serious look. “You have no idea.”
It’s certainly not that hard to imagine. He sometimes has this intense, piercing gaze in his eyes when he talks about knights patrolling too close to Abyss’ entrances for his liking, even though his whole body is a picture of relaxed serenity. He’s an amazing actor, you can give him that.
“Another round?” Byleth asks, already shuffling the cards expertly with her slender fingers. Apparently, part of being a mercenary also entails having an amazing poker face and constantly winning at card games.
“Oh, no, no, I think I’m on guard duty,” Marco, the Rogue, says and flees.
“I forgot I promised to check if there’s enough candle wax to … remake candles,” Ethan, the Marksman, says and bolts.
“These are the men supposed to protect us,” Barbara, the Smith, sighs. “Yet they fear their pride won’t stand after losing a game to a woman.” She gives Byleth a scrutinising look that is also approving at the same time and follows her comrades. The rest of the crowd scatters like butterflies fluttering away after being disturbed from their peaceful slumber.
“That Barbara.” Balthus shakes his head. “Can’t say I know anyone more capable of making grown men feel like little boys.”
“I like her,” you admit. “She doesn’t call me the Archbishop’s Lapdog.” Like most Abyssians.
“Just give everyone some time.” Balthus’ grin is part amusement, part pity as he gives your shoulder two hard claps to bid you good night. “They’ll see in no time you’re no church stuck-up.”
You aren’t so sure about that. You have been down here for a couple of days only, engaging in fights, defending the place against the mercenaries and bandits that wander into Abyss—on accident or on order still remains a question. It was obvious that fighting a few battles for them would not change their mind so quickly—a few good deeds did not undo the year-long abuse and persecution most of the Abyss dwellers had to suffer. You doubt you alone can heal those wounds, yet still there is a fierce fire burning inside you, a light blazing to banish all the shadows clinging to their pained hearts.
Not for the church’s sake, you’ve realised quickly, but for the Herald’s, for the first one loved Fódlan’s people; loves Fódlan’s people still. Every night you lie in your dark quarters, a single, tiny room with nothing but slatted frames and a thin blanket for a bed, nothing feels surer and more honest than this feeling Seiros’ Champion allows you to glimpse as if what it means to be the Herald is that simple.
And simple it is, for if you cannot remember your identity, your wishes and dreams and ambitions, you can take his on until you have figured it out for yourself; surround yourself with them just like you donned his ceremonial robes at the very beginning.
If Byleth questions your new-found vigour for battle, for tactics and schemes on the battlefield, she hasn’t voiced it yet. Or, maybe she is simply too occupied trying to understand the cards Fate has dealt her.
The Wilting Rose Inn clears out as the candles burn down until only a few loyal patrons remain in their respective, quiet corners. It becomes easier to talk to Byleth, since you cannot be sure who might be listening in, ready to forward information to Yuri and give him whatever reason to put your head on a stake. Not that he would actually do something like that. At least, you hope he would not do something like that.
You also realise how much you missed just being in her presence, and they become the only short moments during the day when you allow yourself to relax and droop your shoulders whenever exhaustion weighs you down.
Today, Byleth has made it her personal mission to teach you wood-carving. It goes as expected: you’ve cut yourself three times and have nothing to show for but a misshapen try at a cat that bears more resemblance to a stone you might find in one of Abyss’ gutters.
“I am,” you say as the sharp edge nicks your thumb once more, “a danger to myself and everyone around me.”
“Good thing I’m the only one here then.” Byleth gently takes the knife from you as if you are a toddler and only to be trusted with tools that are highly unlikely to chop your limbs off. Like a spoon. You’ll remind her of that next time she pushes a sword into your hands and demands you to participate in another sparring session. “I’m not as practised in magic and Tome wielding as Linhardt or Lysithea, but I am sure you still need all your fingers to conjure spells.”
“I could try it with my toes.” You wiggle your bloodied fingers at her like the boogie man. “Become the first Warlock that casts Dark magic with their feet.”
The smile that tugs at the corners of Byleth’s mouth is a greater victory than having chased off the bandits yesterday. It is followed by a frown though, one so light, the softest shift in her brows that you wouldn’t have noticed it were it not for the long hours during tea-time you spent studying the planes and features of her face like an artist might while studying their muse.
She leans back in her creaking chair and pockets her knife inside the hidden sheath strapped around her upper thigh. “We are making slow progress uncovering who is after Yuri and his friends,” Byleth says. “I know we’ve been through this already, but any guesses?”
“You’d think with how often we got rid of them by now, they would realise trying to drive the underground residents away is a waste of time. Whoever pays them must hold a serious grudge, why else would they spend so much money on sending mercs in here?”
A shadow passes Byleth’s eyes. “Unless these kids know more and are hiding the true reason someone would be after them.”
You understand her concern. You two have agreed to help, but your official duties and first responsibilities lie in taking care of the academy’s students and seeing that no harm comes to them. Which is no easy task as they so readily throw themselves into defending the Abyssians.
“I … I don’t think that is the case.”
Byleth simply lifts an eyebrow, urging you to go on.
“I can’t explain it very well. I just don’t think they have anything bad in mind. I don’t think there is a reason to doubt them.”
It doesn’t make sense, and yet you know Byleth is the last one to argue against a point like that. This quiet, strange connection that exists between you two is undeniable—just like the sun’s travel over the skies and that it lies to rest in the West and rises again in the East, day by day. Everything is connected, you just have to find out who is spinning the thread of your Fates together.
“I really thought they were trouble at first,” Byleth says and gestures to the barman to bring another round. “Especially Yuri. He is cunning and sharp, a dangerous combination for a leader.”
“I’d like to think he is hiding a warm, pleasant core beneath all that scheming and calculating,” you say, taking the drink the moment the bartender leaves it at your table. “Hiding it somewhere very, very deep.”
A corner of Byleth’s mouth twitches. She’s holding her own glass, lazily swirling the amber liquid in circles. “He is young, but I would not put it past him to hold ulterior motives. Promise me to be careful around him.”
“He and his lot helped me before they knew I was the Herald,” you concede, thinking back to Constance’s reaction after you woke up. “They simply saw someone in need of help, that’s all.” Since then, it has not occurred to you even once that they might be criminals hiding away under the church’s nose. You still think of Alfons and Briana’s small faces, their round button-noses and large eyes as they look up at Yuri in adoration. They deserve so much more than hiding away in some dark, rotting cellars.
You swallow your shot in one go, and instantly begin to cough and pound your chest as it goes down burning. Byleth knocks her glass back without any problem and swallows the burning liquid as if it were water. You still blink against the tears stinging in your eyes.
“You sound like you trust them already,” Byleth says and waves for another round. You try to share a mildly concerned look with the bartender, but he ignores you and slides two more shot glasses in front of your noses.
“Trust is maybe a little much,” you mumble, thinking of Yuri’s sharp smile, the way Hapi struggles and fails not to roll her eyes whenever you offer some insight with your Crest. “But I don’t think they’re bad. Or evil.”
Byleth nods, either because she has come to the same conclusion or because she puts trust in your decision not to doubt them. She downs another shot, looks at you expectantly. You scramble for another topic, anything that will save your throat from burning up a second time with this goddess-forsaken liquor.
Inevitably, your eyes fall on the sword strapped to her waist, only to call it a sword puts any blacksmith who has mastered the art of steel and iron to shame, and you have no desire to meet the one responsible for this craft, the one that bends bone and magic to their will. Byleth follows your gaze. Her hand rests on the hilt, hesitantly at first. You don’t think you have ever seen her hesitate before.
“The Sword of the Creator,” you mumble. “What does that even mean?” Has the Progenitor God truly wielded such a thing? What kind of goddess was she to come up with such a hideous weapon, to forge the Heroes’ Relics in such a portrayal and present them as gifts to humanity? It is like receiving an apple and only finding the core rotten and inhabited with worms after you have taken a bite. You wonder if this repulsive fascination is you or Seiros’ Champion, yet he remains silent.
Byleth stares into her glass as if the answers for all her questions lie hidden at the bottom and by drinking fast enough, she can unravel them. You are pretty sure that is how people become drunkards.
“Holding the sword … wielding it.” Byleth searches your gaze. “It felt raw. Unlike anything I have ever felt, and yet...” Her nimble fingers dance across the hilt once more, halt at the round socket where it seems that something spherical is missing. When she locks eyes with you, something tells you this is something she has not even told her students. Maybe she can’t tell them. Maybe, just like you feel with her, she feels that honesty comes easier when only you are around. You take a sip from your glass, welcoming for once the biting heat that forces you to shut your eyes and turn your head away.
Why can’t you tell her about the first Herald? Why do you want to keep his existence within you a secret? You listen for his voice, his opinion on the matter, but Seiros’ Champion is still silent, and you hope it doesn’t stay that way in matters of life or death. What is the use of an ancient dwelling inside your heart when he does not share in his unending knowledge and experience?
“And yet, it felt right,” Byleth finishes, cutting off your thoughts, and somehow you can easily imagine what she had felt—for the very same could be said about meeting the Herald. Right, natural. Like returning home. “I wonder … if there is any truth to the people’s claims that only a descendant of the King of Liberation would be able to use its power the way I did.”
You’ve read the historic texts on Nemesis, the King of Liberation. How the goddess gifted him the sword to use its power to save Fódlan from wicked gods over a thousand years ago. He liberated the people from their thralldom and thus was named King and Beloved of the people until the sword’s heavenly power, too terrifying and mighty for any mortal to bear, corrupted him and he turned to the darkness, waging war across the land and thus forcing Seiros to destroy him. It strengthens your belief that whatever benevolence the Goddess gifts her patrons, the price to pay in the end seems too high.
“I hope,” Byleth continues, “Professor Hanneman will have answers to that when we return. I still do not quite understand why Rhea has allowed me to keep it.”
“Is there any explanation as to why it was her sword inside the tomb and not the remains of Saint Seiros?” you ask. It would also beg the question where they are instead. But Byleth shakes her head.
“There wasn’t much time to go into details,” she says. Her fingers linger just a moment longer on the sword, before she withdraws them—a little reluctantly. “When you disappeared, we moved heaven and hell to find you. It was by mere luck Claude spotted one of the Abyssians disappear inside a passageway under the Abbey.”
“I hate how no one told us,” you say. “You would think a whole bunch of people living under the monastery is worth mentioning at some point after appointing us to our positions.”
“I’d like to think there was a reason for keeping silent about it,” Byleth says though even she doesn’t sound sure, and it strikes you as odd. Not Byleth doubting Rhea, but her not being sure about something. “A reason I can’t wait to hear once we’re back on the surface.” She reaches across the table, presenting her open palm to your hand holding your glass. You surrender and give it to her, watching a little too intently when her throat bobs as she swallows another round.
“Yuri expects another attack on the Abyss soon,” Byleth continues and rises to her feet. She stretches like a cat in the sun. “We should head to bed and rest up. I wouldn’t want a repeat of the last battle.”
“Oh, come on, it was not that bad.”
“You almost fell asleep from exhaustion when those two Grapplers advanced,” Byleth says, using her Professor voice on you.
You can’t help but grin. “And just like I predicted, you came and saved me.” Byleth’s mouth twitches into a flat line, but you can see that she is pleased. “Pulling an all-nighter to study the maps and outline of Abyss and the secrets it has to offer was a good idea. There are some interesting chambers holding traps and pitfalls. Whoever built this place really wanted to keep people away.”
“Makes you think what could be hiding deeper down in Abyss,” Byleth thinks aloud. “And maybe one of the next bandits will be kind enough to tell us.”
You nod. It was Claude’s idea to take someone captive and get answers from them, and hopefully shed some light on what it is exactly that their employer wants from Abyss.
Byleth escorts you to your chamber, your quiet voices bouncing off the damp walls in the dark corridor that stretch away into unprepossessing shadows. Unlike up in the monastery, the walls here are bare of tapestries and sometimes even of torches which makes traversing the tunnels difficult. You’ve let Linhardt show you simple fire spells to have a source of light on you.
“But it would be far easier if you learnt Light Magic,” he had commented as you two bent over scrolls and books, fighting a yawn. “Also much safer and highly unlikely to set yourself on fire.”
You had closed the tome he’d slid across the table to you, smiling stiffly. “Duly noted.”
The flame dancing across your palm now flickers but doesn’t waver, illuminating the corridor and painting Byleth’s face with a sheen of soft, amber light, giving her pale complexion a little colour. She is watching you conjuring the spell; how your fingers close around the flame as if it were a small beating heart, easily snuffed out whenever a breeze swipes through the corridors.
“I see your Magic Prowess is growing,” Byleth notes. “As is your ability to hold your own ground on the battlefield. You’ve grown used to fighting.”
That isn’t a compliment you had ever thought someone would tell you, but coming from Byleth, you know it is true. You have noticed it yourself—how with every battle it gets easier to see the enemy’s movements and abilities, their weapons and gear. Calling upon the power of the Herald’s Crest, usually a taxing and draining endeavour that left you resting up in your chambers, has become much easier since you have met Seiros’ Champion. Whenever he makes his presence known with quiet whispers of where to lead your students next, soft pushes as if he is placing his small child’s hand upon your shoulder to guide you to victory, his support is like wind in your sails, propelling you forward and lifting your courage.
“You are not as scared as you were in the beginning,” she continues. “You have never much wavered in your tactics, but you seem even more sure now.”
All that praise from her makes your ears scald with heat. Though praise it seems, you know that Byleth only speaks truth. “I have finally started to trust in my abilities. If people see me doubt, how can they follow where I lead them in battle?” you say, even though that is not entirely the truth, of course. Which is why you hastily add, “And I trust you. As long as you are by my side, we are invincible.”
“So it is,” Byleth says, turning her head so that her moss-green eyes dig into you like hooks. “And yet I wonder. This courage, is it just because you wish to defend Abyss? To prove yourself before Yuri and his companions. Or is there something else? Something that you want to share with me?”
You both pause in front of the door leading to your quarters, the silence smothering you like a heavy blanket of freshly fallen snow that puts everything into a deep slumber. No matter how much you dig through that snow though, you can’t find the resolve to tell her about Seiros’ Champion. Where would you even begin to explain?
It might seem that I have turned mad but believe me when I tell you the soul of the first Herald resides within me and sometimes, he whispers to me what I should do, and he likes to gossip from time to time as well. He seems fond of Edelgard in particular, and notices whenever she looks at you, but you choose not to see it.
You stare at her, not entirely sure what you are waiting for. Maybe that Byleth learns how to read your thoughts so you wouldn’t have to speak these outlandish things aloud. Instead, you say, “No. There is nothing.”
Byleth considers you for a moment. You make it a point not to shy away from her scrutinising gaze, as one would do with nothing to hide, you assume. In the end, she relents first, but not because she grants you an easy victory. You’re certain she knows when it is wise to return to a battle at a later time. “I see,” she says mildly. “Rest up, then. I will see you tomorrow.”
You watch her disappear down the hallway, the blade at her side peeking out from under her black robes like a sly wink; like a promise waiting for the right time to jump out of the shadows and strike you in the back. It occurs to you then, for the first time, that maybe the timely meeting with Seiros’ Champion and Byleth activating the power of the Sword of the Creator might be connected.
The Chalice of Beginnings. The way it all ties back to the Rite of Rising, the very same festivities used as a distraction to try and steal Seiros’ remains—unless the Western Church somehow knew what they would find inside the tomb would be something entirely different—and ultimately the reason you are all down here … calling it simply coincidence is like cooing at a fox shortly before it snaps with sharp fangs at you. It is hard to tell what play you are conducting on the stage unknown forces have set you upon. All you can hope for is that it doesn’t end up being a tragedy.
With the scrolls, papers and books Aelfric was kind enough to lend you spread over the make-shift workplace you’ve put together using crates, you’re spending the evening reading up on the Rite of Passing and the Four Apostles. Even though some of the texts are so badly damaged you can barely make out their content, it all matches with what Aelfric has already told you: the ritual is believed to have the power to resurrect a life that was lost using the chalice which only the Four Apostles had access to. After the ritual failed, they bound the chalice so that it would never fall into mortal hands. Capable of something that grand, it is no wonder whoever is after it throws ambush after ambush at the Abyssians in hopes to find crumbs leading to where this treasure of immeasurable worth might be.
But if that chalice really exists, where is it? To search for the Chasm of Bound below Abyss feels like trying to find a needle in a haystack. There is no telling how much time you have left before either Rhea demands everyone’s presence back or you are unable to protect the Abyssians any longer from the mob of greedy thugs.
“Knock knock,” a voice says from the entrance to your room.
You startle, too lost in thought to notice anyone approaching. Claude is leaning against the doorframe, having come up behind you as silent as a cat. He has changed out of his gear, wearing loose dark trousers tied at the waist, and a simple white shirt that stands in contrast against his tanned skin. The first buttons of his collar are open, showing the elegant curves of his collarbones. His dark hair is damp, curling against his temples and the nape of his neck.
“Did something happen?” you ask, moving in alarm to rise from your seat, though surely, he wouldn’t lean so leisurely and relaxed against the door if there was another attack. He confirms as much with a lazy wave of his hand, unhitching himself from the frame. “Nope, nothing to worry about. I just thought I’d drop by and say hi. Do you know how difficult it is to pin you down? You’ve gotten really busy since we’ve come down here.”
“You know, no rest for the wicked.” You try to restore order on your desk by organising the books and scrolls in one corner. You’ve completely lost track of time, and as it turns out, magical fire is incapable of burning candles to their wick, so there is really no telling how long you’ve been holed up in your room, studying the ancient texts. “Do you need something?”
“Just thought we’d have a nice, pleasant chat.” The smile flirting with Claude’s lips is dangerous for it tries to appear innocent, yet the way his green eyes glint with mischief, like the edge of a knife flashing as it is drawn from a hidden sheath, promises nothing good. “Been a while since we’ve had one of those.”
You can’t remember if you have ever had one with Claude. Maybe all those moons ago after you had awoken with your new power, which now feels like a lifetime ago. You lean back in your chair, allowing your eyes a break after all those hours of reading. Maybe this distraction might help.
“Okay, I’m all yours.” You stand up, waving at the chair to offer Claude a place to sit, and absolutely missing the way he shoots you an amused glance at your choice of words. Instead of taking up your offer though, he steps backward. Suspicion crawls up your back, feathery light like a spider making its way to new prey caught in its web.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Claude says and with a swift kick, shuts the door behind him. You stare at him, tongue-tied. Can students just do that with faculty members? Yuri’s voice creeps up from a dark corner in your memory: “You’d do well to keep in mind that the monastery rules don’t apply down here, Herald.”
“I just have a few questions, is all,” he continues, still smiling but anything pleasant in his voice has made room for an urgency that you can’t remember ever having heard coming from him. Claude crosses the room in quick strides, and leans his hips sideways against the table. His eyes flick over the remaining texts on your table, his head slightly cocking to one side to get a better angle to read them. When you clear your throat, he startles, and looks back up at you.
“Right, sorry.” He knows that you know that he, in fact, is not sorry. “The library here has some pretty interesting things, I gotta say. Books and scrolls you’d never find in the monastery’s library. There are some things that are hard to believe, though. There’s this funny book hidden inside a false cover that talks about a Distance Viewer and Flammable Black Water and a Metal-Hold Printing Machine. Imagine the technological advancement one of the nations would achieve if they could actually build and utilise devices like that.”
“Is that why you’re here?” you ask. “To talk about the Abyss’ book collection?”
“What? No. No, I—,” he begins, tapping his slender fingers impatiently against the wood. You don’t think you have ever seen this restlessness about him. Claude has always appeared as steady as his bow-hand, sure that wherever he aims the shot will land true. “I was just wondering if something happened after your fall down here. Something you can’t tell us.”
You feel as if ice water has been dumped down the back of your neck, shocking you to full alertness. Claude must see that he has caught you off guard; a look of hesitancy flashes across your face before you can speak. “And what would that something be, exactly?”
He lowers his voice. “I thought you might tell me.”
You stare at him, throat tight, the cold sweat sensation of anxiety spreading slowly through your limbs. “Nothing happened. Whatever gave you the idea that I’m hiding something from you guys?”
There is a moment of silence as you two trade a look that feels like a dare. There is something forbidding about the intensity of Claude’s gaze, the tension of his stillness. His fingers stop their rhythmic tap tap against the table, and now clutch onto its edge, his knuckles turning white. “I’ve always figured your reservation towards using your Crest came from the novelty of it. The foreignness of a power that isn’t yours. But in our recent battles, there’s nothing of that anymore.
“I thought maybe it’s because you met the Ashen Wolves and the people from Abyss, and you feel sympathy towards them and that’s giving you a little more oomph to try making use of the Crest. But that’s not it, is it? You’ve changed from despising the powers to fully embracing them. Wielding them as if you’ve never done anything else in your life.”
You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. Your tongue darts out to lick your lips, and you don’t miss Claude’s eyes quickly jumping down to your mouth for a second. Or maybe it was just your imagination, the flickering shadow of the small candle’s light across his face. “Maybe I’ve just grown used to it,” you reply quietly.
“Herald, you grow used to balding or riding a new steed.” He looks at you sharply, his head tilted to the side. Something in his voice changes in that moment. “You don’t get used to something that changes your life from being a nobody to suddenly standing in the centre of the world. Not really.” His voice has a veneer of calm, but beneath you could hear the vibration of some very different emotion.
What changed for you, then? you want to ask. It doesn’t feel like the answer would be so simple as the appointment to the heir of the Leicester Alliance.
You shift, folding your arms in front of you for lack of a response. As much as you like to discount Claude’s tendency for plots and schemes, there is something disconcertingly earnest about him right now. The similarity is striking you all of a sudden, the shadow passing his eyes one you have already seen in Sylvain’s when he had tried talking about his Crest and its troubles.
“All I’m saying is,” Claude continues, and he takes a step towards you. Instinctively, you take one back. He takes another one. This goes on until it ends with your back against the wall. “All I’m saying is that maybe Teach finding her new shiny weapon triggered something in you,” he says now, propping himself up against the wall, his hand splayed beside your head. “Maybe a memory? Something like that?”
You hold his gaze, not shying away from his scrutinising eyes or the close proximity. So, you are not the only one thinking that the Sword of the Creator and the Crest of the Herald are connected in a way the other Crests are not. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Claude, of all people, is the first to have noticed it. You had simply failed—or underestimated him, rather—to anticipate that he would also act on that theory and corner you like a mouse to get answers. Literally.
“Nothing like that happened, Claude,” you say now, feeling like you’re walking on a lightrope, and a single misplaced word could send you plunging. And then, he is there, his presence like the light brush of soft flower petals against the back of your mind. Do not tell him yet. Do not tell anyone yet, I ask of you. I do not wish the world to know I still exist. Silly Champion of Seiros. You’ve already understood his feelings perfectly without him having to tell you.
“Somehow, I was given this power. I tried fighting it for so long, but there’s no way I can run from this. I realised that, so now I’m just trying to make the best out of it.” It is only half the truth, but that is something Claude doesn’t need to know. It is also something he didn’t want to hearyou realise as you watch his expression turn into something close to disappointment.
“I’m sure Lady Rhea would enjoy hearing this,” Claude says, his voice deep and thin like a knife’s edge—and just as sharp.
“You’re not very subtle, Claude.” You try to move past him, but he doesn’t budge. “What’s your problem?”
“Problem? There is no problem.” The mask of bored indifference slips back on his face, turning his eyes distant, and cold even. An easy smile stretches over his features, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I just enjoy teasing you.”
“And maybe I’ll enjoy sticking a dagger in your side.”
Claude laughs. “That’s not very Heraldy of you.”
You try to see if that laugh means you’re good, but his eyes are closed doors. Your face must be a question mark, because he says, “Herald,” and touches your cheek gently, grazing your skin with the rough pads of his fingers. You inhale sharply, gaze snapping up to his. Claude’s eyes widen, realising what he’s doing only then, and his warm, calloused fingers freeze against your cheek.
Just as he opens his mouth, knocks come from your front door. He lifts an eyebrow at you, asking if you are expecting visitors at this time. You just shrug. You certainly didn’t expect him, and yet here he is.
Claude pushes himself off the wall, allowing you to cross the room and open the door a crack wide. Through the narrow opening you see Dimitri standing in the hallway. When he spies you glancing at him, he gives you a shy smile that quickly turns into a scowl when Claude comes up behind you. He presses his chest against your back and leans an arm against the door frame above your head. “Oh, Dimitri?” Claude drawls.
Dimitri pales as he sees, and certainly misunderstands the sudden intimate proximity Claude is displaying. He presses his mouth into a thin line. “Pardon the intrusion, Herald. I thought maybe this would be a good moment to review the last battle reports. But I see…,” and here his eyes dart over to Claude and sweep over him as if he were a particularly unpleasant surprise he found under his bed, “… you are preoccupied.”
“Please, don’t mind me at all,” Claude beams, his grin as wide as the Cheshire cat’s.
Dimitri’s scowl deepens more. His eyes turn into the blue of an icy-cold glacier dominating the coastline of Faerghus in the North. “I do, actually. I wish to speak with the Herald in private.”
“Then get in line for an appointment. Our Herald is very popular with folks, as you know.” And with that, he closes the door in Dimitri’s face.
You’re pretty sure Dimitri on the other side is wearing the same expression of dumbfounded surprise that is on your face. “What is going on with you, Claude?” you ask and turn to him, forgetting how close he is. When you almost bump into his chest, you take a hurried step to the side. “The way you are acting is unbecoming of someone with your station.”
Claude shrugs. “Don’t worry, Dimitri won’t take it to heart. It’s just that things have started to happen that don’t make sense, and I am all about making sense of the senseless.” He looks over at you, smiling. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
You’re spared the eye roll for an answer when distant bell ringing heralds another ambush on Abyss. Claude heaves a long, weary sigh. “No rest for the wicked, huh…” He turns to open the door, but except a little rattle, nothing happens, no matter how hard he shakes at the handle.
“Come on,” you say, unable to contain the urgency in your voice. “Open the door.”
“Well.” He turns around. “It appears that it is stuck.”
Your eyes go wide. “Then unstuck it.”
Claude throws himself against the door. It doesn’t budge. He curses. “My shoulder will never be the same. I expect you to nurse me back to health when this is over.”
“This is your fault,” you press out between gritted teeth. “Just break the door down, we can’t waste more time.”
“That’s what I’m—,” Claude throws himself once more against the hard wood, “—trying.”
There’s a loud crack and the door opens to the other side; not by swinging but by being lifted out of its hinges. Behind it, Dimitri is peeking around the frame, eyebrows raised to his hairline. “I thought you two might be in need of some assistance.”
“Yeah, I was … I was about to do the same,” Claude says.
You push him aside, hurrying down the corridor and waving them after you. “Lucky for us, Dimitri was faster.”
“No, really!” Claude calls after you. “I was just about to do the same!”
The fight lasted throughout the whole night. When you return to your chamber, drenched in grime and blood, you can’t even be bothered with your missing door and fall face first into your bed, remembering too late that it’s as hard as the ground.
After an hour or two of resting, you quickly clean yourself up and meet the others for a short breakfast of dry rye bread and mushy oats, letting them believe the red bump on your forehead is from the battle. There is a little spare time before the meeting to discuss your next course of action, so you head back to your room for some more shut-eye.
“Herald.”
A raspy whisper stops you, drawing your attention to a chamber you walked past on your way to the classroom many times. Not once has it been occupied since your arrival in Abyss. But now it is decorated with heavy velvet curtains and tapestries. Violet lights hang from lanterns on the ceiling, illuminating the heavy furniture and curtains in soft, misty light. You remember Constance mentioning something about a Wayseer’s room, usually empty, but now inhabited by an elderly woman sitting in an armchair too big for her behind a round, mahogany table. You can only see a pair of narrow, dark eyes staring up at you. Her nose and mouth are hidden behind a white veil.
“Please, do come in, Herald,” the woman croons and gestures to an empty, cushioned chair standing before the table. Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “There is so much we have to discuss.”
Something in your chest gives a sudden, sharp tug. Seiros’ Champion? No, this feels different. Somehow … It feels wrong. You shouldn’t be here. You hover within the doorframe, looking down the corridor left and right. It is like everyone except you two has left Abyss.
Curiosity taking you in its reins, you step into the room, your eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. “Who are you?” you ask, cautiously making your way across the room towards the chair.
The woman chuckles.
“They call me Wayseer, Herald. For I see the paths people have walked and how far they still have to march until they arrive at their destination.”
You pause, hand resting on the chair’s backrest. The wood feels impossibly cold against your skin. “You can see … the future?”
The woman chuckles again. It is the sound of dry leaves scattered by the cold autumn wind. “You mean do I have the same ability as you? Making Time bow to me? Oh no. Nothing of the like. I simply glimpse where I am allowed. No one else has what you wield.”
“Of course.” You sit, quickly swallowing your disappointment.
“Oh, but why frown like that, Herald.” The Wayseer places her hands to both sides of a translucent orb placed before her on a dark socket. You could have sworn it was not there a second ago. They were small hands with lithe fingers like spider legs. On each finger she wore heavy rings. “So many would kill for what you seem not to appreciate. Power. Glory. The chance to sit upon the throne of the world.”
“I would appreciate people not telling me how to feel about it,” you snap, irritation lashing out like a cornered beast. Taken aback, you lean away from her, your back pressed right against the cold chair. It feels as if you are pressing yourself against a solid block of ice. Where did this come from? This fury?
The Wayseer’s lip curls. If she’s taken offence at your irritation, she doesn’t show. She shifts in her seat like a child impatient to finally be allowed to play with a new toy.
“What can you tell me about my paths then?” you ask. There is little you hope for, really. If she tells you she sees you living in a nice house by the sea in twenty years or so, that is all you can ask for. A peaceful life. You would simply be happy hearing you will survive the next few years. And, if she can see where exactly you have come from, then maybe luck really is on your side this time and you can finally find some answers.
“Very well.” The Wayseer’s chuckle is drier than crisp autumn leaves. She holds out her wiry hand and says, “Close your eyes, Herald, and give me your hand.”
You aren’t too keen on skinship with a stranger, but just to humour both of you, you comply, and placing your hand into hers, palm up, you close your eyes. You feel her gnarly fingers dance over your wrist, brushing over your open palm as light as a spider’s touch. You fight a shudder.
The pain is so sudden and jarring like a lightning bolt. Before you can pull your hand back, the Wayseer grabs your wrist hard like a vice—surprisingly strong for someone this old. Her head darts forward and she sucks your bleeding finger into her greedy mouth as if it were water and she is dying of thirst.
“What are you doing?” you demand, fighting to free your hand. Finally, the Wayseer releases your finger with a wet pop from her lips, and for a second you believe to see razor sharp teeth before the veil obscures her mouth again.
The Wayseer smacks her lips and scratches her nails against the smooth surface of her orb. Maybe this is all a joke. If Claude and Hilda jump out from under the table any second and laugh about the silly face you’re making, you wouldn’t even be angry. But no one emerges, and you stay alone with this mad woman. She’s moving her hands in strange motions over the orb, and in response colourful clouds swirl inside the ball. First red, then blue, and golden until, like a storm rolling in, all of a sudden it becomes black.
The Wayseer recoils.
She tries to suck in air as if she is drowning, her eyes bulging like a dead fish’s. She spits on the ground and a shudder wrecks through her, one that has her falling from her armchair onto the ground, her body convulsing. She begins to cough, a horrible, rattling sound, as if there is something stuck deep inside her that she can’t get out. Clawing at her throat, digging her nails deep enough into the skin to tear, she kicks and wails as if set in invisible flames. As if something is burning her up from the inside. Like poison.
You jump to your feet, rounding the table to help her but she screeches and scrambles away from you, eyes ripped wide open. “Who … no, what are you?” she croaks.
“I … I don’t know.” Your voice is so quiet you don’t know if she can even hear you. “I hoped you could tell me.”
The Wayseer turns to the side and spits some more. It is so dark that it almost looks black, whatever that is—blood or maybe something far gruesome?
Did I do that? you think, horrified as you watch her climb to her feet, still shaking and shuddering. You are about to apologise, reaching forward to steady her by her elbow, but the Wayseer shakes your effort away impatiently as if you are nothing but an annoying fly.
“Oh, my dear, you seem forsaken to me,” she says, and you can’t hold back your surprise how easily she bears no mind or grudge to whatever has happened. Whatever you might have caused. “Just like—” She stops. Her eyes are fixed on her orb that is now swirling in undistinguishable shapes. She leans over it, her gaze pining you like a dead animal on a corkboard. “It seems to me that the answers you seek lie in the Shadow Library, Herald,” the Wayseer says now, her voice suddenly smooth like clear water. Or the satin concealing a sharp knife. But what makes your stomach churn is the way she purred “Herald.” Almost mockingly, and you realise the spiking fear in your stomach doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to the first Herald.
“Why can’t you tell me?” you ask.
“Because it is not my place to tell you.” The Wayseer casts down her eyes now. Her whole behaviour doesn’t make sense. Making light of the Herald’s name first, now acting obedient. You listen inside for the voice of Seiros’ Champion and find one emotion burning like a beacon in the dark. Get out. She is the enemy.
You jump to your feet, almost knocking the table over. “I have to go.”
“Of course.” The Wayseer bows her head slightly, and from the way her eyes become slits, you can see she is smiling underneath the veil. “But don’t forget, the Shadow Library holds answers. Do not let anyone stop you from chasing the truth.”
You give an awkward nod, not trusting your voice.
When you quickly leave the room and throw a last glance back, you think you see the unfamiliar face of a man staring back at you from inside the Wayseer’s orbs, his eyes eerily white.
The Shadow Library is a dark, damp room tucked away at the end of a narrow hall that is seldom frequented by the Abyssians. When you take a look inside, relief fills you that only Linhardt is currently occupying a seat close to a wall, an uneven stack of books his only companion.
The Wayseer didn’t say specifically where to look, but you would start with records on the first Herald and see what you could turn up about him.
But first, you have to deal with Linhardt who’s napping away in his seat, cheek squished against the edge of an open book.
“Linhardt.” You shake him. “Linhardt!”
He jerks up. “I’m awake,” he lies, blinking sleepily against the dim candle’s light. He looks up at you, squints and seems to recognise who caught him. “Oh, it’s just you, Herald. Come to a late study session as well? Or early morning? It’s certainly hard to tell down here with no sun.”
“How long have you been awake?”
Linhardt thinks about that for a moment, his eyes losing focus, then refocusing again. “Forty-two hours, maybe?”
“Bed. Now.”
He leans back, considering the idea. “We can’t say for how long we’ll have access to this hidden knowledge. Did you know it was only with the founding of the Adrestian Empire that we have the calendar as we know it today. They used to call our moons ‘months,’ if you can believe something this extraordinary! You can’t find data like that up in the monastery’s library.”
“Linhardt,” you repeat. “Go to bed. Or do you want me to get Byleth?”
Linhardt doesn’t need to consider this. He raises to his feet, sways a little from exhaustion, and tugs his uniform in order. “Good night, Herald.”
He turns and moves to the exit, but you call him back. “Linhardt!”
He stops. You point at the table. His mouth twitches into an unpleasant line, the only sight of his disapproval, but he returns, drops the books and scrolls he’s hidden in the folds of his robes, and leaves for good.
Quiet settles, and you give it a minute or two to calm your beating heart. “I know you don’t like this,” you say out loud, hoping Seiros’ Champion might finally stop being so anxious inside you. “I don’t trust that Wayseer either, but if I find answers here, I’ll take anything I can get.” He doesn’t know what it is like not knowing anything. Are you even a real person if you don’t have a past; if you don’t have anything or anyone remembering you? “I have a right to know who I am.”
Unfathomable sadness spills at those words—his mixing with yours and you can’t say who started it. But he quickly recedes, leaving you alone. Somehow you feel even worse now. Lonely. You wonder where he left to where you can’t follow him.
You make your way along the walls of books, allowing your fingers to gently journey over the spines. There are so many stories in here that so few people get to read. This library’s collection appears larger than the monastery’s as well, solely for the fact that they don’t have enough space for all the knowledge cramped into every nook and cranny. Wherever there is even some small additional space, someone has made it their calling to fill that blank spot with a book—even when it doesn’t fit.
Without any idea to start, you continue down the aisle and pick whatever sounds interesting. Letters from heirs to noble houses, an antiquated note on what meat to use for a special dish prepared for the new emperor at ceremonies, a novel set in the Adrestian Empire with a date of removal and Seteth’s signature. So this is where the books end up that Seteth doesn’t allow up in the monastery.
You’d hoped to find more about the Herald down here maybe, but there are no records, no memoirs, not even discourse. Why did no one care to keep your records alive? you wonder, but wherever the boy has retreated to, he can’t hear you, or perhaps, chooses not to hear you.
Nothing sticks out as something truly worthy of Seteth’s scorn at first glance. That is until you find the burnt remnants of a report stating some details on a handful of noble houses, another scroll that talks about a False God and the children of men fleeing to the depths of the earth. One paper strikes you as particularly important, but the page is so old and worn that most of the text is illegible. The Truth of Heroes’ Relics. You wonder what it might be, what truth lies within the relics and their Crests that the writer of this paper finished with the words “I daresay the Goddess would not wish for me to learn more than I already have.”
You finally hit a breakthrough when a stack of papers falls to your feet, bundled together with a crumbling piece of wool. When you begin to read, you realise these are the fragments of a forgotten memoir of someone who had fought in the War of Heroes. With clammy hands, you begin to read.
__/15 - Ailell Forest
It has been several moons since King Nemesis was defeated, and the tides of war have turned from bad to worse. I have received news that my friend Daphnel has fallen as well. Those zealots are after our heads, and those of our leaders. All that is left for us is to disappear into the muddy waters Seiros has created. My long life may soon come to an end …
__/2 - Itha Plains
I somehow escaped with my life, but I fear the end is near. They tell stories of the Shadowlord’s execution and with him gone, what point is there for us, those who have survived? Those who remain and carry a broken legacy. People are worried, for their Herald has locked himself in his rooms, unwilling to speak to his followers or Saint Seiros. They do not understand how he could be so distraught over the Shadowlord’s death. They do not know the truth. Once more, Seiros has chosen to keep secrets, to play with her charges’ obedience and fear.
But I know.
The world will know the truth at some point and then Seiros will reap the rotten harvest of what she has sown.
I misspoke and was driven away to the Fhirid River. They hunt us like animals. I considered leaving Crusher behind, hiding my trails. Maybe it is too late for that. I wish I could see my wife and son again … just one last time.
You read the content of the worn pages once more, trying to make a sense of it. Daphnel was one of the Ten Heroes, as was the author of this letter—if you remember correctly, the Heroes’ Relic Crusher was wielded by Dominic. It must be from after the corruption if King Nemesis was defeated, but from the way those words are framed, the author doesn’t strike you as someone mad for more power or revenge. It is strange but you feel pity for this person.
There is another name that stands out, of course, one that you have not heard in all your moons since joining the church.
The Shadowlord.
The name is like a brush of icy cold fingers against your mind, as gently as a snake grazing your ankle before it springs forward and sinks its venomous fangs deep into your flesh. A shiver passes your body, only it is settled so deep within your bones that you know this is not your fear rekindled.
But as you focus on chasing after Seiros’ Champion before he can disappear back into the murky depths of your mind, a cough comes from the library’s entrance. Your gaze snaps up to see Yuri standing in the doorway. The look of annoyance on his face is something that deserves its own painting to commemorate it.
“I hope you plan on putting that back exactly where you found it,” he says, strolling over as if he doesn’t have any care in the world but the tense set of his shoulders betrays him. “Wouldn’t want any of that to find its way into the hands of someone from the surface.”
“Don’t you get bored?” you ask, folding the papers back together and pushing them back between two books.
Yuri stops, quickly eyeing what you’ve put away to undoubtedly have a look himself once you leave. “Bored of what?”
“Pretending I’m still the villain and here to sell out your people?”
To your surprise, a look of unabashed amusement lights up his face for a moment. It settles back to a somewhat neutral expression, but the glee still remains in the soft dip of the dimple on his left cheek.
“Better safe than sorry,” Yuri replies, shrugging casually. His nimble fingers dance across book spines. “Though yes, even I must admit that your deeds for the people of Abyss are not what I have expected.” His fingers pause. Yuri leans forward, lilac eyes gleaming. His face is predatory, but his voice is gentle. “You are not what I have expected.”
His words feel like the warm flick of a candle’s light. You didn’t realise until now how much you cared for Yuri’s approval. To think he’s warming up to you slowly might still be an exaggeration, but maybe he’ll grant you the generosity of a looser tongue now that he doesn’t see you as the enemy.
Your eyes skim back to where you’ve returned the letters, fingers itching to take them with you until you know every word by heart. “I’ve … I’ve read about this person. Shadowlord. Any idea who that was?”
Yuri raises a slim eyebrow. “The Shadowlord?” He looks a little puzzled, his eyes roaming over the books. “It’s just a story. A boogie man living in the shadows that steals you away if you don’t finish eating all your vegetables. Grandparents used to tell their grandchildren that story so they wouldn’t be naughty.”
“So just the bad guy in a fairy tale?”
“Is what I’ve heard.” He gives a single shrug. “Who knows. All fairy tales have a spark of truth to them though. Maybe he truly existed.”
You’re sure that is what people thought about the Herald as well until the story became reality. You just hope this particular story remains one.
“Also, I would appreciate it if you don’t go around the monastery telling everyone what you’re reading down here,” Yuri says, waving towards the library’s entrance to signal your late-night reading has come to an end.
You hesitate only a moment before you follow him down the corridor, leaving the books and tomes behind. “Okay, I won’t tell anyone.”
“Great.” He winks at you. “Saves me the trouble of sneaking into your room and slitting your throat.”
“Charming as always.”
Maybe one day you’ll be capable of holding a pleasant conversation with him without any death threats. Though it already feels as if a little of Yuri’s animosity has disappeared in favour of giving you a chance to prove yourself.
He drops you off at the door to your quarters, already flaunting down the corridor to whatever nightly escapade fancies his tastes without so much as a wave at you over his shoulder.
“That Wayseer,” you say before he can disappear into the shadows. “What’s her deal?”
Yuri stops. He turns slowly, his eyes flitting from the dark corners of the flickering lights on the walls to you. There’s a question in his eyes you don’t know the answer to. “What Wayseer?” he asks, and you can feel your blood run cold. “I know everyone going in and out of Abyss, and I haven’t heard about someone like that hanging around.”
“But that room next to the scrap chamber…”
“Hasn’t been occupied in years.” When Yuri answers this time, he turns around and looks at you a little sceptical but also impatient as if he doesn’t have time for whatever pipe dreams you’ve come up with. “I guess someone played a joke on you. Don’t let it get to you.”
You nod, but your mind still lingers in that room, with that person. It would be easy to brush it off as a joke. But this sense of wrongness spikes again, a kernel of goddess-awful flavour that the more you think about it has you gagging. You had felt an awareness. No. More than awareness, more sentient than that. It was recognition.
A/N: someone over at ao3 made fanart of the first herald and i'm absolutely in love!! check it out here!
if you're interested to join the taglist, please let me know! i want to resume uploads every month, so the next chapter should be up on September 15th. thanks for reading and take care!
#phill.tdwc#fe3h x reader#fe3h dimitri x reader#fe3h claude x reader#fe3h edelgard x reader#dimitri x reader#claude x reader#edelgard x reader#fe3h house leaders x reader#fe3h x oc#fe3h x gn!reader
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So does Ingo live in the catacombs under the opera house (or equivalent) or the sewers or basement, etc?
Karma and I affectionately refer to Phanton Ingo as a Rat Man. He lives in your walls and in the Sewer. Or like whatever that area is. Its got water and its underground but the thought of living in a sewer is very smelly so it can be like. Near an underground canal or something. But yeah, he's a basement dweller-
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In Europe, during the late Middle Ages from 1250 to 1500, so-called “madness” was understood differently from what it became hundreds of years later. People with psychological issues were essentially thought of as just being “different.” Some were even seen as having a wisdom that demonstrated the limits of reason. During this time, most of those with a mental illness or disorder wandered freely, as long as they were in someone else’s backyard. If an alleged “madman” was found in one European city, he’d be sent to a sailor or merchant who’d drop them off in another city or a sparsely populated area of countryside.
This custom was particularly common in Germany: in fifteenth-century Nuremberg, records show how 31 of 63 mentally ill people were removed from the city in carriages and boats, while in Frankfurt, at the end of the fourteenth century, seamen were instructed to round up and remove any such people found wandering naked. The practice of shipping off mentally ill city dwellers is where we get the phrase, “ship of fools,” a term popularized in literature and other artwork throughout the years. Several works refer to the Narrenschiff, or “ship of fools,” which sailed the waters of the Rhine and Flemisch canals, carrying away the city’s “madmen”. Hieronymus Bosch, the famous Dutch painter, also captured this image in his painting, The Ship of Fools, made between 1490 and 1500.
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Year in Review
[crappily copypasted because reblogging it directly will just give me an error message]
I posted 559 times in 2022
That's 270 more posts than 2021!
111 posts created (20%)
448 posts reblogged (80%)
Blogs I reblogged the most:
@cromulentenough
@official-kircheis
@o-craven-canto
@shieldfoss
@fruityyamenrunner
I tagged 553 of my posts in 2022
Only 1% of my posts had no tags
#biology - 85 posts
#speculative biology - 65 posts
#history - 58 posts
#stuff i like - 54 posts
#sorry - 51 posts
#books - 41 posts
#animals - 40 posts
#fucked up - 39 posts
#speculative evolution - 37 posts
#my work - 36 posts
Longest Tag: 115 characters
#would be funny if the oviraptor had in fact died in the act of stealing eggs but from a nest of its own species tho
My Top Posts in 2022: #5
See the full post
95 notes - Posted April 3, 2022
#4
The featherless biped
https://www.deviantart.com/concavenator/art/The-Featherless-Biped-775925572 (2018; text somewhat edited here)
"... in any case, the possibility of advanced intelligence among mammals remains extremely speculative. Endothermy and brain cortex are in their favour, but their neurons are not dense enough if compared to ours. They would need an enormous head, and a proportionate blood supply. Which leads to their worst issue, viviparity. It should be obvious to anyone that egg-laying is a requisite for cerebral development; can you imagine the head of a sapient mammal passing through the mother's birth canal? The problem is insurmountable."
"Let us not overstate; harder problems have been solved by evolution. Clearly our sapient mammal ought to be a marsupial, which would complete its cerebral development in the mother's pouch, relatively unconstrained as it sucks milk."
"Call me a moralist, but the idea of a sapient being feeding on milk keeps repulsing me."
"Our males regurgitate food in our children's mouth; you think that so different?"
"You do not? Food is food, whether pre-digested or not. Milk is a bodily secretion -- it's like feeding on blood, on mucus, on semen. Mammals are born as parasites, and frankly I don't believe they are worthy of upper faculties."
"If you believe so. Myself, I see no reason an omnivorous marsupial, perhaps tree-dwelling, could not evolve organs of manipulation and an advanced brain. Tagra's mutable environment would give it the necessary incentives. A prehensile-tailed tree-dweller could start using its forelimbs to handle objects, adopting a bipedal gait."
"But having left the trees, it would have to walk on two legs, with its spine up straight, as a penguin's, lest it falls forward. It's not just very unseemly, it's also extremely unstable."
"Once the tail has lost its prehensile function, it could increase its size and balance the head's weight, giving the marsupial a stance similar to ours. It would retain the furry coat, analogous to our plumage - there's no reason to shed it, even in climates warmer than ours. The general result would be something much like an 'ikra, although molded from different material."
"Ah, such an image! Describe, describe us this thinking mammal of yours!"
"Well... our foremost sense is sight, as typical of the feathered beings of land and air. Not so among mammals -- probably this being wouldn't even see colours, fundamentally nocturnal creature that it is. It would find its way mostly with hearing and scent. I would expect a large wet nose proportioned to its brain, to sample the air with the precision worthy of a superior mind. We know that mammals can discriminate more scents than we can hues. Communication... the vocal apparatus of mammals is a poor thing, it allows little more than screeches and bellows. Many communicate with their bodily stance, or contracting their facial muscles, which are well developed in furred beasts, and might even supplement the function of hands in holding tools. Lips, perhaps, nimbler than beaks..."
"What a sight would they be, the cities of the featherless biped. People croaking and howling, jumping on the spot, baring their teeth and squinting their eyes. Grunting noses, lips smacking and spraying spit. But if their eyesight is as poor as you say, perhaps they would rather trust olfaction in this field as well, and communicate by rubbing on each other their nether glands, as astrapotheria do. And to do so they would need to be always sticking to each other."
"I don't think that would disturb them. Mammals appreciate physical contact; the smallest species are always curled in their burrows. The greater risk of disease might be a price worth paying. They would have no concept of a respectful distance and, who can say, maybe they would not envy it to us."
"A use for burrows is dubious, for a species that fears no predators. It's well known that the metabolic activity of mammals is generally inferior to that of feathered species. The hypothetical creature would inhabit only a warmer and moister world, dominated by flower plants. They would leave the trees to live in a garden of giant flowers..."
"Might be, might be. But I think they would conserve an instinctual love of enclosed spaces, moreso as they would spend their earliest infancy in the maternal pouch."
"Enclosed spaces that would soon be satured with the stench of their secretions. Is this a fancy of yours, that you wish to impose on us?"
"And still you confuse your aesthetic pleasures with iron laws of nature, even in a world of conjecture. I wager, for you even the caravans of Yakak'ratu would be unsufferably alien. This being has sprouted from another branch altogether of the delta of life. What is pleasurable to us would probably be disgusting to it, and viceversa; but if the selfsame happiness is achieved by different means, what makes a form of it inferior to another? Tagra, even our noble city of Grikaa, is hardly perfection embodied. I have counted more than enough beggars and cutthroats leaving my house this morning. Who can say whether the thinking mammal, in her garden-world, isn't happier than we?"
@cromulentenough
115 notes - Posted April 26, 2022
#3
Some possible forms of communication for non-human species:
Sound-based communication, but instead of sound quality, stress, or tone, information is encoded into speech loudness or velocity. (from Justin B. Rye)
Sound-based communication, but the organism repeats external sound with a variation (e.g. tempo change, shifting pitch): information is encoded in the pattern of change from the source. (The Progenitors in Sid Meier’s Alpha Centauri)
Visual communication by raising, bending, or waving limbs, flags, or sticks. (Similar to optical telegraphy, maybe? This can also be perceived through sonar)
Whole-body movement -- pacing, spinning, shaking -- in a way similar to the waggle dance of honey bees (in which the direction and frequency of waggling indicate the direction and distance of nectar sources), but more flexible and generalized.
Communication by pheromones like ants, or possibly through more complex patterns of scents (or maybe tastes, like the Back-lickers from Accidental Space Spy?) This one is tricky because scents will disperse and persist over time, like heavily echoing sound.
Skin full of chromatophores and/or reflective crystals that allow it to change hue, brightness, and/or opacity. The organism can control them, as cuttlefish do, to encode information in color patterns changing over time.
Communicating by vibrations not of the air, but the ground, like elephants picking up infrasounds through their footpads. (I hear the uplifted spiders in Children of Time communicate by plucking the strands of a communal web, but I haven’t read it)
An aquatic organism able to generate and perceive electric fields (less effective out of water) can modulate the frequency and intensity of its oscillating electric field to send information, as knifefish and electric eels do.
An organism changes the texture (softness, roughness, &c) of its skin, for example raising bumps or pimples that another individual can read by touch like Braille. (Octopodes and cuttlefish can do this to a degree.)
An aquatic organism ejects clouds of thick mucus that congeal into pseudomorphs; the shape, size, and motion of pseudomorphs encodes information. (Suitable for sonar- and electroception-based communication too!)
Other ideas?
118 notes - Posted November 26, 2022
#2
(source)
122 notes - Posted June 10, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
Meet Gauromydas heros, the world’s largest fly. Originary of tropical South America, they grow up to 7 cm in length (about 3 in). They are quite harmless, feeding on flowers.
152 notes - Posted November 18, 2022
Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →
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Borda
The Borda is a creature that belongs to the culture of the Emilia-Romagna and other areas of the Po Valley in Italy.
The Borda witch is a bog, swamp, and marshland dweller who is blinded and repulsive. She also wanders into ponds and canals, and she is frequently conjured up in children’s minds to keep them away from potentially harmful waterways.
Pic by death burger
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Do you really think it will last?
She sat on the porch long after the others had gone inside to rest. Stormwind was as quiet as it got; the usual low murmur of night-dwellers, a few clatters far off in the distance. Rain had started. Her cigarette had long since dwindled to a stump. The Commander stared at the water as if it were a mirror, watching and listening to something that was far off.
Do you really think it will last?
She didn’t blink.
What makes this time different?
The elf’s head turned slowly, peering down the road.
What stops me from coming back to take this from you?
She watched the retreating form of a shadowy guard figure turn a corner out of sight. The lamp-post nearest her shuttered out.
You can’t avoid the water forever.
Her eyes closed then opened with a snap. Acasia looked both ways down the street before hurrying to the inside of the house. For a long while she sat at the window, looking out.
2 am.
The candles on the walls were finally doused. The house on the edge of the canals lay silent.
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Submitted via Google Form:
I want to create a country consisting of dozens of mostly low lying islands but sea level rise has begun causing loss of land. So a few thousand years in the future, should the islands be nothing but landfill, or even if I tried mostly no visible land and so buildings are built up over ground leading to roads being mostly man made canals? Stilt buildings? Buildings with floors starting from 'ground' level actually being underwater? What happens to flora/fauna both land and sea? Also, what else causes/contributes to sea level rise other than melting ice as my planet isn·t on earth and I could possibly have extra explanations? What types of climate change?
Wootzel: Our answers may feel a little sparse, but… *slaps roof of ask like car salesman* this bad boy can hold so many questions! We’re not really sure where to start because you have so many questions here and we can’t answer all of them in detail, lest we be here for a long time and still not address quite what you’re looking for.
The thing that sticks out in my mind, reading through your description, is what resources does this country have now? Assuming their ocean is similar enough to Earth, they can get food from the ocean, but what do they have to trade? What other food sources do they have? Not to mention materials for clothing and shelter. Without accounting for these things, unless the place is mainly maintained for its cultural significance and/or tourism value, it seems more likely that it would be abandoned once most of the usable land is underwater.
Tex: Sea level rising making us land-dwellers “lose” land is mostly due to the pragmatics of “land-dwellers can’t live underwater” - quite likely it’s still there, just… covered in enough water to scare people off. If it’s near a fault line, plate tectonic movement might eat it due to subduction or a related mechanism, but generally being underwater tends to preserve anything that doesn’t rust.
Building something on top of an older something is more frequently found with said somethings covered in any form of dirt (or lava - sorry, Pompeii), because dirt tends to compact is create enough stability to build upon. I suppose the same could happen in water, but it would need to be close enough to land for silt to deposit, and quite a lot of time for that to occur to generate enough silt and enough compaction.
In the case of unstable ground, things like canals to divert the majority of the water and stilts on buildings to preempt the majority of the flooding are exceptionally helpful and used frequently in areas that are regularly exposed to large amounts of water. The planting of things like mangroves will help to decrease the severity of flooding and is something both practical and native to their environment.
Melting ice is, in its way, entirely natural and something that happens in a cycle - how the crests and troughs of this cycle occur may vary, but it will happen because of how many variables influence it.
Wootzel: If you want to come back with a slightly more fleshed-out setting or premise, and with a little more detail, we might be able to help you further. For now, we hope this gets you started on the path you want (or on the current, as it were) towards building this setting.
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I feed ducks
I really do think my ducks (feral canal dwellers) are BEAUTIFUL!
That’s it, my beautiful ducks which I don’t even own
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Dreamy Houses for Sale in Airdrie That'll Make You Swoon!
Airdrie, Alberta, beckons with its alluring blend of urban convenience and small-town charm. Whether you're a young family, a growing professional, or a retiree seeking a vibrant community, Airdrie offers a welcoming embrace. But the journey to your perfect fit begins with the captivating world of houses for Sale in Airdrie.This comprehensive guide empowers you to navigate the exciting landscape of Airdrie's real estate market. We'll delve into sought-after neighborhoods, explore diverse housing options, equip you with valuable search tools, and unveil the key factors to consider when making your dream home a reality.
Unveiling Airdrie's Enticing Neighborhoods
Airdrie boasts a tapestry of distinct neighborhoods, each offering a unique character and lifestyle. Here's a glimpse into some of the most popular ones:Kings Heights & Canals: Renowned for their luxurious estates and stunning lakefront properties, these neighborhoods cater to those seeking an upscale ambiance.
Edgewater & Bayside: These vibrant communities boast a dynamic mix of single-family homes, townhouses, and condos, perfect for young families and professionals seeking a modern lifestyle.
Cooper's Crossing & Yankee Valley: Embrace the charm of established communities with mature trees and a strong sense of community. These neighborhoods offer a variety of housing styles at attractive price points.
Airdrie Meadows & Woodside: Perfect for families, these neighborhoods feature spacious lots, parks, and schools within walking distance.
Downtown Airdrie: Immerse yourself in the heart of the city's cultural pulse. This area offers a mix of historical homes, character townhouses, and modern condos, ideal for urban enthusiasts.
Airdire, Alberta, Canada
Discovering Your Ideal Dwelling: A Look at Housing Options
Airdrie caters to a diverse range of lifestyles with a variety of housing options. Here's a breakdown of the most popular choices:Single-Family Homes: The quintessential Canadian dream! Choose from bungalows, two-storey homes, or sprawling estates, depending on your needs and budget.
Townhouses: Ideal for those seeking a low-maintenance lifestyle, townhouses offer spacious living areas and shared amenities like green spaces or playgrounds.
Condominiums: Perfect for urban dwellers or first-time buyers, condos provide a lock-and-leave lifestyle with shared amenities like fitness centers or swimming pools.Consider This: Think about your long-term needs. Do you plan to expand your family? Do you crave a large backyard for entertaining? Aligning your choice with your future plans is crucial.
Equipping Yourself for the Search: Essential Tools
Now that you're armed with knowledge about neighborhoods and housing options, it's time to leverage the power of technology:Real Estate Websites: Utilize platforms like REALTOR.ca®, Patelsanket.ca, Remax, or Point2 Homes to browse a comprehensive database of houses for sale in Airdrie. These websites allow you to filter listings based on price range, neighborhood, property type, and other criteria.
Real Estate Apps: Download mobile apps from prominent real estate agencies for on-the-go convenience. Receive instant notifications about new listings that match your preferences.
Connect with a Realtor: A knowledgeable and experienced Realtor can become your trusted advisor. They'll guide you through the intricacies of the market, negotiate on your behalf, and connect you with valuable resources like mortgage brokers.Remember: Don't be afraid to set up alerts for new listings in your desired neighborhoods. The Airdrie real estate market can move quickly, so staying updated is key.
Beyond Location and Price: Unveiling Key Considerations
While location and price are undeniably important, a successful home search hinges on a more holistic approach. Here are some additional factors to ponder:School Districts: If you have children, research the quality of schools within your chosen neighborhood.
Proximity to Amenities: Consider how close you want to be to essential amenities like grocery stores, parks, and healthcare facilities.
Move-In Condition: Assess the extent of renovations required. Factor in potential repair costs when considering the overall affordability of a property.
Community Vibe: Take time to visit the neighborhoods that pique your interest. Attend community events, chat with residents, and get a feel for the overall atmosphere.Pro Tip: Attending open houses is a fantastic way to explore different properties and neighborhoods firsthand. Don't hesitate to ask questions and gather insights from the listing agent.
Top 5 FAQs: Unveiling Your Dream Home in Airdrie
What are the most popular neighborhoods in Airdrie?
This depends on your lifestyle preferences! Airdrie offers a variety of communities, from luxurious estates in Kings Heights & Canals to family-friendly neighborhoods like Airdrie Meadows & Woodside.
What types of houses are available in Airdrie?
The beauty of Airdrie's real estate market is its diversity. Choose from spacious single-family homes, low-maintenance townhouses, or convenient condominiums, depending on your needs and budget.
What tools can help me find houses for sale in Airdrie?
Leverage the power of technology! Explore real estate websites like patelsanket.ca, REALTOR.ca® or utilize mobile apps to browse listings. Consider connecting with a Realtor for personalized guidance.
What are some factors to consider beyond location and price?
Look beyond the basics! Research school districts if you have children, consider proximity to amenities, and assess the move-in condition of the property. Don't forget to explore the neighborhood vibe to ensure it aligns with your lifestyle.
How can I stay updated on new listings?
Set up alerts on real estate websites or apps to receive notifications about houses for sale in Airdrie that match your criteria. Attending open houses is another great way to discover new properties.
Read the full article
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The History and Design of Venice’s Canals
Venice, a "floating city" in northwestern Italy that evokes history and grandeur, was constructed on a swampland. The city spans 118 swampy islands within the Venetian Lagoon and sits at the Adriatic Sea's head. About 150 canals run through the city, with bridges and walkways connecting various neighborhoods built on the various islands. Preeminent among these is The Grand Canal, which has the Basilica of St. Mary and Doge's Palace overlooking it.
Venice's original marshy islands had natural water channels separating them, which were used for catching fish and shellfish. Over the years, they were made wider and deeper. This allowed boats to navigate, and the lagoon was gradually drained, with a major settlement built in the 5th century AD.
Interestingly, the island of Torcello, situated on an island at the lagoon's northern end, was the original hub of commerce. Now largely uninhabited, with less than 20 residents, it was, in Venice's early years, a bustling port of 20,000 that included piers, fisheries, and churches.
The impetus of Venice's rapid expansion was barbarian conquerors who decimated much of northern Italy in 402, after the fall of the Western Roman Empire. Many former city dwellers moved into existing fishing communities as refugees. They envisioned the construction of a new city officially inaugurated in 421 AD.
In erecting this city, dug-out canals were solidified by lining them with thousands of pilings made from water-resistant wood such as alder, driven through mud and sand layers into a harder clay stratum beneath. On top of the pilings, wooden platforms with pilings were constructed and reinforced with stone, and it is on such foundations that Venice's classic buildings were erected.
Over time, Venice grew to encompass an intricate network of canals that required importing large quantities of wood from forested locations spanning modern-day Slovenia, Montenegro, and Croatia. These wood foundations have lived centuries largely intact because they are submerged in water lacking oxygen. The anaerobic conditions do not allow for the multiplying of microorganisms that would bore into the wood and cause it to decay over time. In addition, the saltwater nature of the marsh has ensured that minerals such as salt seep deep into the wood, creating a nearly stone-like hard material.
Relatively shallow, the depths of Venice's canals have to do with location, dredging work, and tide level and vary widely. The Canale Della Giudecca is the deepest, between 40 to 55 feet. The Grand Canal is around 16 feet in depth, while most tributary canals have depths of between five and seven feet, with the tide causing ebbs and flows of as much as three feet. While the canals around the city sometimes freeze over, this is extremely rare due to a temperate climate and the brackishness of the water. The last canal freezing occurred in 2012, with the previous event dating back to 1929.
One major trend in Venice over the centuries has been sinking, with the city's weight compacting the mud and dirt underneath it. This is accelerated by periodic flooding, which relates to high tide movements known as acqua alta, and much expenditure is dedicated to cleaning the canals. A combination of manual debris removal and mechanical dredging eliminates obstructions, enabling clear and free navigation and alleviating flooding concerns. In addition, wave action and erosion have compromised some canal walls over time, which are repaired using steel and concrete materials. Regulating the frequency, size, and speed of boats that ply the water also helps minimize canal deterioration and ensure that the world's most unique city remains afloat.
Unfortunately, this may not be enough: with the city having sunk nine inches in the past 100 years alone, scientists predict that, given global warming trends, the entire Adriatic coastline, including Venice, may be covered in water within a century.
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I've got to say the Staffs & Worcs is probably my favourite canal on the network. Out of Stourport this ancient waterway twists and turns more times than a Jed Mercurio sub-plot.
The canal then passes through the former carpet capital of the country Kidderminster where (I'm sorry) the towpath was popular with many a heroin addled skank but has a lovely canal-side church.
Onward the canal leads a lonely path until it reaches the small town of Kinver where it was cut through red rock which was home to cave dwellers many moons ago.
We are now passing around Wolverhampton in a wide arc, through the staircase locks at The Bratch and each chamber has unusual drains unlike those on the network.
And great names
and beautiful lock-side cottage gardens
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